Italian Sonata: Noire - Volume Two

by de Maupassant, Emmanuelle

  ‘My condolences for your loss,’ adds Maud, almost as an afterthought, her expression somewhat distracted. ‘I hear that Lorenzo was apt to smoke cigars, and he seems to have fallen asleep while doing so. I’m pleased that the servants escaped unharmed.’

  ‘Yes,’ comments Agatha, ‘All but his man, who is unaccounted for. Serpico was seen entering the library, to rescue his master, despite the heat of the flames. Terribly brave. It speaks for some worthiness in one’s character, to inspire such loyalty. Sadly, neither body has been recovered. The ceiling has collapsed and the room is quite destroyed. Better to leave them resting in peace.’

  ‘Peace was something my brother struggled to find in life. Perhaps he may do so now…’ confesses Lucrezia. She hesitates, as if to say more, but changes her mind, and looks away.

  ‘Cecile was so brave,’ adds Agatha. ‘Turning back to save one of the staff she thought was still in the upper part of the castle.’

  Lucrezia shakes her head slightly, as her eyes meet Cecile’s.

  ‘It was more foolish than brave,’ says Cecile. ‘For the cry for help I thought I heard was only the wind, whistling down an open staircase. An illusion. Nothing more.’

  Agatha places her palm against Cecile’s cheek.

  ‘Courageous and modest!’ she avows.

  ‘Padre Giovanni Gargiullo, from Pietrocina, is coming to say prayers at the site.’

  Agatha looks wistfully, towards the sea.

  ‘I’ll do what I can for the staff. Raphael is to work here now, and I’ll employ Magdalena, if she wishes to come. I’ll write references, that all may seek employment in Sorrento.’

  She gives a sniff.

  ‘They might find it suits them better, in the end. A modern hotel offers more opportunities than a private home. Times are changing, after all.’

  When Maud turns her head, Henry is there, come to bring her shawl.

  ‘It’s starting to feel like autumn, my love, with this chill in the air and leaves chasing each other about the garden. Perhaps it’s time for us to leave,’ he says.

  Wrapping the shawl about Maud’s shoulders, he places her arm upon his.

  ‘Walk with me,’ says Henry, nodding at the others before leading her away, through the olive trees, where the breeze shimmers the slim, silver-green leaves.

  ‘I wish to discuss something alone with you, my love. There’s an expedition heading to Brazil, organized by the Ornithological Union and the Natural History Museum. I’ve been invited to join them, and must telegraph soon.’

  He turns to face her.

  ‘I’d thought to decline, as the expedition will require us to put aside many of our comforts, but I think the trip is just what’s needed. A fresh page, putting aside all that’s happened here. If we’re to join them, I must telegraph soon.’

  Henry pauses, endeavouring to read her expression.

  ‘Don’t think that I make this suggestion lightly, Maud. It’s my duty to ensure your happiness, and I believe the adventure will revive you, offering opportunities for your own study. You might present a series of papers on your return, or find a publisher for your work. Your illustrations are more than fine enough. The work of the Royal Entomology Society would be enriched by your efforts.’

  She sighs, before allowing herself a tentative smile.

  ‘We can, I suppose, live as many lives as we like…’

  She touches his cheek.

  Driven by curiosity, and by grief, seeking to punish and lose herself, she has embraced those extremes, wishing to awaken parts of her nature as yet undiscovered. She has taken herself to the brink, seeing the chasm, yet stepping into it. She cannot live without folly and danger it seems, but perhaps there are other ways to court them. Some winds keep us awake, while others lull us to sleep, and some blow out the old, leaving room for fresh approaches.

  ‘How pleasant it is to bask in your adoration, husband,’ says Maud, leading them towards the clifftop steps. ‘To know that you seek my own happiness in equal portion to your own.’

  Her tone is suddenly playful.

  ‘I think you’d love me even if I ate nothing but garlic and cabbage.’

  ‘Probably,’ he muses, while crinkling his nose in an expression of distaste.

