The Tuscan Contessa

by Dinah Jefferies

  ‘Of course,’ he said and sat down at the table to drink his coffee.

  As she gazed at him, she couldn’t help thinking of him as a toddler and then as the four-year-old cherub he’d been when his uncle Gino, a carpenter, had built him a little cart. How quickly the time had flown. It seemed like only yesterday when Aldo had raced around the Castello, getting under everyone’s feet, and yet the sweetest of apologies had meant he was always forgiven. And she had loved it when he came to curl up in her lap, hair falling in his eyes, while he sucked his thumb contentedly without a care in the world. Then, later, how he’d enjoyed climbing the olive trees at harvest time, shaking the branches as he climbed higher and higher until the grey-green olives lay in piles on the net below. ‘I got the most!’ he used to shout while the older boys and the men were doing their best with long hooks. He’d always have a place in her heart.

  As Sofia took a deep breath and returned to the present, she saw Carla looking as if she wanted to speak. The cook’s eyes flickered away and then back again, and Sofia knew she was waiting for the maid to leave the room.

  ‘What is it?’ Sofia hissed once the girl had slipped into the pantry. ‘I have to join Lorenzo. I haven’t got much time.’

  Carla bent over and, when she raised her head again, Sofia saw the worry etched in the lines of her face.

  ‘Carla, what is it? You’re scaring me. Is it to do with Gabriella?’ She twisted round to face Aldo. ‘You said something about the Blackshirts and Gabriella, didn’t you? Said Carla should tell me.’

  As Aldo pushed back his chair and rose to his feet, Carla’s face fell.

  ‘Carla?’

  ‘Well, the other night, we were … you know … knitting …’

  ‘I know about the knitting. For goodness’ sake, it’s knitting. I’ve always known.’

  ‘You don’t mind?’

  Sofia shook her head.

  ‘There was an interruption. Nobody comes at night, not this time of year anyway. Gabriella was on watch and we heard them in the street. We waited for a while and then we heard her outside with them.’

  ‘Dear God … They didn’t hurt her?’

  Carla winced. ‘I don’t think so, but you know, she went with them. Was gone more than an hour.’

  ‘You think they interfered with her?’

  ‘No. She knew one of them. I don’t think much happened, but she won’t say. Her clothing wasn’t torn, and she hadn’t been crying. But she’s so pretty, and men, they take advantage. She never says much but now she won’t speak at all, just looks at the ground if I ask her what happened. You know she can be a bit dreamy, head in the clouds. I shouldn’t have left her downstairs on her own.’

  ‘It’s not your fault. God damn the Germans!’

  ‘Not Germans. Blackshirts,’ Aldo growled, reminding her. ‘If I get my hands on them!’

  Sofia glanced at Carla. ‘Do you want me to talk to her?’

  Carla shook her head. ‘Not yet. But, on top of everything else, I’m worried Aldo will be called up.’

  ‘Have the papers come?’

  ‘No,’ she said miserably, glancing over at her son. ‘Per Dio, the Nazi bastards want to take our youngest now to fight their war.’

  Aldo squared his shoulders. ‘I’ll never fight for the Germans.’

  ‘He says he’ll run off to join the resistenza,’ his mother added with a frown. She ruffled her son’s hair. ‘Too hot-headed by half, my boy. Always going on about the partisans. He’ll end up dead in a ditch.’

  ‘I’ll not fight for the Germans,’ Aldo reiterated. ‘I won’t go.’

  Sofia sighed deeply. She felt worried for poor Carla – as if she hadn’t had enough to cope with. ‘Try not to fret,’ she said. ‘We’ll do what we can. But first, I’ll find out how long Lorenzo is going to be here.’

  In the dining room, Lorenzo was rising from his seat. He gave Sofia an open-hearted smile.

  ‘I’m going to check up on some of the outlying farms,’ he said. ‘I had hoped we’d breakfast together but you were so long.’

  ‘Sorry.’ She wondered if he was trying to make her feel guilty but dismissed the idea, annoyed that she was questioning everything so much.

