* * *
In the weeks that followed, perfectly reasonably, Jessica imagined herself truly in love. This, surely was what she had been waiting for? As his practised lovemaking awakened her body her young, love-starved imagination saw in him the personification of both courtly and physical love. She lived for their meetings. Her infatuation for Danny, as a child, had had no physical outlet; in Guido she found, perhaps because she so desperately wanted to, a satisfying passion that she did not recognize until later as a counterfeit of love. Guido was the ideal object of such fantasy – handsome, attentive, apparently devoted, he played the part that Theo Carradine had assigned to him to perfection, even occasionally, Jessica with some affection thought later, convincing himself. Theo watched the puppet show with the sly enjoyment of one who has manipulated the puppets, biding his time. He perceived in Jessica a stylish potential and an intelligence that pleased him. Given, he thought, a little more worldly polish she would make an interesting addition to the small court he had chosen to gather about him. Guido was, in his opinion, essential to her education.
Jessica and Guido met only in the Palazzo on the via del Corso – for, strangely perhaps, Jessica could not bring herself to take her lover to the apartment that she shared with Robert, and he never suggested that she should visit him – indeed it did sometimes strike her as a little odd that she did not even know in which part of the city he lived. There was no doubt that Robert knew what was going on, but he never mentioned it, and Jessica received the distinct impression that his main emotion concerning the affair was relief. He had convinced himself that she was happy at last, and that was enough for him. That she had done the same thing herself it took Theo to show her.
Georgie, his pursuit of Jessica come to nothing, had returned to the girl, an artist’s model, with whom he had lived, on and off, for three years and whom he regularly left in pursuit of new game only to return when circumstances, in the form of boredom or an irate husband dictated it.
‘I don’t understand her,’ Jessica said to Theo one day, frowning. ‘Why on earth does she put up with it? He treats her so badly—!’
‘What would you do? If it were Guido?’
She thought about that. ‘I – don’t know.’
‘Yes you do.’
She eyed him. ‘I wouldn’t like it.’
He grinned.
‘I wouldn’t like it at all.’
‘You’d throw him out on his handsome ear.’
‘I wouldn’t!’
He said nothing. Raised his eyebrows.
‘Well I might.’
‘You would. Of course you would. Stands to reason.’ He paused. ‘Wouldn’t you?’
She thought about it. Thought of the look on the girl’s face when Georgie arrived at the via del Corso with another woman. ‘Yes,’ she said, thoughtfully. ‘Yes. I think I might.’
‘And what does that tell you?’
‘About what?’
He was unusually patient. ‘About yer relationship with Guido, gel.’
‘I—’ she stopped.
‘It tells you yer don’t love him,’ he supplied, mildly.
She turned on him, horrified. ‘That isn’t true!’
He lifted a wickedly sardonic brow. She flushed to the roots of her hair, and turned from him. ‘I do love him! I do!’
‘You want him. You enjoy him. That’s a different thing.’
She said nothing, knowing how uncomfortably close to the truth he had come, and obscurely ashamed of it.
‘Yer know, of course, that he’s got a charmin’ wife an’ children?’ His voice was conversational, the affected drawl exaggerated.
She turned, her unschooled face thunderstruck.
‘Ah – yer didn’t? How very remiss of him.’ He was watching her with sharp, expectant eyes. ‘But then – what difference? You’ve got a husband, haven’t you? Fer what he’s worth.’
She glared at him, her colour rising. Opened her mouth. He grinned and held up his hand. ‘Never speak in temper, gel. There’s no tellin’ what yer might come out with.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘About what?’
‘About Guido!’
He was all innocence. ‘I just did, didn’t I?’
She was almost speechless with anger. ‘You – you planned this, didn’t you? Guido and me?’
‘’Course I did.’ He was entirely unrepentant, openly amused. ‘Don’t tell me yer weren’t ready for it, gel.’
Her mouth tightened.
He chuckled, enjoying himself.
‘Truly Theo, you are hateful sometimes!’ she snapped.
