Under A Dancing Star

by Laura Wood

There is a short pause. “I do,” he says, his face giving nothing away. I feel my heart thump.

  Ursula claps her hands.

  “There would have to be rules, of course,” Klaus muses.

  “Good idea,” Ursula agrees, getting down to business. “Number one – time frame.”

  “That’s fairly easy,” Klaus says. “Bea is here till the end of August.”

  I feel my heart thump but I try to keep my expression just as impassive. “That’s correct.”

  “So, six weeks, then,” Ursula says. “The perfect amount of time for a romance.” I wonder if that’s scientifically accurate, but then I suppose we’ll find out.

  “Number two. We must be the only four who know about it,” she continues, and Klaus nods seriously.

  “Yes, a secret between us. The others may not approve. After all…” Here Ursula grins mischievously. “Bea is supposed to be under the strict supervision of her uncle. We wouldn’t want to give Leo anything to write home about.”

  I glance over at Ben and he rolls his eyes. It’s as though the two of us might as well not be here.

  “And number three. Ben must treat Bea to the full romantic experience,” Klaus says. “He has to woo her properly, win her favour. Everything must be on her terms.” He glances slyly at Ben. “If you think you can handle that.”

  “I think I’m up to the challenge,” Ben says with a put-upon sigh. “I was right all along then – it’s going to be love in a gardenia-scented garden.”

  “The gardenias are not a possibility,” I remind him. “The soil around here…”

  Ben waves a hand. “Details, details,” he says airily. “I think I can woo Beatrice to her satisfaction.” He stretches lazily. “It means that I can unleash my inner romantic.”

  “Unleash him?” I raise my eyebrows. That sounds rather … alarming.

  Ben smiles wolfishly. “Typically, I have to show some restraint. Don’t want to leave a string of broken hearts around the place, you know.”

  I hesitate, thinking of our past interactions. “I’m just not sure how this is going to work. We argue a lot, for people who hardly know each other.”

  “That’s what will make it interesting,” he says, and his eyes meet mine again. This time I find myself flushing.

  “Then it’s settled,” Ursula says swiftly. “Klaus and I will act as witnesses to the pact.”

  “There is one rule we haven’t mentioned.” Ben lifts a finger in the air, and I wonder what he’s going to say. There is an expectant pause. “You must not, under any circumstances whatsoever, fall in love with me.”

  That surprises a laugh out of me. “That certainly won’t be a problem,” I say, when I can speak. “And you must promise not to fall in love with me.”

  The derisive noise Ben makes here is actually quite insulting.

  “It’s a deal then?” asks Klaus.

  I look at Ben, daring him to say no. His gaze is steady and, slowly, he nods.

  “I look forward to working together.” I hold out my hand and Ben reaches out to shake it. “I just don’t want you to feel bad if your technique doesn’t work.”

  “Oh,” Ben says, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. “You asked for romance, and you’re going to get it.”

  I try not to worry that it sounds like a threat.

  Part Three: Villa di Stelle

  July, 1933

  Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably.

  – Much Ado About Nothing, Act V, Scene 2

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  It’s around noon on the following day when an envelope appears under my door. Inside is a note written in a slightly more careful hand than the one summoning me to my art class.

  Bea,

  This is a romantic letter.

  You don’t yet realize it’s romantic because you are new to this, but I wanted to give you a very clear warning so that you could prepare yourself.

  Are you ready?

  Meet me, my raven-haired angel, on the terrace at 3 p.m. for a romantic rendezvous. My heart aches for you and I count the moments until we are together again.

  – B

  Raven-haired angel is the phrase that tips me over the edge into hysteria and I end up in a stomach-aching fit of laughter. Not, I imagine, Ben’s desired result. I try to picture myself in the role of romantic heroine and fail spectacularly. Perhaps I’m not suited to this romance business after all. What if Ben tries this sort of flowery romance in person and I laugh in his face? I’m fairly certain that won’t go over well.

