Season of Storms

by Susanna Kearsley

  The woman behind her was tallish and lean with a mass of white hair, and wore only a thick Irish sweater and trousers in defiance of the wet. She carried a plain leather suitcase in either hand. Why they’d come up the back way and not used the front entrance I didn’t know, but then remembering that the man Alex had met that first night we were here had also come up by the terrace, I wondered if maybe this wasn’t the quickest way up to the house from the garage, or wherever it was that people parked their cars upon arriving.

  At any rate, as the woman and girl crossed the slick grey terrace I heard the door beneath me, near the dining room, swing open and Teresa hurried out to take their bags, still wearing her apron, as though she’d been caught unprepared for the pair’s arrival.

  Madeleine must have been watching as well. I heard movement in the next room, then the click of her door and a creak from the landing as she headed downstairs. It took me slightly longer to get dressed and ready myself, partly because I thought it only polite to give mother and daughter a moment to themselves before the entire household descended upon them. In fact, I’d half-expected Poppy Hedrick would be up and settled in her room by the time I went down for my breakfast, but she wasn’t. She was sitting in the dining room with Madeleine and the older woman, sipping tea and trying with all the earnestness of a twelve-year-old to look grown up.

  She was, I thought, quite an attractive child, with a slight edge of sullenness that kept her from being pretty. But that, too, went with being twelve, as I remembered. Freed from the folds of the raincoat, she looked rather fragile, long-limbed and fine-boned, with dark hair like her mother’s that fell in loose waves past her narrow shoulders, framing a pale, large-eyed face; more pale now, I expected, from illness.

  Her eyes moved to me as I entered, but she waited for a proper introduction.

  Madeleine gave it. “Poppy, this is Celia Sands, another actress in the play. Celia, come and meet my daughter.”

  Poppy’s handshake was very precise, very careful. “How do you do.”

  “And this,” went on Madeleine, turning, “is Mrs. Farrow, who’s done escort duty all the way from England.”

  “Mrs. Farrow.” I held out my hand, and was greeted with an iron grasp that brooked no hesitation.

  “Edwina,” she corrected me, in a cultured voice clearly above mine in class. “I feel ancient when young women call me Mrs. Farrow, like I’m in a home, or hospital, or something. So”—she looked me up and down—“you’re the girl with the famous name, are you?”

  “That’s right.” Rising to the challenge, I met her gaze squarely and smiled. “I’m afraid I don’t look much like the original.”

  She brushed that off as immaterial. “She was more of an image, you know, than a flesh-and-blood person. All attitude.”

  Something in the way she said that, coupled with the fact that I couldn’t determine her age, made me ask, “Did you know her, then?”

  “Me? Heavens, no. I was only a girl. But I did see her once at the Old Vic, one of the last performances she ever gave, I believe. I don’t remember the play. I barely remember her, as I said, though I thought at the time she was lovely.” She looked at me in realization. “But of course, you’re in her rooms, aren’t you? You’ll have seen the portrait.”

  “Yes.”

  Madeleine said, “Such a shame she died young.”

  Edwina Farrow arched her eyebrows. “Inevitable, I should have said. She had an unfortunate aura.”

  I might have asked her what she meant by that, if her gaze at that moment hadn’t gone up and over my shoulder. “Ah, there you are, Alex. Teresa said she thought you might be up. She didn’t wake you, did she? Good. I told her not to. Nero, Max, my darling boys,” she greeted the enthusiastic greyhounds, who had bounded forwards joyfully to meet her, their whole bodies wagging, each seeming determined to be the first onto her lap. She pushed them off laughing and made a great fuss of them, rumpling their ears. “Now that’s the sort of welcome that I like,” she said, and then, to Alex, “I don’t expect the same exuberance from you, my dear, but ‘good morning’ would do, for a start.”

  Alex, standing in the doorway, looked closer to my own age this morning in his polo-neck and jeans, his waving hair damp at the ends as though he’d just showered. But there was still a certain stiffness to his shoulders, a formality of habit, and it showed now in his face as he stepped forwards, as the dogs had, and bent to kiss Edwina Farrow’s cheek.