  ‘Yields are lower than usual, not surprisingly, but I need to see for myself,’ he continued, not noticing the strain she was feeling.

  He knew she believed tenants should be entitled to own their land. As things stood, Lorenzo, as Conte de’ Corsi, was responsible for all the farms, houses and villas on the estate. Like all the estates, they functioned under the old mezzadria system, a sort of sharecropping whereby he provided land, tools, machinery and maintenance in return for a half share of all the produce from the land. Once a year their olive press was used by everyone and before the war Lorenzo had paid for limited electricity and running water to be connected to all the village houses.

  ‘Maybe it’s time the system changed?’ Sofia said, somewhat absently.

  He gazed at her. ‘I deal fairly with the farmers and workers.’

  ‘I know but …’

  Still gazing at her, he looked puzzled. ‘What’s this really about? We decided we’d make changes when the war ends. You know that. Are you all right?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You look – I’m not sure – you look a little dishevelled.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ she snapped. ‘What does it matter?’

  ‘Sofia, what has got into you these days? One minute you’re fine and the next you’re biting my head off.’

  ‘And you’re perfect all the time, are you?’ She glared at him even though he was looking at her with such softness in his grey eyes she wanted to weep. ‘You’re tetchy. You’re hardly ever here and when you are, you’re distant. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were having an affair.’

  He smiled and that annoyed her more than anything.

  ‘You hardly ever tell me what you’re doing, where you’re going, who you’re dealing with. Nothing! What am I supposed to believe?’

  ‘It’s safer that you are kept ignorant of my activities. Anyway, haven’t you been a little secretive yourself?’ he said.

  She felt the giveaway blush spreading up her neck and longed to be able to tell him about the Englishman and ask for his help.

  ‘Whispering in corners with the cook. Taking phone calls late at night.’

  ‘Once. It was only once and now I can’t get through to my mother at all. I’m worried something might have happened to them both.’

  ‘I’ll check on your parents as soon as I’m back in Rome.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘The day after tomorrow. I’ll be leaving early but I’m here today so, after I’ve been to the farms, we can spend the whole afternoon together and maybe tomorrow afternoon too. I’m hoping it’ll make you feel better. Will it?’

  No, she wanted to say. Not today. It would not make her feel better today. ‘Now,’ she said, changing the subject in order to get going, ‘I have a few errands to run. I’ll be taking the van if it’s still got petrol.’

  ‘Must you? Petrol is so scarce. Can’t you take a donkey cart?’

  ‘It’s my canvas.’ She paused, her stomach clenching as she considered whether to develop the lie. Was her guilt visible enough for him to see? ‘I thought I’d have it framed. I don’t want it to get wet.’

  ‘Ah. You’ve finished it. Very well, but it does look like rain. Why not go another day?’

  ‘I’d like to get it done. I want to give it to my mother for her birthday.’

  She glanced out of the window at the gloomy clouds scudding across the sky.

  ‘Well, be careful. When I was on my way back from Florence, anything moving was a target for the Allied planes. Take Aldo.’

  ‘I will. We’ll be all right on the little back roads.’

  Once Lorenzo was out, there was no time to waste, so Sofia dressed quickly without washing and tied up her hair, then covered her head with a headscarf the way all country women did
, while glancing at the silver-framed photograph of her parents on the dressing table. She prayed they were safe. Then she gathered her courage and made her way to the small side hall before marching into the little downstairs bedroom. This time the man’s eyes opened, more alert than before.

  ‘We need to move you,’ she said. ‘It’s not safe here.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He attempted a smile, but his voice was weak.

  ‘You are English?’

  He spoke a few words in Italian.

  ‘You spoke English when I first saw you.’

  ‘Yes. I was probably too … well, I’m not sure.’

  ‘When a man is barely conscious, I don’t suppose a second language is on his mind.’

  He gave another wan smile.

  ‘But now? Can you tell me anything now?’

  ‘Parachute tangled up. Got shot escaping. Somehow made it here.’ His voice was hoarse, and he was finding it hard to talk.

