The Hawthorne Heritage

by The Hawthorne Heritage (retail) (epub)

  ‘Old as Methuselah, rich as Croesus, wicked as the devil, and as partial to the lads as any old dame I’ve ever come across—’ Stuart eyed her a little slyly.

  She did not bat an eyelash. ‘He seems very generous?’

  ‘Oh, yes. If he feels like it he’ll give you the top brick off the chimney.’

  ‘And if he doesn’t?’

  Richard laughed a little ruefully. ‘Steer very clear. He can be absolutely vicious.’

  The other two nodded sage agreement.

  ‘He sounds charming, I must say.’ She laughed, a little nervously.

  ‘He’s all right.’ Georgie tossed back his wine and planted the glass firmly upon the table. People had started to drift past the table towards the far end of the room. Georgie tapped the side of his nose with a huge, dirty finger. ‘If I’m not mistaken I smell food. Coming?’

  Jessica shook her head, unwilling to forsake the safety of her secluded seat. ‘Not yet, thank you.’

  Richard stood. ‘You don’t mind if we do?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  He smiled an engaging smile. ‘It’s the first square meal in days!’

  She smiled back. ‘Please. Don’t let me stop you. I expect Robert will be back soon.’

  She remained in her seat, sipping her wine, watching people as they strolled past the table in twos and threes. For all the notice anyone took of her she might have been entirely invisible.

  Where was Robert?

  The crowd seemed to be at least three-quarters male, predominantly down-at-heels working artists or students. A few wantonly beautiful youngsters of both sexes drifted like rapacious butterflies about the room. The women in the main were very young, very pretty and very Italian-looking. She felt entirely out of place.

  The room emptied. She sat for a while alone. Then, with a quick, overdetermined movement she tossed back the last of her wine and stood up. If Robert were not going to take her to dine, she would take herself.

  At the door of the equally exquisite dining room, however, her nerve failed her. About the room were dotted small tables at which groups of people sat, talking and laughing. A long table, all snow-white linen, crystal and silver, held platters of delicacies of all kinds and a vast regiment of wine bottles. At a large table in the centre of the room sat an elderly man, his face rouged to a terrible parody of youth, skinny as a waif but with the paunch of Bacchus, a huge grotesquely curled and powdered wig framing the equally grotesquely painted face. He was presiding over a slavishly laughing group of young men and women. This, no doubt was her host. There was no sign of Robert.

  Jessica fled. She slipped back through the statues and the jungle of plants to the table where she had sat with Georgie and the others, and which had taken on the aura of a haven. With a small sigh of relief she sank onto a sofa. As if by magic a flunkey appeared, costumed in ivory silk, a powdered wig only a little less ornate than his master’s on his head. ‘Wine for Madam?’

  She hesitated. He took her silence for assent and handed her a glass. She took it.

  ‘Thank you.’ She sipped the cool liquid. The hum of laughter and conversation from the dining room rose and fell.

  Where was Robert?

  Perilously quickly she finished the glass, and in a moment the servant, hovering behind a palm, had refilled it. She stifled a small, hysterical giggle. At this rate Robert would have to carry her home—

  Robert! Where was he, damn him? It really was too bad of him to abandon her so. He had not been, so far as she could see, in the intimidating dining room. Slightly unsteadily she set her wine glass on the table and stood up. He must be somewhere.

  She found him at last in an arbour by the fountain, screened from the room by a curtain of greenery, seated beside Arthur at a small table. An almost untouched bottle of wine stood before them. They were talking animatedly and did not notice Jessica’s approach.

  ‘It’s there, oh yes, it’s there—’ Arthur was saying, his fair face intense, the grey-blue eyes glowing ‘—and someday someone will find it—’

  ‘But how?’ Robert was totally absorbed, his eyes riveted to the passionate face.