  “Good morning, Grandmother,” he said.

  I’d known all along, of course, that Alex was half-English, a fact that was apparent when I saw him with Daniela or Teresa—his reserve, his quiet movements, seemed distinctly un-Italian. So it was odd that now, beside Edwina, he should suddenly strike me as being so very un-English, so foreign. It was, I supposed, a simple matter of perception, like a frock that looked blue when you viewed it in one light, and green in another.

  I was pondering this when he straightened and said to Edwina, “How did you get here? I thought I was supposed to meet your train at Desenzano after lunch.”

  “Yes, well, we had a change of plan. There were so many delays coming down through the Alps that our train didn’t get into Milan until the wee hours of this morning, and there seemed no point to me then in stopping at an hotel like I’d planned, and no point either in waiting around for hours for our connection, not with Poppy feeling ill. So I thought, bother it, I’ll hire a car.”

  “You drove?” His eyebrows lifted, though I didn’t think he looked particularly shocked by her actions. “You drove from Milan?”

  “And why not? I have my licence. And the car can be returned at Brescia—I asked. Giancarlo can do it tomorrow.”

  “I’ll do it myself,” he said.

  Edwina Farrow had sharp eyes. “Gone off again, has he? I thought that might be it, when Teresa came out on her own to collect Poppy’s bags. On one of his binges, is he?”

  “I really wouldn’t know,” said Alex, tolerant. “He hasn’t been in touch.”

  “Yes, well, that’s typical. How long has he been away this time?”

  Alex shrugged. “Just a week. He’ll be back soon, I’m sure.”

  “Just a week.” She shook her head. “Your father would never have stood for it—Giancarlo would have been out on his ear, and Teresa’s cooking wouldn’t have saved him. Still,” she softened the statement with a smile, “Teresa is a damned good cook. I wonder if you could convince her, Alex, to make her wonderful gnocchi for me while I’m here.”

  “I’m sure she’d be delighted.” A pause, then he asked her, a little too casually, “Will you be staying long?”

  “Only a few days. I’ve booked myself on a tour of the Greek isles that leaves from Brindisi on Saturday next, and I’ll want to spend a bit of time in Rome before that, I should think. We’ll see.” Glancing down at the greyhounds she scratched Max’s head. “For now all I want is a meal and a hot bath and maybe a rest. Would you be a dear, Alex, and see that my cases get down to the villa? I tried to explain to your man at the garage, but he didn’t seem terribly swift.”

  Avoiding her eyes, he said, “Ah. Well, I’m afraid that there might be a slight complication. Daniela Forlani—you remember Daniela?”

  “Vividly,” his grandmother replied in a tone of voice that made me warm to her.

  “Daniela is here for a visit as well, and she’s settled in already at the villa, so . . .”

  “The Villa delle Tempeste,” she said, “is fully capable of housing twenty people, let alone two women. And besides, I always stay there. Your Daniela will simply have to suffer through my company, these next few days. I’m sure that she’ll survive.”

  I found I liked Edwina Farrow more and more. So much so that, when Madeleine and Poppy had excused themselves and gone upstairs, and Alex and the dogs had gone to see about the luggage, I hung back and poured a second cup of coffee from the silver pot the new maid had just brought out to the sideboard. As I stirred in the sugar I tried to think of ways
to get to know this woman better, things to say.

  I turned to find her taking stock of me. “Did you think he didn’t have one?” she asked, catching me off guard.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Did you think that Alex didn’t have a grandmother?”

  “Oh. Well, I—”

  “It’s only,” she said, “that you looked so surprised when you learned who I was.”

  “It did surprise me, rather,” I confessed. “But only because Galeazzo D’Ascanio’s been dead for fifty years, and if I’ve done the maths right then his son—Alex’s dad—must be well into his eighties, if he’s still alive . . .”

  “He’s not.”

  “. . . so I didn’t imagine that Alex would have any grandparents left.”

