by Laura Wood
“Isn’t that what girlfriends do?” Ursula asks a little sharply after a moment. “Gossip and share lipstick and things?”
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I’ve never had a friend like that before.”
“Neither have I,” Ursula replies, her expression guarded.
“I don’t have any lipstick to share either.” I catch her eye in the mirror and smile tentatively.
A similar smile appears on Ursula’s lips for a second. “Now that,” she says, reaching for her gold bag, “is something I can certainly help with.”
Ursula paints my lips a dark, berry red and lines my eyes with smoky kohl.
“Well?” I ask, as she steps back to survey her handiwork.
She nods. “You will do,” she says. “Are you ready?”
“I am,” I say, taking a deep breath. “All right. Let’s go.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
As we make our way along the hall I can hear the murmur of conversation, and music drifts through from the garden. We descend the staircase and I feel nerves fluttering through my body. Clustered below us are a crowd of people, mostly my uncle’s age, looking closely at some of the paintings that hang in the hallway.
“Promising,” a man mutters to his companion. “Filomena always did have a good eye.”
The majority of the noise seems to be coming from outside. A couple of people glance up and catch sight of us; I feel my step wobble and, for a second, I think I’m going to do something mortifying, like tumble head over heels down the staircase. Ursula slips her arm through mine and I look down at her in surprise. She gives me a sort of rueful grimace, as though she can’t quite believe that she’s doing it herself.
“I feel like everyone’s looking at me,” I say.
Ursula snorts. “Darling, if anyone’s looking at anyone then they’re looking at me.” She untangles her arm from mine and smooths down the sides of her dress, flashing a man nearby such a dazzling smile that he blinks owlishly, looking more than a little stunned. An expression of satisfaction crosses Ursula’s face.
“Oh, this is going to be fun,” she breathes, drifting gracefully forward and leaving me to follow.
We head straight outside and I was right in guessing this is going to be like no party I’ve been to before. The whole garden is lit by candles – there must be thousands; they’re dotted along the paths, they twinkle in glass lanterns in the trees, they stretch out endlessly into the night and the picture that they make takes my breath away. As I pass one of the trees I realize that there are small mirrors hanging there, reflecting even more dancing flames back towards one another, multiplying the candles by infinity. It’s a magic trick that casts a spell over everyone who sees it, and each new arrival gasps in delight as they step into this wonderland.
Nestled within this constellation are easels holding paintings, and plinths supporting graceful sculptures. The candles stretch down the avenues, luring visitors further into the garden where more treasures are offered up on display. There’s a buzz in the air as people cluster around the works, their voices loud, animated, their movements sharp, as they sketch shapes in the air or talk about form or colour. They use words like cobalt, malachite and azurite: words that have a little bit of magic clinging to them; words that feel completely at home here.
The long table that we usually gather around is piled high with offerings from Rosa, and I pluck a green olive, fat as butter, from a dish, enjoying the salt taste of it on my tongue. I see the others – Hero dressed in shell-pink, her heart-shaped face glowing with pleasure at the scene, and with her are Klaus and Ben. Klaus’s dark hair is slicked back and he wears a sharp, light-grey suit. His dapper look is completed by a jaunty red bow tie.
Ben, on the other hand, has already discarded his suit jacket. He is wearing slightly crumpled cream trousers and a matching waistcoat over a white shirt, sleeves rolled up and open at the neck. My eyes catch on that spot at the base of his throat for a second, and I feel a flare of heat in my belly. His golden hair is rumpled, and there is a hint of stubble on his face.
“Bea!” Hero exclaims. “You look so … different!” She stares. “Beautiful.”
“Oh, don’t.” Ursula rolls her eyes. “You’ll make her blush again and her face will clash with her lipstick.”
Klaus comes forward and bows elaborately over my hand, pressing a fleeting kiss to the inside of my wrist and looking at me with such naked admiration that it makes me squirm.
“Your cousin is right, Bea,” he says softly. “You are so striking tonight that you leave all the other women in the shade.”
