Season of Storms

by Susanna Kearsley

  Which of course started Den off. He might have gone on talking forever, I thought, if Rupert hadn’t eventually leaned forward. “Our stop is the next one, I think.”

  Den looked round. “We’re in Mira already? That was a quick trip.”

  It had actually taken an hour, a fact confirmed by the stiffness of my legs as I scrambled down the steps onto the pavement, filled with anticipation.

  The bus stop at Mira del Garda was a rather unassuming little lay-by at the side of a narrow hill road. Presumably we were still on the fringes of the town itself. Across from us a steep grassy bank angled up to support a three-storey block of modern flats, while to our backs a flight of steps led down another level to a strip of pavement lined by older buildings, closely shuttered and unwelcoming, their rooftops rising high enough to block my view beyond them to the lake. But the sky was blue, the sun was shining, and at the edge of the bus stop a rectangle marked out in yellow paint enclosed a familiar word: TAXI. We shunted our luggage towards it. . . and waited.

  At length, after a few cars had whizzed past us, Rupert shaded his eyes from the sun with one hand and remarked, “I would have thought there’d be a taxi to meet every bus, just in case.”

  Den suggested we might call for one.

  “With what?” Rupert wanted to know. “There’s no telephone here.” Still shading his eyes, he tilted his head up to scan the balconies of the block of flats opposite. Spotting a middle-aged woman hanging her towels out over one rail, he waved an arm to attract her attention and shouted a question across in Italian.

  “Ah,” he said, when she’d called back her answer.

  “Hell,” said Den.

  I frowned. “What is it?”

  “Well,” said Rupert, “it appears there are no taxis.”

  “None at all?”

  “Not anymore, no. We’ll have to walk.”

  I looked at my luggage and sagged. “Walk?”

  Den, taking pity on me, slung the long strap of one of his own bags over his shoulder, freeing a hand so he could carry one of my suitcases. “Did I say D’Ascanio had things well-arranged?” he asked. “I take it back.”

  I frowned. “And you’re positive, are you, that we were expected today?”

  “Darling, of course we’re expected,” said Rupert. “Don’t worry. I’m sure when we get there we’ll find there’s a good explanation for why we weren’t met.”

  Den said drily, “I can’t wait to hear it.” And then, as a bright yellow sports car came rocketing past, he leaped back. “Let’s cross over—it’s too dangerous here.”

  On the other side of the road, a narrow pavement angled up the terraced hill, then flattened out six feet or so above street level, running along on the top of a pretty stone wall draped with vines that would soon be in flower. Walking here felt definitely safer.

  If only, I thought as I struggled to manage the uneven stones, if only I’d had enough sense not to bring so much luggage. The single case I was carrying felt even heavier now than it had when we’d left our hotel that morning, and with every step the strap seemed to cut deeper into my shoulder and raise new raw welts in the palm of my hand. Rupert was similarly burdened, and Den, who appeared to have packed more economically than either of us, had my other suitcase now weighing him down.

  He’d been gallant enough to take my larger case, the one with wheels, only it was so overstuffed and ungainly that it kept tipping over whenever the wheels caught the edge of a paving stone. It became a sort of pattern as we made our way along, the suitcase tipping and Den swearing while he righted it again with a decided thump, and then the rolling rumble of the wheels until he reached the next uneven spot. We must have made an entertaining sight to passing motorists.

  There were surprisingly few cars that passed, but then I supposed it was still quite early in the season. This part of Lake Garda, south of the snow-covered mountains, probably wasn’t suitable for skiers—the weather was too mild—so the tourists likely wouldn’t start arriving here until late spring or summer, when they could enjoy the lake itself, the bathing beaches and the boats.

  My own view of the water was still blocked by buildings and the pointed stands of cypress trees that rose between them, regally, like soldiers on parade. Now and then I caught a tantalizing flash of blue behind the darkness of the cypresses and the smooth plastered walls of the houses whose rich painted colours were lovely as flowers, in shades of deep gardenia pink and primrose yellow, marigold and soft leaf green.

