He smiled a slow smile then, and narrowed his eyes astutely. ‘Of course we have,’ he said crisply. ‘My forte is getting things up and running, you know? I’ll make a successful business of us in no time at all. Now run along and dry your hair while I cook this.’
Jane didn’t know whether to be pleased or dismayed by his reassurance. The last thing she wanted was for their marriage to be run like a successful business, and yet she knew she should be glad that he was so obviously full of good intent. She made herself grin happily at him, and ducked out from under his arms. ‘Give me the eggs and bacon,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I’ll do the proper wifely bit and cook you breakfast.’
But Guy shook his head. ‘I didn’t marry you so that you could cook my breakfasts,’ he said firmly. ‘If I’d wanted a dumpy hausfrau I’d have chosen someone else. I can do this myself. Now run along and put on a skimpy sundress and a bit of that gold eyeshadow which makes your eyes look so stunning, and get your hair dried. Breakfast will be ready in fifteen minutes in the courtyard.’
Jane wafted away disconsolately. She bit anxiously at the edge of one thumb as she stopped to survey the peasant-woman in the Pissarro picture, then she slowly mounted the stairs. How on earth did one set about making a marriage out of a business arrangement? Very gradually, she decided, as she dressed and dried her hair. Rome, after all, was not built in a day. And she could start right away by making herself look especially good.
After breakfast Guy continued to take charge.
‘First,’ he said, ‘I shall show you around the gardens. And then you can take a good look at the house. You haven’t seen it properly yet, have you? Then we can swim again, if you like. By then Fernanda and Palma will have finished cleaning and we can make love all afternoon.’
‘Do we have to wait that long? Couldn’t we telephone them and ask them not to come?’
He stretched lazily. ‘We could but we won’t. This is your honeymoon, remember?’
‘Precisely.’
He paused, taking stock of her comment. ‘Well, yes. It’s your sexual initiation, and I understand how you must feel about that. But I don’t want you to have to lift a finger, Jane, now that you’re married to me. In fact, I rather hope you left all your clothes scattered on the bedroom floor for someone else to pick up.’
‘I most certainly didn’t!’ She kept her voice light and teasing, but inside a wound was dripping blood. Her sexual initiation. Not theirs. Oh, he certainly wanted it to be good for her…so that she would stay a good and loyal wife, no doubt. So that he could be seen to have done his duty. But for him it was nothing special…and something of a bore, no doubt, to have such an inexperienced bride. One corner of her mouth puckered dangerously, but she managed to lift it into a smile. ‘I’ll…um…I’ll chuck them all over the place tomorrow, if that’s what you want. And I’ll abandon coffee-cups in every room, too, and get talcum powder over everything and dump newspapers on the floor. Now come along and show me the gardens,’ she said, tugging on his hand. ‘We haven’t got all day.’
The gardens were splendid, spreading over three or four acres, and screened from the surrounding vineyards by evergreens. Everywhere there were bright bursts of colour where flowers tumbled in profusion.
‘It’s fabulous!’ she exclaimed as they sauntered down a shady, paved walk to a small pond with a fountain. ‘All these trees—it’s very well done, and properly mature, too. Just like a dream-garden should be.’
Guy nodded. ‘It was designed by an Italian publishing giant, who had the house built to his own specification about forty years ago. I’ve had it for three or four years now…It’s quite a gem, isn’t it?’
‘Mmmm. Though I have to say I don’t like that fountain much. It seems silly and artificial, somehow. Everything else has been planted to look so natural…it jars a bit, though the sound of the water is nice. Perhaps there should be a little waterfall instead…? Though, of course, it would mean building a rockery for the water to cascade down…’
‘The fountain,’ said Guy evenly, ‘is perfectly natural, as it happens. It’s a spring, which shoots up out of the rock below. It goes much higher in March and April, and dies away to little more than a trickle in September, before the autumn rains begin.’
‘Oh,’ said Jane feeling unnaccountably stupid. ‘I didn’t realise that.’
