She laughed, feeling faintly embarrassed. “I’m not usually overcome. But, I’ve never seen anything quite like St. Peter’s before.”
“I think perhaps it is more that you have never felt anything like it before.”
“Yes. I can’t describe it, but—”
“No one can describe it. It is enough to have experienced it.” He turned his head to glance at her, and she saw the rare, extraordinarily attractive smile that transformed his face. “And now it is time that you relaxed a little. I am taking you to my mother’s house.”
“Your mother’s house? But you mustn’t—well, inflict me on your mother.”
Very much as if he hadn’t heard her speak at all, he went on: “I am very anxious for you to meet my mother. She is an interesting person.”
Candy abandoned protest. “Is she?”
“She is a film actress.” He turned again to look at the girl beside him, and this time his smile was a little peculiar. “She’s very beautiful—a femme fatale, you could say.”
It seemed rather an odd way of describing one’s mother, Candy thought—although she was prepared to accept the possibility that in exalted Roman society things might be a bit different.
“I expect I’ve seen her. In films, I mean,” she said a little awkwardly.
“Perhaps you have. She doesn’t use her own name in her—in her career.” It wasn’t bitterness, but more a kind of bleak distaste that turned down the corners of his mouth. “You would know her as Anna Landi.”
“Anna Landi!” She almost jumped. “Your mother is Anna Landi?”
“Yes.”
“I—I’ve seen her dozens of times. I think she’s a wonderful actress. I saw her in Thunder Doesn’t Last, only a few weeks ago. She’s fantastically beautiful. She can’t be...”
“You were going to say that she cannot be very old?” He smiled. “Well, she is not old, of course. When she married my father she was still very young, and that was not such a terribly long time ago. But still she is older than she would like to be. Time is a cruel master, signorina—if one allows oneself to be a slave to it.”
It was obvious that the Conte di Lucca disliked his mother’s chosen occupation intensely, and Candy found herself wondering exactly how well—or how badly—they got on with one another. She tried to remember exactly what Anna Landi looked like, but couldn’t recall more than a general impression of dramatic dark-eyed loveliness. She knew, though, that it would be difficult to imagine her having a son of the Conte’s age.
After driving for about twenty minutes through the mounting traffic of late afternoon they came out on a very broad, very straight road which was obviously leading them out of the city. A short time later their surroundings became less urban, and stone pines and cypress trees appeared along the edges of the road. Beyond the trees there were large houses, some of them apparently old and others very new, and some of the houses were sheltered by high garden walls over which bougainvillea ran riot and behind which, here and there, more cypress trees showed their slim, dark, elegant heads.
The road itself aroused Candy’s curiosity, for every now and then its smooth, well-levelled tarmac surface gave way to what looked remarkably like paving-stones, and at these points it was positively bumpy. She was just about to ask the Conte why what seemed to be one of the main highways leading out of Rome had apparently been neglected by the road-menders when he took one hand off the steering-wheel to include the road stretching ahead of them and the whole of their surroundings in one expressive gesture.
“It is the Appian Way,” he told her, and his voice held the mystical pride of a Roman.
The sinking sun slanted across the old road, turning its surface to dusty gold, and here and there the cypresses showed starkly black against the deepening flush in the sky.
“The Road to the South,” Candy murmured, and her voice was husky.
“Yes. It was along this road that the Legions marched when they set out to take ship for Africa and Asia ... and it was along this same way that they came when they returned, bearing their dead and wounded, and laden with marble and gold and all the treasures of the South and East to beautify the temples of Rome.”
In the unearthly light of the early winter sunset everything around them seemed to quiver slightly, and to Candy it seemed that a haze of unreality veiled the cypresses and the dusty pines, and even the broad paved roadway itself. The houses on either side of them were like ghostly palaces conjured up by a dream, and the splendid wrought-iron doorways set in some of the walls were enchanted portals leading to ‘faery lands forlorn’.
