by Laura Wood
He looks off into the distance and rubs his nose. “She was always nervous: highly strung, I suppose you’d say – but who could blame her when she’d been kicked out of her home at sixteen for falling pregnant with me? She loved me.” His voice is so soft now I can hardly hear it. “I remember that, at least.” He clears his throat. “Somehow she got the fare together and we came to Europe. To France first and then to Italy. Someone gave her Lili’s name and she took us in, and then we lived here for a little over two years. It was home, or the closest to it I ever had.”
“Why did you leave?” I ask.
“Sir Hugh came one summer to paint; Filomena was with him,” he says. “He took one look at my mother and said he had to have her as a model. I think Filomena was relieved to get away from him… Looking back, that should have been warning enough.” His hands clench into tight fists, resting against his knees. “He seduced her. I was young still – I didn’t understand. All I knew was that the house felt suddenly less safe, that Mum was shouting and crying a lot, that she was drinking a lot. And then we left with him. Not long after that, he left us. A few months later she was dead,” he says dispassionately, his voice uncannily flat. “They put me in an orphanage. When I was fourteen I ran away, and I came straight back here. It was the first time I had seen Lili and Gert in two years. They hadn’t known where I was. Didn’t know about Mum. We all cried.” He manages a weak smile.
“They scraped together money for me to study art,” he says more briskly. “And then I went out into the world, travelling, painting, doing whatever odd jobs I could to pay my way. Four months ago I got a letter from Filomena inviting me to the villa to stay for the summer, and – well, here we are.” He holds out his hands in a gesture that envelops the scene around us. “That’s the whole sorry tale, or most of it anyway,” he says. “More than I usually like to share.” The smile he gives me is crooked and it cuts straight through me.
“Thank you for telling me,” I manage, though the words feel inadequate. I know what he has trusted me with: a part of himself that he keeps shut away. We sit quietly together, our fingers entwined, my head on his shoulder as the sun dips below the horizon and the first evening star dances overhead.
“You know, when I hid up here,” Ben says after a while, pulling a paper bag from his pocket. “I would bring my spoils with me so that I didn’t have to share them.” He hands me a delicate white sugar mouse. “But I don’t mind sharing them with you.”
Something warm and heavy settles in my chest. I lean against him and he wraps an arm around my shoulder, pulling me so close that I can hear the steady thump of his heart. “I like that you’re here,” he murmurs.
“I like it too,” I say, and when I reach up to kiss him, he tastes of sugar.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
When I wake up the next morning I take a moment to stretch gleefully in my comfortable bed. The dopey smile on my face remains from the night before and I touch my fingers to my lips, remembering the kisses that Ben pressed to them.
Today, we have a very full schedule and I am eager to get started. I dress as quickly as possible and head downstairs. In the kitchen Lili is frying bacon and Ben leans against the counter, drinking a cup of coffee. When I enter the room, he looks up and a smile lights up his face for a second before he gets himself under control. Lili glances between us, a knowing look in her eyes.
“Good morning,” she says, flipping the bacon expertly. The smell of it sizzling in the pan, mixing with the scent of freshly ground coffee, is absolute heaven and I place my hand over my stomach as it starts to rumble.
A deep, growling snore arises from one of the sofas and I look over to find a large, scruffy man who I don’t know is sound asleep there. His legs are sprawled out, crossed at the ankles, and he still has his boots on.
“Don’t mind Boris,” Lili grunts. “He could sleep through anything. I do find most of these anarchists are actually quite lazy when they’re not rabble-rousing.”
“Is it usual for there to be an anarchist asleep on the sofa in the morning?” I ask.
“It is in this house,” Ben says.
“Boris is a harmless dear,” Lili says, cracking eggs into the pan with one hand and making the fat spit furiously. “He hasn’t recovered from the Arditi being broken up.” The Arditi were the anti-fascist organization – I know that much. “God knows, he is right to be frightened.”
“You think Mussolini is dangerous?” I ask. I take a sip of my coffee, leaning against the counter, my arm pressed lightly against Ben’s.
