Fragile Blossoms

by Dodie Hamilton

  A ghost he does as he used to do, he feeds the horse and beds her down, and then a pale man naked as a babe he climbs the stairs to the loft and sleeps with the stars for an eiderdown.

  Seventeen

  Sparkling Dust

  Julia is at the Great Pyramid. Last night a booklet was dropped off at the hotel a scrawled note pinned to relevant pages. ‘Flinders Petrie, the famous archaeologist, offers his thoughts on the route to the King’s Chamber.’

  ‘‘...a stairway cut into the rock but narrow and the only light carried by guides. It was not an easy climb our way was hampered by mounds of fallen debris and the air heavy with dust. For much of the way I had to crawl on my hands and knees, the ceiling scraping my scull. It was a daunting climb particularly to one is troubled by confined spaces. As I found it is worth the effort but only for the brave.’

  The note was a red rag to a bull hence they are here now inside the pyramid and climbing down. Like Mr Petrie Julia is not good with confined spaces and this inky darkness makes it difficult to breathe. The four of them, a guide up front, Miss Radcliff and then Julianna and a guide at the back, all shuffled down a narrow staircase. The forward guide carries a lantern to light the rough hewn steps. ‘Missy, you be careful,’ he says. The guide at back chews betel nuts and spits skins out into the darkness. Preoccupied with keeping her footing Miss Radcliff is thankfully silent. Back bowed Julia crawls on. That it is a perilous journey is obvious and yet the indifference of guides at the mouth of the tunnel suggests many tourists attempt it even foolish English ladies.

  If it wasn’t so macabre it would be laughable. What am I doing, thought Julia? Am I trying to prove some damned silly point? What happens if I fall and break my neck? Do they bury me down here beside my poor Owen or do they haul me back up again as undeserving? Anger keeps her going. Miss Radcliff! Be damned if address her as Professor! She doesn’t deserve the title. I mean, who is she? Owen never mentioned her and he’d write every day when on a dig.

  Last night Julia dreamt of him. She rarely dreams of Owen, it is always Matty who has tales to tell. In the odd dream she does have he is always kind. Last night he was not kind, he was an ogre with the body of a lion and head of a Jackal, Anubis, He was Lord of the Underworld. Once before she dreamt he sat beside the Sphinx. In this dream he was the Sphinx. ‘You have a question for me?’ he’d said, his voice of rolling thunder. A gag applied to her mouth she was unable to speak. He asked again. ‘Do you have a question?’ Desperate to know of this Radcliff woman and what she meant to him Julia tugged at the gag but could not get it free. With that he’d leaned down his eyes afire. ‘You cannot ask!’ he’d roared. ‘Such a question is unworthy of me and you!’

  She woke knowing she must have faith. It doesn’t matter what anyone else says. Arrogance, stuffed pigs, and a brave Knight in an empty tomb might be Kitty Radcliffe’s memories but they are not Julia’s. They are not a cloak to wear nor are they shoes. She doesn’t have to wear them. The Owen Passmore she knew was honourable and kind and never known to deceive. That’s the man she knew and that’s the man she’ll remember.

  *

  Sighing and straightening his shoulders Luke entered the Villa.

  ‘Is that you?’ she called from the terrace.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re rather late.’

  ‘Not so much.’

  ‘What kept you?’

  ‘I met someone.’

  ‘Oh, who?’ Hair piled up and dusted with white powder she came through the doors walking in a jerky side-step the skirts of the crinoline gown swaying.

  ‘Ah hell!’ It was then he remembered. Tonight is the masked ball and he is to be her partner.

  ‘Yes, hell indeed!’ she said patting the gown. ‘If you think I’m laced into this horror for the joy of it you’re wrong. The carriage is due and you have exactly ten minutes to be dressed and ready.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It slipped my mind.’

  ‘You’re sorry and so am I. I don’t know why I bother. You’re never interested in such things. It’s always a chore. You’d sooner be plastering walls in Wapping or laying drains in the Manchester mud.’ She called Jamieson, the ever constant manservant who accompanies them everywhere, to lay out the costume Luke is to wear, ‘a raspberry pink silk embroidered cutaway coat and a frilled jabot in keeping with the character.’

  ‘And what character is that? I mean, who am I meant to be?’