  ‘By using the Iliad of course! It can be done, Robert! It will be! Troy will be found, I know it! Oh, God! I’d give an arm to be the one! Imagine – just imagine being the one to prove that Troy did exist! That the Iliad is more than just a poet’s fantasy!’ The two young men were as unaware of Jessica’s presence as they were of the handsome marble centaur that pranced through the crystal screen of the fountain’s dancing water. She stood for a long moment, watching them, incapable of breaking in on that magic circle of intimacy that surrounded them. They did not want her. Nobody wanted her. She turned and walked away, fighting a sudden surge of self-pity and loneliness that tightened her chest and brought the ridiculous sting of tears to her eyes. People were beginning to wander back in from the dining room. No one took any notice of her. At the far end of the room a heated argument had broken out. The candlelit air was heavy and hot, laden with the stink of perspiration, perfume and wine. A group of rowdy young men were coming towards her, pushing and buffeting each other like a pack of unruly and ill-trained young puppies. She backed away, flattening herself against an enormous carved door, which gave a little as she leaned against it. She turned her head. Through the narrow opening she sensed rather than saw a cool dark room, blessedly empty. Giving herself no time for thought she slipped through the gap and pulled the door closed with a sharp click behind her.

  She stood still for a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the dimmer light. She was in a library, as different from the room she had just left as it was possible to be. No ostentation here, no glamour, no glittering chandeliers or artfully arranged effects. Tall windows, open, led out onto a cool and shadowed balcony. The room was large but comfortably proportioned and its walls were lined with books. Books too lay upon the beautifully carved desks and lecterns that were placed in convenient positions about the room; books open, books closed, piles of books, books in boxes, books on shelves. On the floor were soft rugs of oriental design glowing with jewel-like colour in the illumination of the few lamps that threw their patches of golden light across the rich, gold-tooled leather of the volumes’ covers. Large comfortable armchairs and two enormous sofas completed the furnishings. At the far end of the room a great marble fireplace, empty now, a gilded mirror gleaming above its mantle, spoke of warmth and comfort on a winter’s day. The room was utterly quiet, utterly peaceful. Even the sounds of talk and laughter that percolated faintly through the wall from the gathering next door failed to disturb it.

  She walked quietly across the room and out onto the balcony. It overlooked not the street but an inner courtyard of the house, two floors below. Elegant and vine-grown, its seating and statuary was of marble, as were the two small fountains that sent their cool music rising to her on the warm air.

  She wandered back into the room, moving about the shelves, stopping now and again at random, picking out a book or sometimes simply touching, wonderingly, an expensive tooled leather spine with a gentle fingertip. She had never in her life seen such a treasure-trove of learning. Even her small experience told her that this room held a small fortune in books – books of every description, every age and what looked to be every language in the world. Lying open on a table, lit by a heavily shaded lamp, was a huge and wonderfully illustrated tome with Arabic script as decorative and beguiling as the birds, beasts and flowers that embellished it. Absorbed she studied it, enchanted by its colourful beauty, though afraid to touch it or to turn a page. On another table she found upon a small shelf a collection of books which caught her eye with their faint familiarity. A little more confidently she picked one out and carefully opened it; and was transported with soul-shaking suddenness to the ancient library of Old Hall with its smoky fire and its great mullioned windows, its dark oak panelling and the sound of winter’s wind buffeting the walls. She moved closer to the lamp, studying her find. So entirely rapt was she that she
did not hear the soft opening of the door; only the sharp click of its closing started her guiltily from her dream and almost made her drop the precious thing she held.

  ‘Well, well – what have we here?’ The voice was light and sharp, dry as the parchment of the ancient books about them. The old man’s skinny legs, encased in old-fashioned breeches of pale pearl grey, were bowed, the satyr’s paunch even more noticeable on his skinny frame as he stood, leaning heavily upon a gold-topped cane, peering at her, frowning.

  She regained some small part of the breath that had deserted her in her fright. ‘I’m – sorry,’ she managed, and put the book down as if it had suddenly become red hot. ‘The – the door was open – I – I came in here – to—’ Idiotically her voice slid to nothing.

  He stumped to the table and with a mildly testy movement pulled the quite ridiculously ornate wig from his head and flung it down. His own hair was wispy and wild about a vast bald pate. ‘—to get away from that?’ He jerked his head at the commotion beyond the door. ‘Don’t blame yer, child. Not altogether. My young friends can get very tiresome at times. What’re yer readin’?’

