She had not heard Kit come in; perhaps he had stood in the doorway some time, just watching her. She never knew, until some sixth sense had told her, suddenly, that she was no longer alone. She had not liked him, even then. He repelled her; she hated the way he looked at her, the stupid pointless little lies he told, the way his eyes shifted away from you, looked always askance, slyly. So then, though there was no reason to be afraid, she had started, moving quickly, rumpling the white bedcover, pulling her skirt down over her long bare legs. And Kit had laughed. After that it was all in slow motion—Kit coming across to the bed, putting an arm round her, holding her so she couldn't move, and talking, talking, in that insidious teasing way he had. Telling her things, horrible things, about her mother, about her, about how he had watched her with Julius that afternoon.
Then he had put his hand on her leg, had slid it up, under her skirt, stroking her thigh. She remembered the outrage she had felt, the shame and the anger, and his sensing it, his pleasure in it; the mean predatory dart of light in his eyes. She had tried to push at him, realising in that moment how weak she was compared to him. It was then, quite deliberately, slowly, he had put his hand flat over her mouth, pushing her down and back on the white cover, laying his weight on her, reaching up with his other hand, under her thin shirt to her bare skin, the swell of her breasts. All the time he had talked, his mouth against her ear, the same words over and over again, like an insane litany thick with hatred. Hatred of his parents, of her mother, of Julius, of her. The hatred excited him, even in her innocence she could sense it. She writhed under him, trying to free herself; it was then that Julius had found them.
He had just stood there, in the doorway, his face white, holding the letters he had brought, not moving.
And Kit had lied—so well, so fluently. In a second he was off her, looking flushed, embarrassed, repentant. It was her fault. She had led him on, she had brought him up here, when the house was empty. It wasn't the first time, she was always begging for it. He was sorry. He had lost control. Surely Julius would understand? Like mother, like daughter. He had pointed at Luisa, as she lay there, unable to speak, and Julius had hit him.
Later that night, Aunt Con had taken her aside. One of the letters Julius had brought was from Italy. Their mother was ill; Luisa must be brave, for Claudia's sake. The doctors were doing their best, but there could be no cure, only the briefest of postponements.
'What's wrong with her?' she had asked.
'Leukaemia,' Aunt Con had answered directly in her gruff way.
'Leukaemia?'
'Yes. It's a disease of the blood.'
'And how long?'
'Six months at most. Probably less.'
She had not cried. A disease of the blood. The headache had started then. Aunt Con had sent her out to the kitchen for aspirin, and she had stood there a long time, grateful for the cold air against the heat of her skin, trying to cry. She ought to cry, she knew that. It was what people did. But the tears would not come. She had just stood there, watching the peaty water swirl and drain away in the stone sink, unable to move, unable to think. From the drawing-room down the hall she could hear the low murmur of voices, and she knew Aunt Con must be telling Julius what had happened. Pain blazed behind her eyes; every movement of her head hurt her. She swallowed the aspirin, then, crossing the room, switched out the light.
In the hall, as she was halfway up the stairs the door of the drawing-room opened, and Julius came out. Both of them stopped simultaneously, and Luisa just stood, her hand on the banister, looking down at his pale face, upturned to her in the shadows.
They seemed to stand like that for ever; then Julius spoke.
'I'm so sorry, Luisa…'
Maybe he was referring to the news of her mother; maybe to what had happened that evening in her room; maybe both. She had no way of knowing; she did not want to know. She had turned away coldly.
'I'm going to bed,' she had said stiffly. He made no move to stop her. Upstairs, Claudia was half asleep, but she opened her eyes drowsily when Luisa came in.
'What's happened?' she asked sleepily. 'Something has. Everyone looks cross and horrid, and Kit's cut his face, and when Aunt Con opened her letters she went white. I saw her…'
'Mummy's ill.' Luisa knelt down quietly by her bed.
'Very ill, or just a bit?'
'Quite ill.' She chose her words carefully. 'We shall have to go and see her.'