  ‘Whoever you choose! It’s that kind of an evening.’

  ‘In that case if you don’t mind I’ll go as myself.’

  ‘Yourself?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No, you can’t do that. We don’t have a wolf skin handy. You can settle for a mask. After all it’s your identity you’re to conceal not your true nature.’

  ‘As you wish.’ He walked into the dressing room. As always she followed. He surveyed her in the glass. ‘And so you dressed as Madame Pompadour? Is that a reflection of your true nature?’

  ‘I hope not.’ She picked up a bottle from the wash-stand. ‘I don’t see myself as Pompadour. I am more a religieuse a la Madame de Montespon, beloved of the Sun King, though I doubt anyone tonight will know the difference, one Madame from another, and why should they, they were all whores.’

  Such was fizzing scent of gunpowder Luke refrained from comment.

  She dabbed cologne behind her ears. ‘I confess to dithering between the two Louis, the later gowns are so much prettier. But in the end, sensible woman that I am, I settled for Montespon and exile sooner than lose my head.’

  ‘Did any of those women fare much better?’

  ‘Do you mean did they see old age?’

  ‘Well, something like that.’

  ‘Of course not! Courtesans aren’t meant to grow old. They are meant to dazzle and die. They are as Roman Candles a burst of glory and a dark pit.’

  Luke unbuttoned his shirt. ‘And from pitch of this conversation I’m assuming you are already in the dark pit.’

  ‘What do you mean already? I am never out. I was born in a dark pit. Now do make haste and at least try to look divine if nothing else.’

  His shirt was taken up and borne away. Jamieson appeared with jugs of hot water and then another with fresh towels, the raspberry pink cutaway over his arm. It was a large dressing room but what with servants and Evie’s brooding anger it felt real crowded.

  Tipsy, a couple of upturned wine bottles in a cooler, she leant again the mirrored wall and was replicated over and again, a porcelain doll in a white powdered wig. ‘Who was it that kept you?’

  ‘Kept me?’

  ‘You said you met someone.’

  ‘Oh, some chap in one of the squares.’

  ‘What sort of a chap?’

  ‘Just a chap.’

  ‘He must have been a fascinating chap to keep you so long.’

  ‘He was.’

  ‘And what was the fascination? I mean apart from the fact that it kept you from doing your duty to me.’

  ‘He was architect.’

  ‘Ah, ceiling elevation and joints and things, a case of like attracting like.’

  ‘It was exactly that.’

  ‘Was it Roman ceiling elevation you discussed or the more mundane?’

  ‘We talked of flying buttress and Westminster Abbey.’

  ‘Westminster Abbey!’ She smiled. ‘My word a high elevation indeed! And in this discussion were you able to hold your own?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘ Lei ha parlato in Italiano?’

  ‘Si, nella mia lingua madre.’

  ‘Well good for you, though I hardly think it is your mother tongue. Our Nanette is a little too much from up t’North to chime with that.’

  Luke walked into the bathroom and closed the door. He should never have mentioned Lucca Aldaro. At the time Eve heaping gifts upon him he’
d wanted to give her a gift and told how his real father was Italian. Big mistake! That he should have a history other than that of a plumber from Bakers End was not what she wanted. He had mystery now where once was ordinary and she didn’t like it. Now everywhere they go she scratches the secret hoping to wound. ‘Do you think your real Papa ever supped here?’ she said in Venice, in St Mark’s Square where an ice-frappe costs a millworker’s yearly wage. Then on the train from Florence; ‘Look at that dear little hut nestling among the hills! It has your name of it, Senor Roberts. What say we buy it as a summer home? We can plant vines and sit and drink wine in the sun.’

  In those moments he hates her. She knows and smiling waits his response. So far he’s managed to swallow anger. To remain impassive is the weapon of choice. Confounded by silence she loses her temper and boxes his ears. Last time she drew blood. Freddie goes crazy. ‘What’s wrong with you, Evie?’ he shouts. ‘Why so cruel? Keep on like this and one day you’ll be knocked from pillar to post and it won’t be Luke that does it. It’ll be one of those you prize higher, some moronic Lord with a rustic title and hefty fist.’

