Under A Dancing Star

by Laura Wood

  The rest of the page blurs before my eyes and I crush the paper between fingers that are shaking slightly. A familiar hollow feeling settles in my chest. It brings home the truth; that my visit here really is only a temporary reprieve from my parents’ machinations.

  Well, I think, dropping the letter calmly on to the floor and kicking it under the bed and out of sight, if that’s the case, then I’d better make the most of it.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “There you are!”

  I look up to see Hero in the doorway. “Are you coming out to the garden?” she asks. “The people here tonight won’t stop talking politics and I’m fed up.”

  I force a smile, pushing Mother’s letter to the back of my mind. “As long as there’s plenty of food,” I say. “I’m starving.”

  We arrive at the dinner table to discover that of course there is plenty of food and that Hero is quite right: Politics have taken over the conversation.

  “Italy is the home of art, of culture, of civilization,” one man is shouting, waving his cigarette to punctuate his sentences. “We are the children of the Roman Empire.”

  “So you think it’s your history that makes you superior now, do you?” another man asks.

  “He’s got a point, darling,” a woman puts in, “I hadn’t realized you’d been around so long that you could personally take credit for the battle of Carthage.”

  The first man’s face turns a mottled red. “Our history is our blood, our birthright. Mussolini understands this…”

  I pick up a plate and pile it high with smoky grilled fish and sweet peppers, listening all the while. Most of what I know about Mussolini comes from the film reels, enthusiastic in their approval of his efforts to regenerate the country, his emphasis on everything running like clockwork. I have also seen the silent footage of young, strong troops marching in perfectly ordered lines. The cold, mechanical quality of it left me feeling more disturbed than impressed. While I may not know as much about Mussolini and Italy, I do know a little about Moseley’s new British Union of Fascists and what I see frightens me.

  “But look at Germany,” another voice breaks in. “Look at what is happening there. That’s the danger. Don’t think it can’t happen here.”

  “You can’t deny that under Mussolini things are improving,” Uncle Leo says, taking a sip of wine. He is not alone – others are nodding.

  “What about the Blackshirts?” I ask then.

  “Not you too,” Hero groans under her breath. “I give up.” She turns on her heel and stomps back towards the house.

  “What do you know about the Blackshirts?” Leo’s smile is indulgent.

  “That some of their methods are less than pleasant,” I say calmly. “And that, historically speaking, fanatical nationalism doesn’t usually end well.”

  There’s a brief silence, while Leo looks at me with surprise in his eyes.

  “Well when I met him, I thought Il Duce was rather charming,” a languid redhead says, before flashing a dazzling smile at Ben who has just appeared on the terrace. The hum of debate picks up again. I take the opportunity to bite into a good chunk of warm bread, briefly closing my eyes in appreciation of Rosa’s genius.

  “Good to see you again, Simone,” Ben murmurs, wrapping his fingers around the woman’s hand, and smiling down into her wide green eyes. There’s something lingering in the look they share, and I wonder suddenly if they have been to bed together. Then I push the thought away. It’s none of my business, after all.

  “Ah, Benedick,” she sighs. “How nice to see you.”

  “Benedick?” I choke on a giggle, and he shoots me a warning glare. Simone’s wide eyes shift and sweep over me in a leisurely fashion, taking it all in, from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. The slight wrinkling of her nose and the way her mouth tightens into a brief pucker of disdain tells me that she has found me lacking in every way. For some reason, I find it amusing rather than insulting.

  “Come and sit beside me.” She returns her limpid gaze to Ben, gesturing to a chair. “We have so much to catch up on.” Her voice is a purr. It’s all such a cliché and the sort of scene I’ve seen Ben act out often enough now to find quite funny. When I look up though, I see that Ben isn’t looking at her – he’s looking at me, and there is something odd in his expression. I wonder if he caught her disdainful glance.

  Ben hesitates.

  “Oh don’t mind me, Benedick,” I say cheerfully. “I’m just here for the food.”