And then a Vespa with a faulty engine flashed past them in a searing burst of sound, ending a brief lull in the traffic, and braking gently Michele di Lucca swung his car across the road and under a wide archway on the left-hand side.
It was an archway flanked on either side by thick dark curtains of purple bougainvillea, and its wide open iron gates had a delicate beauty such as Candy had never seen in her life before. They passed between the gates with a gentle hiss of tyres, and then, within moments, came to rest in the shadow of a house.
Looking up, Candy saw high stone walls and row upon row of shuttered windows, and a kind of nervousness made her stomach turn over. And then she saw that by the steps leading up to an imposing front door another car was parked, and a man and a woman were standing beside it, talking.
The woman was very well dressed, and her beautiful dark head was held with a certain kind of defiant poise that could probably only have been acquired on the stage or in front of the cameras. The man was tall and dark, and for a moment Candy supposed that he was another Italian.
And then he turned to look at the new arrivals, and a queer little icy thrill went through her, as if she had been hit by an unusual kind of electric shock. She would have known those tanned, regular features anywhere in the world, and if she hadn’t been able to see his face she would have known him even by the way he was standing ... or by the way he bent his head a little as he turned to look at the Conte’s white car.
She sat quite still, saying nothing. The Italian beside her was having trouble with the hand-brake, and it was a moment or two before he looked up. When he did she felt him stiffen slightly, and although she was staring rigidly in front of her she knew that he glanced round. And then, after a second’s hesitation, he got out of the car and moved round in front of it to open her door for her.
“Come and meet my mother, signorina.”
She shook her head, and simply because she couldn’t help it, looked up at him with eyes that revealed everything.
“I can’t. John—” Somewhere deep down in her throat her voice was tying itself into knots, and the words wouldn’t come. John Ryland and the Contessa di Lucca were watching them with a merciful detachment, waiting for them to leave the car. John, she could tell, hadn’t yet recognized her.
“I know.” Michele di Lucca’s voice was so soft it was barely audible. “But some time you must face him ... it is better that it should be soon.”
She shook her head, wordlessly, and he straightened and closed the car door upon her. Then she saw him walk across to the couple still standing beside the other car, and a moment or so later the lovely dark-haired woman detached herself from the little group and came hurrying over to Candy.
“You are Miss Wells?” She had one of the most enchanting feminine voices the English girl had ever heard—warm, low-pitched and a little husky, and she spoke English with a kind of mixed Italian-American accent that was surprisingly attractive. “My son has told me about you...” She smiled delightfully. “But he says that just now you don’t feel very well? If you would like to come inside and lie down, I will call my doctor...”
“Oh, but—it’s all right, thank you.” She flushed a little under the older woman’s scrutiny. It was good of the Conte, now engaged in occupying John’s attention, to try and think up an excuse for her, but although it might have looked odd it would have been kinder if he had simply driven her a
way again. “I mean,” fueling extraordinarily foolish, “I’m all right now.”
“You are sure?” The Contessa’s slender eyebrows rose, but she was still smiling. “Then come in and have a drink instead.”
There was, she realized, absolutely no hope of escape, and although her legs felt like lead she forced herself to climb out of the car. And at precisely the same moment John looked straight across at her. She didn’t know whether the Conte had drawn his attention to her presence, or whether he had just suddenly noticed her, but she did know that she wished the ground would open and swallow her, and for a very long time afterwards she wondered just how she managed to get through the next few minutes.
