by Anna Gracie
dialect.
One of Carlotta's nephews translated.
"He says they used to live up here but he hasn't visited for a year or
so. He doesn't know what's happened to them. He's been living in
Torino."
"Well, what about one of the people in the village down there? Would
any of them know?" Tallie said.
"Perhaps."
They retraced their steps down to the village, about five minutes' walk
from the ruined house. They knocked at door after door, but no one
wished to answer questions posed by a strange young female, a foreign
English female at that. But Tallie insisted they try every house in
the village. She had not come this far to give up merely because
people were suspicious of foreigners. Finally they came to a house
where, after some dialogue between a nephew and the householder, a
connection was established; it seemed to involve a great many cousins
and in-laws.
Tallie was ushered into a small, neat room which seemed to fulfill the
function of kitchen, sitting room and bedroom. A fire crackled and a
pot of something pungent and aromatic was bubbling over it. Fat brown
sausages, flitches of ham and plaited strings of garlic, onions and
herbs hung in the rafters. The room was warm and cosy, with colourful
hand-woven rugs on the floor and the bed. Tallie sat on a crude wooden
bench. The woman of the house offered her an earthenware bowl filled
to the brim with creamy milk. She drank it thirstily.
"Thank you very much, signora, that was delicious," she said
gratefully, wiping a rim of cream from her upper lip. The woman smiled
and bobbed her head in shy acknowledgement. Then, with the nephews
translating, Tallie began her questioning.
"Si, Marta, who lived in the cottage up the hill, is dead."
"No, he was not her husband; he was her brother. Her husband died a
long time ago--four years, maybe five. Her brother? He went away.
Nobody knows for certain. Maybe he went to be a soldier. "
"A little boy? Si, there was a little boy. Her miracolo bambino, she
called him. She was nine years barren, then, presto, one day she comes
home from church with a little baby."
"Si, it would be about seven years ago."
"No, the baby had blond hair. Marta was dark."
"No, the little boy did not die. Where? Who knows, signora! Not
anyone around here."
"With the brother? No, he did not like the child. Called him little
foreign bastard. Said he was no relative of his."
"God only knows, signora. In times like these, many children lose
their parents. Some run wild in the hills--those who have no
relatives, of course. Si, it is a tragedy, but what can one do? One
has enough trouble feeding one's own without looking for more."
"What sort of boy, signora? A bad boy, to be sure. Bad? Eh, steal my
apples, ride my goats--Madonna mia! But always merry, you
understand--whistling, laughing. Si, signora--a bad, merry little
boy."
"Si, of course. If I hear anything... It has been a long time now...
but, si, I will ask."
"No, no, you are welcome, signora. God go with you."
"They come, signer. Your wife and my nephews, they come--see?"
Cariotta gestured triumphantly.
Magnus strode to the window and stared out, breathing heavily. It had
been four days since he had discovered Tallie had not gone to Turin.
Four days of ever-increasing anxiety. Four days in which he had
discovered that his wife was indeed a liar.
"Yes, I can see her," he growled. He had barely slept the past few
nights, and now, to see her coming down the street unharmed and
apparently perfectly content. He'd begun to believe he would never see
her again, and now. Relief, after days and nights of the most intense
anxiety, turned to rage. How dared she arrive as if nothing in the
world were wrong? As if she hadn't just run off, willy-nilly, with a
bunch of foreigners, leaving her sick husband with a demented old
priest? Pretending she'd gone to visit her mother's grave. Then just
to bounce casually in, for all the world as if she'd been off on a
picnic! He'd teach her a lesson. One she'd never forget.
He stalked to a window facing the opposite side of the house and
glowered out of it, at the mountains in the distance. She wasn't going
to think he'd be waiting for her, arms outstretched. Behind him the
door opened. Magnus didn't move; he gazed out of the window. There was a short silence.
"M... Magnus?" she said tremulously.
"Madam?" he said coldly, turning at last to face her.
"Did you find what you were looking for?"
She opened her mouth to answer him, but not a sound came out. Her
lower lip trembled then suddenly her face crumpled.
"Oh Magnus, and ran across the room and hurled herself into his
open arms.
