“I’ll stop. I promise, and thank-you. You’ve saved my life, well if not that, then at least my beauty.” He gave her a peck on the cheek and was gone.
Diana sat at her desk and stared blankly at the window. One word filled her mind, and repeated itself over and over; Why? Why? Why? Why?
Olly closed the door behind him. Thank God she had coughed up again, saved his life again. But then that’s what she liked; control. One day he’d tell her that. As for the rest of her little lecture, well he’d work on that. She’d better change her mind or he’d be in real trouble. How much was she worth? How much would he inherit anyway?” He found he had no idea, the purse seemed bottomless, but how true was that?
He returned to his room and could hear Ambra throwing up in the bathroom, she had some kind of a flu’ bug, which he hoped to God he wouldn’t catch. He put on his light summer jacket, collected his sunglasses, giving a final check to his beauty, in the mirror, as he left. He had to get to Ronnie, before Ronnie got to him, or he might decide to lay into him just for the fun of it. Orlando was a physical coward, and Ronnie was enormous and known for his cruelty. He was the kind of thug who killed animals, and enjoyed it. Sometimes Orlando wondered why he played poker with him. Then he thought that perhaps he enjoyed dicing with death.
Diana watched him leave the house. She still sat at her desk, but her arms were folded and hugging her body, and she rocked silently, leaning slightly forwards.
She mentally reviewed her children. Emily, well that little scene had been unfortunate, but they would never leave. They knew when they were well off. Did Emily really care for her? She would like to think so. Francesca: she had failed there alright. She obviously felt that her mother cared for the others more than for her and her daughter. Leaving aside her emotional responses to every word anyone uttered, Diana had to acknowledge that it was, well…not that she disliked Zoë, but she was very irritated by her behaviour. The girl had no backbone. Then there was the divorce; well that had hardly been necessary. Her own husband, Pier Francesco, had been tremendously unfaithful. It was not in his nature to be faithful, but the girls involved had meant nothing. They had bolstered up his image of himself as a dynamic, successful man, and he had continued to behave as he pleased, well into his sixties. Why Francesca had made such a fuss she couldn’t understand. She had brought all her unhappiness on herself, and Diana had told her so.
Orlando: he was just refusing to grow up. It was beyond her to understand why he was content to have nothing tangible, nothing, of which he could say, ‘this is mine’. He certainly enjoyed life, and emulated his father with regard to women, but that was where the similarity stopped. He was worth nothing. He had achieved nothing. He had immense charm, and was the only one of her children ever to show outward signs of affection. He was the only one ever to touch her. No one touched her anymore, not since Pier Francesco had died. Chiara would sooner think of kissing a horse than her mother. She smiled wryly. At least she was happy, she had her horses, and Ambra her music. She made a mental note to check on how Ambra was feeling, as she hadn’t been down for breakfast.
Cosimo. Ah! There she was beginning to feel that perhaps she had been wrong. He was the only one that was fulfilling his early promise, perhaps she should have backed down, although she still felt it was a good idea, but….
She came back to Angelo, she had an awful premonition, maybe it was just fear, but she felt that he was in danger. She waited for a while longer but the phone didn’t ring, so she went along to the kitchen to check that there were no problems with the arrangements for the evening meal. Lunch would be very simple, to keep the work to a minimum. Chiara had already said that she would come back from the stables early to help, but whether or not Ambra would, she had yet to ascertain. Also, Orlando was going to do the barbecue, but would Arturo help him now that he was in a huff? Emily had gone up to the bedroom, no doubt to talk to him. Well, they would have to wait and see. If they were really pushed Chiara could help Orlando and the girls could give a hand in the kitchen, not that they would be very happy about that, but needs must…
She started, as she heard the phone ring, and calling “I’ll take it”, dashed back to her study. It was the Maresciallo with good news. There had been no hospital admission in the whole province that could possibly be Angelo, also no arrests. Not that he expected any, he reassured her, but best to check. He would check on hospital admissions for the region later in the day. By the way, he added, hospital admissions also covered the morgue, so he thought, on the whole, that the boy was well, and probably thoughtlessly staying with friends. Did she know that ninety per cent of missing adolescents turned up safe and sound within a week? She thanked him and rang off.