  I would have appreciated the beauty of my surroundings more if I hadn’t had to concentrate on where I put my feet, and if my muscles weren’t so trembly from the weight of what I carried, and if my shirt wasn’t sticking wetly to my back between my shoulderblades—if, in short, I hadn’t felt so beastly warm and sore and out of sorts.

  I couldn’t help but have the sinking feeling that Sally’s tarot cards had been right—that I should have stayed at home.

  “I need to rest a minute,” I announced. When I stopped walking Den and Rupert stopped too, without argument, dropping their suitcases.

  Den, leaning against a metal signpost marking where a smaller road had tumbled down the hill to meet our own, massaged his shoulder. “I’d suggest we hijack a car, but I don’t have the energy.”

  I sat on my own case, disturbing a tiny brown lizard that shot from the ledge in the stone wall where it had been soaking up sun and vanished with a rustle in the vines. Rupert, right beside it, didn’t notice. He was looking up.

  “We’re almost there,” he said.

  Den arched an eyebrow. “Yeah? And how do you know that?”

  In answer Rupert nodded at the signpost and the sign above Den’s head, a stylized arrow pointing up the hill with IL PIACERE spelled out in neat black letters, very plainly.

  The sight of a hill didn’t thrill me, but the name on the sign did—the knowledge that we were so close to our goal. Hefting my suitcase again, I took over the lead as we made the turn and started up. There was no pavement here, and we had to walk Indian file on the road itself, close to the verge and the hedge that enclosed it. My back was to the lake now and if I’d had the presence of mind to turn round and look I would probably have had a smashing view of it, with the mountains behind, but the mountain I was climbing now took all my concentration.

  It was all I could do to stay upright, and keep placing one foot in front of the other, especially when each shuffling step raised a small cloud of dust from the road, to swirl and settle grittily into my eyes, my nose, my thirsty mouth.

  More tiny lizards scattered every which way out of my path, seeking shelter in the tangle of wildflowers bordering the hedge. And then the hedge became a high stone wall, and in the wall I saw an iron gate.

  “Thank God.” Den’s words were heartfelt.

  Rupert reached around me; rang the bell. The intercom crackled. A woman’s voice asked something brief, in Italian, and Rupert replied with our names.

  For a minute we waited. And then something clicked and the tall iron gate started opening inwards.

  And, like Celia the First, I passed through.

  ACT II

  * * *

  THE PALACE.

  The actors are come hither, my lord.

  Shakespeare: Hamlet, Act II, Scene II

  She moved through the gate like a child discovering paradise, hesitant, eyes wide with wonder, her hands half-raised and reaching out before her as though she wanted to touch everything.

  With one great sweeping gesture she embraced the gardens and the cypress grove, the rows of white stone columns lining both sides of the long and graceful rose-red gravel drive on which they stood, the proud triumphal arches curving overhead, the little statues of Apollo, Venus and Diana posing silent in their niches. From somewhere close by came the sound of a fountain, the sound of water running, spilling laughingly from overflowing pools, and in the branches of the copper beech above them now a tiny sparrow trilled its joyful song, as though its breast could not contain its
happiness.

  He took her hand. “You have not seen the house, yet.” With her fingers curled in his he led her up the shaded lane of arches, round the gentle bend that brought them face to face with a fierce-looking pair of gilded lions, guarding what he thought was the most properly imposing approach to a villa that he’d ever seen—a wide palatial staircase built of whitest stone and edged with roses, climbing to the terrace up the curving lawn.

  She stopped to marvel at the sight.

  He swelled with satisfaction. And when they’d reached the top and stood within the sheltered courtyard set before the house, with a second fountain scattering bright beads of water to the morning air and below them the tumble of gardens and trees spilling down to the placid blue lake with its border of mountains, she turned and with her child’s eyes drank the view and sighed and held his arm.

  He kissed her. “I will make you happy here.”

