Under A Dancing Star

by Laura Wood

  “Well, it’s a good job you found each other in the end,” Lili says firmly.

  My eyes meet Ben’s across the table. “Hear, hear,” he says, raising his wine in toast. We all clink our glasses together.

  Later, after the candles have burned down and we’ve cleared the table, Ben and I sneak up to the roof. I’m fairly sure that Lili and Gert know that we come up here, but they haven’t said anything about it, and as long as we preserve the illusion of propriety they seem happy to leave us to it.

  As it has every evening, the view momentarily deprives my lungs of air. Stars wheel overhead, and, with the lights burning in the surrounding windows, it feels as though we are suspended among them. Settling in to the nest of blankets and cushions that we have built, Ben hands me a paper bag full of sweets which we chose together this morning. This, too, has become tradition, and I rifle through until I find one of my favourite sweet violet pastilles.

  Sucking on a cinnamon sweet, Ben eyes me thoughtfully. “So,” he says. “We’re heading back to the villa tomorrow.”

  “I know.” I draw small circles on the blanket with my finger. “I can’t believe we’re leaving Florence already. I really love it here.”

  “But you love the villa as well,” Ben points out.

  “Yes,” I agree, lifting my head to meet his eye. “But it’s been different to be here. With you. I mean, things feel different between us,” I finish a little awkwardly.

  There’s a pause as we look at each other for a long moment.

  “There are only two weeks until you go home,” Ben says carefully, breaking the silence.

  I feel a twist in my gut. I nod. “I know that, too,” I say.

  “And our experiment will reach its conclusion,” Ben says. “Do you feel it has been a success so far?”

  I consider the question. “Well,” I say, “when one considers the objectives, I think we’ve done quite well.”

  “The objectives?” Ben offers me another sweet and our fingers graze as I take it.

  “You promised me romance. And there have been flowers and boiled sweets and” – I grimace here – “poetry.”

  “I seem to remember Ursula mentioned kisses.” Ben grins. “I think we’ve done all right on that front too.”

  “She also said that she thought you would be a satisfactory lover,” I say.

  Ben chokes on his sweet. “What?” he finally manages after a significant amount of spluttering. “I don’t remember that part of the conversation.”

  “I don’t think you were there,” I say.

  “Oh.”

  “Is that something you would be interested in?” I ask.

  He stares at me.

  “This whole thing did start when I said I would like to take a lover,” I point out. “It seems like that would be the logical conclusion.”

  Ben runs a hand through his hair, rumpling it in a way that I find very attractive. “That’s true,” he says slowly, “but I wasn’t sure if you actually wanted to…”

  “Oh.” I winkle my nose thoughtfully. “I suppose I should have been more direct.”

  Ben lets out a shaky laugh. “You’re very direct, Bea; it’s one of my favourite things about you. I just didn’t want you to feel like there was any pressure… Like I expected…”

  I decide that the easiest way to halt this slightly stumbling conversation is to stop his mouth with a kiss.

  “Violets,” he says a little unsteadily. “You taste like spring.”

  Laughing, I pull him towards me again. He kisses me back, and his hands reach up to frame my face, cradling my jaw and pulling me closer. I’m on my knees now and so is he, our bodies pressed tightly together. My own hands rest lightly on his shoulders and as I move them to his chest I feel his heart thundering. He lowers me to the ground and I twine my arms around his neck; the kiss is desperate, tender, hungry, sweet – I never knew that a kiss could be like this, that it could be so many things all at once.

  His clever fingers skim down my side resting at my hip and I shiver against him – it’s an unconscious movement, one of expectation and delight. I feel meltingly hot, as though something is burning me up from the inside out.

  Finally, he breaks away from me, his face suspended over mine, his blue eyes seem almost violet now, the colour of larkspur. “Are you sure?” he asks gently. “Do you want to?”

  “Yes,” I say, reaching for him, smiling against his mouth. “Please.”

