But in the teeming streets, the long, cool galleries, the sunlit parks, the shadowed churches not once had she seen the face for which she had constantly looked. Of course not. Foolish even to have harboured the hope.
What had she expected? That she might one day have been strolling the via Calzaioli and Danny would step, smiling, from the crowds? That she might stand gazing at the Pieta and he would appear at her elbow, her dark saint, the dark angel come whole to life?
The dreams of a child – embarrassing in a grown woman.
And if he did – she asked herself with ruthless common sense – then what? What could she possibly expect from him? She was a married woman, and he – who knew what he might have become? Who knew what he had been to start with? The Danny O’Donnel she remembered so well was probably more a product of her childish imagination than of real life. Stupid to hope. Stupid to carry with her that memory, like a talisman—
Blindly she turned from the river and all but bumped into a smiling young man sho stood just behind her. Slick black hair, shining black eyes, teeth gleaming pearl-bright against an olive skin.
‘Oh – I’m sorry—’ Instinctively she side-stepped, trying to pass him.
Smoothly he moved with her, blocking her way, talking rapidly.
She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t understand.’
His smile widened. His hand was on her elbow, very firmly. His eyes discomfited her. Hot already she flushed uncomfortably, trying to shake herself free.
He spoke again, very fast and low. The intimacy of his voice frightened her suddenly.
‘Please! You’ve made a mistake! Let me go—!’ Temper rising with her fear she wrenched her arm from his grip so fiercely that he let her go. She turned and began to hurry through the crowds. To her horror he followed, still talking, pushing through the stream of people by her side, keeping pace with her until he could catch at her arm again.
Anger and fright came to her aid. She spun on him savagely. ‘Let me go!’
A few passers-by turned. One of them smiled. No one stopped. Most ignored the scene, intent upon their own business.
‘Get away from me!’ She pushed him, hard.
He staggered a little. The smile had gone. Dark, furious colour lifted in the handsome face. He snapped something, his voice vicious.
She shook her head. ‘Go! Go away! Or I’ll – I’ll call the police. Police! You understand? Policia!’ she shouted, helplessly italianizing the word and hoping she’d got it right.
He sneered unpleasantly but at least made no move towards her. She turned and hurried from him. Her heart was pounding horribly. Sweat slicked her skin and soaked her clothes. At the corner she had to glance back. He stood where she had left him, a look of Latin disdain on his face. Seeing her backward glance he made a brief, graphically obscene gesture. Scarlet with shame and fury she all but ran to the via Condotta. She let herself in through the great, peeling outer doors and ran up the sweeping staircase to the doors of their apartment. At least it was cool here, cool and shadowed, the marble floors striking cold through the thin soles of her slippers.
She let herself in to the apartment.
Bars of sunshine, unnaturally bright to northern eyes, striped the walls and ceilings, reflected blindingly from the mirrors. Despite the closed shutters it was hot and stuffy. She opened the shutters. Heat and dust lifted from the street, seeping into the room like smoke. Even the smells were foreign; alien.
She was trembling violently.
She went into her bedroom – in the privacy of the apartment she and Robert made no pretence of sharing a room – and threw herself onto the bed, fully clothed, staring up at the dirty, peeling, ornately plastered ceiling. As she did so a sudden vision of New Hall’s cool and lofty ceilings blurred her eyes. The view of the parkland that could be had from every window, green and graceful, spread with the shade of its magnificent trees, the silvered lake glimmering through distant woodland – all at once she could see it so clearly that she might have been there. In her mind she whistled to Bran, set off, ankle deep in cool grass, richly green, towards the lake path and Old Hall—
But no. New Hall was no longer her home. Bran wasn’t even any longer her dog. She was no longer a child. And Robert was no longer her friend. He was her husband.
And she was in Florence, that seemed suddenly a strange, outlandish and hostile city, looking for a man who in all probability no longer existed either. If he ever had, that dark angel to whom a lonely little girl had so totally and passionately given her heart.