  The roses rustled at his feet. Looking down, he saw a narrow tail slip out of sight, and frowned. Tomorrow, he thought, he would speak to the gardener. He wanted no serpents to live in his Eden.

  i

  “WHY do the rich always build their houses miles from the road?” Den wanted to know. “All they need is a little front yard and a driveway, but no . . . they have to put in all these columns and fountains and—”

  “Dennis,” Rupert cut in, puffing nearly as much as I was, “if you didn’t waste all your breath complaining, you’d find it easier to walk.”

  “Oh, I’ve got plenty of breath,” Den assured him. “That isn’t a problem.”

  I couldn’t help smiling, even in the midst of my exertions. I couldn’t think of any situation in which Den would cease to talk. Perhaps in sleep, but even then he most likely muttered and tossed in his bed, restless. He was not a quiet man.

  I, on the other hand, couldn’t have spoken a word if I’d wanted to. My body needed every bit of oxygen to keep my muscles moving, propelling me up the long drive like an automaton . . . left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot, each step crunching on the gravel. I kept my head purposely down, focussing not on the way ahead but on the patch of gravel just in front of my feet—a much more attainable goal.

  Even with the shoulder strap taking the brunt of the weight, my suitcase handle had raised blisters on my palms that stung whenever I shifted my grip, which I had to do rather often because my hands perspired and slipped. And my eyes stung as well from the sweat that had plastered my hair to my temples and neck.

  I knew, from my limited, low-angled view of the flowering shrubs and ornate column bases I was passing, that we were walking through a place of beauty. Now and then I saw the feet of a statue resting in the trailing greenery and was tempted to look higher, but I didn’t dare for fear I’d lose my footing. I’d be living here for several months, I told myself. Plenty of time to admire the scenery later. For now, all I wanted was to get up to the house and climb into a bath.

  Behind me, Den stopped walking. “Jesus Christ!”

  I lifted my head then to look, and wished that I hadn’t. I sagged at the sight of the steps—a seemingly endless flight of them, ten feet wide and gleaming white, that angled steeply upwards, barring our way to the house like some cruel architectural joke. Even the lions that stood at its entrance appeared to be laughing.

  It might have been the heat, or simple tiredness, but I nearly broke down at that point. And I might have disgraced myself entirely by dissolving in tears at the foot of the steps if I hadn’t just then heard the sure, certain sound of someone coming down to meet us. Looking up through blurring eyes I saw the outline of a man, a young man, lean and dark and moving swiftly, with an athlete’s grace. Halfway down he waved and called out, “Thought you might need help with those. It’s a bloody long way up.” An English voice, precise and very RADA.

  I blinked away my unshed tears and watched with curiosity as Nicholas Rutherford came closer. I’d seen photographs, of course, but never the man in person. He was not as tall as I’d expected, but I didn’t imagine most women would notice his height—it was his face that so entranced them, with its cleanly cut features and laugh lines and soul-searching eyes. And whereas we looked hot and straggly and were on the point of collapse, he looked cool and crisply pressed and managed the final few steps without apparent effort, smoking a cigarette.

  “God, what happened to you lot?” He looked us up and down, amused. “Did Giancarlo make you get out and push, or something?”

  “We walked,” said Den.

  “Walked? From where?”

  “From town. Giancarlo, if that’s who was supposed to meet our train at Desenzano, never showed. We had to take a bus.”

  Rupert pointed out that we had rung the house. “But apparently your phones aren’t working.”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me,” said Nicholas, smoothing his hair with one hand in what I would learn was an habitual gesture of his. “It’s a bit of a madhouse around here today. One of the maids didn’t turn up for work, and that seems to have thrown everything off. Maddy and I even had to go down into town for our lunch—we’ve only just got back, ourselves. Here, let me take that.” He held out a hand for my suitcase.

  It occurred to me, as I gladly passed the bag over, that no one had bothered to make any kind of introductions, though I supposed that in the circumstances introductions were superfluous. From the way Den had been talking last night I’d assumed he already knew Nicholas, and even though Rupert had only, to his recollection, met Nicholas once, it was a fair bet that Nicholas recognized Rupert—actors, especially young and ambitious ones, made a point of remembering people of influence. Which left only me, and since I was a woman my identity would have been relatively easy to deduce—there were only two women involved in the play after all, and Nicholas Rutherford was already intimately acquainted with one of them.