  “Only me.” She smiled. “My daughter was quite a bit younger than Alex’s father, as you might have guessed.” I didn’t ask for further information, but she supplied it anyway, matter-of-factly as though the details were public knowledge. “She was just out of school when they married, and he was already a pensioner. Not very bright of her, really. I expect she was hoping to be a rich widow, but she was the one who died first. Cancer,” she told me. “And he went on fifteen years longer, as fit as a horse, more’s the pity for Alex.” That, too, she said as though I ought to understand exactly what she meant by it, although I didn’t.

  I assumed she was telling me Alex’s childhood had been less than happy, a point I’d already inferred from a few of the comments he’d made.

  “Did he never remarry, then, Alex’s father?”

  “Oh, no. Heavens, no.” The idea amused her. “He was hardly a sociable man. No one but my daughter would have ever put up with him. Fancy shutting up this place”—she spread her hands feelingly, invoking the forces of reason—“and letting it all run to ruin. Sheer madness.”

  “He didn’t sell the house, though.”

  “No, at least he showed some sense, there. And I’m glad that Alex decided to put the work into it, open it up again, however misguided his reasons might be.”

  A voice from the door interrupted. “Good morning.” Den came in yawning so widely I don’t think he noticed Edwina straight off, but when he did he shook himself awake enough to smile his charming smile. “What is it with this house?” he asked. “Every time I turn my back another beautiful woman springs out of the woodwork. I’m Dennis O’Malley, my friends call me Den. And you are . . . ?”

  “Far too old to fall for lines like that, my boy,” she told him, but she shook the hand he offered all the same. “Edwina Farrow.”

  It had probably, I thought, been quite a while since anybody had called Den ‘my boy.’ For a moment it threw him clear out of his stride. Then he grinned. “You’re English, too. That’s great. I have a thing for Englishwomen.”

  Edwina’s intelligent eyes moved from Den’s face to mine and then back again, and I saw the slight settling back and the change of expression that signalled a shift in her interest. Oh no, not her, too, I groaned inwardly. It was bad enough Rupert read more into my interactions with Den than he ought to, but now total strangers were doing the same.

  Aloud, I told Den, “Mrs. Farrow brought Madeleine’s daughter down with her. They’ve only just got here.”

  “Travel with a twelve-year-old.” He shuddered at the thought. “I couldn’t do it myself. Not sober, anyway. So, you must be from Poppy’s school then, are you? Or did Alex hire you privately?”

  “Wrong on both counts.”

  I tried to cut in. “Den . . .”

  But he wasn’t listening. “Oh? Then how did you—?”

  “I’m Alex D’Ascanio’s grandmother, Mr. O’Malley. And you needn’t bother telling me I look too young and all that rubbish—women of my age have highly developed malarkey detectors. And speaking of age,” she said, standing, “I’ve had quite a late night and I’m starting to feel the effects, so if you’ll both excuse me I think I’ll go down and get settled and have a bit of a rest.”

  Den stood with her, a gentleman, and when she’d departed he took his seat smiling. “Now that,” he informed me, “is one tough old granny.”

  “You don’t know the half of it. Guess where she’s staying.”

  “Where?”

  “The Villa delle Tempeste.”

  “But isn’t Daniela . . . ?”

  “She is, yes. She’ll have to make space for a housemate. Can I have a roll, please?”

  Den passed me the basket with open amusement. “Daniela won’t like that.”

  “No.” I honeyed my roll with private satisfaction. “No, I don’t imagine that she will.”

  iv

  I joined Rupert for his after-breakfast walk in the gardens. He walked at a good pace—it took all my breath to keep up, but I had wanted to be sure that we did some things on our own together, just as he’d planned. And besides, after eating Teresa’s wonderful cooking all week, I felt in need of exercise.

  I hadn’t been outside for so long, on account of the rain, that I’d nearly forgotten how sweet the gardens smelled, the thick rich scents of water-laden blossoms drifting upwards like a tropical perfume, and behind that the sharper, more pungent aroma of wet grass and earth.

