by Laura Wood
“We are trying to do what is best for you.” Father’s face is turning an interesting shade of puce. “Not that we get any thanks for it, and God forbid you actually honour your family and our history. There have been Langtons at Langton Hall for over FIVE HUNDRED YEARS!”
Normally, I would simply nod and think about something else while he spouts on about the family honour, but right now, suddenly, I have had enough. I have been hearing this for my whole life and I am sick of it, sick of the weight of Langton Hall and its legacy, sick of the generations of history bearing down on me. It’s as if I can feel the walls of the house pressing in, cutting me off from the rest of the world.
“I know that there have been Langtons at Langton Hall for over five hundred years.” I am close to tears and I try to steady my voice. “But you must see that even if I went along with your plans and married some wealthy, inbred aristocrat to prop the estate up, then – well, then I wouldn’t be a Langton any more.”
“But you’d be able to keep the place going,” Mother says.
“You’d keep the Langton bloodline alive!” Father’s voice is hushed, as though he is describing something too sacred to approach at a normal volume.
I look at them now and feel a pang of sympathy. They look smaller in this moment, their eyes ablaze with fanaticism.
“I’m sorry,” I say wearily. Guilt sits heavily in my stomach.
“I don’t know what we’re going to do with you, Beatrice, I really don’t,” Mother replies, and her voice sounds sad and quiet, as though she’s given up on me somehow. The ache inside me grows. I made fun of Cuthbert but the bleak truth is that they are probably right. My future as it stretches out in front of me looks horribly empty. I can’t carry on like this for ever. Maybe Cuthbert – or someone like him – really is the only option.
“There, there, Delilah,” Father says. He walks up and down the room a few times and then stops suddenly, looking at her. “Listen, I think … I think it’s time for us to consider Leo’s offer.”
“No!” Mother exclaims. “Michael, I thought we agreed…”
Father holds up his hand and Mother falls quiet. She always does, when he says so.
“We have no choice,” he goes on. “Clearly we’re not getting through to Beatrice. These childish antics are getting out of hand, and now she’s embarrassed us in front of half the county. Best thing for everyone if she’s far away for a while, under some strict supervision. I’m sure” – he turns to me, suddenly fearfully tall, a glint of steel in his eyes – “that, given time to reflect, Beatrice will reach the same conclusions we have, and that on her return she’ll behave in a way more becoming of a young lady in her situation.”
“Return from where?” I ask suspiciously. “Where exactly am I going?”
“Your uncle feels that your cousin Hero needs some young companionship. He has invited you to stay with him this summer. Your mother and I had not yet decided, but under the circumstances I think it might be a good idea.”
“Uncle Leo?” I say, a sudden flare of excitement catching inside me. “Uncle Leo who lives in Italy?”
“It’s not a holiday, young lady,” says Father. “It’s a chance for you to reconsider your appalling behaviour.”
“Oh, yes,” I say, my mind racing. I clasp my hands together to keep them from trembling. “In Italy.” The feeling of claustrophobia that has been dogging me more and more these last few months loosens its grip a little.
“Leo is such an upright man,” Mother says thoughtfully. “He won’t stand for any nonsense, and perhaps spending time with a sweet girl like Hero will help to mend your atrocious manners. My sister – God rest her soul – was an extremely proper woman. You’re right, darling – this may be exactly what Beatrice needs.”
An image of gaunt, miserable Aunt Thea flashes through my mind and I barely manage to repress a shudder. Uncle Leo always seemed pretty severe too. But still. Italy.
“We can tell people that Beatrice will be spending the summer in Europe,” Mother continues. “Acquiring a bit of polish. That will give the talk about this terrible evening time to die down.” She positively quakes at the reminder.
“And, of course,” Father puts in here, “Leo lives such a quiet life in the countryside. He’s going to remarry soon. A widow of good standing, I understand, who will no doubt be a sobering influence on you, Beatrice.”
