by Laura Wood
“You’re a very talented individual,” I say. “Just too simple-minded for the subtleties of our conversation.”
“Ah, there you are.” Ben’s dimples appear, distracting me. “I was worried that you were being a bit too nice to me.”
“Trust me,” I say cheerfully, “that’s not something you ever need to worry about.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The next day I am surprised to find Filomena in the drawing room, taking tea with Sir Hugh.
“Oh, sorry,” I exclaim, checking my stride and coming to an abrupt halt. “I came in for my sketch pad.”
“Not at all.” Sir Hugh gets to his feet with a gentlemanly little bow. “It’s lovely to see you again, my dear. Won’t you join us?”
“Please do, Bea.” Filomena gestures to the chair beside her.
I hesitate, but I am curious about Sir Hugh, and Ben’s dislike for him. Ben himself has not been at all forthcoming on the matter, even muttering something about “curiosity killing the cat”, but I am a scientist and, as I pointed out to him, curiosity is one of my defining characteristics
Which is probably why I say, “Thank you. A cup of tea would be lovely.”
Filomena pours me a cup from the silver tea service on the table beside her. The tea is amber and steaming: a perfect taste of home. I settle into one of the hard-backed sofas.
“Filomena tells me you are having art lessons,” Sir Hugh says genially. “I must say the villa is the perfect setting for such an endeavour.”
“Yes,” I agree, “although I’m afraid that my talents are wholly unworthy of this environment. I’m improving, however. Thanks to Ben.” I reach for a plate of flat, pale biscuits dusted in crunchy sugar, biting into one and allowing it to melt on my tongue in a swirl of vanilla.
Sir Hugh laughs gallantly. “I’m sure you do yourself a disservice.” I feel the familiar creeping boredom of polite social visits at Langton. I am not terribly good at small talk. I stir the tea in my cup, and the sound of the silver teaspoon chiming musically against the porcelain echoes around the room.
I reach around in my mind for something to say. “Have you been in Italy long?” I ask finally.
“For about two months.” Sir Hugh sips his tea. “And before that in the south of France, before that in Vienna.”
“But you live in England?”
“I do,” Sir Hugh says. “England will always be my true home. But I find that travel helps me to create. Of course…” He smiles at Filomena. “It does leave me rather relying on the kind hospitality of others if I wish to avoid hotel living. When I learned that darling Filomena was staying here … well, I confess I might have fished for an invitation. It’s just so nice to catch up with old friends, isn’t it?”
“I don’t suppose there are any hotels quite like this place,” I say, setting my empty teacup down again.
“You are perfectly right,” he replies, smiling. “It’s truly something special. Filomena, my dear, you have fallen on your feet.” His tone is pleasant, but something in his words makes me look up sharply.
“I am certainly very lucky,” she says calmly. “As we all are, to enjoy Leo’s hospitality.”
“I know I am,” I break in anxiously, not enjoying the ripple of tension that is suddenly palpable in the room. “If I was stuck at home now, I’d be lonely and cold and miserable – and here…” I spread my fingers wide to indicate the bounty around us.
“Here, you are having art lessons,” Sir Hugh puts in.
“Well, there has to be at least one fly in the ointment,” I say lightly and Sir Hugh chuckles.
“I take it Ben is not a patient instructor?” he asks.
“Actually, he’s an excellent teacher. Much as it pains me to admit it.”
“Bea and Ben enjoy… What do you English call it?” Filomena smiles. “Bickering?”
Sir Hugh takes a sip of tea. “Benedick always did have the ability to charm. But also to rub people up the wrong way.”
I eye him speculatively. “You know him well then?”
“I know his temper,” Sir Hugh says, his tone suddenly serious. “A troubled young man, very troubled. Though a promising artist now, I have heard.” He must notice my inquisitive look. “A sad story, I’m afraid. His mother, when she had him, was young and – well, she was unmarried—”
“I don’t think Bea needs to hear all this ancient history,” Filomena cuts in, and I am suddenly relieved. If I hear this story, I think, it should be from Ben.