  ‘And will you still love me when my skin wrinkles like an over-ripe apple, and my teeth come loose?’

  ‘Even more then, for my skin and teeth will be the same - and we’ll have grown old together.’

  Maud pauses, smiling with pleasure at Henry's answers.

  ‘And what if I spoke only of the latest fashions in hats and shoes?’

  ‘I would, although I might have to stop your lips more often with my kisses.’

  She raises her face to his, and they stand for some moments, his arms wrapped closely about her, his embrace both tender and passionate.

  It is she who breaks away.

  ‘And will you continue to worship me if I grow fat, so that I waddle more than glide?’

  Henry laughs.

  ‘I might urge you to eat less cake, my darling,’ he admits. ‘But I’ll love you no matter how you’re embellished.’

  ‘And what if my belly swells not from cake, but from your love?’

  Henry looks at her directly. Is she in earnest? He sees in her face a strange excitement.

  ‘My darling!’

  Falling at once to his knees, he presses his cheek to her stomach.

  Maud has been looking for so long while unsure of what she sought or how to find it. She has been scared, of herself, and of the changes coming, but the rules are changing.

  Isn’t this how it is? The world changes a little every day and so do we? The world can be fearsome, but no more so than the unfathomable space inside.

  Maud is ready to enter a new incarnation, in which she’s lifted by the wind, and carried to new places. She’d thought them too far away for her wings to reach, but it’s only a matter of flying to where she wishes to go, towards the points of light in the dark.

  She’s still mistress of herself. She always will be.

  She holds her face to the sun, and feels its warmth not just on her skin but inside too. Henry’s lips join hers once more and so light and joyous are their kisses that they float upwards, drifting through the air, over summer-bathed lawns; swooping through the Cyprus trees, where they shiver and shimmer in the branches. Out, out, out they go, to the open sea.

  Epilogue

  Whom among us would not be tempted by the wild luxuriance of barely discovered lands? By the vast, lush jungle? A place of violence and beauty, in its endless, devouring cycle, and home to untold species, waiting to be looked upon by human eyes: joyous parrots and gaudy toucans and others perhaps yet without names.

  The night before their departure, Cecile dreams of the sinister night howl of monkeys. She cannot content herself with a quiet life. Not for her a tranquil existence in a provincial English town, or days of ease at the Villa Scogliera. The world awaits her.

  And she will not be alone.

  How kind her brother has been, and Maud too. Henry is to pay not only for her passage on the SS Leviathan, taking them across the Atlantic, but for Lucrezia’s too. A young woman must have company, and she cannot bear to be parted from Lucrezia. They shall make a jolly party.

  It’s without regret that Cecile stands on the deck of the great steamer, looking down at the bustling harbour. Among the many heads below, Cecile spots one whose golden curls rise above those of his fellow passengers, as he makes his way towards the wooden plank bridge.

  Her eyesight would need to be better than it is for her to read that his luggage bears the initials L.R. Nevertheless, when he raises his face to look upon the vessel destined to take him across the high seas, Cecile has no difficulty in recognizing those bold features.

  And she smiles.

  Of course, this story has no ending. The words stop here merely because this is where we choose to leave… for now.

  Reviews

  If you’ve enjoyed th
is work, Emmanuelle would love to receive your review.

  Reviews are essential in bringing new reader eyes.

  Find the Noire series on Amazon

  With sincere thanks

  Murder on the SS Leviathan

  volume three - noire

  Coming Summer 2018

  Henry and Maud, Lucrezia and Cecile are not alone.

  No one is safe. No one can be trusted.

  Beware the shadows, for someone lurks with evil intent.

  If you haven’t yet read Volume One in the Noire series, you may like to do so.

  Available for sale from Amazon.

  Further Works, by Emmanuelle de Maupassant

  The Gentlemen’s Club

  A place where no desire is forbidden.

  Where no hunger is taboo.

  Lord McCaulay falls under Mademoiselle Noire's spell. Drawn into her web, he enters a dark spiral of obsession. No matter where it leads, he will follow.