My heart thumps. Whatever the circumstances, the dazzling promise of summer in Italy burns too brightly to be overshadowed by either the ominous “respectable widow” or stern, solemn Uncle Leo. Still, I try hard to conceal my excitement. It won’t do for my parents to think this is anything other than a just punishment.
“Very well,” I say meekly, turning my eyes to the floor. “If that’s what you think is best.”
“I hope it goes without saying that you will be on your best behaviour, Beatrice Emma Langton,” Father says warningly. “You will not disgrace the Langton name abroad. You must give me your word that you won’t get into any of your scrapes in Italy.”
“Oh, of course, Father,” I say, looking up at him now and smiling sunnily. “I promise.”
Part Two: Villa di Stelle
July, 1933
There is a kind of merry war betwixt Signor Benedick and her; they never meet but there’s a skirmish of wit between them.
– Much Ado About Nothing, Act I, Scene 1
CHAPTER FOUR
The boat chugs away, and it is not long before Mother and Father are reduced to tiny specks in the distance.
As soon as they fade from sight, I begin to feel a lightening of spirit. I am, unfortunately, accompanied by a vinegar-faced woman who is a distant relative of the vicar, and her presence is all that prevents me from dancing a little jig. (The vicar himself had, unsurprisingly, been very in favour of my banishment and had even bestowed a smile of approval upon Mother, an event so startlingly rare that it left her quite dazed and unable to remember the Lord’s prayer.)
The white cliffs of Dover stretch out behind me, a bleached streak daubed against a pastel-blue sky. Each inch of water that I place between myself and my home feels like a loosened button on a too-tight dress. I drag in deep breaths of the cold air and taste salt on my lips.
For most of the journey I hang over the rail on the ship’s deck, feeling the sting of the water on my face, fingers of sea breeze curling around me, tugging my hair from its pins. I watch with a sort of disbelieving thrill as slowly, slowly, the horizon shifts, and France comes into view.
At Calais I am bundled, like an unwanted and unwieldy parcel, into the arms of another, equally disapproving lady, who escorts me on a train to Paris. I have no time to absorb any of the sights or sounds that batter me from every side on this part of the journey and, intrepid as I hope I am, the presence of a guide isn’t completely unwelcome. I have, after all, barely left the county before this, let alone the country. The noise and the lights and the swirl of people who all seem to know exactly where they are going is unnerving. But I feel excitement too. I am equal to this, I think.
When we step off the train at the Gare du Nord in Paris it has begun to rain and in the sea of unfurled black umbrellas I feel strangely anonymous. No one here knows who I am, and the thought is thrilling.
I am to continue to Italy on my own. The second disapproving woman escorts me to the train, her relief at completing her part of this task apparent. I climb carefully up the ladder-like steps, followed by a porter who carries the capacious carpetbag that I uncovered in one of the attics at home and points me to my seat. I am still on my feet as the train pulls away and I sway slightly as the gears grind and groan beneath me.
The whistle blows like a fanfare, and I find myself suddenly, gloriously, unbelievably alone. It is an almost frightening feeling, as though my normal life has been torn away from me – like a magician whipping away a tablecloth from beneath a full dinner service. I stow my bag in the compartment that I have all to myself, then I stretch out in my seat and laugh out l
oud, the sound ringing in the empty carriage.
I sit with my book unopened in my lap as I watch the blurry, rain-soaked shapes of the scenery tear past the window, as day turns to night and back again. I doze briefly, but mostly I am too excited to sleep. When I navigate the single change at Milan alone, I feel something uncurling inside me, singing through my veins, and I greet it with a sense of giddy recognition – freedom. For a wild moment I think I could just disappear: get on a train to Spain or Switzerland or deepest Russia and never be heard from again. Of course, I don’t, but the mere fact that I could is enough to leave me breathless.
There is a sense of unreality about the whole journey. I could be anywhere. The tantalizing glimpses of the landscape that rush alongside the train are gone almost before I can make sense of them. The train compartment feels small and cramped after so many hours, and I am stiff and impatient – impatient to arrive, impatient to look properly, impatient to take it all in.