  Part Five: Villa Di Stelle

  August, 1933

  Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever;

  One foot in sea, and one on shore, To one thing constant never.

  – Much Ado About Nothing, Act II, Scene 3

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  As we travel back to the Villa di Stelle, I know that something is different between Ben and me. The events of last night are seared on my brain, and I confess I have been quite distracted all morning. As knowledgeable as I thought I was about the mechanics of lovemaking, I could never have anticipated the torrent of emotion that came along with it. It was more than I could ever have prepared for.

  “More than satisfactory,” I told Ben, as he laughed, pressing kisses against my skin.

  I feel changed now, as though something has altered not just between the two of us, but in me, for ever. I just don’t know exactly how to talk to him about it. Instead, I concentrate on the scenery slipping past the window, the way the world rushes past us, each view a fleeting blur, instantly replaced by another. I smile across at him and he smiles back, my own giddy happiness reflected in his eyes.

  I find my thoughts drifting, and I dare to wonder, for the first time, if this experiment with Ben might not last only for the next two weeks. If there’s a way it could stretch out beyond the summer, stretch out interminably into some rosy vision of the future. The idea is as paper-thin and fragile as the wings of a butterfly, and as it flutters gently awake I hardly dare to hold it still in my mind. Could it be possible that Ben is thinking the same thing? I don’t know. Everything I knew about him before this trip told me that such a thing would never happen, but there’s something different now; I know there is. In Florence, I have seen him differently. With his guard down, without the smooth facade.

  “I’m sorry that we had to leave Florence,” I say a little awkwardly. “I really loved it.”

  “Yes,” he agrees. “It was nice to be back.”

  “Will you…” I hesitate, clearing my throat. “Will you go back there when you leave the villa?”

  There’s a pause. “I don’t know,” Ben says slowly. “Hopefully I will have a new commission by then.”

  “Oh,” I say, picking at a loose thread on the seat beside me. Of course. It’s the exhibition tomorrow. I can’t believe I’d forgotten.

  As the train leaves the city further and further behind, it feels as though our new closeness is unravelling, as though we’re going to go back to how we were before. Perhaps I’m being a fool, trying to convince myself that I’m different, that I mean something more to him than a few stolen kisses. Perhaps it’s all in my own head.

  No, I think. It has always been there between us – something electric and exciting, right from the start.

  “I don’t want the experiment to end.”

  The words are out of my mouth before I know I’m going to say them, but I’m not sorry. I sit up straight, my chin high. To stay quiet would be the easy thing. To let the possibility of happiness slip away without even trying to fight for it … that’s the coward’s way. And whatever else I am – stubborn, difficult, argumentative, perhaps – I am no coward.

  “Bea.” His voice is quiet, and I try to look calm and collected as I meet his eyes. He leans forward, and I do too. He takes a deep breath; the silence between us is like a real tangible object, it’s so thick and heavy. “I—” he begins.

  “AREZZO! AREZZO!” The call comes up the corridor and I jump in my seat, on edge and flustered.

  “We’re here,” Be
n says unnecessarily, getting to his feet. The moment is gone and I wonder how on earth to get it back, what exactly he was going to say. There’s no chance to talk now, not as we’re swept up in the bustle of getting ourselves and our bags out on to the platform.

  We walk through the waiting room and the ticket office without saying a word to one another.

  Klaus is waiting for us outside the station. He leans casually against a flashy new convertible car – sleek and expensive as a racehorse – and waves when he spots us walking towards him.

  “Hello!” I exclaim. “Where on earth did you get that?”

  Klaus leans forward and kisses me quickly on both cheeks. “Ah, it is your uncle’s newest toy,” he says, opening the door for me as Ben climbs into the back seat.

  “My uncle?” I say, puzzled, as Klaus slips behind the wheel and starts the car up.

  “Yes.” Klaus nods, something I can’t place in his voice. His smile is mechanical. “They came home early.”

  “They?” This can’t be good.

  “Your uncle has brought his guests back with him for the exhibition,” Klaus replies.