‘We could get the rock blasted away and divert the spring to come out on top of an artificial rockery, if you like. This is your garden. You can make any changes you want.’
Jane put her hand instinctively to her throat, where his words seemed to lie, razor-sharp, against her fine skin. Guy, quite obviously, didn’t want her to change anything. ‘No. Don’t be silly. Of course not…I love it now that I know that if s…it’s a spring.’ She tailed away and cleared her throat.
She couldn’t help thinking of her mother struggling against the heavy clay soil in her own garden, happy and fulfilled despite the paucity of her results. That was the sort of wife that she had always vaguely assumed that she would be, when her time came—working hard to make everything grow—to get it right. But this garden was perfect already.
Later, she discovered that the house, when she had peered into every nook and cranny and explored every room, was equally perfect. There were seven bedrooms, and not one of them furnished with bits and pieces which no one could bear to throw away, but which didn’t quite fit. They all looked as if they had been freshly dressed to have their pictures taken for a glossy magazine. Downstairs was even more tasteful. The. biggest reception room was at least thirty feet long, and so light and airy and sunny that cool white blinds had been halfdrawn over the windows to diffuse the brilliant light. They did their job perfectly, and even managed to look chic in the process. Jane remembered the light bulbs and turned away.
She sauntered over to the fireplace and surveyed the painting which hung there. It was a restful landscape of snow-capped mountains, backlit by a wintry sky. ‘That’s beautiful,’ she said. ‘Is it a local scene?’
Guy stuck his hands in the pockets of his trousers and surveyed it from the other side of the room. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It isn’t.’
But he didn’t offer any more information and she didn’t ask. She sensed an air of annoyance gathering about him again and was anxious to change the mood.
‘Have Fernanda and Palma gone yet?’ she asked.
‘Why? Are you hungry? They’ve set out our lunch outdoors…’
‘I’m not hungry for food,’ she replied mischievously. ‘Can we go and explore our bedroom again? I think it’s my favourite room, you know…?’
And it worked, because Guy stopped giving off vibes of annoyance, and strode swiftly across the room towards her. He pulled her to him, and without bothering to reply kissed her every bit as fiercely and demandingly as he had in the car park, when he’d kissed her for the very first time. He had courted her and wed her and wooed her. At last, it seemed, he was prepared to simply enjoy here. Jane quivered with excitement. Rome might not have been built in a day—but it was only lunchtime and already she’d made progress…
When they were clinging to each other on the bed, discarding clothes in the process, Jane whispered, ‘Show me what to do…to please you, Guy…’
He paid no attention to her request, but simply started to kiss her so hard that she forgot to feel hurt.
Later, when they were lying on top of the covers, both naked and bathed in sweat, after a brief, urgent, and highly satisfactory coupling, Jane had to blink away tears of happiness. None of yesterday’s lessons had been needed as she had been carried forward on a wave of such ruthless desire that the whole world had seemed to crack apart as he moved within her. Instinct had provided all the tutoring she needed, and his satiated frame, spreadeagled beside her, left her in no doubt that she was, after all, in one respect at least, proving to be a very satisfactory wife.
Tentatively she reached out one hand and ran her fingers through his hair. It was damp near the roots.
&nb
sp; ‘I enjoyed that,’ she said happily.
‘Mmmm…’ he grunted, not moving.
Jane let her eyes drift to the open window overlooking the front garden. In the distance she could see the cedars standing still in the hazy summer air. Where they parted, at the entrance to the drive, she saw two figures pushing bicycles out of the gate and into the road.
‘There are Fernanda and Palma…’ she exclaimed, surprised. ‘They’re only just leaving.’
Guy reluctantly dragged a wrist in front of his eyes. ‘Twelve o’clock,’ he sighed. ‘Yes, that’s right.’
Jane hugged her arms around her naked breasts, shivering with pleasure. So he hadn’t been able to wait for the help to leave? He wanted her. He really did. Oh, she would do everything in her power to make him happy. Everything.
For the rest of the day they swam—naked at one point—and ate, and drank wine and kissed.