  The abrupt question, the words slurred affectedly in the fashion that had died with the beaux of a generation before, caught her off guard. She blinked.

  ‘Well? Cat got yer tongue? Or can’t yer read? Eh?’

  ‘Of course I can!’ Indignation came to her aid. ‘It’s a book of medieval poetry, I think. Troubadour’s poems I would guess, though I can’t be sure. It’s strange—’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘I can’t make out the language. It doesn’t seem to be French—’ Her interest for the moment overcame her embarrassment. ‘Robert’s – my husband’s – family have some like it at home in Suffolk. Robert’s father told me that the courtly romances were all written in France – in Provence, I think – in the thirteenth century. But this—’ she hesitated, unwilling to show ignorance to the man who owned this treasure-house of books, ‘—this looks different somehow,’ she finished, lamely.

  He straightened, leaning still upon the cane, eyeing her intently with pale, old eyes. ‘How?’ he barked. ‘How – different?’ The words were fired like bullets.

  She jumped.‘The – the language I think. It isn’t the same. And, also – the pictures. There’s something about them—’

  He nodded. ‘Very perceptive, child. Right on both counts. The book you’ve got there isn’t thirteenth-century. It’s fourteenth. And it isn’t French. It’s Italian. Tuscan, in fact, written not so many miles from where you’re standing. But, oh yes—’ he held up a hand as he saw the protest in her face, ‘you were absolutely right in your judgement of what it might have been – of what, in fact, it was trying to be. There’s many that should know better’s been fooled. Your estimable father-in-law was right – the originals were written at the Courts of Love in Provence. But Innocent the Third – what a rogue’s name for the devil! – and his hellish Crusade put paid to the troubadours of the Lange d’Oc, and a lot of them, running for their lives, came here. Very sensible of them if you ask me. Damned Frogs.’ He pointed to the book she had been studying. ‘That was written by an Italian as the fashion grew here. Good, mind you, it’s good. But – if you want to compare it with an original—’ he stumped to her side, ran a gnarled, practised finger along the row of ancient leather-bound books and extracted one. ‘Try that. Arnaut Daniel. Greatest of them all. Know what the word “troubadour” means?’

  Bemused, she shook her head, taking the book. Close up the painted face beneath the balding pate was even more grotesque.

  ‘Derives from the word “trobar” – “trouver”, d’ye see? To find. To discover. A troubadour was a seeker, and a creator – Look at the book, then gel – look at it!’

  She turned the pages. The script was lovely, the illustrations intricate and beautiful, their colours clear as sunshine. ‘It’s marvellous.’

  ‘Certainly it is. Haven’t seen you before. Who the devil are you?’

  The autocratically abrupt change of subject made her jump again, but at least it seemed her nervous system was getting a little more used to it. ‘Jessica FitzBolton,’ she managed, remarkably calmly. ‘I’m here with my husband Robert. We were invited by a young man called Arthur. Arthur Leyland, I think. And you must be—?’

  ‘Carradine. Theo Carradine.’ An odd shadow of expression that she could not identify had flickered across the painted face at the name of Arthur Leyland. ‘So – your husband – he’d be the dark young feller who’s bin all evenin’ with Arthur?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes.’

  He pursed his lips, watching her. ‘I see. Finished with the book?’

  Bemused by yet another grasshopper leap of subject she reluctantly handed him the book.

  ‘Don’t fret. Don’t fret. Look at them any time you want. Not many appreciate them. Tell you somethin’ about them one day, if ye’d care to hear?’

  ‘I would. I really would.’ To her own mild surprise the words were a matter of honesty rather than good manners.

  ‘Hmm.’ He replaced the book. ‘Used ter chain ’em to the desk, yer know.’

  ‘Yes.’

  He grinned a stained smile. ‘Somethin’ else yer father-in-law told yer?’

  ‘No. I read it somewhere.’

  ‘Good. Good. Come an’ talk to me.’