He gathered her hard--a dry lump working in his throat. She clug to
him--hard--as she had when she'd been about to be taken away by the
bandits, as if she would never let him go. Her head was buried in the
hollow between his shoulder against his Jaw. He could feel the chill on
her skin from the biting outside, smell the faint tang of woodsmoke in
her hair and the lingering fragrance of the lavender soap that Carlotta
hA S^e" ller; IIe laid his face against her hair and inhaled deep'
tightening his hold around her quivering body. She was peeping; he
could feel the damp warmth of her tears on his skill- After a moment he
became aware of Carlotta beaming benevolently upon them, and with a
silent oath he swung his wife into his arms is and carried her up to
the bedroom.
He wanted to drop her onto the bed and fling himself down beside her
and tumble her until she knew where she belonged, who she belonged
with.
He forced himself to set her carefully on her feet, then released her
and stepped back. Her face was awash with tears.
Magnus groped in his pocket and handed her a handkerchief. He wanted
to dry her tears himself or, better still, kiss them away. he " "Id
not let himself move a single step towards W- If he All, he would be
lost for ever, that much he knew. As it was he was tithe grip of an
emotional turmoil he had never dreamt was possible. He could not
believe how weak and irresolute he felt, how strong was the impulse
just to take her in his arms and forget the past week. Forgive and
forget. Lilse his fatter. Forgive the fact that she had lied to
him.
Forget that she had gone off into the mountains without his knowing or
permission. No, he was weak, but he would make himself strong He would
neither forgive nor forget.
He paced over to the window and stood, coolly looking out, staring at
toe mountains into which she had disappeared, forcing down the
overwhelming feelings of hurt, humiliation and betrayal, replacing them
with cold anger. He waited until the sobbing had stopped, then turned
and repeated his question in a bitter, icy voice.
"Well, madam, I asked you before and I will repeat the question. Did
you find what you were looking for? Did you find you
r mother's grave?"
She looked up at him with drenched, bewildered eyes and nodded.
"Yes," she whispered.
"And once you found it, you came straight back here?"
She hesitated, paled, scrubbed at her face, dropped her lashes and
nodded.
"Liar!" he roared, slamming his fist against the wall.
She flinched, and regarded him with huge, wary eyes.
"You found your mother's grave eight days ago! I saw her grave myself
and spoke to the priest about you. Eight days, madam! Eight days! And
what did you do in those eight days, eh?"
She opened her mouth, then shut it again, biting nervously on her lower
lip in a manner that drove him wild. He slammed his fist against the
wall again and swore.
"Shall I tell you what you did in those eight days--shall I? You
betrayed me, madam. Betrayed the name you took on the day we were wed.
Broke the vows you made before God and man."
She flinched again.
"B... betrayed your name? So... so you know?
Carlotta told you? "
He snorted.
"No, to be sure she did not. You women stick together in your
deceptions."
"So how?"
"Do you think I am a fool, madam? I worked it out for myself."
She frowned, puzzled, "But how could you?"
He snorted again.
"Betrayal is something I have been acquainted with all my life. I
believe I am an expert on it."
"Betrayal...! was worried you might see it in those terms." She
sighed, and sat on the bed.
"Worried I might see it in those terms?" he repeated incred She
opened her mouth to answer him, but not a sound came out. Her lower
lip quivered, then suddenly her face crumpled.
"Oh, Magnus," she wailed, and ran across the room and hurled herself
into his open arms.
He gathered her to him--hard--a dry lump working in his throat. She
clung to him--hard--as she had when she'd been about to be taken away
by the bandits, as if she would never let him go. Her head was buried
in the hollow between his shoulder and his jaw. He could feel the
chill on her skin from the biting wind outside, smell the faint tang of
woodsmoke in her hair and the lingering fragrance of the lavender soap
that Carlotta had given her. He laid his face against her hair and
inhaled deeply, tightening his hold around her quivering body. She was
weeping; he could feel the damp warmth of her tears on his skin.
After a mo menthe became aware of Carlotta beaming benevolently upon
them, and with a silent oath he swung his wife into his arms and
carried her up to the bedroom.
He wanted to drop her onto the bed and fling himself down beside her
and tumble her until she knew where she belonged, who she belonged
with. He forced himself to set her carefully on her feet, then
released her and stepped back. Her face was awash with tears.