Wearily she turned her hot face into the pillow, and let the miserable tears come.
* * *
When Robert came home she was still lying in the darkened room, dressed in a loose robe, one arm flung across her face.
‘Jess?’
‘I’m here.’
He came to the doorway. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I had a bad headache this afternoon.’
‘Should I get you something? A cold drink? A cup of tea?’
‘Tea would be nice.’ She was listless.
He went into the kitchen calling as he went. ‘I’ve some news that will cheer you up.’
‘Oh?’
‘I mentioned to the Maestro this afternoon the trouble we’ve been having with the maid—’
Pietra, the girl who they had virtually rented with the apartment was the equally surly niece of the surly caretaker. She was slovenly, and affected stupidity. Jessica was also certain that she stole, but lacking the language did not know what to do about it. She sat up, plumping the pillows and leaning on one elbow. ‘And?’
Robert came back into the room. Not for the first time Jessica marvelled at the fact that not even the heat and dust of Florence in high summer could apparently ruffle his neat, cool good looks. ‘And – it seems he knows just the girl for us. The daughter of one of his own servants. Her name is Angelina. She cooks, is utterly trustworthy, clever with money – and she speaks English!’
That galvanized her. ‘What?’
‘Apparently she worked as a nursemaid for several years for an English family who have now returned home. She comes with excellent references.’
‘Will she be able to control Pietra, do you think?’ Jessica was doubtful.
‘Of course she will. The girl sounds like a paragon. Exactly what we’re looking for. Doesn’t that make you feel better?’
She nodded, a little sheepishly, the depression of the afternoon lifting a little. ‘It will certainly help to have someone who speaks English.’
‘That’s not all my news. Wait. I’ll get the tea.’ He went back into the kitchen to reappear a few moments later with two steaming cups. He handed one to her then sat on the bed. ‘We’ve been invited to supper at the via del Corso!’
She shook her head, puzzled. ‘The via—?’ she stopped, ‘You mean – the Carradine man? That they’re always talking about at the Embassy?’
He laughed. ‘Sir Theodolphus Carradine. The very same.’
‘But – how? We don’t know him. And – well – should we, do you think—?’
‘Of course we should!’ It came to her suddenly that Robert, uncharacteristically, was very excited. There was a faint flush of colour in his face and his dark eyes sparkled. ‘And as for the how – yes, you’re right, I don’t know him – but there’s a young man who attends the composition classes in the afternoons who’s a good friend of his, and he’s invited us. This evening.’
‘But – can he do that? I mean – it doesn’t seem right? Shouldn’t we wait for a proper invitation—?’ She knew how stupid that sounded as soon as she spoke. Yet something about Robert’s unwonted excitement obscurely disturbed her.
‘Jessica, haven’t you listened to a word that’s been said about the man? Theo Carradine doesn’t issue “proper invitations”. You come, and if you interest him you stay—’
‘And if you don’t?’
He shrugged.
She looked at him in mild astonishment
. ‘You really want to go, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
He stood up, moving restlessly. ‘Look – we came all the way to Florence to escape the restraints and conventions of England. And when we get here – then what? The people at the Embassy – the people we dine with – the people we ride with – they might just as well be our parents, our brothers, our sisters, our cousins! The via del Corso is where we’ll find the kind of people we’ve come to find – artists, writers, sculptors—’
She did not for a moment answer. The first thing she had thought when she had heard of Theo Carradine and his coterie of artists was that if she were to find Danny anywhere in Florence it would be most likely to be there—
Robert had walked to the window and thrown open the shutters, stood leaning on the balcony rail looking down into the street. ‘Of course if you don’t want to come I wouldn’t dream of insisting. I’m quite ready to go alone.’ She frowned a little, watching the slight, slim back. It had almost seemed to her that there had been tentative hope in his voice.
‘I’ll come,’ she said.