She shook off her worry and decided to check on Ambra, who still hadn’t left her room, though it was now eleven o’clock. She chided herself for not going up sooner, but this Angelo thing was really taking over, and everything else was a poor second in her thoughts.
CHAPTER TEN
She knocked on the door and heard a muffled ‘come in’ from within. She went in and closed the door quietly behind her.
“Ambra, my dear, what’s wrong with you?” Silence.
“Are you ill?”
“No.”
“Well, do you want to tell me what it is?” Ambra looked at her, screaming inside her head, “NO I DON’T” but after a moment, she replied quite calmly, “I’m pregnant.”
With admirable restraint, her mother replied, “Oh my dear,” in an emotion- laden voice, that needed little interpretation. They remained in silence for a while, each working out her next move. Then Diana asked, “Who? Who is responsible for this?”
“I am, of course.”
“Don’t be facetious.”
“Oh, you mean, who can you blame for this, or do you mean, who is the father of my child. Which of the two, Madre?” Her voice rose.
“Ambra, my poor girl, you’re hysterical.”
“Yes, I am hysterical. You’re right as always, and do you want to know why I’m hysterical, do you?
“Why?”
“Because of you. Not because of the baby, but because of you.”
“Ambra, we have always been able to talk so, talk to me now. Tell me what you are accusing me of. I’ve done nothing knowingly,”
“Oh, but you will when you know. I know you, Madre, I see right through you and I know what you’ll say and I know what you’ll do, and why, and I even know how you’ll justify it.”
“Ambra, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I can see you are upset. Won’t you let me help you? Tell me what you want.”
“I’ll tell you, but I won’t get it.”
“Try me.”
There was a lengthy pause, then Ambra looking her mother squarely in the eyes said, “I will. I’ll try you. I’ll tell you what I want and you won’t like it. I want to marry the father of my child, and live with him in a house in town, or anywhere but here. I want you to continue to give me my allowance but, as I will move away and cost you less, I want an increase in that allowance, so that I can marry the man I love, live with him, on our own and bring up this child in a normal family.”
“I see. How romantic darling. It sounds like a third-rate novel. Life is not always that romantic. Living in poverty can be very hard, especially for someone accustomed to luxury. Bringing up a child in those conditions would be even worse.”
“Poverty! You’re crazy. We’d live quite well enough.”
“Would you? You’re still such a child yourself. It isn’t easy to be responsible for others, and a child is an enormous responsibility.”
“Madre, legally, I am an adult.”
“Let’s put all this to one side for the moment. Are you going to tell me who is the father of your child, or is this to remain a secret until after the wedding?” she smiled, as though trying to lighten the tone of the discussion.
“You’ll like this even less,” she paused and then said in a flat tone of voice, “Riccardo.”
“Riccardo? Riccardo who? Do I know him?”
“Riccardo, Madre, the Riccardo you’ve known for years,”
“I don’t understand,” she said in a puzzled tone, though she was beginning to.
“Yes you do. Riccardo, your estate manager.”
“Yes, I see. I didn’t think you could mean him; he’s the same age as Orlando.”
“Well you’re hardly in a position to point out the difference in our ages, are you Madre? My God, father was twenty six years older than you. He was nearly seventy when he fathered Angelo!”
“Yes, I know. Of course, I was older than you are, six years older, when I got married. You are so very young. You have these romantic ideas of a cottage for two and a baby, but what about your music, your life? Is everything to be thrown away?”
“No, the child will be my everything; music will come a poor second, as it did for you. At least for a while. ”
“Ambra, this isn’t like you. You’ve always been so sensible. How can you mean to throw yourself away like this, and for what, an infatuation? How long have you known him?”