Ursula snorts. “Not all the other women, thank you.” She juts out one hip, her hand resting on the curve of her waist, candlelight flickering over the gold dress.
Klaus chuckles. “Too true, sister of mine – forgive me. No one will ever accuse you of hiding in the shadows.”
I dart a look at Ben and find that he is watching me, his expression inscrutable.
He steps forward and presses a long kiss to my cheek. “Beautiful, Bea,” he murmurs, his words caressing my ear and sending a shiver of awareness through my body.
We share a look then, and I know. He sees me. He knows me. And he thinks I’m beautiful.
We move across the terrace accompanied by Hero’s high, breathless stream of chatter and Klaus’s animated answers to her questions. The excitement of the evening has got hold of us all. We’re giddy with it. And why not? We’re in fairyland. It feels unreal, like a dream.
A sound breaks through my daze – the scattered, birdsong sound of a fiddle striking up a tune. I hadn’t noticed the ramshackle band setting up, and when they pick up their instruments the air hums with excitement. A lithe, graceful young man with a flashing white smile lowers a bow to his violin and a wild and joyful melody skitters through the air to howls of approval. The crowd begins clearing a space for dancing immediately.
“Well…” Ben lifts an eyebrow. “Surely you didn’t get all dressed up like that to stand around. Will you dance with me?”
“Of course,” I say, stepping into the circle of his arms. “I’d love to.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Ben holds me close while we dance, and I think about what a good thing it is to twirl about in someone’s arms under the stars. I’ve never been particularly interested in dancing before, but it suddenly seems like a wonderful idea.
“Whoever invented dancing should get a medal,” says Ben, echoing my thoughts.
“I think we’ve always danced,” I say dreamily. “Homer wrote about dancing in the Iliad, you know. That’s almost three thousand years ago. But every society must have danced long before that, though of course it’s harder to find evidence.”
“Perhaps dancing makes us human,” Ben suggests with a smile.
I pull back a little. “Oh no, Ben,” I say firmly, “plenty of birds dance. After all, one only has to look at the grebe…”
I stop because Ben is laughing, holding me so close that I can feel the laughter rumble in his chest. I look up at him, and his eyes are crinkled around the edges.
“I’m just glad we’re including dancing in the experiment,” he says.
“What are your observations?” I ask.
“I observe that your cheeks are flushed.” He runs a finger down the side of my face. “That your eyes are sparkling, and that we haven’t stepped on each other’s toes. I would call that a success.”
His arm is tight around my waist and my hand rests on his shoulder, the fabric of his shirt soft against my fingertips.
The music changes and Ben twirls me suddenly, setting the world spinning around me, a kaleidoscope of light and sound. The melody is shrill and exciting, a heady cacophony of sound, full of life. Some of the songs that follow have words, and the Italians burst into a loud, enthusiastic singalong that I ask Ben to translate for me. I’m not sure if he is teasing me or if the lyrics really are as scandalous as he claims, but either way it’s a very interesting lesson in social be
haviour.
“I should go and talk to people about my work,” Ben murmurs reluctantly in my ear. “Will you save me another dance later?”
“Perhaps,” I say.
With a rueful smile, Ben drops his hand from my waist and takes a step back. The air that rushes between us is cool and I feel curiously bereft, as if my body is registering the absence of his touch.
But then, after Ben, I have another dance partner and another and another. “My dance,” they say. “My dance, my dance.” I’ve never been so much in demand, and I try to concentrate on enjoying myself. After a while I forget to try, caught up in the easy excitement of the crowd.
I notice that Klaus chats easily with the musicians in between songs, paying particular attention to the handsome violinist. The two of them smile at one another in a way that is warm and intimate. How interesting.
I feel like a spinning top, as the music rings out and the lights blur around me. After a while I find myself in Klaus’s arms and he greets me as though we’ve been apart for months, pressing warm kisses to my cheeks. Finally, after yet another dance, I’ve had enough, and I leave him with a new partner, as I head off in search of food and water.