  She followed him to the open windows. On the balcony above the pretty courtyard stood a table and two chairs. He waved her to one, then lowered himself evidently painfully into the other, waving away irritably her half-hearted offer to help. ‘How long yer bin in Florence?’

  She thought. ‘Just over a month.’

  ‘Like it?’

  Perversely she was suddenly irritated. She did not care to be cross-examined like a prisoner at the bar. ‘Not altogether,’ she said, shortly.

  He lifted his head, frowning. ‘You astonish me, gel. Yer struck me as a gel of sense.’

  ‘I’m a girl who likes to walk alone without being accosted.’

  He chuckled at that, his seamed face creasing like crumpled paper.

  ‘I really don’t see why you should find that funny?’ She was on her dignity.

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  She told him of that afternoon on the Ponte Vecchio. ‘—and that isn’t the only time such things have happened. And yet – I don’t understand it – I’ve seen Italian girls – girls of my own age – walking alone, apparently safely.’

  He grinned, the yellow teeth evil. ‘Think about it, gel. Work it out for yerself.’

  She thought. Shook her head. ‘I don’t understand.’

  He tutted testily. ‘What were yer wearin’?’

  She shrugged. ‘I was perfectly respectable. I’ve more sense than to go out like this—’ She indicated the low neckline of her filmy gown.

  ‘Ah, but what colour? Colour! What colour d’ye wear?’ he added, speaking as though she might have been a backward child when she was slow in answering.

  Some small bell was ringing in Jessica’s head. ‘All sorts,’ she said, thoughtfully. ‘Today I was wearing yellow.’

  He snorted.

  ‘They wear black, don’t they? Married Italian girls?’

  ‘Now yer’ve got it.’

  ‘And you mean – honestly – that if I wear black I’ll be all right?’

  ‘No question, gel. Look – unmarried girls here don’t go out on their own. Not ever. Not unless – they’re lookin’ fer somethin’ or someone—’ he winked balefully. ‘You see what I mean? Young married women on the other hand have as much if not more freedom that yer do yerself. And they’re safe as houses.’ He leaned forward, ‘Use yer head, gel. Study the local customs. You’ll find life a lot easier. You ain’t in London now. Don’t try to live like that daft bunch of know-nothings that cluck together and lay eggs at the Embassy. Buy yerself somethin’ neat an’ fancy in black an’ you’ll be safe as in yer own parlour. Safer. I promise you.’

  She nodded. ‘I see. Thank you.
I will.’ She was genuinely grateful for the advice. The thought of being a prisoner in the apartment until such times as Robert saw fit to squire her had been appalling.

  ‘Good gel.’ The awful smile wrinkled again ‘’Course – if yer really want ter go native -’ he winked again, salaciously, ’you could always get yourself a servente cavaliere—’

  She shook her head, puzzled.

  The evil smile broadened. ‘Yer must have noticed? Yer surely don’t think these handsome, attentive young men that escort some of the pretty ladies in black are their husbands?’

  Jessica had indeed noticed how many handsome young couples graced the streets of Florence. She flushed a little, suspecting derision. ‘Well yes. I suppose I did.’

  He snickered. ‘No, no, no! Civilized people the Tuscans. Look – it goes like this. Old man marries pretty little piece. Pretty piece – being Tuscan – is quite ready to put up with it for his money. Pretty piece is good as gold and butter-wouldn’t-melt until she presents old money-bags with a copper-bottomed, no-question legitimate heir. Then – as a reward for hard labour, so to speak – she gets her handsome little helper. Her servente cavaliere. He helps her run the house, manages the servants, buys the wine, escorts her to anywhere she wants to go. He is, you understand, the personification of elegance and good manners, to say nothing of excruciating good looks. In England our second sons go into the church or the army. In Florence they very much more sensibly go into the service of a mistress. Some doting fathers have even been known to demand provision for a servente cavaliere in the marriage contract!’

  She found herself giggling. ‘Not really?’

  ‘On my oath. Now—’ He twinkled wickedly, an ancient imp of mischief. ‘Should you decide to become a true young Florentine matron I insist – I insist! – that you come to me. I know some very promising young men—’