  Still, I decide if Ben is making the effort then I will too. What, I wonder, stepping over to my wardrobe, does a romantic heroine wear?

  For a moment my eyes drift towards my old dresses. I shake myself. Not those. Those are for a different me. Certainly not a me who is being swept into a romantic dare.

  Instead, I pick a pair of mossy green trousers that are high at the waist, and a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled back to my elbows. I put my hair up as best as I can, jabbing pins into the most unruly curls in an effort to look neat.

  I take a step back and look at myself in the mirror. I’m not sure if I look like a romantic heroine, but I look like me, and that feels more important.

  I glance at my watch and decide I will call in and see Ursula. There is plenty of time before my assignation with Ben and I’m quite looking forward to talking over the events of the night before with another woman.

  I arrive at the summer house to find Ursula trying to set her typewriter on fire.

  “You’ll need a lot more kindling if you’re going to get that to work,” I observe as she flicks another stuttering match at the smouldering embers underneath the bulky machine.

  “I hate it,” Ursula storms, tossing down the matches and delivering a swift kick to the machine. This achieves little except causing a stream of expressive German as Ursula hops about clutching her toes.

  “The work’s not going well, then?” I ask mildly.

  Ursula glowers at me. “Do tell me, Sherlock Holmes – whatever gave you that impression?”

  Turning her back on the typewriter with another muttered string of words I don’t understand, but that I’d be willing to bet my life are quite colourful expletives, she storms back to the rickety porch and pours herself a drink.

  “The work is dead,” she cries dramatically.

  “Oh dear,” I say.

  “Oh dear,” Ursula mimics me sourly. She goes to the porch and pours herself a drink. “You English, always so cold and passionless.”

  “I suppose we are.”

  “Although…” A gleam flickers in her eyes and she takes a sip of her drink. “This experiment should take care of that, eh?”

  I flush and she smiles.

  “Don’t leave me up here drinking alone,” she says.

  I make my way on to the veranda and accept the glass she pours me. Ursula settles herself in a chair and grabs a packet from the table beside her, tapping out a cigarette which she places between her lips.

  “I thought you were against the whole idea of me having a romance with Ben,” I say. I hesitate. “Won’t it be painful for you? Because I would never—”

  “Oh God,” Ursula says from around the unlit cigarette, “not that, I beg you.” She lights the cigarette with a flourish and inhales deeply. “I can’t bear one of those disgusting weeping scenes where we pledge not to let a man divide us.” She waves her hand in the air, leaving a thin line of smoke trailing behind.

  “Well, I certainly wasn’t planning on weeping,” I say. “Were you?”

  Ursula gives a reluctant bark of laughter. “No,” she says. “There will be no weeping on my part.”

  “Good.” I smooth my hands over my trousers. “So, would you like to tell me why you suggested this scheme?”

  Ursula continues to smoke in silence for a moment, her eyes half closed as though she is considering her answer. “I think it will be entertaining,” she says finally.

  “Entertaining?” I repeat in su
rprise.

  She gives me a thoughtful look. “I underestimated you, Bea,” she says. “I thought at first that you were just another of those upper-class English girls. Simple, sheltered.”

  “I am sheltered,” I say. “I’ve lived almost all of my life within about a five-mile radius.”

  “But not up here.” Ursula touches a finger to her forehead. “You’re sharp, Bea.” She pauses again. “I think you could be good for Ben. And,” she says slowly, tapping her cigarette so that the ash falls, “I think he could be good for you.”

  “Good for me?” I ask. “How?”

  “Ben likes you, I can tell. And I believe he will prove to be a satisfactory lover.” Her eyes meet mine and she smiles. “However” – her tone changes, becomes more brisk – “I do not believe it will be a lasting affair. He is not a lasting affair sort of person, and that will suit you perfectly. What you need, Bea, is an adventure.”

  I consider this. “Well, I certainly agree with that,” I say. “But why do you think I will be good for Ben?”