  ‘How long ago?’ she asked gently.

  He didn’t reply. While she worked out what to do, he closed his eyes. What if she brought the van round to the side? It might work if Aldo helped carry him.

  ‘My codebook?’ he whispered, his voice fading even further.

  ‘Ah yes, that’s what that booklet is. I have it safe.’

  He reached out and squeezed her hand.

  When Sofia and Aldo left the front of the house, the old biddy on the corner was sitting on a chair inside her doorway in the shadow of the tower, watching. Always watching. In November. A cold November too! Maria had to be the most unpopular person in the village, poor soul. Although, at first, she had been as surprised as the rest of them when her grandson left to become a Blackshirt, now nobody knew where her sympathies truly lay. She maintained she had no idea where the boy had gone, but was she simply watching for his return or was she scrutinizing the rest of them? While everyone understood her worry, they found it hard to sympathize, and some couldn’t wait for the day the boy would receive a bullet in the head.

  In the old carriage yard Aldo unlocked the door. Among all the vehicles and carts, the van sat in a corner, clunky, smelly and awkward to drive. She took a deep breath and hesitated. It was so hard to know if she was doing the right thing and the van did consume precious petrol. She glanced at Aldo.

  He smiled at her. ‘We are doing the right thing.’

  It delighted her that he often seemed to guess what she was thinking, but really there was no way to tell right from wrong any more. When everything was wrong, they simply did what they had to do, no questions asked. She took a breath and her resolve hardened.

  Lorenzo could be overprotective, as so many men of his class were. If she was more exacting with herself, more honest, it had mostly been her own fault. She’d allowed it, relished it at first, when perhaps she should have been adamant that she was perfectly capable of handling things. Instead, without any fuss or bother, she had quietly gone about doing what she believed was right. He’d witnessed her coping, knew how much courage and inner strength she had, knew that she was indeed robust, but it had seemed easier to go on letting him feel he was her protector.

  ‘Shall I drive?’ Aldo asked, breaking into her thoughts.

  ‘Yes, thanks. I’ll sit with James. But we can’t take too long. I must be back to spend the afternoon with Lorenzo.’

  They climbed into the van and drove round to the side of the house.

  On their journey back from the convent along the network of tracks threading the hills, the sun came out, leaving the wet landscape bright and shiny. As Sofia gazed at the panoramic rows of blue-grey hills and the patchwork of low-lying silvery cloud the beauty lifted her spirits. She felt as if the war might not touch them too much after all. How could it when a day could be as sparkling and fresh as this? And times like this were vital to preserve the precious kernel of hope that lived in her heart. These moments were her joy and inspiration. And she knew that later, if she were to lie awake worrying, she could draw on them to picture herself in a future world that was good, where the sun would shine, and they would be at peace.

  Aldo stopped the van for a few minutes and they both got out to breathe the air and watch the long grasses rustling in the breeze.

  ‘He’ll be safe at the convent,’ Aldo said.

  ‘Yes.’ She paused for a moment, feeling easy and relaxed with him. ‘I remember when I first came to live in the countryside,’ she continued as they stood side by side. ‘Before you were born, of course. I’d been a city girl but, soon after I arrived, I fell in love with the whole estate and everyone on it. They welcomed me as if I were one of them.’

  ‘My mother talks about those days,’ he said.

  ‘They were good. Really good.’

  She smiled, knowing she would never forget her first winter with Lorenzo at the Castello.

  ‘We lounged in front of roaring fires as the countryside transformed into a mystical place with mists in the valleys, purple skies above, and eventually a scattering of pure white snow.’

  ‘Contessa, you have always been one for seeing the beauty.’

  She laughed. ‘Don’t you see it too?’

  ‘I do, but I’m a practical man, not so poetically inclined as you.’

  Man, she thought. Hard to see him as a man.

  Now, as they gazed at the pines and oaks, so dark in the clusters of woodland, the pistol preyed on her mind. Maybe Aldo could show her how to use it, but could she ever point it at another human being and pull the trigger? Could she shoot to kill? The idea seemed ridiculous.