  “His guests?” I repeat. “Lady Bowling?”

  “Yes.” Klaus pulls out of the station. “And Sir Hugh.”

  I look up at the rear-view mirror and meet Ben’s eye there. It seems the perfect bubble we’ve been living in is well and truly burst.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  “You just have to be careful, Beatrice,” Uncle Leo says earnestly. “Think about your reputation. You can’t just go gallivanting off to Florence without a by-your-leave or a proper chaperone. Your parents entrusted me to take care of you, and to have you spend your time here in a way that they would approve of.”

  I gather that despite Filomena’s best efforts to paint the trip in the most respectable light, it hasn’t gone down well with my uncle.

  “I did have a chaperone,” I say.

  Leo frowns. “I know Ben is a tutor of sorts,” he says, and I suppress a nervous giggle. “But he’s still a young man, Beatrice. He’s hardly the most appropriate escort.”

  He has changed, I think. The relaxed and cheerfully scruffy man who greeted me when I arrived in Italy has been slowly fading away. His clothes are smarter. He’s more buttoned up, and his face is cleanly shaven with a thin moustache above his top lip. It has coincided with meeting Lady Bowling, perhaps, but I think it was always there. The bohemian patron was no more than an act.

  Having arrived home with less than twenty-four hours to go before the big exhibition, Ben has been kept busy with his work, which means I haven’t really seen him. This is probably for the best with Uncle Leo finally paying attention to my comings and goings, but I find – much to my surprise – that I miss being with him, even though we have only been apart for a few hours. It is quite disturbing.

  The artists are all working hard. There’s a feeling of breathless anticipation in the air, and I find myself drawn into their nervous excitement, all the while envying their sense of direction and purpose. Klaus ropes me in to help with the hanging of his work in the house, fluttering anxiously like a moth bumping up against a glowing windowpane. To please my uncle, Filomena insists that I show some of my own work, the product of my art lessons. I’m not sure the sketch of the inner workings of the forearm is exactly the sort of ladylike accomplishment Leo was hoping for, but I’m proud of it and I place it in a quiet corner where it’s unlikely to draw much attention.

  I escape to my room for a moment of quiet, to read and to look through the rest of the sketches that I made in Florence. I compare them to the first drawing of the stag beetle and realize how much I have improved. When Filomena first suggested the lessons I saw them only as an inconvenience, but they had real value. It was a gift that she gave me, in more ways than she could perhaps have anticipated.

  Through my open window I can already hear the sounds of people arriving at the villa – shouted greetings and bursts of laughter and the clatter of footsteps through the halls. I know that I need to turn my mind to getting ready. Besides, the sooner I join the party, the sooner I’ll see Ben.

  The thought of a party back home would have me full of dread. I remember the disastrous dinner party that led to my coming here. Already it feels like so long ago – as if it happened to someone else, someone who has nothing to do with the girl who arrived here six weeks ago.

  I go to my wardrobe for something suitable to wear. Unfortunately, there are no dresses in with my new clothes. I run my fingers along the rail and my hands brush against my old dresses. There’s nothing in my new Italian wardrobe that would fit in at Langton Hall. These beautiful colourful scraps would be as out of place as a butterfly in the damp, dark hallways of my home. Mother and Father would also never throw a party like this one; they would never open up the house to whoever wanted to come. There would be a guest list, a seating plan, the same slender circle of approved acquaintances rolling through the door again and again. I close my eyes for a moment, thinking of my home and of my parents and feeling a pang that I am finding so much happiness being away from them.

  When I open my eyes again I find comfort in the room around me. This room which is warm and full of light is friendly, already familiar, already so much my own.

  With a sigh I drag out the best of my old dresses and button myself into it. It feels tight and restrictive.

  There’s a knock on the door. It’s Ursula.

  “Can I come in?”

  She looks ethereal in a dress that is a column of spun gold, her eyes heavily lined in dark kohl. Like a nubile Egyptian queen.

  I sigh. Taking a deep breath, I open the door more fully.