  He gives me a glare that tells me he knows I’m laughing at him, and he doesn’t appreciate it. But before he can respond, Klaus appears at my elbow.

  “There you are!” he exclaims, leaning in close. “Ursula and I had to get away from this lot. Fil’s guests this evening leave a little to be desired.” His eyes linger distastefully for a moment on Simone.

  “What do you suggest?” I ask.

  “Join us for a picnic, of course,” Klaus responds promptly, flashing me a grin that shows off his white teeth to their best advantage. “We’re down by the fountain. Ursula sent me for wine and to fetch you.”

  “In that order, I expect,” I say, and it’s Klaus’s turn to laugh.

  His lips are close to my ear. “Your only mission is to find dessert.”

  “You have come to the right woman for the job,” I reply. “Rosa won’t have let us down, I’m sure. Take this for me, will you?” I hand him my laden plate, and he bows slightly.

  “I am, as always, at your service, Bea,” he drawls.

  “So chivalrous,” I call over my shoulder, already making my way back to the kitchen.

  Once inside I find that I have not misjudged the situation. Though she is nowhere to be seen, Rosa has left neat rows of home-made cannoli laid out on the side. The shells of fried pastry are as pretty as a picture, stuffed with sweet, creamy ricotta, their ends dipped in dark chocolate and delicate green pistachios. I take a plate and begin filling it.

  “What are you doing?” Ben’s voice makes me jump and I swing round.

  “I’m getting some dessert,” I say.

  “For you and Klaus?” Ben asks casually, strolling over and swiping a cannoli from my plate.

  “Yes,” I reply. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be practising the art of seduction out in the garden?”

  He leans back against the counter, his arms folded. “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, you know,” I murmur, turning my attention back to the pastries. “Staring into her eyes for a fraction of a second too long, leaning in closer, brushing your arm against hers as if it’s an accident, whispering something seductive in her ear… Well, you hardly need me to tell you, do you?”

  Ben looks torn between anger and amusement. “You certainly seem to be paying attention,” he says dryly. “Are you studying me like one of your glow-worms?”

  “Young men, you mean?” I laugh, caught in the act. “You and Klaus are certainly interesting subjects,” I say.

  “Oh, I’m sure Klaus will be delighted to help in any way that he can.” Ben rolls his eyes.

  “I should think so,” I agree. “Overall I have found him to be much more amenable than you.”

  “Well he would be, wouldn’t he?” Ben says, his voice not quite as easy as usual. “He’s had his eye on you since the moment you arrived.”

  “Has he really?” I ask, surprised. “I assume by that you mean he considers me a potential sexual partner?”

  Ben stares at me for a moment. “Strange sort of sheltered upbringing you’ve had,” he manages finally.

  “I’ve never understood why we can’t talk about sex.” I shake my head. “I mean for goodness’ sake – without it none of us would be here. It’s hardly a great mystery, is it?”

  “Yes, yes,” Ben says, “but it’s not typically something one discusses with…”

  “Young women?” I sigh. “I know, and it’s such a shame. Ursula and I had a good chat about it all this afternoon and I really think there’s a lot to be said f
or modern attitudes.” I’m warming to my theme now. “And after all, Ben, it’s clear that you’re hardly living a chaste existence. Look at you and Simone, for example.”

  “What Simone and I do…” Ben flounders. “or … did, is none of your business.”

  “Just as, say, what Klaus or I do is none of yours.”

  “What are you and Klaus going to do?” Ben’s frown is back.

  “It was just an example. You’re the one who brought it up.”

  “You’re the one talking about potential sexual partners,” Ben puts in stubbornly. “And I think you’ll discover there’s a big difference between theory and reality in that department. It’s a lot more complicated than you think.”

  I fall silent at that. It’s true that I have very little actual experience with romance. And he’s not wrong – there’s a huge difference between reading something in a book and experiencing it. It’s theory versus practice.