* * *
The façade of 17, via del Corso was imposing. Marble gleamed in the evening light and tall, ranked windows shone in the late sunshine. The massive, iron-studded door stood open and, faintly, from somewhere within the house, came the sound of music and laughter. There was no one to be seen.
Jessica hesitated at the open door. ‘Should we?’
‘Of course.’
Still faintly reluctant she followed him. The grand entrance hall in which they found themselves was deserted. Massive and ornate double doors at the end of the room were closed and fastened. A great white staircase, its balustrade finely carved with fruit and flowers, swept to the landing of the next floor, from where came the sound of music and voices.
‘I do suppose,’ Jessica said, her laughter rather more nervous than she cared to acknowledge, ’that your Arthur has the right to invite us here?’
‘Jessica, for God’s sake!’ It seemed to her that Robert’s sudden snappish tone held even more of nerves than had her own laughter. She looked at him in surprise. He stood poised at the foot of the stairs, looking up, every line of his face and of his body tense with a kind of eager and nervous expectation.
She joined him, and they started up the stairs. ‘What’s he like?’ Jessica kept her voice very casual. ‘Arthur, I mean? Do you know him well?’
‘Not very, no. We met a couple of days ago at the Maestro’s. He’s—’ he hesitated, ‘he’s rather fine actually. One of those people who can turn his hand to anything. Or perhaps I should say his brain. He’s a fine Greek scholar. And a writer too. He’s had poems published.’
‘Oh?’ Rarely did Robert speak with such intensity and enthusiasm. Jessica glanced at him from the corner of her eye.
‘He met Lord Byron last year. Byron praised Arthur’s poems. It was a turning point in his life, he said.’
‘In what way?’
‘He said – he had never believed in heroes before.’
‘And Lord Byron changed his mind for him?’ The words were a little dry.
‘Yes.’
‘Perhaps that had a little something to do with His Lordship liking Arthur’s poems?’
‘No!’ The word was irritated. ‘Arthur isn’t like that! Jessica – just wait till you meet him, and you’ll see—’
She made no comment, but paused to look down on the great chandelier that hung in the stairwell, glittering like a glass waterfall.
‘And when you hear him sing—’
She looked up in surprise. ‘He sings too? Goodness, he is a talented lad, isn’t he?’ she said, lightly. Irrationally, but profoundly, this unstinting admiration for the unknown Arthur was disturbing her.
‘He could sing professionally if he wanted. He’s been approached.’ He was waiting, impatiently, for her to join him.
‘Why doesn’t he?’
‘He wouldn’t prostitute his gift so. Theo Carradine wouldn’t allow it.’ He turned and started up the stairs again.
She hitched up her skirts and scuttled to catch up with him. ‘Singing professionally is prostituting yourself?’ she asked, curiously.
‘For some people, yes.’
They had reached the landing. The music had died but the sound of talk and laughter drifted from behind a pair of tall double doors that stood a little ajar.
‘And Arthur’s one of those people?’ She could not, somehow, let the matter drop.
‘Yes. He is.’ Robert’s tone was utterly uncompromising, and in no way amused.
‘Well,’ she said, not disguising the doubt in her voice, ‘I look forward to meeting him—’
She did not have to wait long. As they stood, hesitant, on the threshold a tall blond young man, languidly handsome and dressed in open-necked silk shirt and beautifully cut trousers that were tucked with casual elegance into soft leather boots advanced on them, a long, white hand held out in greeting. The fair hair was Byronically tousled above a wide brow, enormous grey-blue eyes were fringed with improbably long and dark lashes. ‘Robert! You came! How perfectly splendid! I did so hope you would – I came straight back this afternoon and searched out that reference that we were—’ he stopped, apparently only just at that moment aware of Jessica. He waited, politely.
Robert’s normally pale face was flushed with faint colour as he made the introductions. ‘Jessica – this is Arthur Leyland. Arthur, I’d like you to meet—’ the hesitation was tiny and telling, ‘—Jessica.’
