Under A Dancing Star

by Laura Wood

“You have put it upside down.”

  “Really?” I ask, squinting at the picture.

  “This is all your fault,” he says, snatching the painting up and turning it the right way round. “I never know what disaster you’re going to unleash upon me next.”

  That’s not really fair, but I don’t want to argue the point. “Shall I help you to tidy up?”

  “No,” Ben says quickly. “Who knows what could happen next? I think I’ll proceed alone, with all my limbs intact.”

  It is then that I remember my errand. “I think my binoculars might have fallen out in the car last night,” I say. “Have you seen them?”

  “Mmm,” Ben murmurs, not looking at me any more, just at the painting in an absorbed sort of way. “They were under the back seat. I gave them to Rosa this morning.”

  That is good news. I would have hated to misplace them, particularly in a place like this, where new and exciting discoveries seem to be waiting around every corner. With a cheery goodbye, I turn away, back towards the avenue cut into the yew hedges. The air is filled with a symphony of birdsong and almost immediately I am treated to the sight of a blue-throated keeled lizard (Algyroides nigropunctatus) skittering along in front of me. Surely a sighting of the hoopoe cannot be far behind? I head towards the villa in an excellent mood.

  As I emerge from the gardens the building rises from behind the trees, the earthy red facade glowing with welcome under the heavy golden sun. I make for Rosa and the kitchen. Perhaps as well as my binoculars there will be a glass of something cold. And another one of those sweet rolls. Exploring is hungry work, after all.

  As I get closer to the house I spy Hero in the distance, sitting under the pergola with her books spread over the long table, and an older woman perched rigidly beside her. Hero’s head turns and she spots me. She lifts her hand in greeting, leaps to her feet and runs forward, followed by her tutor who calls after her despairingly in Italian.

  Hero’s expression is cheerful, but once we get a little closer to one another, she suddenly comes to a screeching halt, naked fear and horror dawning on her face.

  “Oh, Bea!” she gasps. “What has happened?”

  “Madre de Dio!” the woman behind her exclaims, promptly dropping into a dead faint at my feet.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “And then…” Hero’s voice is gleeful. “Bea emerged from the garden, ghostly pale and positively dripping with blood…”

  “Paint,” I put in here. “It was paint.”

  “Yes, yes.” Hero waves a hand. “But we didn’t know that at the time, did we? It looked like you’d been at the scene of some horrific murder; your dress was covered in blood, your hands were covered in blood…”

  “Paint,” I interject again.

  “And that,” Hero continues, ignoring me and throwing her hands dramatically in the air as though warding off evil spirits, “was when I cried out, Dearest cousin, what horrors have you witnessed? What on God’s earth has befallen you?”

  “You certainly did not,” I protest.

  Hero glares at me. “And then, Signora Giuliani screamed and collapsed into a swoon.”

  “That part is true,” I admit.

  It is evening, and we are sitting in the garden sipping on cool, pale yellow drinks that taste like sugar and sunlight and lemons. Someone has wheeled out a gramophone and a crackling jazz record plays softly in the background. It is still warm, but the air has cooled a little. The sky is streaked with dramatic swathes of gold and burnt orange as the sun gathers in its last rays for its final, spectacular display of the day – like a diva bowing offstage in a blaze of glory.

  In the time since I emerged from the bushes and gave Hero’s tutor the shock of her life, I have washed and changed into a pale blue dress scattered with a pattern of white flowers and closed at the side with small, cloth-covered buttons. The dress is one of my newer ones (though it is still faded and worn, it is less faded and worn than most of the others) and it makes me feel more grown up.

  I have worn it as armour because I have never been to dinner with a group of artists before, and I am not sure what to expect. My hair is still damp from the bath and screwed up in a knot on top of my head, and I noticed in the mirror that a little sunburn has given my cheeks and the bridge of my nose a slightly pink glow.

  Ben and the other artists are yet to arrive, but Leo and Filomena are here. As Hero tells her story with relish, Leo fusses over his fiancée, wrapping a fringed and brightly patterned silk shawl around her shoulders and kissing the corner of her mouth – the kind of affectionate gestures that would never be seen in public at Langton Hall.

