Siena Summer

by Teresa Crane

  ‘What happened to “Mouse”?’

  He studied her for a very long time, long enough to bring a small flush of colour to her cheeks. ‘It doesn’t suit you any more,’ he said softly.

  *

  The following day, rested and restored, Poppy was eager to see as much of Florence as possible before they left for Siena. Kit was more than ready to oblige.

  The city, dressed in her early summer best, enchanted Poppy, and Kit delighted in her enthusiasm. They visited the Duomo, with its spectacular and gloriously spacious interior and breathtaking works of art, marvelled at the magnificence of the intricate bronze doors of the Baptistry, the so-called ‘gates of paradise’ and strolled through the famous Piazza della Signoria at the heart of the city, dominated by the massive Palazzo Vecchio with its great crenellated tower. Poppy was wide-eyed and infectiously excited as a child. ‘I’ve never seen so many lovely sculptures! And the fountain – it’s perfectly beautiful—’

  Kit smiled, and glanced at his watch.

  ‘Oh – we don’t have to go yet, do we? There’s so much to see!’

  He laughed. ‘You don’t have to see everything at once, you know. We can come back another time. But no, we don’t have to leave just yet. We’ve time for a flying visit to the Uffizi if you’d like. And then, if you don’t mind before we go back to pick up your luggage, I’d like to pop into a shop just over the Ponte Vecchio. It’s a small gallery. The proprietor takes a few of my paintings. She may have sold one or two. Is that all right?’

  ‘Of course.’ She slipped her arm through his, gazing at the busy, sunlit scene around her. ‘Oh, Kit, I am so very pleased I came!’

  He smiled into the bright, excited face. ‘I’m glad.’

  In the event the treasure-house that was the Uffizi all but overwhelmed her. ‘It’s no good. I can’t really take it all in. I feel like Alice in Wonderland,’ she confessed at last.

  Kit turned from his contemplation of a Madonna and Child. ‘It’s a bit much to expect you to. Come on. As I said, we can always come back another day if you’d like. And time is getting a little tight. I promised Isobel we’d be back in good time today. She doesn’t much like being left alone.’

  Out in the narrow, shadowed Piazzale degli Uffizi, the heat hit them immediately. Glimpsed through the arches that led to the embankment, the Arno flowed, sluggish and ill-smelling. Kit laughed as Poppy wrinkled her nose. ‘Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it. Most Italian rivers smell like that.’

  Poppy was fascinated by the ancient and picturesque Ponte Vecchio that arched, crowded with small, overhanging buildings across the river, as once, she supposed London Bridge had over the Thames. Once over the river, Kit guided her down a tall canyon of a street to a small gallery. As he pushed open the door a dark, well-dressed woman who was seated at a desk looked up, smiling delightedly as she saw who the visitor was. ‘Kit! Buon giorno! Come sta?’

  Kit responded in easy and rapid Italian. Poppy caught her own name and Isobel’s. The woman smiled at her. ‘Piacere, Signorina.’ She turned back to Kit, speaking quickly, illustrating her words with gestures of her well-shaped hands. Poppy looked around. The place was a good deal larger than she had expected, the walls completely lined with pictures. Leaving Kit and the woman to their business, she wandered, interested, about the room, inspecting the paintings. Not unnaturally most were of the city itself, or of the surrounding countryside, the exception being a small group of portraits, some in oil, some in watercolour and some simple pencil sketches. Poppy’s attention was caught by a charming sketch of a child’s head; fair-haired, wide-eyed, his pretty mouth looking as if it were about to curve in a mischievous smile. A faintly familiar face, the long-lashed eyes direct and ingenuous. She knew before she reached it whose signature it would bear. This, then, must be her nephew Robbie. She studied it with undisguised pleasure. The little boy looked a delight, and Kit had captured perfectly the grave innocence of childhood. There were two more sketches by the same hand; both of a woman, strikingly handsome, dark hair pulled sleekly to her head, with narrow, slightly slanted eyes veiled and enigmatic.

  ‘I see you’ve found him.’ Kit had come up behind her.