‘I’m so happy,’ she told Guy seriously, as they lay together in bed. ‘You were right. We are good together, aren’t we?’
And he looked at her and smiled in return and said, ‘I told you we would be.’ And then he rubbed his freshly shaven chin against her forehead, and held her close to him while they fell asleep.
The next day was idyllic. They drove through the Tuscan hills on empty roads and visited Siena and returned to an empty house which they filled with the sounds of their lovemaking. Later, in the garden, Jane looked up through the leaves of a fig tree at the pale blue sky and almost shouted with joy. This place was heaven on earth. When she went indoors to change she studied the painting of the peasant-woman and thought of Guy’s roots, and her own, and she felt that, together, they might grow something very good in this fertile soil. It was going to work.
Three more lazy days in the sun followed. But the day after that the sky was splotched with clouds too white in the centre, and a raggedy grey at the edges.
‘I don’t think the weather’s going to hold up,’ commented Guy over breakfast. ‘I’ll tell you what…I’ll take you into Florence. We’ve got all day.’
Jane shook her head so that her dark hair swung around her face. ‘No, we haven’t; We’ve only got the morning. I agree it would be awful sitting in the house doing nothing while the place is cleaned. But I’ve no complaint about being closeted’ here with you all afternoon, alone, while it pours down outside.’
Guy smiled. ‘Let’s pray for rain when we get back, then. But we might as well take our time in Florence once we get there. I’ve got a few things planned which I think will give you pleasure of a different sort. Now go and get ready.’
She dressed carefully, pinning up her hair so that the cleverly cut ends sprayed out into a fan on the top of her head. It was a youthful, exuberant style and one of which she was particularly fond. It looked especially good with the grey and white striped seersucker trousers she wore, teamed with a cropped matching silk blouse which showed her slender brown midriff to perfection.
‘You look great,’ said Guy appreciatively, slipping on a blue linen jacket and checking his pockets. ‘Now hurry up. I’ve got a lot planned for today.’
Jane sank into the passenger seat of the car and settled back for the ride. ‘What shall we look at first?’ she said happily. ‘There’s so much to see.’
‘How many times have you been to Florence?’
‘Twice. I love it. I went once with my parents ages and ages ago, and then last year I came out with some friends.’
‘Tell me about these friends,’ invited Guy, his eyes on the road ahead.
Jane bit her lip. She had come with the Berringtons, as it happened. She wondered, not for the first time, why such dreadful snobs should have wanted her for a friend—and why they had kept their opinions to themselves for so long. Since that fateful evening she hadn’t seen them, and had pointedly not invited them to the wedding. She had certainly never mentioned them in front of Guy. The best thing, she decided, was to talk about them as if the argument had been nothing but a silly tiff. Although he claimed to have heard a little of what was said, he certainly hadn’t heard the terrible things Benedicta had said about him inside the car, and she didn’t want him prying into it all now.
‘Well, they’re twins. Benedicta and Charlotte. Er…I think you met them once…? Anyway, they’re identical and…um…very lively. We came with one of their sisters, Rosalind—they’ve got five older sisters, actually. And their brother Rupert came too. He’s only ten months younger than they are. So they’re all very close.’
‘Uh-huh…’ said Guy. ‘Wasn’t Rupert rather overpowered with four older women to keep him in line?’
Jane shook her head. ‘Actually, he wasn’t the only male. Rosalind and the twins all brought boyfriends along. Rosalind’s engaged to hers now. He’s really nice, but a bit shy, and the twins used to tease him by pretending to be each other all the time.’
She noticed Guy’s eyebrows curve upwards dangerously, and his mouth had returned to the straight, formal line she had seen so often until he had decided to marry her. He clearly wasn’t impressed by her account so far.
‘It was pretty stupid, I guess,’ she admitted, feeling suddenly very silly and juvenile. ‘But Charles—that’s Rosalind’s fiance—well, he took it all in good part. He didn’t mind. Not really.’
‘And what about Rupert?’
