Italian Sonata: Noire - Volume Two

by de Maupassant, Emmanuelle

  ‘Come and join me, my little seal. The sea is eager for you,’ she calls, cupping water, and sending an arc to wet Cecile’s feet.

  Cecile follows, perching on a rock, smooth and cold against her bottom. The sea is mackerel-silver in the moonlight, slippery and cool as she enters.

  She gasps and then laughs, finding her balance, kicking her feet, and sculling, until she bobs in one place.

  ‘That’s better,’ says Lucrezia. ‘Ladies shouldn’t stand without their dresses in the evening air. We have our modesty to think of!’

  They both giggle at that.

  Lucrezia reaches for Cecile’s hand, guiding it to her body, hidden by the water.

  Only a dream, thinks Cecile, as her palm is placed against Lucrezia’s breast, and the heartbeat is strong beneath her hand.

  The air is charged, with the heat of the day, and humidity waiting to break into rain, with a thick excitement, a palpable anticipation. The night seems to hold its breath.

  Their lips are so close that it takes no effort at all for them to meet and Cecile finds that Lucrezia’s mouth is as warm as she knew it would be. The waves move over their shoulders as they kiss.

  Cecile is unfurling into the promise of the unknown.

  She accepts Lucrezia’s hands upon her body, where her own have touched. She both fears to speak, and finds that there is nothing she needs to say. Under Lucrezia’s touch, she melts into the water, swirling deeper, gripping Lucrezia’s fingers, contracting in strange, quivering thrills. A rippling, swelling force is devouring her, one she cannot fight. Lucrezia’s eyes have become fierce and brilliant, as Cecile’s voice rises in small gasps and half-swollen cries. Her blood is singing, and the sea is lifting her, in the murmur of the moonlight.

  Afterwards, they are two, among the many waves in that wide ocean, breathing in the darkness, which blooms, enormous, around them.

  Cecile no longer feels that she’s dreaming. Rather, she is awake, and the water is full of stars.

  * * *

  Later, having dried themselves with their petticoats, they put on their dresses, and lie on the grass, listening to the night and all that is in it. To the water’s rhythm and the click of crickets.

  Cecile closes her eyes, so that the stillness may cover her. The world, in its infinite complexity, is reduced to the sea breeze and the light touch of leaf upon leaf, tiny creatures moving in the undergrowth, and the soft rhythm of the sleeping sea.

  Revenge

  It is late, as Cecile and Lucrezia make their way back, up through the terraces, to the castle. The library doors onto the terrace are no longer ajar, but one of the windows has been left on the latch. Cecile’s arm is slender; she might reach through and open it wider.

  The curtain is partially drawn, muffling the movements within: creaking hinges, and the scuffle of footsteps, laboured breaths, and the heavy thud of a closing door.

  ‘Be still,’ warns Lucrezia, placing herself where she may peer around the edge of the curtain.

  ‘Brandy, Serpico,’ commands a voice Cecile knows well.

  There is the sound of cursing as boots are thrown upon the floor.

  ‘Lasciate courier la cagna,’ says Lorenzo, sinking into his armchair, and gulping his restorative. His gloves and mask he discards, putting on his smoking jacket over the gaudy costume. ‘La goderò nel mio tempo.’

  ‘What are they saying?’ whispers Cecile.

  Lucrezia shakes her head, unsure of how much to reveal.

  She is not party to every plan conceived by her half-brother. Nor does she wish to be. There are some wickednesses of which she would prefer to remain ignorant.

  ‘He has someone waiting for him,’ Lucrezia explains. ‘I don’t think he likes her, but he’s going to see her tomorrow. He says that she’ll be ready by then. She’s slighted him in some way, and he’s angry.’

  Cecile nods, and beckons Lucrezia to duck beneath the window with her.

  ‘I don’t like being here, Lucrezia. We should try another door. Perhaps the kitchen?’

  Lucrezia nods and moves silently along the wall. She has no inclination to linger. Cecile raises herself into a crouch to follow, when a certain name catches her ear.

  ‘Avrò la mia vendetta contro la Signora Maud,’ hisses the Conte. ‘Se lei non sarà mia moglie, lei sarà la mia puttana!’