I come across Hero sitting at the dining table, her chin in her hand, her eyes on the decadent scenes unfolding in front of her. She looks as though she’s at the pictures, watching quietly from the darkness as the light spills towards her.
“Are you having fun?” I ask, sitting down in the seat beside her and reaching for a hunk of bread topped with oily tomatoes and sweet-smelling basil leaves.
“So much fun,” Hero breathes. “Isn’t it wonderful, Bea? You’d never see anything like this in boring old England.”
“Certainly not the England that we inhabit anyway,” I agree, licking my fingers.
“I hope we never have to leave here,” Hero says. Something sad comes into her eyes. “I think … I think maybe Pa is getting homesick.”
“Perhaps it’s just spending time with Lady Bowling and Sir Hugh,” I say, in what I hope is a comforting way. “That’s bound to remind him of home. When they leave everything will go back to normal.” The truth is, I suppose, that Leo feels separate to all this. It’s as though he’s already back in the polite drawing rooms of England.
“I suppose.” Hero doesn’t sound completely convinced. Her gaze strays towards Klaus, who is now twirling Ursula around, her gold dress rippling like a beacon. I can already see several other men prowling around the edge of the dance floor waiting to pounce once the song ends. “Klaus is handsome, isn’t he?” she asks, changing the subject with a moonstruck sigh.
“He is,” I agree.
“And Ben, of course,” Hero adds fairly. “He’s handsome too.”
“He certainly thinks so.” I laugh.
“I think we’ve already established how handsome you find me, Miss Beatrice Langton of the Northumberland Langtons,” Ben’s voice chimes in, his tone containing an edge of mockery, and he drops into the chair on the other side of Hero, pouring himself a glass of wine and knocking it back in one swift draught.
“Arrogance is not at all attractive, Benedick,” I reply primly.
“You might be handsome, Ben,” Hero says slyly, “but I think my cousin is the most beautiful girl here tonight. Don’t you?”
“I know I do,” a voice with a heavy Italian accent pipes up, and a polished-looking man in his late twenties bows his head. “Would you do me the honour, signora?” He holds out his hand, but before I can reply Ben is on his feet.
“I’m stealing her away, I’m afraid,” he says, and with that he practically hauls me out of my chair and off away from the crowd. I can hear Hero’s stifled laughter.
“That was very rude,” I say.
“That man is a notorious womanizer,” Ben replies. “I was being protective. Chivalrous.”
“Oh yes, chivalry, I’m sure that’s what it was. Wouldn’t want to spend time with handsome, notorious womanizers,” I scoff. “They are truly awful. I am perfectly capable of looking after myself, thank you.”
“I know you are; I was trying to protect him from receiving a black eye.”
“Honestly, you accidentally punch someone in the face, just once, and you never hear the end of it,” I complain. “And you barely even had a bruise.”
I look over to where Klaus is once again in conversation with the handsome musician, their heads close together. Something invisible crackling between them.
“I know you said that Klaus was flirting with me before,” I say carefully, “but I wonder if he might not be more interested in your company than mine.”
A flash of surprise appears in Ben’s eyes. “So you know about that, do you?”
“I’ve been making some observations,” I concede.
“Well, as it goes,” Ben says, “I’m not Klaus’s type.”
“Mmmm,” I murmur in agreement. “Not like the violinist over there.”
“You are observant…” Ben smiles. “But you should know that Klaus’s interest in the violinist does not preclude him from being interested in you.”
“Oh really?” I say. “He’s attracted to men and women? How interesting.”
‘“Anyway, enough about Klaus,” he says, tugging at my hand. “I have something I want to show you.”’
“Are you just trying to get me into a dark corner?”
Ben gives me a long look. “Maybe later,” he says, pulling me further down the path into the garden. “I want you to see my work.”
“Oh!” I exclaim. “I would love that.” Hopefully I can manage something better than “nice” this time, I think.
The noise from the crowd recedes as we follow a path lined with candles. Ben leads me towards the fountain, where ropes hung with lanterns cast the space in a warm golden glow.
