Secret of the Song

by Cathie Hartigan

  My lady’s happy shrieks must have alerted Don Carlo. I looked up and saw his dark figure standing in the doorway. His presence in the sala quietened us at once and our arms fell to our sides. Donna Maria sat down and I made to resume my sewing on the bench under the window where the light was best for embroidery. It would not do to sit by my lady as she usually insisted, but I was not so far away that I couldn’t hear the conversation.

  The Prince’s voice was cold. ‘We’ll lodge at Astruni tonight.’

  ‘Astruni?’ said Donna Maria. ‘I am sorry to hear that, it is far away.’

  I kept my eyes on my work, but marvelled at her apparent sincerity. Without moving my head I looked towards Don Carlo. He was standing with his back to the great fireplace.

  ‘Will you be entertaining?’

  The way he lingered over the word ‘entertaining’ sent a hot stab of fear through me. If he knew … but perhaps he did! Why say it at all? I sewed pretend stitches, too busy listening to concentrate.

  Donna Maria’s reply was all syrup. ‘Father Strozzi is taking some refreshment here in the morning. We are to discuss the new altarpiece in the convent chapel.’

  Don Carlo said nothing, but stood silent. I was reminded of the first time I saw him on the road to Gesualdo, when I hid and Salvo had kept us from harm. He had been a cloud on a sunny day then, and here he was again, a dark presence in a well-lit room. I swallowed and decided that my imaginary seam needed unpicking. I reached for my sewing kit to find the little bone hook that did the deed so well, but somehow caught my sleeve on the edge of the bench and the box fell, spilling the contents all across the floor.

  I swear the noise it made was twice as loud as usual because Don Carlo was in the room.

  ‘Oh, Silvia,’ said my lady, ‘do take care to pick them all up, won’t you? Emmanuele might prick his knees.’

  Don Carlo was not so thoughtful. He made a nasty remark about my carelessness, then bid Donna Maria goodbye. If there was any feeling or sorrow in the parting, I didn’t hear it. Once he’d left the sala, I glanced across to Donna Maria. There was no disguising the relief we both felt.

  ‘Do you think we should ask cook for more of those lumbolls?’ she said.

  I held up the bodice I was embroidering. ‘Not if you ever want to wear this, my lady.’

  November was only three days away but during the evening it was as if all the day’s heat had come indoors. We opened the shutters on both the courtyard and the street side of the palazzo, but failed to create the slightest draught. The trickles of sweat that leached from beneath our clothes may have soaked our handkerchiefs, but nothing could daunt my lady’s good mood.

  At four hours of the night, Donna Maria decided it really was time to retire and we climbed the main stairs to her apartment, passing the quiet darkness of Don Carlo’s apartment on the floor below.

  ‘Do you think we shall have venison or boar for dinner tomorrow?’ I said, by way of conversation.

  ‘I’d rather have cook’s lumbolls, especially if it meant Don Carlo never came back.’ Donna Maria sighed, but then with a flick of her hand she said, ‘I shall not think of him. Tonight is for Fabrizio … ah, Fabrizio.’

  How she enjoyed saying his name. I said nothing, but busied myself with unhooking her sleeves. It was one of my favourite gowns. It had taken me many weeks to embroider the twining wild strawberry pattern. The cuffs needed washing. Some sticky residue from the sweets had found its way onto the linen.

  Outside, in the street below, a dog started barking, a large hound by the sound of it, and then another. We heard shouting too and both of us looked towards the window.

  ‘Go and look, Silvia.’ We were thinking the same thing, I’m sure. Donna Maria’s expression in the flickering lamplight said as much. It was too early for Fabrizio, but was it Don Carlo returning? My mind jumped to Don Giulio as well. Perhaps he had an appointment at Palazzo San Severo we didn’t know about.

  The street below was lit red by the flames of several torches. I searched through the faces but saw no one I recognised. Two men were being held back from violence by others. Gradually, the party moved off towards the main square and I breathed out.

  ‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘They’re going. Nobody we know.’