But something that she supposed was a sort of mixture of pride and emotional numbness did get her through those minutes. Feeling like a sleep-walker, she talked to John Ryland as if he really were nothing more to her than her sister’s brother-in-law. She never did know exactly what he looked like during those moments, or what he said to her ... for that matter she couldn’t remember what anybody said. But eventually they all moved inside the house, and she was conscious of being urged to sink into the cloud-like depths of an enormous armchair. The chair was upholstered in green velvet, and on its arms gilded lions sprawled, reminding her ridiculously of Trafalgar Square, She was in an enormous room—a splendid room in which she had the feeling that time might stand still, past and present and future becoming fused together in a healing, soothing harmony with the power to make all life’s problems seem far away and unimportant. Lofty windows lavishly draped with dark green velvet rose almost to the high, ornate ceiling, and everywhere ponderously beautiful carved furniture, heavy with marble and gilt, exuded the spirit and essence of an age that, dead almost everywhere else, in this room seemed alive and breathing.
The Conte was bending over her. “You’ll have a glass of wine? Or perhaps something stronger?”
She looked up, but for a moment didn’t see him. Her mind refused to register. Then his serious eyes penetrated her consciousness, and she coloured faintly.
“Nothing, thank you.”
“Not even a glass of water?” very quietly. “It would steady you.”
She let him put a tall, sparkling glass of water into her hand, and was grateful for the coolness of it, and, in a vague kind of way, for his coolly considerate presence. It was obvious that he knew or had guessed all about her and John Ryland, and although at one time it would have been more than she could bear that anyone should have the power to spy on her private anguish, somehow Michele di Lucca didn’t seem to matter.
She discovered that her hostess had come over to sit beside her, and was making a determined effort to engage her in conversation.
“John tells me that your sister is married to his brother.” The brief, formal remark broke through the numbness surrounding Candy, and she found herself stammering a disconnected reply.
“Yes, he—my sister—I ... we know one another.”
“Quite well, I expect.” The lovely eyes were intent. A good many people around the world would have been grateful for such an opportunity of studying Anna Landi at close quarters, but at the moment the advantages of the situation were lost on Candy.
“Yes, quite well.”
“He’s a very ... interesting man.” The Contessa turned her elegant head to take another look at her son and John Ryland, who were once again conducting a rather desultory dialogue on the other side of the room, and for the first time Candy really took in the striking quality of the older woman’s beauty. She looked very little more than thirty, but it was obvious that to have a son of the Conte’s age she must be at least fifteen years older than that. Her skin had a flawless, creamy perfection that was far too remarkable to be just the result of skilful make-up, and neither around her enormous eyes nor her well-moulded mouth was there a wrinkle to be seen. Her thick black hair was arranged on top of her shapely head in heavy, gleaming coils of elegance, and Candy noticed that even her beringed hands were white and supple and incredibly smooth-skinned, their long, tapering coral tips contrasting effectively with the paleness of the slender fingers.
She was speaking again, her attention temporarily diverted from the two men. “You like Rome?” she asked, leaning back to rest her head against a pile of cushions. Her eyes, half-closed and as inscrutable as a cat’s, studied the English girl attentively. “You think you will find it pleasant to live here?”
“Oh, yes ... very pleasant. But I don’t expect I shall be living here long.”
“Why not? Your music will probably keep you here long after Signor Galleo has finished instructing you. There are many opportunities for young singers in Rome, and you would be foolish to turn, your back on them. Tell me, is your singing to be your life?”
Startled by the suddenness and directness of the question, Candy hesitated. And then her decision of the morning came back to her, and as she glanced across the room and her eyes fell on John Ryland she said fervently: “Yes. Singing is everything to me—absolutely everything.”
The Contessa looked at her for a moment, a tiny smile touching the corners of her mouth. And then, almost imperceptibly, she shrugged, “When we are young,” she remarked cryptically, “we have the strangest ideas.” With a swift movement she took the half-empty glass out of Candy’s hand and set it down on a nearby table. “Something a little stronger,” she remarked, “would be good for you. Michele, give Miss Wells a glass of sherry.”
Reluctantly, for she didn’t feel like arguing, Candy accepted the sherry, and as she sipped it her hostess leaned forward to pat her arm almost affectionately.
“To-night I am having a little dinner-party, and of course you will stay for it.”