I cast about for something else to say. “Are you staying here long?” I ask.
“That,” says Sir Hugh, “is something I was just discussing with Filomena.”
“I hope you will stay as long as you wish to!”
I didn’t hear Uncle Leo come in, and we all turn around at the sound of his voice. Frances drifts into the room behind him and folds herself into another chair, crossing one leg over the other. Leo lays a hand on Filomena’s shoulder. “It is an honour for us to have you both here,” he continues, his smile engulfing both Frances and Sir Hugh.
“You are much too kind,” Sir Hugh says. “However, as I was explaining to your charming fiancée, Frances and I have an important dinner to get to in just a couple of days’ time. I can say no more.” His tone is light, teasing.
“But why?” Uncle Leo frowns.
“Ignore him,” Frances says. “He’s enjoying being mysterious. The truth is that we are attending a small dinner being hosted by Benito.” I see Filomena’s hand go to her throat in a quick, unconscious gesture. “My late husband was, as you know, a great, personal friend of Mussolini’s, and he is in Rome this week.”
“An honour indeed,” Leo says, his eyes wide.
“You have met him yourself?” asks Sir Hugh.
Leo looks rather wistful. “I haven’t, no.”
Frances nods. “A marvellous man, and so charming. What he’s done for this country, well … we could use some of it back in England. Perhaps darling Oswald will be able to make some much-needed change there. You know,” she says slowly, tapping her chin, “you could come with us, as my guests, if you wish. That way I could introduce you to the man himself – it’s the least I can do after your gracious hospitality.”
Leo looks like a child at Christmas. “Visit Rome to meet with Mussolini?” he breathes. “We would love to, wouldn’t we, darling?” He turns his shining eyes on Filomena.
“What an opportunity.” Filomena’s voice is steady. “Regrettably, I must stay here with Hero and Bea.” She smiles at him. “But you must go, my love. We will be quite all right here for a week or two without you.”
Leo catches up her hand. “Best of women,” he says. “And when I’ve only just got back as well. I truly don’t deserve you.” He turns to me. “Isn’t she wonderful, Bea?”
“Wonderful,” I agree and I force a mechanical smile. I am slightly horrified by the whole idea of this visit with Mussolini. Nothing that I have seen or heard at the villa has made me feel any more inclined towards the fascist cause. If anything, it has been the opposite. It’s a problem that I have had to deal with before – questioning the judgement of the adults around you is not an especially comfortable experience. The idea that my uncle could be wrong – dangerously wrong – about something so important is unsettling. I try to shake off the uneasy feeling that it gives me.
I look up and as I do so I catch an odd look – almost of displeasure – flicker over Sir Hugh’s face, his gaze moving between Filomena and my uncle.
“It’s decided then,” Frances says. “We were planning to leave tomorrow – will that be too soon?”
“Not at all!” Leo claps his hands. “We like to seize the day in this house.”
As he stands, I glance over at Filomena. The look in her eyes takes my breath away. It is a look of bone-deep sadness, a weariness that leaves her shoulders drooping, a tremble in her hands.
Half a second later the look is gone, and Filomena’s face is serene once more, her shoulders back, h
er chin lifted. I would almost think I had imagined it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
I think it’s safe to say that everyone is relieved when my uncle and his new friends leave for Rome the next day.
Once more it feels as if the reins have been loosened, and over the following week the house fills up again as Filomena welcomes guests – more and more artists arriving in the build-up to the villa’s end of summer exhibition. There are new faces and some that I recognize from earlier in the summer. Everyone seems very busy.
Although as a playwright she won’t be presenting at the exhibition, Ursula has been caught up in her work as well, camped out in the summer house for days, and I’m surprised to find that I miss her. I go in search of her one morning, to discover her wild-eyed and dishevelled, hunched over her desk. The piles of paper in the room seem to have multiplied ten-fold, teetering precariously in corners, scattered across the floor, marked with the dirty rings from the bottoms of coffee cups.