'What is it?' Claudia struggled to sit up. Luisa hesitated.
'It has a long name,' she said gently. 'I can't explain. It's a kind of disorder of the blood…'
Claudia's eyes widened.
'Like the Russian princes had? We did that at school. Hem… him something—when they couldn't stop them bleeding to death?'
'No, not like that at all.'
Claudia lay back.
'Can we get it?'
'No, of course not. Why should we?' Luisa pressed her hands across her eyes.
'Well, you said it was in the blood. We're her daughters. We might get it too. Like the Russian princes did…' Claudia's eyes widened in anxiety.
'I promise you not. No, we can't. Now, try and sleep. You mustn't worry.'
'Shall we go and see her?'
'Yes. The doctors are sending her back to London for treatment.'
'I shall like that.' Claudia settled back on the pillows. 'I like seeing Mummy. She's beautiful, I think, and she smells lovely and she wears such pretty clothes.' She smiled, a sudden sly look coming to her face. 'Kit says she's wicked, though.'
'Kit does?' Luisa stared at Claudia as the pain beat behind her eyes.
!Out on the boat the other day. He told me. He says she's wicked because she doesn't live with Daddy. Because so many people fall in love with her.' Claudia grinned, her wide mouth parting in a kittenish smile. 'I told him it was silly. It's nice to have people in love with you. When I grow up I shall have lots and lots, just like Mummy. I told him so…'
Luisa stood up abruptly.
'You must go to sleep now,' she said. 'We shall have to leave in the morning.'
In her room the heat felt stifling. Even when she opened the window there seemed to be no air. Her skin felt sticky with sweat, and although she washed in the ice-cold water she could not feel cool or clean. She looked at herself at last in the glass, as all the events of the day jangled together in her mind, tangling with one another. Like mother, like daughter. A disease of the blood.
'It's not true,' she said to the reflection fiercely. 'I'm not like her. I'm not!'
But Julius thought she was. Even then she could see the expression on his face as Kit poured out his lies could see the doubt, the revulsion come into his eyes. Guilt and shame washed over her; guilt for what she might be, shame that— even now—she could not weep for her mother, she could only fear to be like her.
In the morning she had a fever. The doctor had come; the curtains had been pulled to cool the room, she remembered that, but little after. She couldn't be moved, Aunt Con had said later. And she mustn't grieve too much that she hadn't, after all, seen her mother. The journey from Italy had been too much, it seemed to have accelerated her illness. Even if Luisa had been well enough to go, it was doubtful if her mother would have recognised her. 'She had been very confused at the end. Claudia had been there, that was something, and their father, and Teddy Morrell… Luisa must get strong again. There was the funeral to be considered, although personally Aunt Con thought it would be much better if Luisa stayed here and rested…
'Anyway,' Aunt Con had said, 'that's the last hurdle. Then you must just try and put all this out of your mind.'
'I will,' Luisa had said.
And she had done so. Until now. Until last night.
Somewhere, in that lost week of fever, of cold compresses against her forehead, of sips of water that scalded her parched throat, she must have willed herself to forget, willed it so strongly that it had all gone away, all that mixture of guilt, fear, and unhappiness. You could do that—
she remembered reading about similar cases somewhere. If an event, a series of events, was so painful, so traumatic, then the mind could suppress them.… And it was true, sometimes when Julius had pressed her with his questions; when Kit had touched her arm at the wedding party… then something had come back. But not a memory, just shadows.
Julius had been right: she had been afraid of the past, she thought. Afraid to remember what Kit had done; afraid to remember that certainty she had had then that she was tainted, that in some way she did not understand she had brought it all on herself, that it was her fault, Kit, even her mother's dying. She had remembered Scotland clearly only in her dreams, she thought bitterly. They took her back to the only times there she ever wanted to remember, when she had loved Julius so much and so unfearfully. But her conscious mind had remembered that, admitted that, only rarely. Mostly it had stopped at her mother's funeral, at the hatred in a pair of cold grey eyes. Hatred because of her mother, she had told Claudia, told herself.