  'We live in the wondrous here and now and it's here that our flesh must take its pleasure. Your body is yours and yours alone, but not for long, and never long enough.'

  Recommended by Stylist Magazine: a 'mind-blowing' read.

  'The Gentlemen's Club' is a dark romance novella, set in Victorian London.

  Highland Pursuits

  It’s 1928, and defiant debutante Lady Ophelia Finchingfield has been banished to the Highlands of Scotland. A bizarre selection of suitors soon present themselves, but Ophelia remains one step ahead, until she begins to harbour feelings for Hamish, the Castle’s estate manager. To Ophelia’s annoyance, he’s already spoken for, and glamorous French coquette Felicité has no intention of letting ruggedly attractive Hamish slip from the service of her bed. Intrigue abounds, as Ophelia discovers that there’s more to her rival than meets the eye, and that the Castle is a hotbed of illicit cavorting.

  Highland Christmas

  Castle Kintochlochie is hosting a wedding, but malicious forces are at work. Is the castle really haunted?

  ‘Highland Christmas’ is the sequel to ‘Highland Pursuits’, featuring 1920s debutante Lady Ophelia Finchingfield.

  A riotous romantic romp, with a mystery to solve.

  Cautionary Tales

  The boundaries between the everyday and the unearthly are snakeskin-thin. The trees have eyes and the night has talons. Demons, drawn by the perfume of human vice and wickedness, lurk with intents malicious and capricious. Tread carefully, for the dark things best left behind in the forest may seep under your door and sup with you. The lover at your window or in your bed may have the scent of your death already on their breath.

  Is the shadow on the wall, really yours, after all?

  ‘Funny, brutal, and irreverent’ – Bustle.com

  Twelve tales inspired by Eastern European and Russian superstitions and folklore; darkly delicious imaginings for the adult connoisseur of bedtime stories.

  Viking Thunder

  'We all struggle. We all desire.'

  Elswyth is faced with the prowess of Eirik: a giant of a man who lets nothing stand in his way. She cannot deny her sexual attraction and, ultimately, the satisfaction she finds in Eirik's bed.

  As Elswyth explores her true identity, she is torn in her loyalty. If she returns with the Northmen to their distant lands, what dark secrets await?

  Baby Love

  8 months pregnant and still sexy!

  Delphine's rat-fink husband has packed his bags and abandoned her for the charms of their neighbour, leaving Delphine struggling to cope. Delphine's sisters insist that the best remedy for a broken heart is a dose of pampering. Cue a spa break, where handsome Texan Jack and suave Marco await. Will there be more in store for Delphine than a hot stone massage and a spell in the Jacuzzi?

  A romantic comedy from Emmanuelle de Maupassant, set in British Cornwall.

  Short stories by Emmanuelle de Maupassant appear in the following anthologies

  Best Women’s Erotica of the Year Volume 3 (Cleis Press)

  Big Book of Submission Volume 2 (Cleis Press)

  For the Men (Stupid Fish Productions)

  Dirty 30 Volume 2 (Stupid Fish Productions)

  Amorous Congress (Riverdale Avenue Books)

  Bonus Materials

  Included at the end of this edition are the initial chapters of 1920s romance romp, Highland Pursuits.

  Highland Pursuits

  It had been in the back of a taxi, in the summer of 1928, that Lady Ophelia Finchingfield had first realized her views on the wedded state. Perhaps it was his awkward, overly lubricated kiss, or the inept grope upon her breast that brought the revelation. Perhaps it was the conviction that her suitor lacked the brooding depth of a Heathcliff, or a Rochester. Whatever the substance behind her discovery, she accordingly turned down an offer of marriage from the Honourable Percival Huntley-Withington who, at the tender age of twenty-two, had recently succeeded his father as Earl of Woldershire.

  Some months earlier, just after Easter, Ophelia had begun her debutante season. She had since attended twelve balls, nineteen cocktail parties, and eleven dinners. Most mornings had seen her riding in Hyde Park, along Rotten Row and Ladies’ Mile, returning to a formal breakfast of kippers, omelettes and grilled kidneys.