‘I know.’ She might have complimented him. He beamed, pleased. ‘But good God, gel, you couldn’t go round a vestal virgin fer the rest of yer life, now could yer? Someone had ter show yer what it was all about. Now – come on – admit it. Yer don’t love him.’
He was right, and she knew it, had been aware of it in her heart from the first, but had stubbornly refused to face it. Guido had touched her heart not at all – even this unexpected news of his wife and children hurt her pride rather than her feelings. She had wanted to love him. He was handsome, and charming. He had taught her the joys of her body in love. She ought to love him—
‘Well?’ The word was sharp.
She sighed, shook her head.
He put his hand behind his ear in an exaggerated gesture. ‘Try again,’ he said, encouragingly. ‘A bit louder.’
Exasperated, she almost laughed. ‘All right! Perhaps I don’t actually love him.’ She shook her head again, a little ruefully, ‘Oh, Theo – perhaps I can’t? Supposing I can’t? I did want to. You’re cruel to—’
‘No.’ The cracked voice interrupted her. ‘Not cruel, gel. Kind. You think about it. Think of what you know. Think of the lessons you’ve learned. Don’t twaddle on about love, gel.’ He pointed a crooked finger. ‘You’re best off without it. Muddles the mind and spoils the temper. What will you do about Guido now?’ The question was sharp, the drawl gone.
She shrugged. ‘I – don’t know. Nothing, I suppose.’
‘Exactly. Not half dead with jealousy, are yer? Not dyin’ of a broken heart? Love’s for fools, gel. Remember that. Remember the lesson old Theo taught yer.’
She watched him for a moment, soberly. ‘You are the most devious and cynical man I’ve ever met,’ she said at last.
The grotesque bewigged head nodded, jerkily. ‘More than likely, gel. More than likely.’
She picked up the bright head of a flower that had fallen from an arrangement onto the polished surface of the table. The brilliant scarlet of the petals lay upon her fingers like blood. She studied it for a moment, a faraway look on her face. Then, ‘I don’t care what you say, Theo,’ she said, suddenly. ‘I want to know. I want to know what it’s like. I want to know why that girl lets Georgie treat her so. I want to know what it is that poets write of and singers sing about.’ She lifted her head, oddly fiercely. ‘I want to know!’
He shook his head, testily, tutting.
‘I remember once—’ she stopped.
‘What?’
She shook her head. ‘Nothing.’
He struggled to his feet, painfully, stood looking down at her. ‘So – yer want ter fall in love, eh?’
She smiled at the absurdity of the conversation. ‘Yes.’
He turned and hobbled towards the door. ‘More fool you, gel,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘More fool you.’ He stopped by the door, looking back. ‘But – well, who knows? Perhaps old Theo can even arrange that?’
‘Theo!’
His laughter echoed back from behind the closing door.
* * *
Communication between Florence and Suffolk was not easy, and the exchange of letters between the young FitzBoltons and their families was desultory. Robert’s mother was the only one who wrote with any regularity – the weather was good, or bad, old Bess had whelped again, the roof of the Great Hall was leaking, an Oxford don had taken a flatter
ing interest in Sir Thomas’ collection of butterflies – Jessica loved her letters, they brought with them in their kindly, gossiping, narrow way a glimpse of home that she treasured. Robert hardly read them at all. Maria, too, wrote occasionally, but her letters were stilted and rather formal and contained very little information and no warmth at all. Jessica remembered that her mother had always detested writing letters. For herself she tried to make sure that each month she wrote: short, cheerful notes packed with much general information – the wonderful weather, the beauty of the city and its treasures – and carefully avoiding the slightest mention of anything personal. The only other person who, surprisingly, kept up a devoted and cheering if sporadic correspondence, was Patrick. He was happy and settling in to his new life. He had a new pony. Next term he was to go away to Harrow. Bran was well, and Lucy sent her love. The childish yet somehow flamboyant scrawl brought a smile to Jessica’s lips. Almost she could see the bright head, the merry, mischievous eyes.
No one mentioned Giles or Clara, and Jessica did not ask.