  As always this is about Julianna. Eve can deride his beginnings and his trade. She can scoff at him not knowing a Caravaggio from a Ruebens but it is his love of Julianna she’s getting at. ‘You’re with her, aren’t you?’ Out of the blue the question will come. He’ll be walking along the street or in a carriage and she’ll pull on his arm. ‘It’s Ju-ju! You’re thinking of her!’ Nine times out of ten she’s right, and if it’s not Julianna he remembers it’ll be her son.

  Matty is constantly in his head. So much does that little boy occupy mental space he might be here right now sitting on the wash-stand. At times it’s a natural situation like a child today feeding pigeons in the square. But is it natural to see Matty here in the Villa as he did last night. It was only a moment, a second maybe, and then the smiling child became a jar of dried grasses. Then there’s Thursday and Matty and his dog crossing the San Carlo Bridge, Kaiser wagging his tail!

  It’s this place! It’s Italy. Here among the dusty magic the imagination runs mad. Who in Rome cannot dream of the beloved? Every day when writing to Nan he asks if Matty is well, knowing that if he is well then so is Julianna. Luke told Eve of his father but didn’t tell of the visit in May and how he learned he had family in Madonna de Campiglio, Aldaro aunts and uncles and a grandfather. In Rome as in Florence and Venice the spirit reels under the weight of the Italian History. Luke’s body is a weather vane turning to the future. He returns to England but doubts he will stay. He’s for the mountains and silence, and if God be willing he’ll take Matty and Julianna with him.

  The evening went surprisingly well despite Eve’s need to spoil it. A harvest moon low in the sky and lanterns hanging from the trees they dined al fresco, food brought from the kitchens to tables on carpeted grass. A group of musicians under a marble folly played, couples danced on the Long Terrace light flashing on jewelled masks and fabulous clothes. It was not so much a Masked Ball as a picnic, which is as well the Villa Borghese a beautiful place filled with magnificent works of art but rundown and stinking of mould.

  Luke sat unmasked at a table his mind a thousand miles away. Robert Scholtz was amused. ‘Mr Roberts, sir, I believe I know what you are thinking. This is fine building filled with fine things but you wouldn’t want to live here.’

  ‘I would not.’

  ‘It’s not exactly home sweet home, is it?’

  ‘Can such a place ever be thought of as home?’

  ‘Perhaps to a Papal Lord but not to me,’ said Robert. ‘I’m a well travelled man. My wife, the original Baedeker, says we must learn of other cultures and continually hikes me from one country to the next. I am glad to go and more glad to return. This place, the Villa Borghese, needs constant managing and without the money and time to do it will quickly fall into ruin. I’ll make you a bet. This time next year the Italian government will have bought the family out. It’s the only way the Villa and its treasures can survive.’

  A cultured man Robert Scholtz owns an art gallery in New York and collects fine art. First and last a businessman his gaze is everywhere assessing and evaluating, his wife too, though a quiet lady, knows the state of the dollar and down to a cent the best rate of exchange. Luke likes them both. Robert Scholtz is the man behind the Scholtz Imperial Hotels that decorate the East Coast of America. For the last three years he’s been in England looking to buy, and for the last two years has sought Luke’s advice.

  Robert tapped his cigar. ‘You know in Boston a man of your talent and integrity would do fine. You’d have so much work you’d be able to buy that mouldering heap of marble and have change. I am hard pressed these days to find men worthy of hire especially in aspects of trade that need urgent action like building and plumbing. Come home with me and Mamie! I could do much for you.’

  ‘Thank you, you already have. It was you put the hotel in Harrogate my way.’

  ‘Yes and I was happy to do so. I saw what you did with the Winthrop place in Derbyshire. Talk about a Phoenix from the ashes! You turned a ruin into a home of real comfort and you saved my pal, Bernie, a lot of trouble from his ulcer. I hear you’re looking into electricity?’

  ‘Not me personally. I pay a couple of apprentices to learn the trade but won’t be taking it on. I don’t need another string to my bow. I’ve too many as it is.’

  ‘Sensible! A man should be master of one talent and not play with many. But remember what I said about Boston. I’d be happy to put business your way.’

