by Anna Jacobs
‘Sir. You are generous indeed.’
He smiled and shrugged slightly. ‘So. I get value for money, I think.’ The smile became a smirk. ‘I still like other sort of woman, too. Not too old for that. But you, we keep respectable.’
She chuckled. You couldn’t help liking him. Then she remembered the debts. ‘You must take the money I earn off what my husband owes you, Conte.’ She hated having to say this, for she found it hard to manage on what she earned. But the debt still lay between them.
‘No. Not so. I make your husband to work for me. I send him off to deliver messages, do small businesses for me. He pay back debts like that. You keep money you earn.’ He looked down at her arm and frowned.
She glanced down and say that her sleeve had pulled up enough to show one of her bruises. She was grateful when he didn’t comment on it.
And though Robert railed at her for her squeamishness and even hit her again, il Conte had his way. Twice a week, Helen and Harry walked up to the palazzo and took tea with a lonely and somewhat mischievous old man. And his housekeeper, Maria, sat in the corner of the room each time to lend respectability to the proceedings.
At first deeply suspicious of Helen, Maria gradually relaxed and decided that her cousin Francesca was right. The poor signora was quite respectable. During the visits, Maria would sit with Harry on her ample lap, playing quiet little games with him.
Sometimes, on fine days, when Helen and il Conte sat out on the terrace, she would walk ponderously up and down the nearby gardens with the boy and they would infuriate the gardeners by picking a bunch of flowers for his mother, for Harry loved to give her presents.
La signora Perriman, Maria told her cronies in the town loftily, unlike her scellerato of a husband, was a lady of the first respectability, even if she was English. And if anyone said differently, they would have her anger to deal with.
By now the Perrimans had become a fixture in the town. The agent who hired out their little house for il Conte hadn’t raised the rent during the summer, as he had threatened to do, and it had begun to feel like a real home. Helen guessed that the count was behind this generosity, but she couldn’t afford to be proud about charity. She couldn’t have afforded to pay more.
‘He’s taken a fancy to you. Are you sure you’re not sleeping with him, Helen?’
She glared at him. ‘You know I’m not.’
‘Well, if the old villain wants to throw his money around without getting any real return for it, why should we refuse the largesse?’
The two of them had been living in a state of armed neutrality ever since her first visit to the palazzo. In the quarrel that followed her return, he'd tried to threaten, then beat her into submission, and for once she'd fought back, hurling at his head any projectile that came to hand.
When he threatened to take her son away, she threatened to go to il Conte. It stopped his threats for a time, but after a while, they started again.
After a few weeks she confided her worry about this to il Conte. He spoke to his lawyer, who had a quiet word with Robert, and the threat wasn’t made again.
During that summer Robert's health grew no better, but became no worse. Serugia, he said, agreed with him.
As soon as winter started, however, even the mild southern winter, he began to weaken visibly, and then could speak no good of the town. The evenings when he stayed home, either because he was too tired to go out or because he couldn’t find anyone to gamble with, became another ordeal for Helen, who had to sit through sly innuendoes about her relationship with the count, open abuse for her inadequacies as a wife, and taunts about the lack of future for Harry in this God-forsaken hole.
Robert would have moved on again, were it not for the debts and the things il Conte’s lawyer had threatened him with if he tried to leave.
Il Conte still sent Robert on errands out of town from time to time, and these always seemed to coincide with her feeling particularly weary of her husband. If he was trying to spare her, she could only be grateful.
Anyway, she could tell that Robert enjoyed getting away from Serugia, with the expenses of his journeys paid - even if not generously. He began to stay away longer than was necessary and to gamble with any fellow travellers he met. In November he set off happily to go to Rome with a pile of letters to deliver personally for his employer and a list of purchases to make. He was to stay at the house of il Conte’s son.
He was brought home again a few days later by the son's second coachman. He had a raging fever and was delirious.
Helen had to stop her teaching to nurse him. Alternately moaning, feeling sorry for himself and cursing her in a wheezing whisper of a voice for bringing him to this plight, Robert fought for life with a tenacity that surprised everyone but her. She had seen him recover before and wouldn’t be surprised if he did so again.
One night she fell asleep in a chair by his bed. When she woke, she saw him staring at her with a malevolent expression on his face. ‘I'll get better just to spite you, you bitch!’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘You'll see. My luck'll turn. It always does.’
She saw to his needs and then went to get an hour or two's proper rest on her bed, but she couldn’t sleep. She knew she could no longer stay with Robert. She did not dare. His hatred of her since his return was so obvious she was frightened of what he might do when he recovered, not only to her, but to Harry.
Her only recourse was to beg il Conte to help her get away from him. She would hate to do that, and hate to leave Serugia, but she wouldn’t put Harry in danger.
Bleak despair filled her at the thought of leaving and it was a long time before she fell into an uneasy doze.
She woke with a start early the next morning when people started moving about in the street.
Her head was aching for lack of sleep and she was dreading the day.
In the doorway to Robert’s room, she gasped and stopped short. He was dead, his face contorted and his eyes staring sightlessly at the door. It was as if he were still waiting for her to come in, ready to berate her for some imagined grievance.