“All my life, or did you mean in the biblical sense, Madre?”
“This is hardly a time for joking.” She paused. “Let’s be serious and try to work out a solution. How pregnant are you?”
“What does it matter?”
“It might,” she replied ambiguously, “Does Riccardo know that you are pregnant?”
“Of course!”
“I see.” She thought for a moment then added, “Ambra, as you know, I am a practising Catholic, but I do believe that certain spheres of our life should be conducted according to our conscience and not according to the current dogma. For example, the use of contraceptives, as I am sure you will agree, is a matter for the individual to decide about. Did you think about this?”
“Of course! I forgot to take the pill one day, and by the time I realised, it was obviously too late, so this happened. I really didn’t think it would.”
“But it has.” She paused, and then continued in a quiet voice, “Have you ever, in your mind, considered an abortion? Don’t look so shocked. I think you might be surprised to know how many families have resorted to this to avoid even greater suffering. A shotgun marriage and a divorce a few years later is not a good thing, for either the parents, or more especially for the child, who carries the burden of guilt. Look at poor Zoë, and how unhappy she is, and she wasn’t even the cause, merely a victim.”
“Madre, I’m not even married and you’re talking about divorce. I’m talking about marriage and a family, and you, the practising catholic, are talking to me about abortion! Why? Why can’t I do what I want, what I know is right? You said ‘try me’, well I have, and I have found you wanting. I knew you would react badly, and you’ve reacted even more negatively than I expected. You’re a hypocrite and a snob, and a bitch and you cover it all up with a veneer of kindly concern. I told you that I knew you, well I was wrong, I don’t know you. This is even worse than I could have ever imagined. “She folded her arms protectively over her abdomen. Tears coursed down her face.
“I can see it is impossible to reason with you at the moment. I think you should consider what I have said to you, very carefully. We will discuss things when you have calmed down and are ready to talk sense. As for Riccardo, I am horrified that he has left you to carry this burden alone, and not come to me himself. I have always appreciated his honesty and his capabilities, but I see that I have overestimated him. It is unpardonable that he should go skulking behind my back, seducing my daughter, and getting her pregnant, when she is still a child herself, but no doubt it was done with a view to personal enrichment.”
“How dare you! How can you speak of him like that? He wanted to come to you, but I wouldn't let him. He thinks you like him, the poor fool,” she wailed, and fell back on the bed turning her face to the pillow.
“You come from a rich family, Ambra. I’m sure he took that into consideration, but he will find that his calculations are inexact this time. Instead of bettering his situation, he’ll find it a lot worse.”
“Ambra leapt up on the bed screaming at her, “You fucking bitch. I hate you. I hate your guts. You don’t care about me at all. I knew you would do this, well you’ll be sorry, you really will. I mean it.”
“Don’t make empty threats, you stupid girl. Can’t you see that he is after your money, nothing else? It’s a sordid little story isn’t it. I’ll see him immediately and he’ll leave here as soon as possible. I forbid you to see him. You’ll marry him over my dead body.” She stalked out and slammed the door.
Emily, in the bathroom next to the bedroom, had heard most of the latter part of this conversation, and thought, “Madre is having a field day today. First me and Arturo, now Ambra. Cosimo’s gone, and Angelo, and I bet she had a row with Chiara about her stupid stables. But Olly was looking fairly pleased with himself as he walked out, so I suppose she’s shelled out some more money. I don’t understand why she always gives in to him. Of course she’s right not to give into Ambra; she’s such a child, and Riccardo ought to be ashamed of himself.”