  The two men talked. Luke was not at all put out by the company or the occasion. It’s mad. Every day Eve seeks to undermine him but can’t undo the good she’s already done. He has confidence in his life and choices and much of it brought about by the Carringtons. Three years of travelling and of listening to men like Robert it can’t be any other way. Knowledge rubs off and polish is acquired whether one wants it or not. Luke is in debt to Eve. Whatever their personal regard for one another from a business angle she opened up the world. A master-builder he was doing A-okay, as Robert would say, yet the name of Carrington opened doors that were hitherto locked. Though he’s never used her name nowadays he works with beautiful houses for people with open minds and generous purses. That connection alone creates an obligation he cannot forget.

  Robert Scholtz leaned closer. ‘Talking of Harrogate and hotels I believe we have a mutual acquaintance in Mrs Julianna Dryden.’

  Luke skin prickled. ‘I am acquainted with the lady.’

  ‘Did you know she is opening another of her coffee shops in Cambridge?’

  ‘I heard a whisper.’

  ‘We’ve taken tea in the Norfolk place, me and Mrs Scholtz, and liked it real fine. Didn’t we Mamie?’

  Mrs Scholtz nodded. ‘We did.’

  Luke shifted in his chair. ‘I believe it is popular.’

  ‘Popular? The place was heaving and the phone ringing off the hook people making bookings. Such a pretty place with an air of gentility and good china and linen, we saw things that day that we liked. The name, for instance, the Nannies? That is so cute and clever! Makes a man feel cosy and warm. You’d buy anything just to sit and be comfortable. Anyway, we got to thinking about and our hotels and decided Mrs Dryden’s Tea-Shops would suit us fine.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘We’re thinking to have such a tea-room in every one of our hotel lobbies and would like her, and her name, as sponsor. What do you think if I spoke to her? How would she take the idea?’

  Luke shook his head. ‘I really don’t know.’

  ‘I meant to contact her last time we were in London and but we were busy and she was tied up with the Royals.’

  Mamie Scholtz leaned forward. ‘We met her, you know, a couple of years back. We shared a box at the Garden. Such a pretty woman, such eyes and such a manner! No wonder the Prince of Wales is taken with her. I really liked
her as did Bobby but Freddie C was being silly at the time and it put her off.’

  Robert Scholtz nodded. ‘Shame about that, we might’ve shared a deeper acquaintance. Still that was then. Time has moved on and we mean to bring Mrs Dryden, and you, to the East Coast.’

  ‘I think Mrs Dryden has a partner to consider.’

  ‘You mean Doctor Adelman? Yes well we know about him. We met him at Evie’s too and sat with him at the opera. A fateful meeting as it turned out. I shall give him, and the beautiful Julianna much thought.’

  ‘Ooh!’ Face flushed and wig askew Eve dropped into a seat beside Luke. ‘If I don’t sit down I shall fall down.’

  ‘My word, Evie,’ Mamie Scholtz passed a fan.’ You’re looking rather warm.’

  ‘It is too warm for October and I’m too old for polkas. What were you discussing? Did my ears deceive me or were talking of Ju-ju Dryden?’

  Luke considered slapping a hand over Robert’s mouth but didn’t bother. Eve’s been laying fuses all week so sooner or later a bomb is bound to go off.

  ‘We were talking of installing coffee shops in the Scholtz Hotels.’

  ‘What soda-fountains?’

  ‘Heavens no! English Tea-Shops like those of your friend Mrs Dryden.’

  ‘You mean the Nannies! Umm yes, what a wonderful idea! They will go down awfully well in Boston.’

  ‘That’s what I was saying to Mr Roberts,’ said Mamie.

  Evie patted a hanky about her face. ‘And did Mr Roberts agree with you?’

  ‘He did,’ said Robert Scholtz. ‘He thinks it’s a humdinger. Next time I’m in the old country I’m popping along to see that little lady. And while I’m about it I shall lean on our friend here to come to Boston and work his magic. What say you, Luke, shall I start leaning?’

  Conversation passed back and forth across the table, the subject matter, English Tea-Shops on American soil. Eve was witty and made jokes about toasted crumpets and cucumber sandwiches. Everyone laughed. Then Freddie arrived with friends and the subject matter changed to who could balance a champagne glass on his nose and quote from the Gettysburg Address without spilling a drop. Luke watched all and said nothing. He knew sooner or later the storm would break. It did break and a crystal water jug with it smashing into the bathroom mirror.