  I watch Filomena now as she smiles and listens to Hero chatter on. The relationship between them is puzzling. They are friendly with each other, warm even, but on Filomena’s side I sense the same slight reserve that she has with my uncle – as though she’s holding Hero a little at a distance.

  “It sounds completely thrilling,” Filomena says.

  “You’d be less pleased if you were the one who had to calm Signora Giuliani down and convince her that she should stay in this – I believe she used the term den of vipers, but I could be mistranslating.”

  Uncle Leo’s tone is light, teasing. At home, this sort of scrape would have been met with tears and recriminations; here everyone seems to have found the slightly abridged version of events quite funny.

  “Bah!” Filomena exclaims. “That woman could use some more thrills in her life.”

  Leo makes a funny, snorting sound at that.

  “Hello,” a voice calls and I turn in my seat to see two figures moving towards us. One is a boy, lean, dark-haired and dark-eyed, who walks with a swagger. He is perhaps a year or two older than me, and as he steps forward to shake my hand he gives me a slightly crooked and perfectly charming smile. I notice that he has a small beauty mark at the corner of his mouth.

  “Ah, Signora Bea,” he says and his voice is warm and low, with a subtle Germanic accent. “I am delighted to meet you at last. Hero has told us so much about you.” He nods to Hero who is gazing at him with worship writ large in her eyes.

  “I am Klaus,” he continues and I realize he is still holding my hand. He lets go of it, but slowly, as though he regrets having to do so. It’s a practised move, I think, as smooth as a beeswax-polished floor. “And this” – Klaus gestures to the girl beside him – “is Ursula, my sister.”

  Ursula nods coolly. She is beautiful in an intimidating sort of way, with her brother’s dark hair and dark eyes and a wide, sulky mouth painted with a slash of red lipstick. She is several inches shorter than me and slim as a reed. Her hair is cut into a short, severe bob, the strands at the front tickling against her high cheekbones. Her emerald-green dress clings lovingly to her body, making me feel woefully unsophisticated.

  Klaus accepts a drink from my uncle and pulls up the chair beside mine, shuffling it so that we are sitting close enough that our arms brush lightly against each other. Ursula drops into a seat beside Filomena.

  “So,” Klaus says, “you are from England. Is it true that all those English country houses are haunted?”

  I look into his laughing eyes and find myself telling him stories about the hen-hearted ghosts at Langton who seem only to appear in front of the most susceptible ninnies, and the scrapes that Eustace the dog has been in.

  Hero then demands a retelling of the toad story and I follow this up with an admission of several other well-played pranks.

  As we are talking, several other people drift over and join the party: two older men who sit in a corner, arguing in low tones and making dramatic gestures at one another; a willowy blonde girl with an air of extreme cultivated fragility; and a woman about the same age as Filomena with bronze skin and her hair tucked into a red turban, who carries herself with a liquid grace. More artists who have stumbled into the haven created by Filomena.

  My audience are appreciative, laughing and egging me on. Filomena tells us about the tricks she used to play on her governess
and I can almost see Hero making notes. Instead of being horrified, my uncle laughs the loudest of anyone. Only Ursula seems largely unmoved, her dark eyes watchful as she leans forward, resting her chin on her hand. Occasionally a half smile will tug at her lips but for the most part she seems almost bored.

  “Your turn,” I say to Klaus. “Now you know all about me.”

  “Klaus and Ursula are Austrian,” Leo says as he gets to his feet to pour out more drinks. “Filomena met them on her last visit to Vienna.”

  “Oh.” I sit up straight. “I would love to visit Vienna.”

  “You must,” Klaus says. “I shall be your guide. We will go to the Prater and I will win you a goldfish.”

  “I’d rather go to the university’s botanical gardens,” I say eagerly. “I expect you’ve been so many times that the novelty has worn off, but I would find it fascinating. The Empress Maria Theresa had it built in 1754 for the practical study of medicinal plants, but it has grown so much since then, and I believe that the greenhouses hold a particularly interesting collection of carnivorous plants.”