  Donna Maria laughed almost too loudly. The truth was that, even with Don Carlo away, we were jumpy as new lambs. I slept so little at night that some days the only thing that kept me awake was stabbing myself with the needle. Not sufficient to draw blood, of course, I didn’t want any more work than necessary. As it was, every day after Donna Maria went to bed, I checked and hung all her clothes then prepared those for the following morning. It seemed that the minute I lay down, Don Fabrizio arrived, and although I willed it, sleep would not come while he was there. I missed Laura and was yet to find anyone else to take her place. As for Donna Maria, she seemed to think I could do everything without help.

  The false alarm set me giggling too and soon we were both needing to wipe tears from our eyes.

  ‘Ah, Silvia,’ said Donna Maria, stroking my arm. ‘There’s such tremendous absurdity about life, isn’t there?’

  I could only agree, although I did feel uncomfortable at having my own life considered so lightly. She continued to stroke my arm rather absently until suddenly, her hand gripped tighter than my stays.

  ‘It’s far too hot to sleep,’ she said. ‘Bring me something of yours to put on. I’ll wait for Fabrizio on the balcony. No one will know it’s me. And a shawl too so I can cover my hair.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Go on, Silvia. I’ll find out what it’s like to be you,’ she said. ‘Isn’t that a good joke?’

  I left her and went back into the antechamber where I kept my clothes in a small wardrobe at the end of my bed. This absurdity of Donna Maria’s gave me the jitters. Why did she have to keep turning the world upside down? I pulled at the closet door too briskly and although it opened, the handle came off in my hand. There. Another person might have taken it as a sign not to meddle with the order of things.

  ‘Here, my lady,’ I said, holding up a grey skirt and a light shawl of the same hue. ‘Are you sure you want to put these on?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ She clapped her hands together. ‘What fun. Fabrizio will certainly laugh.’

  He’d never struck me as someone with a sense of humour, but you can be wrong about a person. I’d thought Laura silly and she turned out to be devious. And my lady was as changeable as the waves on a stormy day. Often lately I’d been wondering what my life would have been like if I’d stayed at home and helped with the chickens and darned hose instead of going with old Francesca to market that day.

  ‘Go to bed now, Silvia.’ Donna Maria picked and smoothed at my skirt and shawl, but seemed pleased with the effect overall. ‘No, wait. Go and have a look round the house and the courtyard first. Come back and tell me if all is quiet.’

  I was nearly dead on my feet but, taking a lamp, I went down the stairs and looked out into the courtyard. In fact, I stepped outside, for it was cooler and more beautiful than the gloomy house. The moon was pale through the clouds but enough to see by, and the scent of the few late roses did sweeten the city air. But the colour was leeched from all the petals and although some were darker than others, I only knew their rich pinks and crimsons from memory. I heard the night bell strike five. No wonder I was tired.

  Back upstairs, I found my lady not on the balcony but sitting on her bed.

  ‘I’ve changed my mind, Silvia. Shut the window. I will wait for Fabrizio as usual. Take this off and bring me another nightdress.’ I helped her step from my skirt and retrieved my shawl from the floor. ‘The one with the black collar,’ she said. ‘Bring me that one.’ The favourite. Both my lady’s and mine. It wasn’t the same crimson nightdress I had made so long ago, but I had copied it since and was particularly proud of the embroidery at the collar, a pattern I had made in white thread against the black silk with two swans, their necks intertwined. I had matched it
at the cuffs too. I fetched it, hoping it would be the last task for me that night.

  When I went back into her chamber, Donna Maria was already lying down. ‘Oh, leave it there,’ she said, waving for me to lay the nightdress on the far side of the bed. ‘Perhaps later… bring a candle though. That one is nearly gone.’

  I dreaded looking in the candle box and finding none, then having to go downstairs again, but there were two left, one of which was short, but substantial. I fitted it to the silver holder and placed it on the chair as my lady told me. I was walking in sleep by then but said to myself that if I lit the other candle and read from Orlando Furioso, then I would be sure to stay awake enough to hear Don Fabrizio’s whistle.