  She had attended polo and cricket matches, had played croquet and lawn tennis, and had tried her hand at archery and at bowls. Her attendance had been sought at intimate concerts, garden parties and picnics.

  There had been nights at the opera (where no one listened), and nights at the ballet (where no one watched). It was apparent that the real purpose was to be seen. Ophelia had become accustomed to falling into bed, exhausted, often no earlier than two in the morning.

  Her little Cairn terrier, Pudding, was most affronted by her mistress’ new social habits. Ophelia had scarce time to bestow the tickles that Pudding’s soft little belly had come to expect. In the hours of Ophelia’s absence, Pudding would bury her nose upon her mistress’ pillow, feeling the passing of every minute, and ruminating sorrowfully on her neglect. Only the sincere embraces of Ophelia’s return convinced Pudding she was not altogether forgotten.

  Barely halfway through the marathon of endurance, at the end of May, Ophelia had wondered how she would maintain the pace. Her own debutante ball had been scheduled for the first week in August, and she’d begun to feel that her feet would be worn to stumps before the date arrived. It being her own dance, she’d have no choice but to endure the clutches of every decrepit old wart and every young toad wishing to shuffle her about. She would have a moldy time of it.

  There had been little need for her mother, Lady Daphne, to court favour on her behalf, since the family’s wealth alone inspired others to solicit her presence. The Honourable Sir Peter Finchingfield, MP for King’s Lyppe, was heir to a successful turkey farming business. Moreover, he was a rising star in the Conservative party, tipped for a cabinet position, having recently led a vital debate in the House on subsidization of root vegetable growing, with particular reference to swedes and turnips.

  What Sir Peter lacked in charm was provisioned by Lady Daphne, herself the daughter of a noble family, though one of constrained means. She believed in her own infallible taste: in clothes, literature, art, music and interior décor. It was of no regard that her acquaintance with them resembled that of a bee flitting from flower to flower, without collecting a grain of pollen.

  Those confident in the marvel of their own brilliance are never shaken by the criticisms of lesser creatures. In her eyes, all things connected with herself were highly sought after. Since social standing and money happily met in the Finchingfield household, the world at large was disposed to agree.

  At the birth of her baby daughter, Lady Daphne was confronted with the uninspiring option of naming her after Sir Peter’s mother, Edna, or his grandmother, Elsie. Pretending a great love of Shakespeare, she landed upon Ophelia, a name that she hoped would bestow her (as it turned out) only daughter with a love of literature.

  For a
ll her espousal of the arts, she’d never read a word of the Bard, though she had once attended a performance of Hamlet. In the dark, none had noticed that she’d dozed from Act Two through to the final bloody end. Naturally, she was much congratulated on her originality and, since neither of the grand matriarchs were alive to see injustice done, the matter was settled.

  Lady Daphne had been preparing at least twelve months for this momentous occasion in her daughter’s life, though obliged to honour the wishes of Ophelia in delaying her ‘season’ until she had finished her studies in art history at Girton College, Cambridge. In this, Ophelia was supported wholeheartedly by Sir Peter, who saw no reason for a modern girl of intellect to be without education.

  The preceding summer and autumn months had been spent in Paris attending the Louvre, the Philharmonie de Paris, the Musée d'Orsay and the Palais Garnier, so that Ophelia might improve her knowledge of music and the fine arts.

  To Ophelia’s delight, her mother had at last conceded that they should both visit the renowned Antoine in the Galleries Lafayette to have their hair styled a la mode, in the boyish manner. In matters of fashion, Lady Daphne could not bear to lag behind, and she emerged with a sleek bob. Ophelia, who, in all things, was more unruly, found that her curls refused to sit demurely, even under the expert hands of Monsieur Antoine.

  She emerged with hair springing wildly about her dainty face, heightening her wide-set eyes. Her mother was unable to hide her dismay, but the cut gave Ophelia great satisfaction. Not only would it be easier to wash, but it well-matched her mischievous attitude. The overall effect was delightfully impish.