  Klaus looks startled. “Indeed. I am sure it would be a fascinating experience.”

  A now-familiar voice joins the conversation. “Of course you’d be more interested in the man-eating plants than the amusement park.”

  Ben. He stands beside the table, one hand in his pocket. I notice that he has not made any effort to smarten up his clothes for dinner – and somehow he makes everyone else look overdressed.

  “They’re not man-eating,” I try and correct him. “They largely eat insects or other arthropods.”

  But a chorus of delight greets Ben’s arrival, swallowing up my response. Even Ursula unbends enough to favour him with a slow smile.

  “Ben.” Her voice is throaty as she holds out a hand to him, which he takes and squeezes in his own, before greeting the others.

  “He is charming, our Ben, no?” says Klaus, close to my ear.

  “So everyone keeps saying.”

  “It seems you are the only one immune to him.” Klaus grins, watching the blonde girl move to make room for him, smiling and fluttering at his attention.

  “Yes, he was quite keen to assure me of that.” I meet Klaus’s gaze and roll my eyes.

  Klaus chuckles and Ben’s eyes flicker in our direction. “What are you two talking about?” he asks.

  “You, of course.”

  “What could be more interesting?” he says smoothly. He turns to the girl on his left and for the first time I see his famous charm at work. He turns it on her like a spotlight, laughing at her jokes, teasing her, drawing her out so that soon she is laughing and blushing.

  I watch for a while with great interest. It reminds me of the way birds preen and sing during courtship rituals. Ben glances across, and I arch my eyebrows appreciatively, congratulating him on what is, after all, a brilliant performance. He looks startled for a second and then there’s a reciprocal gleam of laughter in his eyes and that devastating, easy smile, the one that reveals his dimples.

  “And so, now I have the two lovely cousins to myself,” Klaus says, pulling my attention back to him and drawing a giggle from Hero, who has dragged her own chair closer so that Klaus sits between us. He teases us and tells us stories as the sun dips lower and lower and the sky fades from orange to a deep violet blue. I lean comfortably back in my chair, half expecting to hear my mother hissing at me to sit up straight. I realize that hours and hours have passed without any comment on my behaviour or my manners. It feels dizzyingly liberating.

  We light flickering candles in glass jars and the lemon drink is followed by earthenware tumblers of red wine, warm and spicy on my tongue. The two older men reach a crescendo in their argument, and the others wade in, while I try to keep up with the flow of words about artists I haven’t heard of before. They are so animated, so alive. The argument ends when one man leaps to his feet, and utters a stream of furious Italian, stalking away to whoops and cheers from the others. It couldn’t be further away from the stilted small talk I am used to.

  Klaus laughs and translates some of the conversation for me. I lean forward, eager to hear more. It’s hard to explain the feeling of heat in my veins, the way that all these noisy people, talking so passionately about interesting things, makes me feel. It’s like when you come inside from the freezing cold and your limbs start to come awake again – an almost painful kind of relief.

  Eventually we are interrupted by a jubilant exclamation from Uncle Leo. He greets Rosa, who bustles towards the table with a tray heaped with baskets of warm, cinder-crusted loaves of bread, fat green olives, tissue-paper-thin sheets of tender pink ham and meltingly soft cheese flecked with bright, green herbs. After several return trips to the kitchen, the table groans under the weight of all the food and we fall upon it with enthusiasm. I bite into a tomato, so sweet and ripe that you can eat it like an apple; the juice runs down my fingers, leaving me sticky and gleeful as a small child.

  By the time we finish eating, the sky is a blanket of stars and I can’t shake the feeling that this is all some wonderful dream. Some of this must show in my face, because Filomena’s eyes light on me.

  “What is it that makes you look like that, Bea?” she asks. “You are like Saint Cecilia in ecstasy.”

  The others chuckle. I don’t understand the reference, but the sentiment is clear enough.

  “It’s just so beautiful.” I try to find the words. “Sitting underneath the bougainvillea and all the stars, eating this food and being with you. It’s … it’s … almost too much. If I wasn’t seeing it myself I wouldn’t believe such a place was real.”