  But if I read any sentences, I don’t remember them and it wasn’t a whistle that woke me. Nor was the next face I saw that of the handsome Don Fabrizio, Duke of Andria, but, as in the worst of nightmares when death has surely come and stares at you with eyes of fire … then did I wake. And in noise worse than thunder, amidst crashes, wild shouts and cries as if from beasts, as flames flickered round the walls, I started into sitting and all my whole life welled up and became a little spot before my eyes, for there with a sharp and glittering blade brandished in my face, I saw him. I saw the Devil.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I held the Gesualdo madrigal. It felt strangely damp, as if fresh off the press. Even in the low light, the three blots were quite clear. In fact, they shimmered, as if they too were fresh. There was no wine in the vicinity, but as I put the volume down on the table, a drop of blood fell from my sleeve. Then another, staining the cuff. Soon all around the wrist was sodden and splashes covered the engraving, colouring the white lines deep crimson. Pulling up my sleeve of Silvia’s costume, I saw the gash on my arm weeping a great river of blood. There were footsteps outside and a loud thumping on the door.

  I woke with a start.

  ‘I’ve made you a cup of tea.’

  Over the duvet I saw Mollie standing there in her Barbie pyjamas clutching my Best Mum in the World mug. Nothing could be more suspicious.

  ‘Thank you, darling,’ I said, struggling to sit up. Still half in the dream, I couldn’t help checking my arm, but the scar from the needle was almost invisible. The tea, however, was lukewarm, mostly milk, and had the tea bag still floating in it, but I did my best. Mollie sat down trapping me where I was. I glanced at the telly. The clock on the display said six-thirty. ‘Isn’t it a bit early for you?’

  She waved away the idea. In a Most Imperious Wave competition, I think the Queen had better watch out.

  ‘I wanted to ask you something,’ she said.

  ‘Okay. Ask away.’ I sipped my tea and hoped she wouldn’t ask anything sufficiently surprising for me to spill it.

  ‘You know in choir?’

  ‘Err …’ I hedged my bets. ‘Probably.’

  ‘When you say we should all listen to each other.’

  ‘Yes, I do say that.’

  ‘And you say it to me on the way to school on choir day and on the way home?’

  ‘Do I?’ She gave me a look. It was a look I knew but couldn’t quite place … and then with a burst of recognition, saw myself. She wasn’t having me pull the wool over her eyes so I owned up. ‘I believe I do.’

  ‘Is that because I sing louder than the rest?’

  What could I say? The fact was Mollie sang louder than the rest of the choir put together. She had a fantastic voice with a clear tone and a natural effortless technique. I didn’t want to put her off by telling her to be quiet, but I did wish she would meld more with the others. Ideally, they’d all meld their voices with hers but that wasn’t likely.

  ‘Umm … well …’

  ‘Okay. I get it,’ she said. ‘I’ll listen better next time.’ She remained seated. There was something else. Had to be. Early tea in bed didn’t come that cheap.

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ I said, giving her back the mug. ‘Can I get up now?’

  That wave again, then: ‘You know when …’ she hesitated. I waited. ‘You know when you have a secret?’

  Ah. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I do.’

  ‘And you know that you’re not supposed to tell.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘If you really, really want to tell …’

  ‘Mmm,’ I said, in my best measured tone but meaning God! Hurry up and bloody tell me!

  ‘If you don’t tell all of it, is it all right to tell a bit of the secret sometimes?’

  I put my arm round her. Reassurance was vital. I wanted to know what her big secret was but at the same time didn’t want her to think that blabbing was always okay. ‘Well, darling, sometimes it can be a good idea, especially if you feel it would really help someone, or maybe if you thought something had happened that was wrong?’

  She frowned and then sighed. Clearly it was a tough decision for her. I gave her a kiss. Big mistake. Obviously far too reassuring because she brightened up almost at once.

  ‘Nope,’ she said. ‘I think it’s all right. I don’t have to tell. Anyway, it’ll be done soon.’ She put my mug on the coffee table then went into the kitchen without taking it with her. I flopped back down on the sofa, defeated. Done soon? What did that mean?

  ‘Oi,’ I called out, weakly. ‘What about this mug?’

  At least she had the decency to come and fetch it. I lay there for a while longer making up my mind. I’d ring Jon, arrange to meet him and ask him to explain. No, not ask – demand he explain. Everything. I’d been a coward that time in Costa. What sort of example was I setting to Mollie? Besides, I wanted to talk to Jon. I wanted to tell him about the frontispiece, what happened in Italy and, more than any of that, I missed him.