She greets me without looking up. “Bea, hello. I think I’m finally getting somewhere,” she says feverishly, her fingers drumming on the typewriter.
“Do you need a break?” I ask. “I thought you might like a swim?”
“Oh, a swim,” she murmurs abstractedly. “Have fun.”
I give up and make my way to the pool alone. Ursula is not the only one with her nose to the grindstone. There’s been a significant increase in activity this week, and I have to admit that it has left me a little off balance. Everyone, including Ben, Filomena and Klaus, seems driven by something, something that is big and significant. I have continued to improve in my sketching and have surprised myself with how much I am enjoying it – the way it teaches me to look at things with fresh eyes – but it’s not the same.
I want what the others have for myself, I realize. The sense of purpose, the all-consuming passion for their work. I’m never going to feel like that about art, but it is how I feel about science. It’s becoming harder and harder to imagine going home to my aimless solitude – or, even worse, the stifling company of someone like Cuthbert. There’s pleasure in studying alone, but I want to do something with my knowledge. I want a purpose, a vocation.
I think about it as I swim up and down the length of the pool, enjoying the coolness of the water as it twines around my limbs, the way I slip easily through it in my new bathing suit. I think about what my mother would have to say about this short, clinging, bright red costume. I know that the answer is nothing good and that makes wearing it feel even better. I turn over and float on my back, my fingers splayed as I close my eyes against the dazzling sunlight that continues to dance behind my eyelids in scattered golden shards.
Finally, I drag myself out of the water and wrap myself in a towel. I sit on one of the sun loungers, untangling my long hair with my fingertips and relishing the sun on my skin, the way its warmth spreads over me in waves.
Eventually, I am joined by Ben and I smile up at him sleepily as he drops into the seat next to me. His hair is ruffled, and his hands are covered in paint. There’s paint on his cheek, too. He’s been working on something new, something that he’s excited about, though I haven’t seen it yet. Whatever it is, it makes his eyes shine.
“How does it work?” I ask him, after a moment. “The exhibition, I mean.”
He sprawls back in his chair. “Filomena hasn’t held one here at the villa before, so I’m not exactly sure.”
“But she’s had them elsewhere?” I ask.
He nods. “Yes, on a smaller scale. I went to one a couple of years ago in Florence. It depends if she has a patron or not.”
“A patron?” I frown.
Ben stretches. “Someone who funds the work. Like Leo.”
“But Leo is Filomena’s fiancé, not her patron,” I point out.
Ben snorts. “Same thing.”
I sit for a moment, absorbing that information.
“Filomena’s circle of friends may be impressive, but they’re all poor as church mice,” Ben continues. “It’s the rare artist who is appreciated in their own lifetime, Bea.” He smiles grimly. “Not everyone gets as lucky as Sir Hugh.”
“So the work goes on display?” I ask.
Ben nods. “In the house and in the gardens. Usually, Filomena plies everyone with drink and there are a few money types who turn up and buy things – collectors come to look for new talent. There are a handful of people coming to this one who I am hoping might offer me a commission. The summer’s almost gone, after all. I need to start making plans.”
He speaks lightly, but the words hit me with a force I hadn’t expected. “Plans?” I repeat.
“Well, yes.” Ben eyes me with something like amusement. “We haven’t all got stately homes to return to. I can’t expect your uncle to house me indefinitely.”
“I suppose not,” I say, my voice a little hollow.
“What’s wrong?” Ben asks.
“Nothing.” I shake my head. “Just thinking about the summer being over. Going home. I suppose it just feels like the end of something.” I sit up.
“The end of a glorious summer romance?”
“The end of a very interesting experiment.”
“You’re only interested in me for my scientific possibilities,” Ben grumbles.
“Perhaps.” I smile. There’s a pause. “Why did you ever agree to it?” It’s a question I’ve been wanting to ask for a while.
Ben looks thoughtfully into the distance for a moment. “I suppose the idea was a bit of a novelty,” he muses. “Whatever else you are, Bea, you’re never boring.”