Magnus groped in his pocket and handed her a handkerchief. He wanted
to dry her tears himself or, better still, kiss them away, but he could
not let himself move a single step towards her. If he did, he would be
lost for ever, that much he knew. As it was, he was in the grip of an
emotional turmoil he had never dreamt was possible. He could not
believe how weak and irresolute he felt, how strong was the impulse
just to take her in his arms and forget the past week. Forgive and
forget. Like his father. Forgive the fact that she had lied to him.
Forget that she had gone off into the mountains without his knowledge
or permission. No, he was weak, but he would make himself strong. He
would neither forgive nor forget.
He paced over to the window and stood, coolly looking out, staring at
the mountains into which she had disappeared, forcing down the
overwhelming feelings of hurt, humiliation and betrayal, replacing them
with cold anger. He waited until the sobbing had stopped, then turned
and repeated his question in a bitter, icy voice.
"Well, madam, I asked you before and I will repeat the question. Did
you find what you were looking for? Did you find your mother's
grave?"
She looked up at him with drenched, bewildered eyes and nodded.
"Yes," she whispered.
"And once you found it, you came straight back here?"
She hesitated, paled, scrubbed at her face, dropped her lashes and
nodded.
"Liar!" he roared, slamming his fist against the wall.
She flinched, and regarded him with huge, wary eyes.
"You found your mother's grave eight days ago! I saw her grave myself
and spoke to the priest about you. Eight days, madam! Eight days! And
what did you do in those eight days, eh?"
She opened her mouth, then shut it again, biting nervously on her lower
lip in a manner that drove him wild. He slammed his fist against the
wall again and swore.
"Shall I tell you what you did in those eight days--shall I? You
betrayed me, madam. Betrayed the name you took on the day we were wed.
Broke the vows you made before God and man."
She flinched again.
"B ... betrayed your name? So... so you know?
Carlotta told you? "
He snorted.
"No, to be sure she did not. You women stick together in your
deceptions."
"So how-?"
"Do you think I am a fool, madam? I worked it out for myself."
She frowned, puzzled.
"But how could you?"
He snorted again.
"Betrayal is something I have been acquainted with all my life. I
believe I am an expert on it."
"Betrayal... I was worried you might see it in those terms." She
sighed, and sat on the bed.
"Worried I might see it in those terms?" he repeated incredulously.
"Pray, how else would I see it?" He paced furiously around the room.
"I thought... hoped you might be different... only--' " And I hoped.
believed you were different, madam," he said bitterly.
"But now I see you are just like all the rest."
"All the rest of whom?" She stared at him, apparently bewildered.
And he had convinced himself she was no actress! Hah!
"Well, I hope you learnt your lesson. So, did he weary of your charms
after only a week?"
"Weary of my charms? What charms? Who are you talking about?"
Her wide-eyed look of confusion and innocence enraged him. He strode
to the bed, grabbed her by the shoulders, yanked her upright and shook
her in fury.
"That blasted green-eyed Irishman, of course! Do you take me for a
complete fool?" He glared down at her, his rage compounded by the
knowledge that he still desired her.
There was a long pause as they stared at each other, then suddenly her
face flooded with dawning comprehension. Her mouth dropped open.
"You think I betrayed you... with that bandit?" she gasped.
"I know it," he responded coldly.
They stared into each other's eyes for a long moment. Abruptly she
flung her arms up, breaking his grip on her shoulders. She thrust at
his chest--hard--pushing him away, and stepped back, panting, hurt,
shock and anger in her eyes.
"You think I betrayed you
!" She side-stepped him and marched to the
other side of the room. Her hands shaking, she picked up an ornament
on the shelf and stared blankly at it for a moment, her mouth
working.
Setting the ornament down with a snap, she turned.
"How dare you? Oh, how dare you say such a thing!" Her chest was
heaving as she fought to control herself.
"As if I would ever, ever betray you with another man!"
She took several deep, shuddery breaths.
"Oh! I cannot believe you could think such a thing of me!" She began
to pace around the room.
Magnus watched suspiciously. Was this another very good act? It
didn't feel like it.
She continued her pacing, then suddenly whirled on him.
"And with that... that bandit'. Ooh!" she raged.
"So you deny it?" he said coldly.
"Deny it? Deny it?" She snatched the ornament off the shelf and
hurled it at him. He ducked, and it shattered against the wall behind
him.