  His tone is unmistakably that of a man intent upon misdeeds. Cecile stumbles, and catches her sleeve against the edge of the window, tearing the fabric, and grazing her arm.

  ‘Serpico! Chi è là? Qualche spia?’

  The words have no sooner left Lorenzo’s lips than his man has sprung to the curtain and drawn it back. Cecile stands in horror as the window is flung open and she is dragged through, into the room, like a scrap of rag.

  It’s rare for Lorenzo to be taken aback, but so he is on seeing Cecile, deposited crudely upon the floor by his faithful manservant. For a moment, he ponders the best approach. To his knowledge, her Italian is rudimentary.

  ‘Che male hai sentito?’ the Conte asks in Italian, assessing how far Cecile has understood what she has overheard. Her countenance assures him that all is safe, and his expression becomes more amused than angry.

  ‘What a pleasant surprise, Lady McCaulay,’ he says, helping her to her feet, but keeping a firm grip upon her arm. ‘Though I cannot begin to speculate on why you’re eavesdropping at my window, like some secret spy. If you desire my company, you have only to enter, in the civilized manner, through the door.’

  Cecile has never been so roughly handled. She is both indignant and deeply shamed, for what can she say in her defence? As to her appearance, she can only begin to imagine what state she presents, her hair salt-wetted and tumbled from its pins, and her pale pink dress, grass-stained and crumpled.

  The Conte steers her towards the desk, until she feels the wood hard against the back of her legs, and he looms above her, looking down through eyes half-closed.

  ‘Whatever you think you have heard has made you breathless,’ he observes.

  He lifts a tendril of hair from her neck and she shivers at his touch, despite all that her mind tells her.

  ‘So predictable, my sweet one,’ he sighs. ‘Women are all just the same, protesting more for show than through modesty. For all your restraint and chastity, if I tore the gown from you now and laid you across this desk you would part your legs and allow me anything.’

  ‘Indeed I would not!’ answers Cecile, provoked at last into a response. ‘I understand why you’re yet a bachelor if you believe this to be the way to woo a lady.’

  With a cruel laugh, he grasps her about the waist and lifts her body onto the desk, his hands making quick work of throwing up her skirts, his hips forcing her legs apart.

  ‘Tell me that you’ll marry me and I shall spare you,’ he declares, as she struggles against his coarse advances.

  ‘You would not dare, Sir! Even your servant would not permit it, I’m sure.’

  ‘How quaint you are, my dear,’ answers the Conte. ‘Serpico, as you can see, is in no hurry to come to your aid. If you squirm, I may ask him to hold your down, while we endeavour to conceive an heir. Perhaps, then, you shall be less coy. Even your brother, I imagine, would entreat wedlock on your behalf, under the circumstance of a fruitful belly. I wonder if he hadn’t that very plan in mind, in allowing you to reside so unprotected under my roof. The Lady Agatha is a poor chaperone against such a suitor as I.’

  Lorenzo’s legs push further between hers, and his hand rises towards her neck. It is then that she sees the bloody bandage. If she refuses him, will he bring violence upon her? Might he strangle her, or knock her unconscious, and then have his way? In that moment, an image flashes before her of the strange contraption in the secret room. Could it be that it’s an instrument of torture?

  He sees the terror in her face, her eyes upon the crimson-seeped cloth and his teeth reveal in a slow smile.

  ‘A wildcat stronger than you bit me, and she shall be sorry for it yet. Now
, madame, tell me. Shall I call the padre to attend us at his convenience, and you may plan a wedding as pretty as you please, or shall we see how delightfully you submit under duress?’

  Cecile feels the bile rising in her throat. Whatever madness possessed her, permitting her to entertain the idea of becoming the next countess, it has passed. The scales have fallen from her eyes, and she sees before her the devillish countenance of a man who would rule her rather than worship her.

  However, she nods her head, and stills her body under his hand, despite the rapidity of her pulse. Her only hope, surely, is to accede and escape.

  Agatha will never allow the marriage to take place, nor Lucrezia. I’m not alone, Cecile tells herself.