She sighed now, looking across the darkened room, at the glint of mirrored doors, at the shutters barring the light. It had been more than that, of course. After last night she could recognise it at last. It had been hatred of herself too that she had seen, that was why that glance had been seared on her memory.
She moved her hands slowly, under the sheets, across the cold wide expanse of the bed, their bed; remembering. Could you desire someone and hate them at the same time? Yes, she thought dully, you could. Julius could.
An expense of spirit in a waste of shame, is lust in action… From some schoolroom lesson the lines came back to her, and her heart burned as, one by one, all the memories of the past days and nights shifted, changed, became soured in recollection. She had been warned; she should have realised; she had glimpsed it sometimes in his eyes, and turned away from it. She had felt they made love; but Julius… What had Julius felt? She thought of the strange dark desperation in his face sometimes, and knew only that she would never understand it. Perhaps he was punishing her, or her mother, or himself, or trying to destroy the boy he had been. She would never know now, anyway. All she knew was that she, naïvely, stupidly, had imagined they were close, in that way at least, and in fact there had been a gulf between them as wide as the ocean. Turning her face to the pillow, she cried.
Later, feverishly, pacing back and forth in the room, she tried to make plans. She would stay here; then that she would return to London. That she would try and speak to him one last time, to explain, at least, about Kit, about last night. Then anger and pride dismissed that thought. Twice now he had misjudged her; if he hated her so, had such contempt, what was the point? Then, out of nowhere, came the sudden realisation. It was so obvious and yet she had forgotten it. She had no money. It had gone, all of it, to her father. She didn't have the money for a plane ticket.
No sooner had she realised that she had no means to leave than she became convinced she must. Somehow she must get money, just enough for an air ticket. She could telephone Claudia, of course, or Luke. Luke would be better. In agitation, her hands trembling, she picked up the telephone. The reception answered instantly. London? They were very sorry. They had just tried such a call. All lines to England were engaged. Would the signora like to try later?
'No, no, thank you. I'll decide later.'
Her hands shaking, she replaced the receiver.
Suddenly the room felt unbearable to her, its darkness oppressive, stifling. Swiftly she crossed to the windows, and threw back the shutters, letting clear light flood into the room, dazzling her eyes. As she stood there, looking out across the water, there was a knock at the door. She swung round, stiffening, but before she could speak it opened. Framed in the doorway, leaning upon a stick, was the Principessa.
'Mia cara!' She came into the room, and shut the door firmly behind her. Then she paused, and Luisa saw her eyes swiftly take in the tumbled bed, the damp pillows, the torn black dress still lying on the floor.
The old woman crossed to her, and took her hands.
'You must get dressed now. Pack your things—just what you need. Leave the rest, we can send for them.'
Luisa stared at her confusedly.
'Come, don't stand there dreaming.' She smiled, a wicked glint of amusement showing for a second in her dark eyes. 'Questa commedia!'
Luisa pushed her hair back from her face and met the old woman's eyes.
'I'm sorry,' she said simply. 'I can't seem to think properly. When you knocked, I thought perhaps…'
'You thought I was Giulio, eh?' Her voice was dry but kind. 'Alas, no. Giulio, he has left for London, this morning. Now, you pack, I'll help you…'
Luisa stared at her silently, still unable to move, and the Principessa laughed.
'You have other plans, my dear? Forget them. It is all arranged. You are coming to stay with me.'
'With you?'
'But certainly.'
Luisa felt a rush of gratitude, but still something held her back.
'Does Julius…'
'Know about this? Of course not. It is between you and me, mia cara. These foolish men with their prides and their passione! Everything here,' she touched her heart, 'and nothing here,' she touched her head. 'What is it to do with them? When a man like Giulio is angry, he is like a tiger, yes? He prowls up and down, so…' She pulled a face. 'At such times, with such a man, one can make love, maybe. But talk, never. Leave Giulio be. Forget him for a little while. Believe me, mia cara—I know him. It is for the best.'