As she stood there, relief flooded through her, and she actually found herself saying, ‘Lord, I thank you!’ muttering it over and over. Then common sense took over and she covered her husband’s face, running lightly upstairs to wake her son.
As he gave her his usual hug of greeting, she said quietly, ‘Your father's dead.’
‘Dead? Like Francesca's dog?’
‘Yes.’
‘They'll bury him in the ground and he'll never come back?’
‘Yes.’
Harry beamed at her. ‘So he won’t be able to hit you again.’
That made her more sad than Robert's death. A son should have good things to remember about his father. A son shouldn’t rejoice in his father's death.
Nor should a wife.
Numbly she let Francesca and Maria guide her through the formalities of death Serugia style.
Robert had to be buried in a corner of the Catholic graveyard reserved for suicides and Protestants, but the priest was gentle with la signora inglese and Francesca accompanied her to the brief funeral .
She suspected that the count had again smoothed over any difficulties and when he, too, turned up at the funeral, she was sure of it.
‘What will you do now?’ he asked afterwards as they stood together in the shade of an old cypress tree, watching the gravedigger shovel earth into the hole. A short distance away, Harry was playing with the gravedigger’s little daughter, showing no signs of grief.
Helen sighed. ‘I don't know. I haven't thought. I didn't expect him to die.’ Not yet, anyway.
‘Have you money? Did he leave you anything at all?’
‘I have a little money. He left me nothing, but I have a small, a very small income of my own and the next payment is due soon.’ She brightened at the thought. Now that Robert wouldn’t be able to waste it, the annuity would make a big difference to her and Harry. ‘It’s not enough to live off, but it helps. And I
still have a few pupils, I think.’
His face brightened. ‘So you stay here?’
‘I think so. For the time being, anyway. If you’ll let me keep the house on?’
‘Of course, of course.’ He waved one hand in a lordly gesture, then frowned at her. ‘Your family not want you back - now he is dead?’
‘No.’ She was ashamed to talk about them, but he had been kind to her, so he deserved the truth. ‘My parents are very – um, harsh people. They disowned me when I married Robert and they won't wish to see me again, whatever happens. I have some friends in London, but I think I'll stay here - for a while, anyway. But not for ever. Harry is English. When he gets older, he must be educated properly, as an Englishman - if I can manage it. Conte . . . ?’
‘Yes.’
‘What about my husband's debts to you? I should prefer to pay them.’
‘They are paid.’ He put an arm round her shoulders and gave her a quick hug. ‘I 'ave no need of that little piece of money. And your ’usband - he give his life in my service - so the debts are paid.
But - you will still come to tea? Give me my English lessons? Maria would miss the boy.’
‘Yes. Oh, yes!’ For he was truly her friend now, and he was teaching her so much. About life, about the world, about people.
‘I wish I could look after you properly,’ he said tentatively. ‘Marriage I cannot offer, but money, a nice house . . . ’
For a moment she leaned against him, and he wondered if she would weaken, now that she was alone in the world. He would like that. She was very lovely.
But she moved resolutely away, smiling at him through a mist of tears. ‘I greatly value your friendship, Conte, and shall continue the lessons, if you wish. But that employment is all I will accept from you.’
He shrugged. She might not be willing to become his mistress, but she would still be his friend.
And at his time of life, that was not such a bad thing.
‘Bene,’ he said quietly and signalled to his coachman to come and help him across to the carriage, for he grew stiffer and more awkward each year.
It was so peaceful in the churchyard that Helen remained there, sitting under a tree, for a long time. She stared into space, enjoying the breeze on her face, listening to the birdsong, not thinking very much. Just relaxing.
After a while, she called to Harry and they went home. She couldn’t quite believe it would be peaceful at home, too, and stood in the doorway for a moment, half expecting to be met by a curse. But the house was quiet.
Only then did she weep, unable to stop, hugging Harry to her. And although she felt shaken by the storm of tears, she felt cleansed, too. She had made a mistake. She had paid dearly for it, done her duty. Now she was free to make a better life for herself and her son.
Chapter 9
The next two years passed very happily for Helen. The lack of anyone to tell her what to do was a wonder to her. For the first time in her life, she had only herself and Harry to worry about. For weeks she felt light in both spirit and body, as if the burden she had shed was physical as well as emotional.
She and her son continued to occupy the little house behind the church and without Robert to feed, she managed to earn enough for their daily needs, so that she didn’t have to touch her annuity. She wrote to tell the lawyers to keep the money for her until she came back to England and, if they could, earn her a little interest on it.
That was all she could manage to put by for their eventual return and Harry's education, since her other income, like that of most Serugini, fluctuated with the seasons. She worried that Harry’s English was interspersed with Italian phrases, but told herself that didn't matter too much while he was so young. She could teach him quite adequately herself, and had, with il Conte’s help, found a supplier of English books in Rome.
The boy was happy here. No more hiding in his room. No more keeping quiet. He had become a normal, noisy child - dirty and exuberant, sometimes naughty. That gladdened her heart.