There, standing on three easels, are the most beautiful paintings I have ever seen. They are alive with swathes of bright colour, and though they are not faithful reproductions, it is easy for me to recognize them.
“Anisoptera,” I murmur, standing in front of a canvas of dazzling blues and greens and purples. “A dragonfly.” I turn to the next painting. “Gonepteryx cleopatra.” This canvas is all saffron, gold and cinnamon. “The Cleopatra butterfly.” And finally, “Upupa epops.” The hoopoe, the bird I longed to see the most, its striking black and white comb displayed in geometric shapes against coppery peach feathers. “I can’t believe you painted them.” Somehow Ben has captured the freedom of the creatures, their beauty and the way they move.
“I was thinking of you,” he says. He touches the painting of the dragonfly. “The first time you came here to the fountain.” He turns to the next canvas. “And our terrible first attempt at a romantic picnic.” He rests a hand on the final one. “The fountain again … after you pushed me in.”
“Those don’t seem like the happiest memories,” I murmur, still spellbound by the paintings in front of me.
“Oh, they were,” Ben says quietly. “They were with you.”
I turn to look at him, and for some reason there are tears prickling at my eyes. “I love them,” I say simply. “Thank you for painting them.”
Ben swallows. “It looks like the great experiment has helped us both. I think it’s some of my best work.”
“I’m glad,” I say, forcing myself to sound cheerful. “I wouldn’t want to think that I was the only one who experienced positive results.”
I think he’s going to make a joke, something sly about the “positive results”, but instead he smiles, a slow sweet smile.
“No,” he says. “You’re not the only one.”
My heart thumps irregularly in my chest. “You’re being very romantic now.”
“I suppose you bring it out of me,” Ben replies, and his face is difficult to read.
I clear my throat. There’s a strange tension building up between us. I think it’s because there is so much unsaid.
I know that there are lots of things I want to say, but for some
reason it is proving difficult. Ever since Florence, things have been different between us. It’s not just what happened physically; something else is happening here – something messy that has to do with feelings. Something that is very much supposed to be outside the scope of our experiment. I don’t usually have a problem with sharing my opinions but in this case I feel incredibly vulnerable – like my emotions are something tender and new.
“So,” I say finally. Unfortunately, I don’t seem to have any more of the words in that sentence to hand.
“Bea,” Ben begins. He takes a step towards me.
“Ah, here you are!” a hearty voice exclaims. It’s my uncle, and Sir Hugh and Lady Bowling are with him. As they walk into the glade, his eyes dart between me and Ben and a look of displeasure crosses his face. “Beatrice, you mustn’t be out here unchaperoned; it’s most improper.”
“Is it?” I ask blankly, thrown by this sudden intrusion into what was a very private moment. I feel as though I had been running at great speed, only to be pulled up short, and I am struggling to catch my breath.
“You must know it.” Leo sounds impatient now. “Ben is hardly a proper escort for a young lady.”
Ben turns. “Aren’t I?” he asks, his voice flat.
Leo looks uncomfortable for a moment. “Well, I didn’t mean…” he trails off. “That is to say, of course there’s nothing untoward going on. Just that appearances are important, aren’t they? We can’t be too careful when it comes to a young lady’s reputation, particularly a young lady of Beatrice’s social standing. After all, Beatrice’s parents expect us to, to…”
“Naturally Beatrice’s parents expect her to maintain a certain standard,” Frances says. Her eyes are on Ben, her disdain obvious.
“And what sort of standard is that?” I ask, matching her icy tones. “Because as far as I can see they entrusted my care to my uncle and I am merely socializing with his invited guests.” I fix her with a level stare. “Not all of whom are being as polite as Ben.”
“Beatrice!” Leo stares at me, aghast. “I’m sure Benedick here understands what we’re saying. He knows the way the world works. A young man of his … background is hardly a suitable chaperone for a girl like you. Art lessons are all right, on the grounds, but this…”