It’s late evening by the time the train draws in to Arezzo. A gloomy stillness has fallen and the rain has turned into a sullen drizzle. The carriage is practically empty, and I pull down the window, surprised by the chill in the air.
Uncle Leo is meant to be meeting me off the train, but I don’t see him waiting on the platform as we draw in. I gather my belongings and make my way to the door. There doesn’t seem to be a steward on hand. I hesitate – my bag is quite bulky, and the steps down to the platform are high. I am about to throw the bag from the door when a boy appears with his hands outstretched. He looks like he is about twelve or thirteen and he smiles, calling up in Italian. Gratefully, I hand him my case, before turning to clamber down the steps.
I reach the platform only to find the boy disappearing into the crowd, my luggage clutched victoriously in his hands.
“Hey!” I shout, taking off at a sprint, pushing my way past the other people on the platform. The boy looks over his shoulder, clearly surprised to find me giving chase. He hesitates for a moment and that is enough for me to surge forward, grabbing the end of my bag. I tug sharply, hoping to get a better grip and the boy pulls back, shouting and trying to shake me off.
Suddenly, from behind comes another voice, loud and carrying, also shouting angry words at me in Italian. An accomplice of this boy’s, I realize, and for the first time my heart quickens with fear as well as anger. I am about to be outnumbered.
A strong hand curls around my wrist and I just have time to register that this newcomer is tall, even taller than me, before I begin to fight back.
Relinquishing my grip on the bag I pull my elbow back, digging it sharply into my assailant’s stomach. I hear a groan as my wrist is released and I swing around to face him. It’s a man, who is now bent over, winded, his arm wrapped protectively over his stomach. He foolishly lifts his face, and I have a brief impression of the kind of boyishly golden good looks typically afforded to Classical statues before I spring into action.
Drawing on the information I have gleaned from reading several of Father’s well-thumbed books on pugilism, I curl my hand into a fist, careful to keep my thumb outside and across the bottom of my fingers and deliver a blow to his nose which sends him staggering backwards with an incoherent cry, landing with a thud on the floor.
Pain sings through my hand and my heart is hammering as I swing back to find my bag lying, abandoned, on the ground and the thief gone. I snatch it up. Adrenaline thunders through my veins as I turn to face my assailant again, clutching the bag in front of me like a shield, poised to run or to fight if I have to.
“Stop, stop, for God’s sake!” he shouts, getting to his feet and holding his hands out in front of him in a sign of surrender. His nose is bleeding rather freely down the front of his white shirt.
I pause, thrown by his accent. He is, I realize, English.
“Who are you?” I demand, and I’m thrilled that my voice is only slightly shaky.
The young man straightens, scowling. “I’m Ben,” he says acidly. “And I can only assume that you are Beatrice.”
CHAPTER FIVE
“If you lean forward and pinch your nose it will slow down the bleeding,” I say.
Ben glares up at me over the top of my handkerchief. “Yes, thank you,” he growls, batting me away. “I don’t think any more of your advice is needed.” He is slumped on a bench in the waiting room. After the initial confusion, our various onlookers have departed, leaving me alone with Ben – the person who, it transpires, my uncle has sent to collect me.
“I’m only trying to help,” I reply.
“I think it’s a little late for that,” he snaps. “Perhaps if you hadn’t punched me in the face in the first place…”
“I have apologized for that,” I say, “several times, in fact.” I try not to roll my eyes. He’s been hamming up the very minor injuries that he sustained for quite some time. “No, don’t sit up straight yet,” I say firmly as he moves. “You need to give the blood time to clot.”
Now that the heat of the moment is over, I can see that Ben is younger than I first thought, perhaps eighteen or nineteen. He is handsome – tall and broad-shouldered with curly golden hair that flops over his forehead and, beneath the handkerchief, a perfectly symmetrical face. Symmetry is, as I understand it, very important when it comes to beauty. The young man in front of me is very symmetrical and very beautiful – and I rather suspect that he knows it.