“Oh, but I couldn’t!” Candy protested in genuine horror. “I mean ... you don’t know me. I’m just being a nuisance.”
“But how nonsensical! It is what Michele brought you for. You are an artist ... and I love all artists. Please, signorina, I shall be very unhappy if you will not stay.”
Candy wondered if John Ryland would be staying too, and her nerve almost failed her. And then pride came to her rescue, and she smiled. “Thank you, Contessa, I’d love to stay.”
Shortly afterwards the older woman left her, to lean against the massive marble fireplace and talk or rather listen, to John Ryland. She seemed to be a good listener, when it suited her, and clearly it suited her to listen to the tall, dark-haired Englishman. Candy watched them, and slowly, gradually, she began to understand.
From the beginning she had noticed that John and the statuesque Italian beauty found one another interesting—that wasn’t particularly surprising. But now, as she studied them both more carefully, she realized with a painful shock that there was more than interest between them. As they talked, John rarely took his eyes off the Contessa’s lovely face, and even from a distance Candy could see how the actress’s eyes shone luminously every time she looked up at him.
Candy sipped at her sherry, and it made her cough. So that was it! John had gone to Rome, and in Rome he had met the Contessa di Lucca—or perhaps he thought of her as Anna Landi. As a result of that meeting his life had been changed, and looking at him now as calmly and objectively as she could manage to do, she saw quite clearly that as far as he was concerned the mother of Michele di Lucca had become the centre of the world.
After a few minutes Michele himself moved over again to the English girl, and standing beside her as if he felt happier on his feet launched into a rather stiff and uninspired effort at conversation. His brown eyes seemed to stare over the top of her head, into nothingness, and she had the feeling that he was absolutely detached, for which she was thankful.
At about half past seven his mother sent for one of the maids, and she was whisked off to an enormous guest bedroom, where she was left alone to make any repairs to her appearance that she might think necessary. Despite what her hostess had said about informality she wished very much that she could have had an opportunity to change. To her it seemed
extremely unlikely that any woman, given the opportunity to prepare herself properly, would turn up for dinner at such a house as the Contessa’s without being dressed to suit the occasion, and that almost certainly meant formal evening dress. If she had not been in such a numb and abstracted mood she supposed she would probably have been in an agony of nervousness and apprehension, but as it was she had neither the energy nor the interest to care very much. If it had been possible for her to change she would have done so, but as it wasn’t possible the light woollen dress in which she had set out that morning would undoubtedly have to do. It was an attractive dress, of navy blue with a deep band of white around the hem, and its fitted bodice and slightly flared skirt suited her insubstantial figure so well that she couldn’t really have looked more enchanting if she had been dressed for the evening by Balenciaga. She didn’t know that she looked enchanting, but she hadn’t the heart to worry about it, and after washing quickly in an adjoining bathroom concentrated mainly on doing what she could with her face and hair.
The room in which she had been left was an artistic creation in white and gold, and despite her abstracted state of mind as soon as the door was flung open by the maid she had uttered a little gasp of pleasure. The dominant feature of the room was a gilded and incredibly pretty French bed, with a cover of heavy white silk, and in front of the half open windows long curtains of gold brocade swayed gently in a cool current of evening air. The honey-coloured floorboards were scattered with rugs of thick white fur, and there were armchairs upholstered in white velvet and piled with gold brocade cushions. The dressing-table was a massive French antique, littered with silver-stoppered bottles and jars, and reposing on its burnished surface there was even a set of heavy silver-backed brushes and combs.
Gingerly, Candy lifted one of the magnificent brushes, and then put it down again rather as if it had threatened to bite her. She opened her handbag and taking out her own comb ran it rather hastily through her hair, which actually wasn’t in need of much attention, powdered her nose and outlined her forlornly drooping mouth with lipstick. Then she gathered up her bag and left the room, closing the door behind her.
Song Above the Clouds Page 7