‘Robert’s wife,’ she said, sweetly, and was herself surprised at the mild malice that had undoubtedly prompted the words. She offered her hand.
Arthur took it and bowed a little, gracefully. Unreasonably but with certainty, she knew she would never like the man.
‘Why Robert, you dark horse,’ he was saying, beautifully arched brows lifted, ‘you didn’t tell me—’
Robert said nothing.
There was a small, unaccountably difficult silence. Then Arthur stood back, smiling, for Jessica to pass into the room. ‘Do come along – I’ll introduce you—’
He led the way into the most exquisite room that Jessica, New Hall notwithstanding, had ever seen. Obviously one of the original state rooms of the palace, it was huge and cool, marble-floored, the high ceiling restrainedly ornate, the frescos on the walls delicately beautiful. The windows were tall and perfectly proportioned, curtained with a material so fine it floated on the evening air like a cool mist. Gilded mirrors reflected from all angles a dozen or so perfect pieces of marble sculpture, all of the young male human form, and – most surprisingly to Jessica, who had never seen growing things used so indoors – a perfect jungle of plants and shrubs. Planted in tubs they had been used to create small, pretty arbours of privacy. Somewhere at the end of the room a fountain played. Everywhere there were couches, tables and chairs, most at this moment occupied, each piece of furniture gracefully in keeping with its setting. Another enormous glittering chandelier ornamented in the Venetian style with delicate coloured glass flowers hung in the centre of the room, and candles that were being lit upon the tables and about the walls were in candlesticks and sconces of the same style. Silver was everywhere – silver plate, tiny silver figures, silver urns and vases, even a collection of little silver thimbles adorned a small glass shelf. Jessica had grown up with opulence tempered by her mother’s good taste at New Hall; but never had she come across anything so breathtakingly and imaginatively beautiful as this.
Arthur had led them to a table where sat three young men.
‘Here we are – Richard, Georgie – and the one with the scowl’s Stuart. This is Robert and – ah—’ he hesitated, seeming quite genuinely to have forgotten Jessica’s name.
‘Jessica,’ Robert put in quietly.
Arthur smiled a charming smile. ‘Of course. Jessica.’
Jessica smiled shyly and hastily prevented the three young men from scrambling to their feet. They all lo
oked, if a little Bohemian, reassuringly normal bearing in mind the stories she had heard of this establishment. Richard was small, dark and intense-looking and had paint stains in his hair and on his clothes that looked as if they had been there for some considerable time. Georgie was a large and friendly-looking young man with hands like hams and an engaging smile, while Stuart was scruffy, thin-faced and rather sombre-looking. Unlike the picturesque Arthur their clothes were of the cheap workaday type. All three held glasses in their hands and there was a large jug of wine and more glasses upon the table.
Georgie gestured. ‘You’ll join us?’
‘Thank you—’ Jessica began, but Arthur was quicker.
‘What a perfectly splendid idea. Jessica – you don’t mind if I steal Robert from you for just a moment? There’s something I particularly want to show him—’
She hesitated, looking at Robert, not happy to be abandoned quite so soon.
‘Only for a moment,’ he said.
She nodded. ‘Of course.’ She watched them walk away, already deep in animated conversation, Arthur’s artfully tousled blond head bent to Robert’s dark one.
‘A glass of wine?’ Georgie asked, and it seemed to Jessica that she caught a galling spark of sympathy in the friendly eyes.
‘Yes,’ she said, composedly. ‘Thank you.’ And had to prevent herself from drinking it in one gulp.
She spent a remarkably pleasant half hour in their company. Richard and Stuart, she learned, were artists, Georgie was studying sculpture. None of them, upon her casual questioning, had ever heard of Danilo O’Donnel. And between them, they assured her, they knew everyone there was to know in Florence. They were not backward in assuaging Jessica’s curiosity regarding her unknown host.
The Hawthorne Heritage Page 29