Il Conte tried to help them in many ways, but Helen was very firm about what she would and would not accept. She was determined neither to take advantage of his generosity, nor to compromise her good name. She would accept vegetables from his gardens, legs of ham from his home farm - this, for Harry's sake, for a growing boy needed good meat to build his bones - and even a few bottles of wine from his vineyard, but she would accept nothing personal for herself.
He grew angry about that sometimes, but she could always coax him into a better mood.
It was a sad blow to her when il Conte died suddenly in his sleep soon after Harry's sixth birthday.
She’d lost a friend, a good one, too, and his death was going to make earning a living more difficult for her. But she would deal with that as it happened. She was proud that she’d won through, by her own efforts, to a comfortable plateau where life was very pleasant, and was fairly certain that she’d manage to make a living for herself and her son.
The new conte came home from Rome for the funeral and stayed on to settle his father's affairs, but declined to live in Serugia, which had, he said scornfully to the priest, no scope for a man of business. Maybe one of his sons would like a quiet country life one day. He would wait and see. If not, he would sell the estate.
Shock waves ran through the town at the very thought of that.
Maria came to take tea with Helen and reported, with much flourishing of her handkerchief and dabbing of her eyes, that the new conte was to let the palazzo to summer visitors. Let it! How that would have broken his poor father's heart! They were to keep on only a skeleton staff during the winter and hire temporary servants for the summer visitors. And signora Perriman could guess what sort of workers they would be, people with no love for the house, no real skills, either, or they'd not be available for temporary work!
‘Me, I am to stay,’ Maria concluded with a scornful toss of the head. ‘But I ask you, what work is this for a woman like me? I shall be nothing but a caretaker! Me, who has been housekeeper to il Conte for twenty years! I shall give notice. I have my pride. Others will know how to value me, if he doesn't.’
Helen knew that wild horses would not tear Maria from the palazzo, which was as much her home as it had been il Conte's, for she had worked there since she was a girl of twelve. But after living in Serugia for so long, Helen knew better than to say this straight out. ‘Life is hard,’ she said instead. ‘And the good are always imposed upon. But - will il Conte rest easily in his grave if you go away? He left his home in your most capable hands - who else could care for it like you?’
Maria sighed gustily. ‘Who else, indeed!’ More sighing, then she nodded her head slowly. ‘It is a sacred trust.’ She struck a proud, heroic pose.
‘Ah yes,’ agreed Helen softly, not allowing herself to smile, ‘a sacred trust.’
‘I shall make the sacrifice and stay. For il Conte’s sake.’
No one had ever called the new owner ‘il Conte’ in the same tone of voice, or ever would. They said ‘il conte Alessandro’, as if speaking politely of a stranger, for that was what he was to them now, though most of them had known him as a boy.
To Helen's surprise, the new conte came to call on her before he returned to Rome. She found him a cold, punctilious man, most unlike his father. She offered him refreshments and introduced her son to him. He refused the refreshments, nodded briefly to Harry and thereafter ignored the boy completely.
‘I have come, signora, to acquaint you with the terms of my father's will. He has left you a small bequest, and there were instructions that I was to give you this letter personally.’ He flourished at her a crackling piece of paper, with a great red blob of a seal on one side.
She took it reluctantly. ‘I didn't expect anything. I have no right!’
He looked bored. ‘It is, signora, a very small bequest.’ He waved his arms to encompass the room where they sat. ‘Effettivamente, it is this house. With the condition that if you ever wish to sell it, you must first off
er it to me. However, I can tell you now that this will not be necessary. I have no desire to acquire more property in Serugia.’
‘I - I don't know what to say. I’m grateful, of course, but - ’
He held up one hand. ‘I must ask you to read the letter and tell me that you will accept the bequest.’ He pulled out a large gold watch and frowned at it. ‘And I should be obliged, signora, if you would do so quickly, as I am pressed for time.’
The letter brought tears to her eyes, for il Conte had written it himself in badly-spelled English and it sounded just like him speaking. He begged her to accept this so-small bequest for the sake of their friendship, which had given him much pleasure in the loneliness of his declining years, and also for the sake of her beautiful son. He would have left her something more valuable, but he knew how foolishly proud she was. This, however, she could not deny him.
No, she couldn’t refuse a gift made with such loving kindness. She looked across at her visitor.
‘I shall accept the bequest. And know that I shall always be grateful to your father.’
Il conte Alessandro bowed, not in the slightest interested in her feelings. ‘Then, signora, I have done as my father wished, and we may now leave it to the lawyers to settle the details.’
He studied her in puzzlement. A strange woman, this last mistress of his father's, not beautiful exactly, but with a face of character. Too thin for his taste and very soberly dressed. Who did she think she was fooling with her prim governessy clothes and the English lessons she gave?
He paused again as a shaft of sunlight caught the glory of her hair. She might not look bad, though, with that magnificent hair let loose around her shoulders, but it did nothing for her appearance so tightly coiled in a chignon. Still, she had made his father happy in his last years, had cost him very little (she must be a fool not to have feathered her nest) and she had made no scandal. What more could one ask of your father’s mistress? He thought the bequest very fair payment for her services.