  “You’re right,” I say finally.

  “Good,” Ben says automatically. Then, “Wait … right about what?”

  “About my lack of experience.” I give Ben a look that my mother could warn him means mischief. “I should do some more research,” I continue, keeping my tone deliberately thoughtful. “In fact, perhaps I should take a lover.”

  And with that, I waltz past him and out of the door.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Ben trails after me, spluttering and slightly incoherent.

  “Take a lover!” I hear him mutter under his breath, and I repress the urge to laugh. I’m surprised that shocking him was so easy. I thought he was made of sterner stuff than my parents’ dinner party guests.

  “You’re abandoning Simone,” I point out as we make our way deeper into the gardens. “I think you were doing quite well there.”

  He doesn’t dignify that with a response.

  We find Ursula and Klaus sprawled on an old red blanket in front of the fountain. There are candles in a rather gothic-looking brass candelabra in the middle, casting the pair in a warm, flickering glow. More candles are arranged in glass jars along the edge of the fountain itself, and a makeshift feast has been laid out, along with two bottles of wine.

  “What kept you?” Ursula greets me, holding out her hands to receive the pastries with all the reverence they deserve.

  “We were just talking,” Ben says, his usual easy charm restored.

  “I don’t know what you can have been talking about to have taken so long,” Klaus complains, handing me my plate. “And why it has kept my dessert from me.”

  “Ben was suggesting I take a lover,” I say, applying myself to my dinner.

  Klaus chokes on his wine, Ben drops his head into his hands and groans. Ursula’s eyes meet mine with a glimmer of appreciation. “What an excellent thought,” she says. “Did Ben, ah, have anyone in mind?”

  “Well—” I begin.

  “No, he didn’t.” Ben’s voice is weary. “And I’ll thank you not to credit me with the idea.”

  “In which case…” Klaus’s voice holds a slight quaver of laughter. “I wonder what inspired such a suggestion?”

  He holds out a glass of wine and I take it.

  “Ben simply pointed out that there is a big difference between theory and practical experience,” I say. “The logical thing to do if I wish to truly understand that difference is to take a lover. An experiment, of sorts.”

  Klaus is laughing openly now. “An experiment?” he says.

  “Again,” Ben cuts in, “I want to be very clear that this was not my suggestion. This is just Bea’s idea of a hilarious joke.”

  “Well, you made it easy. I didn’t expect you to be so puritanical about it,” I say over the top of my glass, enjoying watching him squirm.

  “Why does it have to be a joke?” Ursula asks. “I think it’s a wonderful idea.”

  “Me too,” Klaus chimes in. “I’m sure finding a suitable candidate would be easy enough.”

  “Don’t encourage her!” Ben groans. “The idea is ridiculous.”

  I feel my spine stiffen at that. Is the idea of romance with me really so absurd?

  “Actually,” I say, a little more forcefully than I intended, “it could be just what I need.”

  “A romantic experiment?” Ben shakes his head. “What happened to, I don’t know … hearts and poetry and love in a gardenia-scented garden? Aren’t women supposed to care about those things?”

  “I don’t think gardenias would do very well here,” I say doubtfully, taking a bite of food. “They might struggle with the heat and dryness. They can be very temperamental.”

  “The gardenias are irrelevant!” Ben exclaims in tones of exasperation.

  “Well, you brought them up.” I look at him. “Is that what you want then?” I ask, curious. “Hearts and poetry and gardenias?”

  Ursula laughs into the wine glass at her lips.

  “Me?” Ben looks stricken. “God, no. That’s the last thing I’m looking for.” He shifts awkwardly. “But that’s what women want, isn’t it?”

  I shrug. “I wouldn’t know.”

  “If you’ve never been the subject of romantic attentions in England, then all I can say is the Englishmen must be a very cold breed,” says Klaus gallantly.

  I hesitate. “I wouldn’t say that, exactly. But, well – you’d understand if you’d met Cuthbert.”