Lili starts flipping the bacon and eggs on to plates. “Look at those young kids out there,” she says. “Head to toe in black and that fanatical gleam in their eye, committing violence in the name of a charming dictator.” She shakes her head. “You tell me that’s heading anywhere good. Nationalism is like a sickness.” Lili hands me my plate. “Italy first, Mussolini says, let’s rebuild the Roman Empire, and they look at him and they see hope for the future, but everyone seems to forget that the Roman Empire was built out of blood and bones.”
And right now, my uncle might be drinking tea with him for all I know. I catch Ben’s eye and I know that he’s thinking the same.
“A lot of people think he’s charming,” he says with an easy shrug. I’m struck again by how little these things seem to touch him. Lili’s anger is palpable, but Ben is relaxed, already more interested in the breakfast that he’s been handed.
“I suppose it’s the same in England,” I say. “Lots of my parents’ friends seem quite interested in the BUF.”
“That’s the British Union of Fascists?” Ben’s brow crinkles.
“Yes.” I blow gently on my coffee. “It’s all dressed up in so much civility,” I say. “Like that horrible Lady Frances woman my uncle seems so enamoured of.”
Lili nods. “Evil can come under the guise of gentility. Things will get a lot worse before they get better,” she says with certainty.
“Let’s not talk about it this morning,” Gert chimes in, coming through the door in a pale pink silk dressing gown. She reaches up to peck Lili on the cheek. “We should be making the most of having Ben and Bea here with us for a few days.”
We chat quietly about other things as we eat our breakfast, but I know I’m not the only one with half my mind still on our conversation. I remember again the newsreels I have seen of Mussolini shouting from a podium at wild crowds of people, leading military demonstrations of rows and rows of soldiers, stony-faced and obedient. Lili’s warning sits in my stomach like a stone and part of me knows she’s right, knows that something dark and dangerous is wrapping itself in a death grip around this beautiful country. It may be easy to ignore it, but it doesn’t seem like something that’s going to go away on its own, whatever Ben may say.
“So what do you two have planned for today?” Gert asks.
“A lot,” I say, a surge of excitement thrilling through me.
“So much that we should really get going,” Ben agrees. “Thanks for breakfast, Lil.” He walks around to the other side of the counter and kisses Lili on the cheek.
She reaches out a hand and pats the side of his face. “We’ll see you both later for a family dinner,” she says.
Ben and I leave the house, stepping into the dazzling sunshine. Adrenaline thumps through my veins as I realize that we have the whole city to explore. It’s that vertiginous feeling of freedom again, calling to me, reminding me that I’m far from home.
The city is a warren of side streets and we zigzag through them heading for our destination. Ben is buzzing with excitement, almost giddy, and his enthusiasm feeds mine as we skitter through the streets, giggling like school children.
We walk for miles. Strolling through the Piazza del Duomo, I finally see the famous red brick domes up close. As I stretch my neck, tipping my head up to the skies to take it all in, right up to the gleaming bronze ball that Leonardo himself may have had his hands on, the cathedral is like something from a fantasy. The white and gree
n marble exterior looks like it has been spun from sugar in an eccentric confectioner’s workshop, the fulfilment of a greedy child’s wish. It is a ridiculous, delicious delight.
“It’s so beautiful,” I say.
“Like a wedding cake,” Ben says, his nose slightly wrinkled.
I smile. “I was thinking a home for your sugar mice.”
We keep moving, through to the Piazza della Signoria, where the town hall, the Palazzo Vecchio, looms – an impressive fortress, a palace complete with battlements at the top. In the square we pass a group of Blackshirts, none of them much older than me, and they are joking and laughing, though in their black shirts, ties and hats they still manage to look sinister, like overgrown crows.
I look at them for a moment and catch the eye of one boy. He grins and shouts something in Italian that I don’t understand.
“What did he say?” I ask Ben.
“You don’t want to know,” he says grimly, dragging me along.