“Anyway,” I continue, smoothing down my skirt, “it was more than a little bit your own fault, you know. What did you expect me to do when you appeared, looming over me and grabbing at me like that?”
This earns me another dark look and Ben whips the handkerchief away from his face, clambering to his feet. I eye his nose critically and observe that the bleeding has stopped.
“I was not looming,” Ben says with exaggerated patience. “I was trying to rescue you.”
“Rescue me?” I try to keep a straight face. “I see. Did you think that I needed rescuing?”
“Yes, well.” He grimaces, lifting a hand to his nose. “I didn’t realize you were going to turn into a bloody madwoman, did I?”
I decide it’s best not to pay attention to this fit of the sullens, but instead to concentrate on the matter at hand. I take a step closer to him.
“What are you doing?” He leaps back, alarmed; the backs of his legs hit the bench and it clatters against the wall behind him.
“Nothing to worry about,” I say soothingly. “I just need to feel your nose.”
“Feel my nose?” His outrage is so comical that I can’t stop the laughter from bubbling out, which only makes him look even more thunderous.
“Yes,” I say. “I’ll just check it isn’t broken. You’re probably concerned about your face.” I tilt my head on one side. “It is very pretty.”
His mouth drops open at this, and he makes a spluttering noise as though he can’t find the words he wants. Taking advantage of his confusion, I reach up and take hold of his nose.
We stand there for a moment, as I check his perfect face for damage, and as I do so I can’t help thinking how odd this is. All my life, I’ve only ever had polite, dull conversations with boys my age – and if I ever try to be anything other than polite and dull, the response is usually blind terror, as with Cuthbert. But Ben has talked back to me. It hasn’t exactly been friendly talk, but in a strange way that’s what makes it so enjoyable.
He clears his throat and I realize my hands are still on his face.
“Not even broken,” I say, stepping back. “You remain symmetrical.”
“There’s no need to sound so disappointed.”
“I’ve never really punched someone like that before,” I explain. “I learned it from a book, you see, rather than from any practical experience.” I glance down at my fingers. “Honestly, I hoped I’d be capable of doing a bit more damage.”
“Believe me, the damage was more than sufficient.” He shoots me another dark look.
“I’m sure it hurts less than my hand do
es,” I say. “And you don’t see me making a fuss.”
Ben’s eyes dart to my bruised knuckles and, for a second, I think he’s going to show concern for my own injuries. Then, to my surprise, he smirks. “Serves you right.”
He reaches down and picks up the bag that has caused so many problems and slings it over his shoulder.
“Come on then,” he says. “Let’s get you delivered to Leo in one piece. He was most concerned about you; said he didn’t want you left waiting alone. Said you were a well-bred and sheltered young lady.” He snorts. “And I’m the King of England.” He looks at me, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “I’d even go so far as to say you were quite enjoying yourself.”
“I certainly enjoyed the part where your feet went up over your head before you hit the platform,” I say sweetly.
Ben shakes his head. “You caught me by surprise,” he mutters, and then turns on his heel.
I follow him outside to a battered car that looks like it’s held together with nothing but rust and hope. Ben throws my bag on to the back seat and I slide into the passenger side. He starts the car and we shudder away from the station and out into the night.
In the darkness around us, barely anything is visible; the weak arcs of light from the car headlamps achieve little except to attract every moth within a one-mile radius. The sky is still overcast and only a few of the more robust stars are on display, while the moon drifts in and out of sight as the breeze moves the clouds across its reassuringly familiar face. It’s funny that after all this travel the same moon hangs suspended in the sky – as though that, too, should somehow be different. The roof of the car is down and the air slipping past me is cool, carrying a sharp smell of pine needles.
I shiver a little, though whether it is from the temperature or the excitement I’m not sure.
I glimpse a rough blanket folded on the back seat beside my bag. As I twist and lean over to get it I’m forced to clamber about a bit. Ben grinds the gears rather dramatically.