  “Who’s Cuthbert?” Ursula asks, leaning back as she lights a cigarette.

  I tell them the whole story of our brief “courtship”, including the disastrous dinner party, and by the time I finish they’re all laughing. Ursula, more animated than I have ever seen her, wipes tears from her eyes.

  “You lectured the vicar on the mating habits of glow-worms?” Ben asks, weakly. “Of course you did.”

  “I wish I had seen it,” Ursula manages. “So that’s the plan, is it?” she continues more thoughtfully now. “Your parents want to marry you off to a weak-chinned aristocrat and move him into the family manor?”

  “That’s about the size of it.” I feel a pang as I remember my mother’s letter, shoved out of sight in my room. “They’re not doing it to be cruel,” I add quickly. “I know they genuinely think it’s what’s best for me. They just can’t conceive of the kind of life I want for myself.”

  “And you’re going to let them do it?” Ben asks, his eyes on mine. “You’ll let them marry you off to the poor sap?”

  “I don’t know. I think they’ve always thought I’d change,” I say. I look at my hands in my lap. “The thing is,” I add, and my voice is low now. “I almost wish I could change too. Be someone else: the daughter they want. Despite everything, I do want to make them happy. I suppose settling down and marrying a Cuthbert type is what I’ll do in the end. I don’t really have a lot of options, do I? I can’t just hang around the house for ever. And” – I try to sound a bit more cheerful – “I suppose marriage would bring a sort of freedom – from my parents’ rules at least.”

  There’s a long silence after this, and I’m quite glad that no one says anything. I probably couldn’t have said all that in the daylight, but here, in the quiet, under a blanket of stars, it feels like there’s space for whispered secrets.

  “Well,” Klaus says, breaking the silence. “Under these circumstances a summer romance would appear to be just the thing.”

  “Yes,” Ursula says. “Exactly the thing. One summer of dalliance – kisses and romantic gestures – but with no expectations for the future.”

  I snort. “Romantic gestures? You’re as bad as Ben.”

  “Well,” Ursula smirks. “He is, after all, the most notorious flirt for miles around.”

  I crunch into one of Rosa’s cannoli, briefly closing my eyes with pleasure. “I have actually been observing Ben’s efforts at flirtation for a while,” I say, licking cream from my fingers. “And I must say I find the dynamic quite fascinating. Although, I doubt that those particular charms would have much effect on me.”

  Ben is unruffled. “
I think you’ll find that if I wanted to win you over, I could do it fairly easily.”

  “Why not put it to the test?” Ursula asks.

  Ben leans forward and takes a pastry. “What do you mean?”

  “Well,” Ursula says slowly. “On the one hand we have Bea, who has no experience of romance, and on the other we have Ben, seasoned womanizer and expert in the art of romance, who claims he could win the heart of any lady.” She smiles and I now see her expression for what it is: pure mischief. “I think the solution is obvious.”

  There’s a choking sound as Ben inhales a little of his cannoli.

  “But – but that’s a terrible idea,” I say, once I can speak.

  Ursula smiles. “Why?” she asks. “Are you afraid?”

  “No!” I exclaim. “Absolutely not. It’s just – it’s completely ridiculous.”

  “Of course it is,” Ben puts in, and although he’s agreeing with me, something rankles.

  “Well, if you’re saying no, Ben,” Klaus cuts in smoothly, “then I would be delighted to assist Bea in her experiment.”

  Ben frowns. “I’m not saying no.”

  “Wait. You’re not?” I ask, thrown.

  His eyes meet mine. “No,” he says. “I’m not saying no.”

  “Oh.” For once I don’t know what to say.

  “Unless you are?” Ben’s words are a challenge.

  “Bea would not be such a coward,” Ursula insists. “She is not stuffy, like her parents.” She grins. “Or is she?”

  I look at her for a moment.

  “Fine,” I say. “I’ll do it. If Ben wants to.”