  ‘Ah, my sweet!’ smiles Lorenzo, receding from his assault with serpentine speed. He raises her hand and kisses it lightly, his moustache twitching with suppressed mirth, taking pleasure in this show of mock-chivalry.

  ‘You had best find your bed, Lady Cecile. There will be time enough for love when we are wed.’

  He bows as she finds her feet, allowing her to pass unmolested. She crosses the room unsteadily, but with as much dignity as she can muster. Though her legs threaten to fail her, she reaches the door, and passes through, closing it quietly behind her.

  The low chuckle of the Conte’s laughter follows her out.

  * * *

  Reaching the stairs, Cecile takes them as quickly as she is able, tears of shame smarting in her eyes. How foolish she has been, like a fly enticed into the spider’s web, bound by her own illusions of romantic love.

  She wishes only to find the safety of her room. Yet, as she turns into the gloomy corridor in which her chamber lies, feeling her way along the wall, she sees that Lucrezia is waiting for her, dressed now in her nightgown, trying the handle of Cecile’s door, pushing it open to enter.

  Cecile calls to her, ready to fling herself upon the shoulder of her friend, to seek her comfort. As the name leaves her lips, the figure turns and Cecile’s heart ceases, for one brief moment, to perform its function. For the woman, barefooted, her long, dark hair loose down her back, stark against the white of her gown, is not Lucrezia.

  It is as if Lucrezia were to have been summoned from the distant side of some dark mirror, and have been made flesh in changeling form. Her eyes burn with the same intensity, yet contain a wilder ferocity.

  ‘Who are you?’ demands Cecile, her voice louder, in its fear, than she would have thought possible.

  The woman turns towards her, mouth moving, as if to speak. A keen desire to impart some message is apparent, though no words come. She is impotent, her voice lacking the power to make itself heard, and her face crumples, at once transformed, downcast in misery.

  A rush of compassion overwhelms Cecile, to see this creature so troubled, and she calls out once again.

  ‘Don’t be afraid. Tell me who you are.’

  The woman turns and Cecile sees, now, that she clutches a bundle beneath her arm.

  The corridor is dark, in the absence of a candle, but before the woman takes flight, Cecile sees a small face tucked within swaddling. A face delicate enough to be that of a child. Of a baby. A face unmoving, as if the poor mite had ceased to belong to this world.

  The tormented figure runs into the darkness beyond and Cecile, seared by dread, pushes through her door, bolting it behind.

  As she flings herself upon her bed and presses her face against the pillow, a thunder crack rends the sky, and the first rain begins to fall.

  In Pursuit

  Henry wakes in the alleyway behind the bar, his face pressed to the dirt, and his jaw aching. He is alone, and a cold fear grips his heart.

  He must find her.

  At the harbour, the tide has reached its highest point, and is now on the turn. The revelries have subsided, most having succumbed to alcohol-induced sleep, wrapped in the arms of friends and lovers. Masks lie discarded on the cobbles.

  From the villa, he locates a gun and a horse, and heads back through the main street of Scogliera, and onwards, taking the coast road.

  The sky is a bleeding bruise of ink and purple, seeping and spreading, covering the moon, and obliging Henry to set an agonizingly slow pace. His eyes strain to make out the edge of the cliff, and to keep his horse safely guided. It is eerily quiet, without a single birdcall. Below, even the incessant rush of the waves is muffled, and their movement is concealed by an ascending mist, creeping from the sea, inland, rising to climb upwards, and drift across the road. Were he to ride blindly, he might find himself straying to the precipice.

  Dear God, he prays, may the carriage containing Maud not have fallen from this path.

  The air is damp and heavy, acrid almost, smelling of metal, swaddling him as he plods on. The toss of his horse’s mane and its snorting breath are more tangible than his own hands, deathly white, numb upon the reins. The first fat splashes of rain break from above, hitting the baked dust of the road.

  Too much time has passed, thinks Henry. She might be in Sorrento by now, hidden somewhere I’ll never find her, or placed on a boat. Who knows what dastardliness those curs have in mind… And here I am, barely able to see two steps in front of me. What hope is there!