  We went round by the theatre and down through the wood, past the orchard and into the rose garden. Here the path ended, and Rupert, to my relief, paused for an admiring look round.

  I hadn’t seen any gardeners at work yet on the estate, but someone had been turning over a new bed in one corner of the rose garden—the soil was dark, its fresh smell carrying across to where we stood. Rupert breathed it in deeply. “It looks very English, this garden, doesn’t it?”

  I told him, “Yes, well, it would. Galeazzo designed it especially for Celia the First. I suppose he didn’t want her feeling homesick.”

  He smiled. “When they open this place to the public, you ought to apply for a job as a tour guide. I had no idea you were such an expert on Il Piacere.”

  I caught the faint regretful tone and gave myself a mental kick, knowing how Rupert enjoyed playing tour guide himself. It made him feel useful. Aloud I assured him I wasn’t an expert. “I only know about the rose garden because Galeazzo wrote a poem about it in The Season of Storms. I’ve finished the book, finally, did I tell you? I’m on my second reading, now.”

  “And do you still think that the same man who wrote those poems wrote Il Prezzo?”

  The poems were very different from the style of the play, and I admitted that. “But you’d still have to prove to me that Galeazzo was a plagiarist.”

  “I may yet do that. If the proof exists at all, it would most likely be here. I’ll have to hunt around a bit. I’ve already had a look through the books in my own room—there are some quite nice volumes there, but no plays, and I think it would have to have been a play . . .”

  “Well, I’ll believe it when I see it,” I lifted my chin stubbornly. From here I couldn’t see the lake at all—the copper beeches blocked my view—and the mountains showed as little more than shadows through their covering of cloud; only the church bells below in the town gave any sign there might be a world that existed beyond the high walls of the gardens of Il Piacere.

  At the sound of the church bells Rupert glanced at his watch. “Good Lord, is that the time already? I wanted to try phoning Bryan before lunch, before his American football comes on.”

  I would have liked to talk to Bryan, too, but I’d already told him all the news I had to tell last Monday, in my e-mail, and he and Rupert after all deserved a little privacy.

  I said, “You go ahead. I think I’ll stay out here and walk a while longer.”

  He looked round from habit, assessing the safety of where he was leaving me. “You know your way back to the house?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right, then. Just be careful.” He gave me a fatherly kiss on the cheek. “Don’t get lost.”

  What was it about me, I wondered, that made everybody so sure I’d get lost? “I won’t,” I said, an
d looking my most competent, went off to have a stroll around the rosebushes.

  v

  IT was the fountain with the dolphins that defeated me.

  Three times I set my back to it and took the path—a different one each time—that I felt sure would lead me to the house, and three times I came back again to stand before the dolphins, water pouring from the bronze mouths open wide with silent laughter.

  “Well, this is just ridiculous,” I told the nearest dolphin. “There has to be a way out.”

  I could see the terrace parapet from where I stood; the red-tiled roofs . . . so close, and yet I couldn’t seem to get to them.

  “Ridiculous,” I said again, and cast a quick look skywards at the thickening clouds. I could practically smell the rain coming, it wouldn’t be long. All right, I thought, if I couldn’t get anywhere heading towards the house, maybe I’d do better heading away from it—sort of an Alice in Wonderland logic. Choosing the path that I thought was least likely to lead to the house, I squared my shoulders and started off.

  I passed through a thicket of trees and then out again, down a short flight of brick steps between shrubberies heavy with flowers, pale yellow and white, that gave off a sweet scent in the dampness. A little further on I passed beneath a curving arbour dripping with wisteria that showered me with violet-coloured petals scattered by the rising breeze. And then, as the first raindrop splatted heavily on the top of my head, I came into the open and found myself facing the graceful, rose-walled Villa delle Tempeste.

  It stood in a clearing with cypresses behind it and a meadow-like lawn with a sprinkling of what looked like buttercups stretching out from the façade, with its balconied windows and grand outside staircase. Most impressive of all were the palm trees in front—an uneven row of them, slender trunks soaring to vanish in tufts of broad leaves, lending the villa a Mediterranean elegance.