Mifalda did know about Rosa Ponsell. Everyone in the Italian community of New Haven knew about the Connecticut-born girl who had gotten her start entertaining in their city and was one of the very few American opera singers good enough to perform at the Metropolitan Opera House with European stars like Enrico Caruso. Madame Ponsell might be a fine artist and the pride of her state, but Mifalda Leporello was not about to let her daughter have singing lessons—or any other kind of lessons—alone with a man. A girl's biggest asset was her purity; it was the gift she would give her husband one day, and without it no man would want her. Mifalda knew it was the fashion for young women to be careless about things like a good reputation, but she also knew the hard way what life was like when you didn't have one. And then too, Lu had that legacy of wild blood.

More important, no daughter of Mifalda's was going to learn to sing so she could go on the stage—or even think about such a thing. What right did an old maid and a nun have to fill her child's head with nonsense? Didn't they understand, educated ladies that they were, that that was the way to ruin a girl's life?

For the second time that day, Mifalda grabbed her coat and headed for the back door. A determined little figure blocked her way.

“Where are you going?” Lu demanded.

“Move away from the door, Lucia.”

“Mama, if you spoil this for me, I don't know if I'll be able to forgive you,” said her youngest child. It was not a baby's threat. Lu said it seriously, almost thoughtfully. For a second Mifalda was stunned. None of her boys had ever talked to her like that. But then, her boys didn't fight with her the way Lu always had. “I mean it, Mama,” her daughter warned.

Mifalda did not believe in hitting children—she'd been hit too much herself when she was young—but she couldn't let this kind of defiance go unpunished. She drew back her hand. Then she looked at her daughter's little body, held ramrod straight, and she looked at Lu's unwavering gaze. It's not her fault, she thought. She's just like me. When she leaned down and moved the child away from the door, her hands were gentle. “Set the table, Lu,” she said. “Your brothers and your father will be coming home soon.” As she ran out of the house, she could feel Lu staring after her.

MIFALDA HAD NEVER gone to her children's school, because there had never been any need. Her sons were good boys—perhaps not the brightest students, but they worked hard and were reasonably well behaved. It was somehow logical that the first time Mifalda was having trouble at St. Mary's it was because of Lu.