“Oh,” I say, somehow deflated.
“Of course, there was one other reason,” Ben says slowly.
“What was that?”
“It was becoming very inconvenient, wanting to kiss you all the time.” His voice is very neutral, matter-of-fact.
“Did you?”
“Yes, I did,” he sighs. “Despite all my better judgement, against every measure of sanity I possess, I couldn’t stop thinking about it whenever you were around.”
“That’s just how I felt,” I say. “As if my brain and my body were completely disconnected and I kept having all these involuntary responses. I should note this down. Do you think it is something chemical?”
I look over at Ben now and catch my breath, because there’s something glittering in his eyes that makes the air between us crackle.
“Something like that,” he says.
Before the crackle can turn into anything more interesting, Filomena appears, wearing a strange expression.
“Is everything all right?” I ask, noticing that she is clutching a letter in her hand.
“Everything is very all right, Bea,” she says, a slow smile spreading across her face. She sits down. “Now, how would you feel about a trip to Florence?”
“To Florence?” I repeat, in a daze.
“You’ve heard from Lili?” Ben perks up. “She’s back?”
“I have,” Filomena nods, “and she is.” Ben lets out a whoop of excitement. “There’s a letter for you too, of course,” she continues, holding out an envelope to him.
“Who is Lili?” I ask, trying to catch up.
“An old friend,” Filomena says. “A very dear old friend of both of ours. And one who invites the two of you to stay for a couple of days.”
“Me and … and Ben?” I feel a little flustered by this, by the casual way we have been paired together. “How does she know who I am?”
“I told her that Ben was giving you art lessons.” She folds her hands placidly in her lap. “If one is to truly learn about art then one cannot miss Firenze.”
“I wrote to her about you, too,” says Ben, abstractedly, as he scans his own letter.
“Did you?” I ask, finding myself flushing with unexpected pleasure. “But won’t my uncle mind?”
“You will be back long before he is.” Filomena waves her hand in an airy gesture. “And I’m sure he would not mind.”
I’m not
so sure about that, actually. In fact, I’m starting to suspect that perhaps he has not embraced the laid-back bohemian lifestyle as whole-heartedly as it first seemed. Still, I’m certainly not going to turn down the opportunity to visit Florence. Far be it for me to start throwing obstacles in my own path.
“You can go for a few days and still be back in time for the exhibition party,” Filomena says. “You’ll love Florence, Bea.” Her enthusiasm is unrestrained. “It is the most romantic place.”
“It will probably be wasted on me, then,” I say and at that Ben lifts his eyes from his letter to meet mine.
“Oh, I don’t know, Bea.” The smile that he gives me is warm and I feel it all the way in my bones. “I think even you might not be immune to the romance of Florence. In fact, I think you’ll like it a lot.”
Part Four: Florence
August, 1933
BEATRICE:
For which of my good parts did you first suffer love for me?
BENEDICK:
“Suffer love,” a good epithet! I do suffer love indeed, for I love thee against my will.
– Much Ado About Nothing, Act V, Scene 2
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“Tell me about Lili,” I demand after we have settled in next to one another on the faded green velvet seats in the train compartment. The journey is only a few hours but I am desperate to be there already.
“Lili is a force of nature,” Ben says fondly. “She’s American and she hasn’t much money, but what she has she spends on art. She has a terrific eye and her collection is beyond belief. She lives in this tumbledown house in Florence and every artist of any importance, and quite a lot of no importance at all, have stayed there at one time or another.”
“Including Filomena,” I say.
“Right,” Ben nods. “And – and my mother, and me.” He smiles at my surprise. “We lived in Lili’s house for almost two years when I was nine.”
“Your mother was an artist too?” I say.
“She wanted to be,” Ben says. “She was very young when she had me, with barely a penny to her name. She came over to Italy from England when I was still small and fell in with a group of artists in Florence who pretty much saved her life. They saved mine, too, I suppose.”