“I would think you would know me better than that,” I reply.
An exasperated smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Let’s just say he was appreciative of your appearance.”
“Ah.” I turn over my shoulder and catch the boy’s eye, then I shout something back. The boy’s mouth drops open in incredulity and then, amidst his friends’ shouts of laughter, he begins to move towards us.
“You’ve done it now,” Ben sighs, tugging me down an alleyway. We run, zigzagging a little, until he is certain we have lost our pursuer.
“And where did you learn that?” Ben asks. “I’m fairly sure they don’t teach words like that to proper young ladies.”
“Good job there aren’t any of those around, then,” I reply. “And I learned it from Ursula, of course. Such a poetic language, Italian.” It’s rankling a little that we fled so easily. The sight of the Blackshirts unnerved me, and a part of me relished the idea of a confrontation. I wanted to push back against something that I know in my heart is wrong. Doing nothing, running away, it feels … cowardly.
There’s not too much time to dwell on this, though, as we have reached our first important stop, a pilgrimage to Ben’s place of worship: the Uffizi gallery. We turn down an unobtrusive side street and find ourselves walking the length of the narrow courtyard between the two wings of the museum; ahead is a tantalizing glimpse of the Arno and all around us the high walls of the old building, built for the Medici. Graceful pillars support a wide portico where happy tourists buzz like little bees, and we join the swarm into the gallery.
Inside the museum there’s a sense of calm. It is already very obvious to me that the people of Florence hold the business of art to be a serious one, sacred almost, so intertwined with the iconography and the churches and cathedrals that stand shoulder to shoulder here. We clip along the endless, light-filled hallway, one side given over completely to windows. We stop along the way to examine the delicate busts and statues here and I marvel at the way that the softness and warmth of flesh and cloth can be depicted in chill, pure white marble.
We duck into the galleries that lead off the hallway and the artwork that’s on display is almost comically famous. There’s Botticelli’s Venus rising from her shell, and Titian’s Venus of Urbino with her frank stare, and the little dog curled at her feet. There are paintings by Michelangelo, Rembrandt and Raphael. It is almost overwhelming, but Ben is the perfect guide, pointing out little details and explaining different techniques that the artists used.
In one room we find several works by Caravaggio, and Ben is amused by my bloodthirsty enjoyment of his depiction of Medusa – a screaming, severed head with twisting serpents instead of hair.
“I always liked the idea of Medusa having serpents instead of hair,” I admit. “At least she had company.” I tip my head to consider the painting. “Snakes were probably better than most of the humans she encountered anyway.”
We stop outside the Uffizi so that Ben can buy us both gelato, handing over a fistful of coins for the two small dishes. I’ve never eaten it before, and mine is pale green and tastes of sunshine. “Pistachio,” I murmur, spooning the smooth, sweet ice cream into my mouth and closing my eyes as it melts on my tongue. “It’s wonderful.”
We walk along, eating our gelato and watching the world go by. We’re by the river now, and the sunlight dances on the blue water, leaving spots of light glittering like sequins scattered on the surface. We cross over the Ponte Vecchio, the famous bridge, lined with higgledy-piggledy rows of shops, mostly jewellers, their wooden shutters flung open for business.
When we turn down another narrow street, full of life and car horns and crowds, and past the Pitti Palace, I feel my heart speed up. There has been one place I’ve been longing to go since I heard we were coming to Florence, and we’re about to arrive. We continue to make our way down the road which grows narrower and narrower, until we stop in front of an unassuming facade with a small stone plaque beside the door. “Museo di Fisica e Storia Naturale,” I breathe. “The Museum of Physics and Natural History.” I dance from foot to foot.
“I’ve never been.” Ben looks down at me. “It’s your turn to be the guide now.” I grab his hand, tugging him through the doorway and down the long, dimly lit stone passage beyond.