  Ursula smiles, a smile that shows off all her teeth. “Because Ben’s ego needs puncturing, and you, my dear, are a perfectly sharpened pin.”

  “Thank you,” I say wryly. “That’s one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me.”

  We sit quietly, as I try to arrange my thoughts. Finally, I decide to share something that’s been worrying me.

  “The way I … react to Ben,” I say carefully, “when he stands near me, or when he touches me…” I pause. “It’s strange. It feels … unpredictable, like it’s outside of my control.” I risk meeting her eyes. “I’m not sure if I like that.”

  Ursula sighs again, more lustily this time. “Beatrice, my sweet innocent. What you describe is the beginning of any love affair. Don’t you understand that?” She shakes her head. “No, you don’t; but you will. You say you wish to live, Bea. Well, then you must take risks. You must make yourself vulnerable. You can shut yourself away in a cold, lonely house in England and keep your heart perfectly intact – but you will live only half a life.”

  I think about this for a moment. Ursula is right, I decide. I may rail against my parents, against Langton, but all the same I have been afraid of what was waiting for me beyond those walls in a world that is messy and unpredictable, a world that doesn’t follow the careful rules I apply to my studies.

  “You’re only two years older than me, Ursula,” I say. “How did you get to know so much?”

  “I lived, darling.” She takes another drag on her cigarette and gives me a sad smile. “I lived.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  As I make my way through the gardens back towards the terrace and my appointment with Ben, I have to confess to feeling a little nervous. It’s silly, I tell myself; after all it’s only Ben and it’s not like any of this is real – it’s an experiment, a dare, an arrangement. Call it what you like, there’s no reason for my heart to be thumping the way it is.

  I have just convinced myself of this when I spot Ben. In my current mental state his handsomeness feels like an attack. His tall, muscular frame is sprawled in one of the chairs and the sun catches his golden hair and falls across his perfect face.

  “You’re late,” he barks when he sees me.

  I come to a halt. “I think you’ll find I’m extremely punctual.”

  With perfect timing the faint but carrying sound of the grandfather clock in the living room begins to chime three.

  He looks a little sheepish then. “That clock is slow.” There’s a pause. “I thought maybe you’d changed your mind.”

  “Oh no,” I say lightly. “I intend to follow this through.”

  “In the spirit of scientific inquiry?” he asks, and smiles. “On that note, here. You look lovely, by the way.”

  He hands me a small bouquet of flowers, tied with a blue ribbon.

  “Thank you.” I bury my face in them to hide the slight flush on my cheeks, inhaling their sweet scent.

  “All part of the service.” He stands. “Since you’re always to be found outdoors, I thought that we might have a picnic.”

  I notice a wicker basket at his feet. “That sounds perfect.”

  “Let’s go, then.”

  The spot he has chosen is deep into the grounds and up a hillside. There’s a bit of clambering to get there, and I am once again grateful for my trousers which allow me to stride and scramble about just as easily as Ben does. I stop occasionally to catch my breath, and to enjoy the changing scenery: the orderly rows of vines and the cypress trees with their military bearing set against the gently undulating rise and fall of the hills.

  “Here we are,” he says at last.

  We’re in a meadow high on top of one of the hills with far-reaching views. He lays the blanket down in the shade of a very ancient-looking oak tree and begins unpacking the parcels of food from the hamper.

  I take a moment to enjoy the view laid out before us, and the gentle tickle of a cool breeze on my neck before I sit, pulling my knees up to my chest. “It’s beautiful,” I say.

  Ben’s dimples appear. “I thought you’d like it. I come up here to paint sometimes.”

  “I can see why,” I say. A flash of yellow has me turning my head. “Oh!” I exclaim. “Ben, look!”

  Perched on a branch beside us is a butterfly the colour of sun-kissed Italian lemons. On its forewings is a perfect orange blaze that looks almost like a setting sun.

  “Gonepteryx cleopatra,” I breathe, getting silently to my feet and edging over.

  “I don’t know what you just said,” says Ben, following my gaze. “But the colours are incredible.” He comes over to join me.