  ‘You know how to use a gun, don’t you?’ she said.

  ‘I do,’ he replied. ‘For hunting.’

  ‘Could you teach me?’

  He smiled. ‘Of course, but I can’t see you going out to shoot wild boar.’

  ‘No.’

  There was a short silence.

  She pointed at the view. ‘Look how many meadows between the woods are not ploughed. With your help we women are doing what we can but it isn’t enough.’

  Beyond them lay the deeper woods and hills populated by the dozens of men who were in hiding. She hoped there were still some wild boar they’d be able to kill and eat.

  ‘I think about those men at night,’ she said. ‘With a bitterly cold winter approaching and no warm hearths, I worry.’

  ‘They will find a way to survive.’

  She decided to tell Carla she was happy about her cooking for the men and that it was fine to use some of their supplies; it was time she did her bit to help the Allies win the war. As she stood lost in the moment the peace was brutally shattered by the deafening sound of fighter planes flying overhead in tight formation, on their way north. She clapped her hands over her ears.

  ‘Allies, please let them be Allies,’ she muttered.

  Aldo nodded. ‘I think they are.’

  Then, when the sound of distant bombing began, she shuddered at the thought of which poor village might have been accidentally struck this time. Sometimes it felt as if the Allied pilots and gunners didn’t care about the Italian people.

  8.

  The moment Sofia arrived home after taking the dogs for a walk the next day, she discovered there had been a phone call from Commandant Schmidt, the local German commander, while she was out, asking if Lorenzo was in residence. She held her breath for a moment. The letter she’d received informing her of their intention to requisition the village had been from this very man. When Carla had explained that Lorenzo was indeed home, the German had politely invited himself to dinner. Sofia was relieved to have already managed to spirit James away. It would be one thing Lorenzo discovering she’d been harbouring one of Germany’s enemies, quite another if Schmidt found out, especially if he’d come to look the place over.

  She felt grateful for a peaceful afternoon but now it was time for an evening she wasn’t expecting to enjoy. She glanced out of the window at the square, while listening to the latest news, and saw the bats emptying from the arched windows of the tower and
sweeping across the skyline. Then she thought of the way rumours and counter-rumours were spreading like wildfire. The Allies were close. They’d arrive any day. They heard it again and again. But now the gossip was not so good. The Allies were making slow progress across the southern parts of Italy and German resistance was stronger than expected. Battles were being fought and won but the German retreat was snail-like, allowing them time to leave terrible destruction in their wake.

  She was feeling a little disheartened when Lorenzo entered their bedroom, although she was enormously relieved he was there. An evening entertaining the German on her own would not have been enjoyable.

  ‘Radio London?’ he asked as she slipped into the black satin dress she’d decided to wear. Long-sleeved, high-collared, it skimmed her hips and fell just past her knees, fitting like a second skin and emphasizing her slender shape.

  ‘Yes. Better than the Fascist propaganda, at least. But it’s not good news. Can you zip me up?’

  After doing so he scratched the back of his head and she switched off the radio. They didn’t speak again and there was a prolonged silence, each absorbed with their own concerns. Sofia sat at her dressing table and clipped on her diamond earrings, while he paced the length of the room.

  ‘Well, you are pushing out the boat,’ he said eventually and came to lift her hair and kiss the nape of her neck. ‘You look beautiful.’

  ‘Must create a good impression for Commandant Schmidt,’ she said, but she wrinkled her nose.

  He laughed. ‘I’m surprised you care.’

  ‘I was being sarcastic.’

  ‘I know.’ He smiled though his eyes looked pensive. ‘You enjoyed our two afternoons together?’

  ‘You know I did.’

  He looked even more thoughtful before he spoke. ‘You are the light of my life. You know that? I don’t say it enough.’

  She smiled at him then pinned up her hair and dabbed a little of Lanvin’s Arpège on the back of her neck and on her wrists. ‘You don’t have to say it.’

  ‘And you know I want things to go back to the way they were as much as you do.’