The Florentine autumn was glorious. Jessica’s Italian lessons went well and she was delighted to find that in a very short while she could make herself understood in the city. She also discovered to her own surprise a certain facility for drawing. Encouraged both by Theo and by Robert she attended drawing classes twice a week and was guardedly pleased with the results she achieved. She would never, she admitted readily, be any rival for Michelangelo, but she could produce a pleasing picture, and she enjoyed it. She still spent a good deal of time with Theo and his books. All in all life was full, and very enjoyable.
Winter came as something of a surprise. She had certainly not expected a spell of damp and cold to rival anything she had experienced in England, but as Christmas approached the clouds rolled down from the mountains and a curtain of drizzle drifted in the narrow streets. For the first time she saw the women of Florence with their scaldini – earthen pots filled with the ashes of charcoal that women of all ranks carried hooked on their arms for warmth, or on occasion, when sitting, very sensibly tucked beneath the spread of their petticoats. Within doors the fires were lit in the great hearths, shutters were closed against the cold and candles glowed warm and bright about the walls. Masques and balls were held, and the invitations for Jessica and Robert came not just from the via del Corso. As the months had gone by and one five-minute scandal had been replaced by another some of the younger members of the established English colony had renewed acquaintanceship – indeed Jessica sensed in some cases some small trace of envy at the FitzBoltons’ acceptance into Theo Carradine’s wicked charmed circle. She and Robert themselves repaid hospitality and entertained their friends to dinners and to card parties. The apartment, redecorated and completely refurnished, had fulfilled all its promise. Angelina, the new maid, competent and cheerful, ran it to perfection with very little help from her young mistress. Life ran smoothly and pleasurably; and if Jessica found herself suffering a few pangs of homesickness as she prepared for the coming of Christmas she suppressed them sternly. Instead of the simple holly boughs that would deck the village church at Melbury she had the gleam of gold and silver in the magnificent churches of Florence. Instead of a morning ride across parkland crisp with frost she sat abed, propped up with pillows, drinking precious coffee in a bedroom that had once heard the laughter of princes. Instead of the balls at New Hall attended by the country gentry – most of whom had known little Jessica Hawthorne from the day she was born – who arrived at seven and were yawning at eleven, she had the entertaining gatherings at the via del Corso and elsewhere, where the wine still flowed, the cards still fell, the arguments still raged at three in the morning, and in the kaleidoscope of that constantly changing circle it was perfectly possible to remain all evening in the company of a familiar face without ever actually remembering the name that was attached to it.
She attended Midnight Mass at the Duomo on Christmas Eve with Theo, Robert having chosen to go to Santa Croce with Arthur, whom Jessica still avoided as much as possible. Theo watched her with delight. It had been a very long time since he had had such innocent material to work upon; and already the results of his efforts could be seen. Small and rather slight she still was, but now, under his influence and after several visits to the Mercato Nuovo she dressed with style and held her head high, aware, if subconsciously, of her own attraction. She was no beauty in the true sense of the word – a stroll down any Florentine street would produce a dozen more obvious charmers – but the bright, mobile face with its intelligent eyes and determined mouth was an attraction and a challenge in one. Even the cloud of mousy hair, gleaming now with the golden touch of a summer in the Italian sun, though unfashionable was as individual as was Jessica herself. Sometimes, within the bright halo of that hair she still looked the child of innocence. But laughing, or angry, or lit with some enthusiasm she was like a small flame, brilliant and warm. Her education complete and her dreams of true love shown for the nonsense they were she would make a handsome addition to his eccentric court. It was a measure of the old man’s egotism that it did not occur to him that Jessica might question his plans for her.