  “It’s a Cleopatra butterfly, a male,” I explain in a low voice. “You can tell because of his colouring. The males are much more flashy than the females.”

  Ben chuckles at that. With a faint trembling of its wings the butterfly takes to the sky again, drifting quickly out of view, like a dream. When I straighten up I realize that Ben and I are standing very close together. I can feel the warmth from his arm against my own.

  “Hungry?” Ben asks, holding my gaze for a long moment.

  “Starving,” I agree firmly, dropping back down on to the rug where Ben joins me. He reaches into the picnic basket and passes me a wax-paper-wrapped parcel. Our hands touch, and I feel a zing of awareness run up my arm; my cheeks flush with heat.

  These involuntary physical responses that I have around him are really very interesting, I tell myself, trying to steady my breathing.

  “What are you thinking about?” Ben asks, his voice a little husky.

  “I was thinking that the physiological and psychological causes of blushing are deeply fascinating,” I say, wrestling with the wax paper around my sandwich.

  “Of course you were.” Ben sighs, leaning back on his elbows.

  “Charles Darwin called it the most peculiar and most human of expressions,” I say, biting into bread filled with sweet, roasted peppers and cured ham. I make a sound of deep approval. “This is amazing.”

  “I know,” Ben says, turning his attention to his own lunch. “I think it is Rosa I will miss most of all when the summer is over.”

  My mouth is suddenly dry. “Don’t even speak of it,” I say. “It seems impossible that it can all come to an end.”

  Ben must be able to read some of the sadness on my face. “What will you do, do you think?” he asks lightly. “When you are home again?”

  “Do?” I repeat, my voice dull. “Nothing really. Nothing at all.”

  “What a waste.” Ben dips his fingers into a jar of black olives that shine like slick chips of magnetite.

  I force a smile. “I don’t have a huge amount of choice in the matter.”

  “Rubbish,” Ben says succinctly. “For someone who’s such a loud-mouthed, antagonistic trouble-maker, you come over all meek and mild-mannered when you talk about going home.”

  “Thanks a lot,” I say.

  “It was actually supposed t
o be a compliment,” Ben replies. “I just don’t understand why you’re trying to make yourself all … all small and docile when that’s not who you are at all.”

  “That,” I say, “is because you have the privilege of being a man and because you obviously don’t have parents like mine.” Suddenly the words are spilling out of me. “If you’d spent seventeen years being told to make yourself smaller and to stay quiet and out of the way, that everything you loved and enjoyed was wrong, and unladylike; if you’d been greeted by recriminations and angry words and floods of tears every time you failed to meet the standards that were set, which you did over and over again despite all your best efforts, your endless good intentions and your desperate longing to make them happy, to win some crumb of approval… Well, then you’d realize it takes more than a couple of weeks in the sun to change the way you see yourself.”

  There is silence as I get to the end of this little speech. I can feel the heat in my face, the judder of my unsteady pulse. I am trembling, as though I’ve unleashed something that I have been holding in check for as long as I can remember.

  Ben is frozen, his hand still in the jar of olives and a look of surprise on his face.

  “Feel better?” he asks at last.

  “A bit,” I admit with a shaky laugh. I do, but I also feel an immediate pang of disloyalty, as if even that outburst is just another way that I’ve failed my parents.

  “I don’t want to think about the summer ending already,” I say quietly. “Not when it’s only just begun.”

  Silence stretches out between us and I pluck at a piece of grass.

  Ben is quiet for a moment.

  “You’re right that I don’t have parents like yours,” he says. “But I know what you mean, at least a little bit, about feeling in the way. I – well, I took matters into my own hands, I suppose. I ran away from home when I was fourteen.”

  “Fourteen is very young to be on your own.”

  “It is,” he agrees, and one side of his mouth lifts in a humourless smile.

  “Only the same age as Hero.”

  “Oh, but I was much more of a tearaway than Hero.” Ben grins. “Just ask Filomena.”