Inside the museum is a treasure-trove. Dozens of rooms crammed with all sorts of fascinating exhibits. Others might have been horrified by the gruesome anatomical wax models that fill several of the rooms, but Ben listens with interest, as I explain that they were used in the eighteenth century to teach medical students. “They’re incredibly accurate because they were copied from real corpses,” I say, as we linger over a waxwork heart.
Ben’s eyes light up. “I would love to come back and sketch some of this.”
“So would I,” I admit. “I feel like Stubbs with his horses.”
“So we can tell your uncle that I made an artist of you after all.” Ben grins. “I’m sure he’ll be relieved to know he got his money’s worth.” The words have a slightly bitter ring to them, and I look up, surprised, but Ben has already moved on to another model and is asking me what the names of the various veins and arteries are.
I take him into more rooms, rooms filled with entomological collections. “Of course you want to spend your time with the bugs,” Ben grumbles, but I’m not listening.
There, on one of the long wooden drawers, is a label, Collezione Rondani. “Camillo Rondani’s collection,” I whisper, awed as I pull out the drawer, slowly and with a muffled shushing sound.
“Who was he?” Ben asks.
“He was an expert on Diptera, or—”
“Flies.” Ben cuts me off. He flushes at my surprised expression. “You mentioned it the other week. I looked up what it meant.”
That warm feeling in my chest is back and I try to fight it down, to keep a lid on the thing that is growing inside me with every day we spend together, the thing I don’t want to name. I try not to beam at him, like a moonstruck ninny, like so many girls have probably beamed at him before.
“Yes, flies.” I clear my throat. “He also wrote some fascinating things about insects in Sicilian amber.”
“Like what?” Ben asks.
I walk around the room, pointing things out. I like that he’s interested, and that he doesn’t mind me knowing so much more than him about this. He asks me just as many questions as I asked him in the gallery. Mother and Father always told me that a man wouldn’t appreciate a woman who had more education than him. I smile. Ben seems to appreciate me just fine.
At the end of the day, when we return to Lili’s house, I am relaxed and happy. Ben holds the door open, and my body brushes against his as I walk through. He catches me, and kisses me before we go inside. This is dangerous, I know; this is playing with fire.
And yet, as I look up at him, I feel ready to burn the whole place down.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The next day we return to the natural history museum, where Ben makes quick, vibrant sketches, and where
I attend to my anatomical studies. I’m particularly proud of the drawing I do of the human digestive system, based on the wax figures.
“Isn’t it fascinating, Ben?” I ask. “To think all of this is going on inside us right now. That our bodies work so perfectly.”
“It’s … something.” Ben admits.
“Beautiful,” I breathe, looking at the cross section of a forearm, the bones, muscles and arteries all intricately bound together.
Ben laughs. “Is it any wonder you weren’t won over by the traditional romantic gestures?”
“You’re not going to start reading poetry again, are you?” I ask suspiciously.
“Philistine.” Ben shakes his head and goes back to his own sketching.
Later that evening we have dinner with Lili and Gert. They tell me stories about Ben when he was small, about the time he brought an injured pigeon into the house and kept it secretly in a box in his room.
“I only found out by following the little trail of breadcrumbs,” Lili laughs. “We wondered where all the bread had been going. By the time Ben let him go he was the fattest pigeon in all of Florence.”
“Bea would have liked him,” Ben says. “She would have known his name in Latin, Pigeonus maximus or suchlike.”
“Columbidae, actually,” I correct him with a smile. “I did the same thing once, with a sparrow. But my mother found out and she was furious. She wouldn’t let me keep him, despite the fact that – as I pointed out – a big creaky wreck like Langton Hall was probably full of rats and bats and other, far less savoury, creatures.”
“I’m surprised that didn’t win her over,” says Ben.
“I was too,” I agree. “But then you never can have a logical argument with her.”
“It sounds like you and Ben would have been good friends, then,” Gert puts in.
“Yes,” I say. “I think we would.”
Ben shakes his head. “Oh, I doubt Beatrice would have had much to do with a ragamuffin like me.” The words are said lightly, but there’s something underneath them that I don’t like.