Under A Dancing Star

by Laura Wood

  “Bea!” Leo and Filomena are sitting at the long, rough pine table stretched beneath the pergola with cups of coffee and a plate of figs between them. Leo gets to his feet and kisses me on each cheek. Filomena stays seated, smiling up at me from beneath the brim of a large straw hat.

  “Did you sleep well?” she asks as I sit down and take a tentative sip of the coffee, the black, bitter taste a shock to my system. I’m not sure if I like it or not.

  “Yes, thank you,” I reply. “A bit too well. Sorry I’m so late.”

  Filomena shrugs, slowly, luxuriantly. “Late for what?” she asks.

  “Time runs rather differently around here,” Leo says, leaning back and winking at me over the top of his cup. “Takes a bit of getting used to.”

  “But you have missed the others,” Filomena puts in. “They tend to have breakfast together before they go out to work.”

  “What others?” I ask, puzzled. “What work?”

  “No one has told you?” Filomena asks.

  “Told me what?” I’m starting to feel a little silly.

  “About the artists, of course.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “The artists?” I repeat, startled.

  “Didn’t you know?” Hero appears, throwing herself into the seat beside me and reaching out for one of the figs.

  “It’s my fault,” Leo says, his expression not quite contrite. “I didn’t mention it to your parents because I thought they might not like it, exactly.”

  Filomena scoffs. “What is there to like or not like? It is not their business.”

  “Well, it is if they’re sending their daughter here to our care, love,” Leo points out mildly. Filomena rolls her eyes.

  “So,” I say, “you have artists staying with you?”

  “We do,” Filomena agrees, taking another sip of her coffee.

  “Filomena is a very talented sculptress,” Leo says proudly, his gaze lingering on her lovely face. “We opened up the house to some of her friends. It seems the environment is conducive to producing work.”

  “How many artists are staying here at the moment?” I ask.

  “Hmmm?” Leo looks up from his rapt contemplation of Filomena’s profile. “Oh, it changes. We have Klaus, a talented painter, and Ursula, a playwright, and Ben, of course, who have all been here for a few weeks, and then the others tend to come and go. Filomena is throwing a big party at the end of the summer to exhibit their work. It will be quite the occasion.”

  “I didn’t know you were artistic, Uncle.” I pull the roll apart with my fingers and dip it in my coffee. Hero snorts.

  “As my daughter will be quick to point out, I am not in the least artistic.” Leo raises an eyebrow at Hero, his eyes dancing. “I just happen to be in love with an artist, and I’ll do whatever I can to keep her happy so that she won’t leave me.”

  “Oh, Leo.” Filomena raps his hand playfully. “What nonsense.”

  “And most of these arty types haven’t got two pennies to rub together,” Leo continues cheerfully, “so while I am no artist, I like to think of myself as a sort of sponsor, in the grand old tradition.”

  “Well, I love it,” Hero says firmly. “It’s much more exciting since Filomena came here. We have all sorts of interesting people to stay.”

  “Yes, it was dull for you before with only your poor old father.” Leo sighs, levering himself out of his chair. “And now, I must get back to the boring world of business and leave you ladies to it.” He turns to Filomena. “I will try and finish in time for drinks before dinner, my love.”

  “I will be working, I think, anyway,” Filomena says. She barely glances at him, while his expression is one of dog-like devotion. I feel a pang for my uncle.

  “And you, young lady” – Uncle Leo turns to Hero – “are supposed to be working too, at your lessons. Where is Signora Giuliani?”

  “She’s late,” Hero says smugly. But then, as though on cue, there is a clanging of the bell on the door.

  “That will be her now,” Filomena says.

  Hero’s face falls. “I wish I could spend the afternoon with Bea.”

  “Bea isn’t going anywhere,” Leo reminds her. I realize that he is right, and feel a grin stretching across my face. “There will be plenty of time for you two to catch up.” He leaves, Hero trudging after him, and Filomena and I are left alone.

  “Well,” I say. “What now?”