  Later, when I phoned him, he said he’d drop by the next evening. I suggested then because Mollie would be at Michael’s and Mum was going to see Gran. I wanted to be able to speak my mind freely. It was a brief call and there wasn’t the usual warmth in his voice. Was I being paranoid? He was in a hurry, that’s all. Perhaps someone was there. Somebody in particular?

  I got back from work the next day to find a postcard caught halfway through the letter box. It had a serious crease down the middle but the picture was of a familiar scene: the Bay of Naples. Taken from the Sorrento end, it looked back towards Naples, with a snowy peaked Vesuvius cutting its way into the sky to the right. Well, I hadn’t sent it, so there was only one person it could be. Somebody old enough to send a postcard rather than send a photo with a text. I turned it over.

  Wednesday

  Coming to Exeter for your concert.

  I have something for you!

  Yours, lonely in Naples,

  Duncan.

  Lord. What was I supposed to make of that? He was coming here? I’d be pleased to see him, certainly, but … God, I hate exclamation marks. Something for me? Why didn’t he just say what it was?

  I put it on the bookcase in the hall, took my jacket off and carried my shopping into the kitchen. Everywhere was a mess, except my room, which was becoming more and more Mum’s room. Gradually, she was moving my stuff out. My little Isle of Lewis chess piece: the Queen, hand on cheek, looking worried; the wooden angel with a bit of her wing missing; the verdigris frog candlestick. I could understand that one as she did have a phobia about frogs. But it meant all my stuff was in the sitting room, along with Barbie’s, and while I was secretly pleased the pink pretender was beginning to fall from Mollie’s favour, I didn’t want her moving in with me. She had sharp feet and far too many accessories.

  I put away the shopping, and convinced myself that I would have bought the bottle of red even if Jon hadn’t been coming over. And fajitas? They weren’t what you could call proper cooking, more like assembly. No trouble at all.

  In the sitting room I attempted a tidy up. All the bedding went behind the sofa, Barbie etc filled a large hessian bag-for-life. Writing implements were given a special place all of their own in a Charles and Di mug I’d been given on my third birthday. My music needed a prop
er sort out, but it would have to wait. I put it in neat piles on the cupboard by the telly. Then I had a little worry that the telly might burst into flames and, like Sophie’s kettle, set fire to everything. Except only the Gesualdo cover had been burnt.

  And now there was the extra red spot.

  A great shiver ran through me and I slumped on the sofa suddenly exhausted. How I wished the bloody piece had remained locked up and lost in some vault somewhere. Ever since it came to light, things had been going wrong. Bad things were happening and everyone I knew was keeping secrets from me. My daughter, Jon, and now Duncan. Was Signor Pace right and it was cursed? I would take a photo of the cover. If something weird was going on, I wanted evidence.

  ‘Hi,’ Jon said. He was smiling, not exactly broadly, but a bit more than narrowly. He had his hands rammed into the pockets of his jeans when I opened the door.

  I smiled back. ‘Hello. Come in.’ Not long ago, such politeness wouldn’t have existed. He’d have been halfway through a sentence and in the door without an invitation. ‘Can I get you anything?’

  He hesitated. He did, I swear. I could feel my heart thumping. Please don’t be hesitant, I thought. Be springy and careless. Be funny and play games and look me in the eye. But he didn’t. He stood in the hall and waited for me to say something. To invite him in to my sitting room. The one he would stroll into and collapse on the sofa in, without a thought. What’s happened? Daniela, I thought, and in my mind’s eye I pictured her in Costa, all long black hair, big bosoms and laughter. She’s what happened.

  ‘Cup of tea would be good,’ he said. ‘Thing is …’ he looked shifty. ‘I can’t stay long.’

  ‘Oh?’ I made my way to the kitchen. Was my face scarlet? It certainly felt like it. I hoped he wouldn’t notice. He sat down at the table and I messed about making tea, even getting out the pot. Eventually, I sat opposite him. The table felt half the usual size. I poured the tea and the noise of it, the scale rising as it filled the mug, had never sounded so loud.