'You don't understand-…'
The Principessa cut her off with a quick laugh.
'But of course I understand. I am an old woman. I have seen all these things before, I promise you. Oh, to you it seems very new, very painful perhaps.' She took Luisa's hand, pressing her skin against her heavy rings, her dry wrinkled palm.
'But we will not talk now. Come, pack your things.'
She took her arm, and Luisa let her lead her. Slowly, her hands curiously numb and awkward, she began to pack. She found the necklace Julius had given her, and the little card, and a small tight cry rose up in her throat like a sob. Carefully she packed them away, and left them behind in the wardrobe, with the clothes he had given her.
The Principessa turned away, looking out of the window, leaning on her stick.
'It will be a good day,' she said eventually, meditatively, her eyes scanning the horizon. 'Yesterday the storm. Today I feel the spring is coming. It was beautiful, this morning, in my garden on the Giudecca. You like gardens? Hurry, mia cara.'
'Then his father is ill again?'
They were sitting outside the Principessa's house, on the terrace overlooking the garden. It was evening and the smell of damp earth, warmed by the day's sun, rose up richly. In the stillness, the silence, Luisa felt for the first time that day something close to calmness; resignation perhaps.
'So Giulio said.'
Luisa looked away, avoiding her eyes, wondering if it were true. The Principessa said nothing. She was smoking, a long black Russian cigarette, inhaling deeply, her eyes on her garden.
'It is beautiful here, no?' She turned to Luisa with a smile. 'My husband's father, he made this garden. When I come here first it is very formal, you know? Very classical.' She wrinkled her nose with distaste. 'I do not like that too much—too much order. I like your English gardens, where there is form but also nature. Kiftsgate. You know Kiftsgate, or Sissinghurst? So lovely. I have the Kiftsgate rose, you know. There—by the wall. It is nothing now, but in the summer, so beautiful, like a bridal veil.' She laughed. 'It grows too big, of course, so I attack it. It springs up again, twice as strong. It comes from the Himalayas, yet it thrives, here in Venice…' She paused. 'So, will you stay here, mia cara? Until…' She broke off, and seeing Luisa turn to her, corrected herself. 'For as long as you wish.'
'If I might. Just for a while.' Luisa bowed her head. 'Thank you.'
'Giulio has told me nothing, of course.' The Principessa stood up. 'You need tell me nothing. He came here last
night; you stay behind. You have quarrelled, that much is obvious.' She shrugged. 'These things happen between a man and a woman. It is not my affair. Just stay here a while, until your heart eases.'
'You think it will ease?' Luisa said quickly, before she could bite back the words.
The Principessa stood, leaning on her stick, looking down into Luisa's face, her expression suddenly more serious.
'Perhaps—who can tell? You are young. I would expect it. Here.' She drew Luisa from her chair, and took her arm companionably. 'We shall go in to dinner now, shall we? And on the way, mia cara, I will show you something…'
She led the way indoors, down a series of long arched corridors, her progress firm but slow. At the end, as they turned back into the main body of the house, she paused, lifting her stick, indicating a picture on the walls.
'You know this painting?'
Luisa shook her head, staring at it silently.
'Your mother, of course. It is a great painting, is it not? But then he was a great painter—and a very foolish young man. He was in love with her, like most of them. But he caught something most of them missed, don't you think? In the eyes, perhaps…'
'When was this painted?'
'Not long before she died. A year, perhaps. He died too, soon after.'
The Principessa stood still, and the two of them looked at it in silence. Luisa shivered, involuntarily.
'You don't like it? I can see why. It is very harsh, a little cruel even.'
'She looks so sad.'
'But she was sad. So much destruction, and so little to show for it. She could nor give, your mother, I think. Her body, yes. But nothing from the heart.'
Luisa turned to her impulsively.
'I love Julius,' she said.
The Principessa smiled.
The Devil's Advocate Page 18
