“Rossetti had a mistress too—his printing press. You see, he felt his press was a lifeline to the fatherland. José always teased him about the printing press, telling him it was more demanding than a wife. Rossetti, every time, smiled and said if he didn’t have the printing press, how would people in Italy know what he and Giuseppe were sacrificing while they were away? He wanted the Italian people to know that they were not alone in their struggle. Halfway around the world, people not all that different from them were struggling for a fair and just system of government.” I took a breath, remembering. “Rossetti didn’t smile very often, but when he did it was magical, like the sun suddenly appearing after numerous days of rain. The only one who could get him to smile was Giuseppe when he talked about coming home.

“Rossetti couldn’t be with us today. He died in his struggle for a just government, not only for the Italians but for all of those who wish to be free. While trying to secure his printing press he and his men were overtaken by Brazilian Imperial forces.”

I paused, looking around the room. The people were soaking in every word that I said. Their chests stilled as I told the story. “We couldn’t even bury him here; his body was buried somewhere in the Brazilian wilderness. He is forever separated from the country that he sacrificed for. Rossetti could not live to see his dream fulfilled, but you can. José carries Rossetti’s dream on his shoulders. Will you let him carry that weight alone?”

All around me cheers and clapping erupted. Paolo stood up next to me, calling out to the audience, “If you want to sign up to join the legion, see Vincenzo by the door. Join us! See the dream of these great men come to fruition.”

As the men slowly made their way to Vincenzo to sign up, three women approached me. All wore dresses of the highest quality in matching shades of green. Their hair was perfectly coiffed. “Hello, madam, my name is Elisa. This is Sofia and Claudia.” Elisa pointed to each woman in turn. “We would like to invite you to a luncheon at my home. We want your insight into how we can better help our husbands as they prepare for war.”

“Mrs. Garibaldi accepts.” Paolo spoke up before I could say anything.

“I do?”

Paolo leaned in to me and whispered with a forced smile, “When the wife of the most powerful man in Genoa invites you to lunch, you accept.”

I turned back to the women, genuinely smiling. “I accept. Please discuss the details with my maid, Mrs. Mancini,” I said as I felt Paolo begin to pull me around the room to greet the people who had come to see me.

It was late in the evening when we finally started rolling through the streets of Genoa toward home. I slumped against the seat in the carriage. The chilly air felt refreshing against my flushed skin.