She found the Catholic Florentine Christmas all but overwhelming. Her very English upbringing had never prepared her for the soul-stirring pageantry, the colourful extremes of a Christian religion born and nurtured amongst the hot-blooded and flamboyant peoples of the south. Sometimes she found herself wondering – was it this that had captured her brother John? Once exposed to this passionate carnival of Christianity, had he found the dour Protestantism of his fathers pale by comparison? Kneeling in the magnificent Duomo amidst the gleam of precious metals and stones and with the triumphant voices lifted about her she thought she glimpsed something of the fervour and conviction that had given John the strength to defy their father. Of all of them, she wondered, might he not end up as being the happiest? She had never forgotten his courageous and passionate rejection of his material heritage. She had applauded him then, and she applauded him now; but even as she did so she knew that for her the way could never be the same. And in knowing that she accepted too that the life now could not last for ever, however much she might wish that it could. Always, somewhere, behind the pleasure and the undeniable enjoyment of the flouting of convention, the living of a life that could only be termed irresponsible, stood an awareness, a need, that would not eventually be denied. When Guido courted her, when Theo charmed her in his grotesque way with his books and his testy erudition, or when the Tuscan sun turned the mountains to gold, or a Catholic cathedral glittered in the light of a thousand candles the feeling was there, and it would not leave her. She remembered the green of the Suffolk countryside. She remembered her father, booted and hardily dressed for a ride about the estates. She remembered, oddly, the bewildered, determined face of the tenant Peter Arkwright as he had faced her mother asking for his wrongs to be righted. She remembered New Hall and its beauty, Old Hall and its warmth. She remembered St Agatha’s – dark, cold, neglected, mysterious. She felt her roots, and for all her efforts could not rid herself of them. She could deny it for now. She could pretend to herself and to others that she did not care for the loss of these things, as she was certain Robert did not; she could pretend, but she knew in her heart that it was not so. She wondered, sometimes – if she and Robert had truly loved, would she have felt differently? If she had experienced that emotion that seemed destined to happen to others and never to her, except as a childish passion, could she be blinded to all other needs, all other memories? The new Jessica, schooled by Theo, though largely unconscious of the fact, doubted it. When it came to love she was beginning to think that the world played a game in which she could not join.
* * *
In 1818 the annual carnival, the timing of which was determined by the date upon which Easter fell, was early, beginning on the very first day of the year. There were parades and sideshows in every street and square. Plays and comedies were performed every night in every one of the city�
��s seven theatres. There were masked balls, public and private, and each evening the streets and the banks of the river were thronged with masked and costumed crowds, laughing and flirting, making the most of the permissive pre-Lent atmosphere. The cafes were full, the squares rang with music; Jessica had never experienced such festivities before, and she enjoyed every moment. Cloaked and masked she roamed the city with a group of revellers drawn from the artists who frequented the via del Corso. The weather was cold and clear, and the distant hills gleamed, crowned with snow. Lights were strung in the Boboli Gardens, and lovers strolled beneath them, shadows in the darkness. She and Robert with Theo, Arthur, Guido and anyone else who cared to join them visited the theatres, the concerts, the cafes. As the austere days of Lent grew closer the celebrations grew wilder. There were costumed parades through the streets, and more than one drunken brawl to follow.
It was during one such brawl that she caught a glimpse of a face that stopped her heart and her breath at a stroke.
Two parades had taken place in rival neighbourhoods, and in their wake two opposing bands of young men, one dressed fairly approximately in the style of fashionable young courtiers of the eighteenth century, the other rather more mundanely in the manner of the rivermen of the Arno, had come together in the Piazzo del Duomo and picturesque insults were flying. Much wine had obviously been consumed and what started as a relatively good-tempered confrontation soon and predictably deteriorated into scuffles and wrestling matches. Theo, knowing from experience that the next step would be the drawing of knives very sensibly urged withdrawal. Jessica side-stepped a sprawling pair of brawny young men locked in battle in the gutter and with Robert’s guiding hand upon her arm followed Theo towards a side street. At the corner she turned to glance back. The free-for-all had started in earnest. Urged on by cheering onlookers the young men were setting about each other like gladiators. On the near side of the square a burly ‘courtier’ swung his stave in a vain attempt to unseat a ‘waterman’ who was clinging astride his back howling like a banshee and beating at his unwilling mount with clenched fists. The crowd loved it. Taking sides they urged on first one and then the other. The bigger man bucked, nearly unseating his tormentor, who clung like a limpet. A roar rose from the onlookers.
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