  ‘It is Robbie, then?’

  ‘Yes, it’s Robbie.’ His voice softened upon the name, his eyes lit with a smile. ‘It’s rather a good likeness, actually.’

  ‘He looks as if he’s about to burst out laughing.’

  ‘He always looks like that. He’s a darling. You’ll love him.’

  ‘I’m sure I shall.’ As they turned away, she asked, ‘Who’s the other one? The woman?’

  There was a moment of silence. Then, ‘An acquaintance,’ Kit said stiffly. ‘Just an acquaintance.’

  So different was his tone that Poppy glanced at him, surprised. ‘She’s very beautiful.’

  ‘Yes.’ Again the word was short, off-hand, uninviting of any further discussion. ‘Right, young lady, let’s get a move on.’ He was suddenly brisk. ‘In the unlikely event that it’s going to leave on time, the train goes in an hour and a half. We’d best get back to the hotel for your luggage.’

  *

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen such beautiful countryside. No wonder you love it so much.’ Poppy was looking out of the carriage window, over the changing panorama of green cypress-dotted hills and blue skies, of tiny villages, hilltop fortresses, of grand houses set among their vineyards and lemon groves. ‘Oh, look – there’s another castle—’

  ‘It’s a fortified village, actually. There are quite a few in this area. They haven’t changed for centuries. Very little has.’ Kit, sitting opposite her, surveyed her with affectionate eyes. He had not of course been foolish enough to believe that there would be no change in her; but then again he had not been quite prepared for the extent of the change. This was no little Mouse with untidy hair and a dirty apron, but a surprisingly self-confident young woman, tall, long-legged and very slim, the shining cap of her hair stylishly cut. The boyish fashions of the times suited her well. Her skin was creamy and, like her sister’s, flawless. Only the soft velvet eyes were exactly as he remembered them. While attractive, she had little of Isobel’s obvious beauty, yet the sparkle of her energy, her easy, friendly smile and ready laughter would turn heads equally quickly. And possibly keep them turned for longer.

  She leaned forward, eager to talk. ‘Tell me about the house. Is it really grand?’

  He threw back his head in laughter. ‘Not the word I would use! Crumbling is more like it. Dilapidated. Parts of it are more or less derelict. Oh, it was grand once – but over a hundred years of neglect will reduce any building to a virtual ruin. Most of it’s shut up. We live in only a few rooms.’

  ‘Who does it belong to?’

  ‘An old Siena family, the Gordinis. They deserted it a couple of generations ago to live in the city, though they still work the estate. They rent it to us for next to nothing. It’s a perfect place to work.’

  ‘It stands alone?’

  ‘Sort of. There’s a small village a little further down the hillside. Most of the estate workers live there.’

  ‘Is it very old?’

  The enthusiastic persistence of her questions amused him; for a moment again he found himself remembering the little girl he had met on the river bank in Kent ten years before. ‘Yes, many centuries old. The original building is a tower in the woods behind the house. That was built sometime around the eleventh century. The house was built in more settled times and has been added to over the years. You’ll see it soon.’ He nodded towards the window. ‘We’re nearly there.’

  *

  Siena station was outside and below the magnificent city’s walls, which had stood almost unchanged since the thirteenth century. Whilst Kit organised her luggage, Poppy walked outside and gazed about her, entranced. The massive red-brown walls crowned the hillside above her, and beyond them she glimpsed the splendid spires, domes and bell-towers within. The gentle wooded hillsides that surrounded the city lay tranquil in
the bright afternoon sunshine. Here and there a small village, set amongst terraced fields, dozed in the heat of the day. The soil, too, was red. The city looked as if it had grown from earth and rock, at one with its surroundings. She thought she had never seen anything so perfect in its setting.

  ‘Your carriage awaits, my lady.’ Poppy turned to find Kit behind her, smiling. With him was a small, gnarled gnome of a man with one shoulder hunched higher than the other. His face was brown and lined as a walnut. ‘This is Umberto. He’s come to fetch us.’