  Klaus nods. “I understand,” he says. “It is why it is the perfect place to make art. It is a thrill, yes, for all the senses. As if you are seeing everything in brighter colours.”

  He is right, of course, and for a second, I catch a glimpse of what it might be like to be an artist, just a little of what they are doing here. And the feeling is delicious.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  In the lull that follows the impassioned argument, where conversation breaks down into quieter, more intimate chat, Leo turns to Ben. “I was going to ask you how the painting was going, my boy,” he says. “But I hear it met with a slight mishap.”

  “I suppose you could call it that,” Ben says dryly, his eyes meeting mine.

  I give him the slightest grimace. “I was very sorry to hear about the painting,” Filomena commiserates. “I know you were excited about it.”

  “Such is life,” Ben says. I am a little surprised; I had more than half expected him to throw the blame at my feet. He turns to my uncle and Filomena. “I am sorry for the delay, though.”

  “The painting was for you, Uncle?” I ask.

  Leo waves his hand airily. “It’s of no matter, my boy,” he says. “Take your time.”

  Ben shakes his head. “I’ll finish it within the month.” I feel a pang of guilt then. I hadn’t realized the painting was a commission of sorts.

  Filomena has been watching quietly, and I feel her eyes on my face now. “It is our great pleasure to host you, Ben,” she says slowly. “We have never needed anything in return.”

  “Of course not,” my uncle puts in briskly, sounding a little offended by the very idea.

  “However.” Filomena lifts a finger. “There is perhaps a favour you could do for us, if you would be so kind?”

  “Anything,” Ben says earnestly, leaning forward.

  “You could teach Bea to paint.” Filomena’s expression is demure, but I think I see a glimmer of something – mischief, perhaps – in her eyes.

  “Teach me to paint?” I exclaim. Of all the things I imagined doing in Italy, it isn’t this. I can’t quite keep the dismay out of my voice and Ben looks equally horrified.

  “Yes.” Filomena claps her hands in delight. “It is a perfect idea. Bea, we promised your parents that we would educate you as a young lady should be – and now we shall.”

  There’s a heavy silen
ce.

  “I’m afraid that I would make a very poor student,” I say at last, attempting diplomacy.

  “On this we are completely agreed,” Ben says and Filomena laughs. “Seriously, Fil.” His voice rises, entreating. “This will be a disaster. Ask me anything; command me to the ends of the earth. I will go on the slightest errand to the Antipodes that you can devise. But don’t ask me this.”

  Everyone laughs, but all I can think is that I can’t allow my perfect summer to go up in smoke. There are plenty of things I want to do in Italy and being taught to paint by Ben is not one of them.

  “Honestly,” I say to Leo, “I really think this is a terrible idea.”

  “My life is in danger, around the girl,” Ben adds. “Literally. I rarely escape without some sort of injury.” He lifts his fingers to his bruised face and his blonde friend makes a sympathetic mew of distress.

  But Uncle Leo is looking at Filomena. “Well, you know, Bea,” he muses, “your parents did entrust you to my care, and certainly we’ve been lax in devising some improving activities for you over the summer.” Leo is rewarded by a smile from Filomena.

  “I think if you returned home with some skill in watercolours your parents would be very pleased. Exactly the sort of ladylike accomplishments they would appreciate.”

  “Watercolours?” Ben’s groan comes from behind his hands. “Ladylike accomplishments? For her?”

  Filomena is smiling and there is something about her expression that is familiar. Suddenly, I realize what it is. It’s the same look I’ve seen in my mother’s eyes. Last time, it’s the look that led to Cuthbert.

  She’s matchmaking.

  My horrified gaze meets hers and, unbelievably, she winks at me. She’s enjoying this.

  “Of course” – Filomena sighs heavily now, her expression mournful – “if you can’t find the time to do this for us, Ben, then we quite understand.” She plays it perfectly, fiddling with the fringe on her shawl and gazing sadly at the ground.

  There is a pause. Then Ben says, his expression mutinous, “I’d be delighted, Fil. The least I can do.”