  His mare stumbles against a rock, causing Henry to pause, and in that moment, he hears a voice calling to him, faintly, on the mounting wind. A voice of pain and fear, and so distant that his ears must deceive him. It is his imagination, surely. He listens again, but hears no more, and is about to continue when something catches against his lip. A hair has blown across his face, one which, as he removes it, he sees is long and auburn gold. He winds it about his finger, that thread binding her to him, and he to her.

  She is not in Sorrento. She is close.

  With uncanny conviction, he feels it, and he knows that her life is in danger. Whatever dread trembles beneath his skin, fluttering like a living thing, he must find her.

  He looks about him, scanning the trees to his right, moving closer to peer through the shadows. The clouds part briefly, allowing the moon’s illumination, and Henry sees that there is a break in the line of the cliff rising sheer above him. A crevasse. Wide enough for two horses. Wide enough, perhaps, for a carriage.

  With his hand extended to touch the side of the passage, he nudges his horse onwards, with the press of his heels. The overhang above offers shelter from the rain, but allows no strand of moonlight to reach. Far off, thunder has begun to rumble.

  Gradually, the trail opens and rises through the hillside, lemon trees and pines on either side. Without cover, Henry is soon wet through, but he can think only of where the path may lead. He is drawn, inexplicably, upwards, certain that Maud has called him to her.

  Rounding a bend, he sees two horses, turned loose to graze, and behind them, the carriage, its door left carelessly ajar.

  She is here. Somewhere close.

  The track has ended, the trees closing in, preventing Henry from riding further. He dismounts, leading his mare through the narrow trail, pushing past dense foliage.

  Ahead, there is a small flicker of light, and the outline of a wooden cabin. Henry ties his mare, and creeps forward, skirting the side, to peer through half-closed shutters.

  What he sees chills his blood.

  A New Countess

  Does Cecile sleep? How can she?

  No matter that the key is turned in her lock, and her trunk placed before the door.

  What does she fear most?

  The return of that creature in torment, clutching her pitiful babe, or the knock of he who would call her wife, demanding permission to enter?

  She lies awake, listening to the castle’s creaking bones, steeped in the sea’s embrace, and the sigh of wooden boards stretched by the salted wind.

  She hears the clock chime each quarter hour. Time is not her friend, for it brings with it the inevitability of what must come. Will Henry countenance the Conte’s suit of her hand? If he hesitates, will Lorenzo declare that he has already seduced her, obliging a ma
rriage to save her honour? What escape can there be?

  * * *

  As soon as first light breaks, Cecile creeps to enter Lucrezia’s room. How strange it is. What has passed between her and Lucrezia seems, once more, to have been no more than a fantasy, yet her body is warm, and Cecile wishes, more than anything, to remain enfolded in that dear embrace.

  Lucrezia has pulled back the covers, gathering Cecile to her, holding her tightly. She too has spent the night in a troubled state, for what she believed she knew has twisted upon her and she finds that her intent now wears a different face. More than ever, she wishes to escape her jailor, but not at any price. For the friendship she has enacted with such care has become its own truth.

  With sobs and sighs of despair, Cecile relates the events of the previous night.

  ‘Lucrezia, you can have no idea of his true nature.’ Her voice is quivering as she forms the words. ‘He intends to visit Henry today, to agree terms for my hand, and he will say the most terrible things, to convince my brother of the necessity of a wedding. I have little idea why his mind is so set upon me, when he might surely choose any as his bride. Perhaps he thinks I shall be more biddable. Perhaps he’s right, for I feel that my will to decide my own fate has been taken from me.’

  Lucrezia finds that her fury burns even brighter than before. She will not betray Cecile, nor leave her to the machinations of her brother.

  Together, they must escape.

  * * *

  When Cecile has calmed herself, she steels herself to say what she knows she must.

  ‘There is someone else in this house, Lucrezia… Someone we must help. When I returned to my room, I thought you were there, at my door, but it wasn’t you.’

  ‘And who was it?’ asks Lucrezia.

  ‘I don’t know,’ wails Cecile, her courage crumbling. ‘And I was so terrified, Lucrezia! The woman looked wild, and sorrowful, and savage. And, in her arms, she carried…’