  “What now?” Filomena stretches, like a cat. “Why, whatever you want, Bea.”

  It’s a perfect answer. I jump to my feet, brushing the crumbs briskly from my skirt, my mind already on the hunt for hoopoes. “In that case, I think I’d like to explore.”

  “Of course,” Filomena agrees. “Perhaps you would like to swim as well?”

  “I don’t have a suit,” I say, thinking longingly of the blue water.

  Filomena’s laugh is throaty. “This doesn’t have to stop you,” she says, and something in my face must betray my surprise because she laughs again. “I think your uncle is right that you will find us horribly shocking.”

  “Oh no,” I reply. “I’m just used to being the shocking one myself.”

  Filomena regards me with an unblinking feline gaze. “Perhaps you have some Italian blood in you,” she says, and it sounds like a compliment. “Anyway, it is no matter about the bathing suit. I will have your uncle order some things for you. And some summer clothes perhaps.” She eyes my dress rather doubtfully. “You are not too warm in that?”

  The truth is that I am rather warm. Although my dress is cotton, it’s quite thick with long sleeves and it’s also a pinch too tight. The heat here shimmers in the air, a different beast altogether from the weak English sunshine. “I suppose I am a bit,” I admit, feeling a trickle of perspiration on the back of my neck. “But Uncle Leo shouldn’t have to buy me clothes.”

  “Do not worry about it.” Filomena is firm. “I will take your measurements myself later and then I will speak to him. It is fine.”

  “All right,” I say doubtfully. I’m not sure my parents would like my uncle spending money on me, but Filomena seems very certain.

  “So, you are going to explore?” she says, closing the subject.

  “Yes. There’s actually a particular bird that I want to find.” Then I remember; if I’m going exploring then I’ll need my binoculars, and that means I need to track down both the car and its driver.

  “Oh.” I hesitate. “Actually, there is another thing. The man who came to collect me yesterday – do you know where I can find him?”

  “Ah!” Filomena arches a knowing eyebrow. “Another victim falls to Ben’s charms.”

  “Charms?” It’s not exactly the first word that comes to mind.

  “It is usually the way with Ben.” Filomena sips her coffee. “He has quite a reputation with the ladies, you see.”

  “Well, I suppose he could be charming,” I say, a little doubtfully. “If he really put his mind to it.”

  “I’m sure he would be pleased to hear you say so.” She sounds like she is trying not to laugh.

  “I shouldn’t think he’d care much for my opinion either way,” I reply. “I don’t think he really … warmed to me. To be completely truthful, we had a little bit of a disagreement.”

  Filomena smiles. “How intriguing. Well, Ben will be working in the grounds. When you find him, I’m sure the two of you can …” She pauses here, looking at me from underneath her eyelashes. “… make amends.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  I trip down the steps and into the gardens. I turn, unthinkingly, to one side, choosing a path that winds through a small copse of cypress trees, stopping often to bend over and examine the various flowers that are splashed about, tumbling in a riot of crimson and violet from terracotta pots or growing in tangled golden constellations underneath the trees.

  I follow the chirruping sound of a cricket and watch admiringly for a moment as he leaps across the path. There’s a flicker of red on his abdomen – I think he may be a s
pecies that I haven’t seen before. I am tempted to follow him but become distracted by a pretty little green hairstreak butterfly, or Callophrys rubi, who flutters around my face for a moment, her cheerful green and copper wings glimmering in the sun. With a sigh of happiness, I wind my way through tall avenues of carefully manicured yew hedges, my fingers running over their soft needles.

  “Taxus baccata,” I mutter absently.

  “What did you say?” a voice asks, and I look up to find that I have rounded a corner and am now standing in a large square clearing. I have found my way to the stone fountain and the sound of the water is enticing as it splashes against the stone.

  Ben stands in front of me, dressed in light trousers and a loose white shirt, rolled up at the sleeves. His feet are bare and on his head is a battered panama hat. As he lifts his face I notice a small scab on the bridge of his nose and a violet bruise under his right eye. I wince.