‘What about him?’
‘Was he just along for the ride, or what?’
She looked at his profile uncertainly. ‘Er…not exactly. He and I…we were…well, we kept each other company. We were…um…sort of going out with each other at the time. We did for quite a long while, actually, except that as he lived in Sussex and I lived in the Midlands we didn’t see very much of each other for weeks on end. It was never serious, actually. Not a bit. Ever.’
Jane had enjoyed the platonic relationship. Not just - because Rupert was good company, but because it had kept other men from smarming all over her. Being beautiful wasn’t always easy.
Was Guy jealous? She glanced sideways at him, finding herself stupidly hoping that he would be.
But in fact he looked quite unperturbed. ‘He must be younger than you, then?’
She sighed. It would have been nice if Guy had been just a tiny bit jealous, even though he had no cause. ‘About two months younger. Yes.’
‘Is he the youngest?’
‘Yes. His poor mother finally produced a boy. Seven girls and then, at last, the son they needed for the title. Once he was born she handed him over to a nanny and went on holiday all by herself for a month. She said she’d earned it.’
‘What would have happened to the title if she’d never had a boy?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never asked about that. I suppose it would have gone to some cousin or something. Or maybe the oldest daughter’s first son? Can titles skip generations like that?’
Guy shrugged. ‘Why should I know something like that?’
‘Dear me, Guy,’ she tutted. ‘You can’t have been keeping your eyes and ears open…I thought you knew everything.’
Guy chuckled. ‘It’s not a question of eyes and ears. I only pick up information that’s likely to be of use to me. Anything that I hand on to my children will be handed on of my own free will. If I want there to be strings attached, then they will be strings of my own devising. I make up my own traditions as I go along, Jane. Or hadn’t you realised that?’
‘Oh, yes. Of course,’ said Jane, and then swallowed. ‘Um…how many sons or daughters were you planning on?’ She felt flustered all of a sudden.
‘How many were you?’ he asked drily.
‘Um…well, not eight.’
‘No,’ he agreed, clearly amused. ‘Not eight. Nine or seven, maybe…but not eight.’
‘No! Nine or seven? Not really?’
‘No. Not really.’
‘Oh. Good. I don’t think I could manage that many. Though Lady Alicia did, and she always looked marvellous.’
‘She had nannies, though, you said?’
‘Three nannies…’ murmured Guy, drolly. ‘And how many babies could you manage with four nannies, Jane? Or five?’
‘You’re teasing me, aren’t you?’ asked Jane primly.
‘But of course. One nanny will be quite sufficient, I should think. Shouldn’t you?’
‘Do we have to have a nanny at all?’
‘Certainly we do,’ said Guy, and his voice was suddenly harsh.
And Jane said, ‘Well, in that case…yes. One nanny sounds just fine.’
But she said it through clenched teeth because her mother hadn’t had so much as one nanny. Her mother had sent her father out of the hotel to find somewhere to buy feeding bottles and formula and nappies and hundreds of other things, and had nursed her baby in her arms all by herself—and she wouldn’t put her down even when the police came, nor the doctor—and she had carried her all the way to the hospital, snuggled close against her own, dry breast. Her mother had never wanted a nanny. Jane had never imagined having a nanny for her children, either.
Their first stop in Florence was a Lancia car showroom, where Jane’s car was ordered.
‘What colour?’ asked the salesman, handing Jane a colour chart.
But Guy flicked it out of her hands. ‘We can have it customised,’ he said. ‘Choose any colour you like. You look good with strong colours, Jane…that bikini you had on the other day suited you—and your anorak.’
‘Guy!’ she exclaimed, half horrified, half-pleased. ‘I’ve heard of people changing their car when the ashtrays get full, but ordering one to match their bikini has to be about the height of decadence.’
‘It has to be some colour or other. Why not have a colour you like—or a colour which likes you? That’s all I’m suggesting. And as for it being decadent, well, it keeps people employed. What’s decadent about that?’
Forsaking All Reason Page 10