  Ursula looks at me for a long moment, her nose wrinkled, and her mouth a moue of distaste.

  “What is it?” I fold my arms defensively across my chest.

  “Why,” Ursula asks heavily, “are you wearing … that?”

  “You make it sound like I’m wearing a potato sack.”

  “You might as well be,” Ursula says bluntly. “That dress doesn’t fit you, Bea. Not in any way.”

  “Well unfortunately it’s all I’ve got,” I reply. “But thank you for filling me with such confidence.”

  “I think we can do a little better than this,” she says slowly. “Wait here.”

  I sit on the bed, my posture rigid thanks to the restrictive nature of my dress. Several minutes pass before Ursula bursts back into the room, her arms full of black material.

  “Are those Klaus’s clothes?” I ask as she dumps them on the bed.

  She hushes me impatiently, rifling through my wardrobe for a white silk shirt. “Put these on.” She hands me a pair of Klaus’s trousers. They are black and edged down the side with inky black satin ribbon.

  “Is this a tuxedo?”

  “For goodness’ sake, Bea, are we going to stand around talking about it all day,” Ursula grumbles, sifting through the items on the bed. “Haven’t you ever heard of Marlene Dietrich?”

  I shrug, and the movement is accompanied by a loud ripping sound, as the seam on my shoulder splits quite dramatically.

  “Looks like you can’t wear that horrible dress anyway.” Ursula is gleeful. “So we might as well get on with my plan.”

  I wriggle out of my dress and put on the white shirt and the trousers. Considering that Klaus and I are very different shapes the fit isn’t so bad. “They’re a little big,” I say, pulling at the loose waistband. Ursula threads a thin belt through the loops on the trousers, pulling it tight and cinching them at my waist. The effect is to make them fall, straight and wide and not a million miles away from the loose-fitting trousers that I’ve been wearing around the villa for the last few weeks.

  She also hands me a black waistcoat, tucking and pinning it at the sides so that it hugs my body. Then, she stands in front of me, frowning in concentration as she ties a black bow tie around my neck.

  I accept this patiently, but I’m certain that I’m going to look an absolute quiz. When Ursu
la finally turns me around to look in the mirror, I realize this isn’t the case – but I also wonder if I dare to wear it.

  There’s nothing really improper about the suit, I suppose – it’s not that far away from how I’ve been dressing this summer. But somehow it looks a little improper on me. I look … womanly. I’m so used to folding myself in, trying to make myself look smaller at my parents’ parties. This outfit won’t let me hide. This outfit doesn’t make me small.

  I certainly don’t look like the pretty, willowy figures in the fashion magazines that Mother still keeps in the house, but I like the way I feel in this suit, like a grown-up, as if the clothes I have been wearing for years were a costume, forcing me into a part I didn’t want to play. The trousers are loose, light, the silk shirt a whisper on my skin. I can move. I can breathe.

  “Well,” Ursula says finally, with a dry chuckle. “That’s certainly an improvement.”

  “You don’t think it’s too much?” I ask, twisting from side to side in the mirror.

  “Oh, I think it’s just right,” Ursula says, circling me with a critical gleam in her eyes. “Or it will be, as long as you don’t start curling yourself over like a – a sad shrimp.”

  “A sad shrimp?” I repeat, smiling.

  “Yes. That is what you were like when you came here,” Ursula says firmly. “Stop doubting yourself. It’s boring. The outfit is perfect and you will wear it and Ben’s eyes will fall out of his head. You look delicious.”

  “Delicious,” I repeat, feeling a tingle as the compliment registers. “All right.”

  I start to pull my hair into a braid.

  “Oh no you don’t!” Ursula lifts a finger. “Leave your hair down.”

  “Do you think?” I ask, eyeing my curls.

  “Yes, I do.” Ursula is firm as she comes to stand behind me, reaching up to untangle my hair with surprisingly gentle fingers.

  “Thank you for helping,” I say. “It’s nice to have someone to get ready with.”