  “Oh.” His voice is cool. “It’s you. I should have known you’d be the one wandering around, talking to yourself in Latin.”

  It is not an auspicious start. “Are you always like this?” I ask.

  “Like what?”

  “So rude to people you’ve just met.”

  He tips his head to one side. “I don’t know.” He smiles reluctantly, revealing a perfect dimple in each cheek. “Do you always greet new acquaintances by punching them in the face?”

  “Oh, you can’t still be angry about that,” I protest. “It was just a misunderstanding. I’ve apologized several times as well as administering first aid and sacrificing one of my handkerchiefs in the process – a fact which would irk my mother a great deal, by the way, because I’m always losing the blasted things.” I smooth my skirt with my hands. “I believe that continuing to dwell on it is quite ungentlemanly.”

  “Un … ungentlemanly?” Ben looks startled. “You think I am ungentlemanly?”

  “Yes,” I agree.

  “Ungentlemanly?” he says again, a little louder.

  “You don’t need to keep repeating the word; I’m the one who said it in the first place.” I lift my chin. “But actually, yes. I think that your refusal to accept my apology and to move on graciously is ungentlemanly.”

  There’s a pause as Ben seems to consider this argument for a moment. Finally, he shrugs. “Well, I think it’s a bit rich being schooled in social niceties by a girl who chases down bandits and assaults her would-be rescuers.”

  I feel a smile tugging at my mouth. “Oh, but that girl sounds so much more interesting than a swooning maiden.”

  “She sounds like a pain in the neck to me.” A quick answering grin flickers across his face. “And I can’t imagine you’re much of a swooner.”

  “I can’t imagine you’ll ever find out.”

  “Oh, really?” Something mischievous glints in his eyes and he takes a step towards me and then another. “That sounds like a challenge.”

  “Is that supposed to be seductive?” I ask, entertained.

  Ben blinks. “Some people might think so.”

  I consider the matter. “Perhaps they’re just distracted by a handsome face?”

  “That’s the second time you’ve called me handsome.” Ben is clearly pleased with himself.

  I give him a long look of appraisal. “I suppose that you are quite physically attractive.”

  “You suppose?”

  “I don’t think I have a broad enough sample for comparison. I’ve had quite a sheltered upbringing, you see, and I’d hate to be inaccurate. You are, perhaps, above average,” I concede.

  Ben gives me a long look. “How kind of you to notice,” he says at last. “But I do seem to be loved by most ladies. You, Beatrice, are the exception.”

  “How nice to be considered exceptional,” I murmur, the dryness in my tone matching his own.

  He chuckles softly, a little reluctantly. “Peace, then?” he asks, holding out his hand.

  “Peace,” I echo, slipping my fingers into his. The whole conversation has been strangely exhilarating.

  I look past him, and finally notice an easel. There are tins of paint on the ground, and a jam jar full of murky water and paintbrushes. Sitting on the easel is a canvas covered with various angular shapes, swathes of green and red and grey.

  “Is this what you’re working on?” I ask, moving to look at the painting.

  “It is,” he says. “I’m just putting the finishing touches to it.”

  “Mmmm.” I lean closer, looking at it with curiosity. Art isn’t something I know a lot about, but the picture makes me feel confused, churned up. There is nothing recognizable about the image, nothing solid to hold on to. I haven’t seen anything like it before. It’s certainly not like anything that has hung on the walls at Langton.

  He frowns. “Don’t you like it?”

  “Oh, yes,” I say quickly. “It’s very nice.”

  “Nice,” he repeats.

  A glance at Ben’s face tells me that “nice” was, perhaps, the wrong word. I squint at the picture, trying to make sense of the jumbled shapes. The riot of angles and colours feels disorientating.

  “I like the – um – green bits.”

  “The green bits,” he says, sounding a little dazed.

  “Yes,” I agree brightly. “They’re really nice and…”

  “Green?” Ben finishes for me. He shakes his head. “You really know how to do wonders for a man’s ego,” he grumbles, reaching up to rub the back of his neck as he turns to look back at the painting.