  And if he didn’t need to ask our names, he didn’t think to offer his. Clearly he took it for granted we’d know him on sight. Putting the cigarette in his mouth he turned with my suitcase. “Come on, then, you’ve only a little bit farther to go and we’ll get you set up with a drink. The boss is away, I’m afraid,” he said, taunting us further by talking as he climbed, making me feel as inadequate and hopeless as I did when my aerobics instructor chatted on easily during a difficult class. “But Teresa is here”—in his educated voice the name came out in its proper Italian form, sounding like ‘Ter-ay-za’ with a skillfully rolled r—“and I’m sure she knows what rooms to put you in.”

  “Something on the main floor, I hope.” Den thumped the cases he carried another step up, nearly hitting my ankles. “This climb must keep the visitors down.”

  Rupert said he expected that was the general idea. “Galeazzo D’Ascanio valued his privacy.”

  That much was evident from the landscaping. Everywhere I looked there were high walls and hedges to block prying eyes. Whoever had first built the house here, I thought, must have craved isolation.

  I was high enough to see the huge expanse of tiled roof, now, and the dark foothills rising behind it, their peaks weighted down with a pale, smoke-like mist that was wrapped round the textured deep green of the trees. If Den hadn’t been behind me on the steps I would have turned to look down at the lake, but from the closeness of his breathing behind me I knew that by stopping I would have risked being ploughed over.

  “Privacy,” he said, “is all well and good, but if this is the only way up to the house then our play’s going to have a short run—half the audience will never make it.”

  Nicholas smiled. “Not to worry. From what I understand they’re constructing a new car park for the coaches on the far side of the gardens, just above the theatre, so the tourists won’t have far to walk.”

  It was a credit to the younger D’Ascanio’s business acumen, I thought, that not only had he managed to interest the prestigious Forlani Trust in restoring the house and its grounds, but he’d also struck deals with a number of European tour operators, who had added our play, and the
gardens of Il Piacere, to their itineraries. Starting six weeks from now there’d be people on escorted coach tours coming in to fill the theatre, four nights a week through the whole of the summer. Which explained how Galeazzo’s grandson could afford to give the play so long a run.

  Not that money would be a great worry for him, I decided, as we crested the top of the stairs and came into a broad cobbled courtyard, surrounded on three sides by the splendour that was Il Piacere.

  The photographs I’d seen in books hadn’t been able to capture it all, nor give a proper sense of scale. The house was huge. Presumably in its original form it had been a conventional villa, its back to the hillside, its front façade facing the lake, but Galeazzo D’Ascanio had changed all that, bringing in an architect who’d altered the house according to the poet’s whims and fancies.

  He had set a giant fountain at the centre of the courtyard, and surrounded it with flowers. To my left, a loggia with arches reminiscent of an aqueduct of ancient Rome enclosed a row of what I knew to be dog kennels—Galeazzo had been fond of his racing greyhounds. To the centre, directly in front of me, the oldest section of the house stood unrecognizable beneath the huge stone lintels and ornamental plaster plaques that Galeazzo’s architect had added, brilliant white against the butter-yellow plaster of the walls. And to my right was Galeazzo’s great addition, an enormous wing whose design had been added to and changed so often during its construction that it looked now like some crazy thing a child might build with blocks, its edges softened by the tumblings of wisteria that draped its upper storeys like long robes of royal purple, trailing down the nearest corner till the petals brushed the ground.

  To be standing here, actually standing right here in the courtyard of Il Piacere, struck me speechless. I stood for a moment and tried to imagine how Celia the First must have felt when she’d seen it—she who, like me, had come from damp and dreary London at the end of a long winter. Of course, it wouldn’t have looked exactly like this . . . most of it would still have been under construction, but the fountain would have been here, and the tree-green mountain rising up behind the pantiled roof, and everywhere the smell of the yet-unseen gardens—the thick ripe scents of mingled earth and plants that blended with a host of softer floral perfumes.