Arturo had driven off in a huff. As for herself, she wasn’t at all upset by her mother’s censure. To her, the fact that Madre had spoken to her like that, was the measure of her mother’s state of anxiety. She knew her mother would never normally speak to her like that, and that she didn’t really mean any of it, but Arturo had got it all wrong. Poor dear. When he came back she would talk to him. Of course, it couldn’t have been very pleasant for him to hear the woman he loved treated like a stupid child, and it was nice to know that he loved her enough to stand up for her. She thought it very courageous of him, if foolhardy, because they would be in a very difficult position if they did have to leave. Consoling herself with these rather simplistic thoughts, she felt quite cheerful. It was what Orlando called ‘Emily’s way’; shove the shit under the carpet, spray the room and say in a loud voice, “What a wonderful smell there is in here!”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Friday evening was warm and sultry, the air heavy, humid, and the sky leaden, as it faded into darkness. No stars were visible. A warm wind began to tickle the serviettes and flutter the tablecloth. Candles had been set along the terrace wall and the flames flickered and leapt, died and leapt up again.
The guests arrived in groups and singly within a short space of time. Acrid smoke from Orlando’s barbecue scented the air, and the inviting smell of cooked sausages wafted to eager nostrils. The guests seated themselves where they wished, filling up the tables with chattering groups. Soon the sound of forks and glasses clinking filled the air, as food was passed and plates set down, glasses filled and emptied. Diana sat facing Giorgio Paconi, musical director of the school. He was a short, swarthy, rather portly little man, with abundant grey curly hair, very different from the lithe, lean, attractive man he had been. His face was bloated now and, beneath the tan, broken capillaries snaked and criss-crossed his overstuffed cheeks. His eyes, had the protuberant look of the quasi-strangled, the whites, bloody. His appearance was that of a man forced into a suit two sizes too small for him. His breathing was laboured, and appeared to cause him some effort.
He was on his second glass of wine, before most of the others were halfway down their first. He served himself amply with pasta and began to eat with gusto. Diana, who had little appetite, observed him with a kind of quiet horror. He washed down a mouthful of food and polished his mouth, sucking at his teeth, before saying,” “Wonderful, dear Diana. I always consider these evenings one of the high points of the summer sessions.”
“Well this year, you certainly couldn’t say it was the music, could you?" she asked pointedly.
“The music?” he sounded puzzled “Oh, I see, very droll. No you’re right. The Purcell wasn’t a great success. The orchestra was bloody awful that evening.”
“Both evenings,” said Mario Bonanima, seated to the right of Diana. “No doubt you remember, dear Giorgio, that
there were two performances.”
“Yes, but I only conducted on the first evening, and left the second to one of my students, who is doing the course in orchestra direction, if you remember, Mario.”
“How could I forget?”
“Giorgio, we all agree, I think, that the orchestra was awful, but they had very few rehearsals, insufficient rehearsal should I say,” said Diana.
“Yes, I am aware that that is your opinion, but let me tell you, I could have rehearsed them for months and they’d never have been any better.”
“I admit that they aren’t fantastic musicians, but I think they might have had more of a chance if they had had a little more time together. It’s no good them just rehearsing alone, you know. For many this is a first, so one should give them at least the possibility. Don’t you agree?” she added.
“No, I don’t, I’ve told you what I think, and I stick to it.” He munched on happily.
“Let’s tackle what you said then.” said Mario. “You say they’re no good. OK, I agree the level is pretty poor, but what I want to know is, why? Where are all the good students going? because they certainly don’t find our school very attractive, and they’re staying away in droves.”
“It’s the music schools. The level’s gone down, they take anyone these days. This is the result; we all suffer.”
“Oh come on, you’re saying that there aren’t any good young musicians. That’s rubbish. I have only to look at my own students, who are pretty good, and a couple are excellent.”
“I agree; but my dear Mario, you attract students of a certain level. I would be most surprised to see you with poor students. I’ll say more, I would be astounded. It wouldn’t happen.”
“At last we’re getting there, Giorgio. You have put it in a nutshell. I wouldn’t take on poor students, because I expect a high level of achievement, but evidently not everybody does. Not our violin teacher for example.”
The Tuscan Mystery Trilogy Page 30