  “I hadn’t realized that nursing your ego was my job.”

  Just then, I see something – the telltale iridescent cobalt shimmer of a dragonfly as it flashes in the corner of my vision. I spin around – out of habit as much as anything else – to chart its path. It lands on the edge of the fountain, its fragile wings trembling in the sunlight.

  Ben is still talking. “Of course, I can’t expect you to understand the work I’m doing. You obviously haven’t got the first idea what you’re talking about.” He takes my arm and draws me closer to the painting. “Here, you see – the green bits are, actually…”

  I notice a tin of paint perilously close to his foot.

  “Ben,” I say, “careful of the—”

  Unfortunately, he’s too distracted by his lecture to notice. It is this fact, coupled with the flight of the dragonfly, which conspires to create the perfect storm. The insect swerves suddenly, buzzing near Ben’s face. He twists and I reach out to grab him, but it is too late. The unexpected change in direction leaves Ben off-balance, his foot connecting heavily with the paint tin that I was trying to warn him about. He grasps my outstretched hand as he stumbles, and I in turn clutch at the easel.

  “Oh!” I just have time to exhale and meet his surprised gaze as I am pulled forward, barrelling hard into Ben and sending us both careering towards the ground.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “Oof!” Ben’s exclamation of surprise is very close to my ear. This is easily explained by the fact that I now find myself lying on top of him.

  I am stunned for a second, though whether it’s by the fall or by the fact that this the closest I have been to a boy – or possibly anyone – in my whole life, I’m not entirely sure. I try not to notice the feeling tightening in my stomach or the way his chest feels pressed against my own.

  “Oh!” is all I manage, turning my head just as Ben lifts his. The resulting crack that takes place between our skulls leaves my ears ringing.

  Ben’s head falls back again and he groans.

  “For God’s sake!” He lifts a hand to his head. “Am I never to escape an encounter with you without some sort of horrific head injury?”

  “I believe you’ll find this one is your fault,” I say with as much dignity as I can manage, as I attempt to extract myself from the tangle of limbs. As he is doing the same thing our efforts rather cancel each other out and we don’t get very far. “You were too busy talking to listen to me and then there was a dragonfly…”

 
“Oh, there was a dragonfly. Well, that explains everything then,” he mutters.

  I put a firm hand on his chest and he stills beneath my fingers. I roll to one side so that I am lying on my back beside him. The sky resolves itself overhead and I find myself squinting up into the sunshine. I close my eyes for a second. When I open them, I realize Ben still hasn’t moved.

  “Are you all right?” I ask.

  “I think so.” His voice is resigned. “No blood this time, at least.”

  I pull myself up and look down at him. There’s something staining his blonde hair. “Don’t be so sure,” I say. I run my fingers through his hair, looking for the injury, and they come away red.

  He looks startled. “Really?” he says. “Again?”

  “I can’t see anything wrong,” I mutter, still looking for any obvious wound. Puzzled, I look more closely at my fingers, rubbing them together. There is red on my dress too. Then, in a flash, the truth comes to me. “Oh, it’s just paint!” I grin down at him, and the sudden rush of relief makes me laugh. “See?” I hold out my gory hands to show him.

  “Paint?” His whole body tenses. “PAINT?” He leaps to his feet with a rather startling roar, that only intensifies as he takes in the scene in front of him.

  I, too, scramble up. “Oh dear,” I say.

  It seems that the can Ben kicked over contained a quantity of red paint, which, when mixed with the water from the jar that has also been knocked over, has created a rather alarming red trail, streaming merrily along the paving stones towards us. Ben’s painting, now lying on the floor thanks to my desperate grab at the easel, is worryingly damp with a long red smudge running almost horizontally across it – I’m fairly sure that wasn’t there before.

  Ben stares at the canvas, open-mouthed.

  “Perhaps it’s not so bad,” I say at last, reaching down to pick up the painting and place it carefully back on the easel.