  ‘Buon giorno, Umberto.’ Poppy extended a hand.

  ‘Signorina.’ With a smile of astonishing sweetness he took it, bowing a little. He reached only to Poppy’s shoulder.

  ‘This way.’ Kit led the way to where a pony and trap stood. Poppy’s luggage was already stowed in it. With remarkable agility the little man swung himself up and took up the reins.

  Poppy laughed delightedly. ‘A real carriage! How lovely!’

  ‘It’s called a calesse. Everyone uses them around here.’ Kit handed her into the trap. The seats were worn, upholstered in scuffed and battered leather, but they were sprung, and comfortable. Kit pulled up the hood to shade them from the sun, then climbed aboard and settled himself beside Poppy. ‘Nearly there. An hour or so and we’ll be home.’

  Umberto swung the pony around and set off at a good pace, away from the city, into the fertile valleys and the green folds of the hills. The calesse rocked over the dirt road. Dust hung in the air. Donkeys ambled along the roadside with fatalistic patience, their loads swaying as they moved. In the villages, children watched the little trap as it passed, waving shyly. A great church loomed, limned sharply against the bright sky. A river sang beneath a bridge shaded by huge spreading chestnut trees. Tilled red fields reflected the heat. Meticulously trained and clipped vines absorbed it.

  It had been a very long journey and, in spite of the roughness of the track, the movement of the vehicle was almost hypnotically soothing. Despite her best efforts, Poppy’s head nodded on to Kit’s shoulder, and she slept.

  She stirred and woke an hour or so later, at Kit’s voice in her ear. ‘Poppy. Poppy? Time to wake up. We’re nearly there.’

  ‘Oh, good Lord!’ She straightened, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. ‘Oh, I’m sorry—’

  ‘Don’t be silly. You’re worn out, and no wonder. We’re coming to the village. I thought you’d like to see it.’

  They were climbing a winding track through woodland. The pony had slowed to a plodding walk. Ahead, Poppy could see a scattering of rudimentary stone houses. The smell of woodsmoke was strong in the air. From the quiet woods a cuckoo called, again and again.

  ‘There, you see? There’s the house.’ Kit was pointing upwards. Looking up, Poppy caught a glimpse of roofs, and beyond and above them a tall, crumbling stone tower. Then they were lost in the trees again.

  She straightened up and ran her fingers through her hair. ‘I must look a complete sight!’

  ‘You’re fine. You look—’ He stopped.

  Poppy glanced at him, followed the direction of his gaze. They were passing a small whitewashed house with a rickety wooden veranda running its length on the first floor. A woman leaned on its rail, watching them, unsmiling. As she caught their eyes, she lifted a hand in grave greeting. She was tall and neatly built, dressed in a white shirt and wide, floppy trousers, a belt about her narrow waist. No Italian peasant woman, this. The smoke from the cigarette she held between long slim fingers rose straight in the still air. Poppy stared. For a moment her sleep-bemused mind refused to work. Why did she feel she had seen this woman before? Sleek black hair was drawn severely to a bun at the nape of her neck. Her eyes, that from this distance looked oddly light and reflective, were slightly slanted. There was a distinctly, almost an exotically, foreign look to her. The one thing that was undeniable was her beauty.

  ‘You look just fine,’ Kit said calmly, and lifted a hand to return the woman’s greeting.

  Poppy’s brain started to work again. ‘Kit, wasn’t that the woman in the sketches? That I saw in the gallery this morning?’

  He turned his most amiable smile upon her. ‘Yes, it was. Her name is Eloise. Eloise Martin. As I told you, she’s – an acquaintance. A friend of Isobel’s. You’ll meet her soon, I have no doubt. But look – here we are.’ The little vehicle had swung on to a side track and through a set of huge, rusty wrought iron gates that hung askew upon massive brick pillars. Both gates and pillars were covered in ivy and waist high in weeds, bracken and even small saplings. The air of neglect was palpable. In the distance the tower reared against the dark background of the trees. A little closer, tiled roofs and shuttered windows glinted in the sunshine.

  Kit laid a hand upon hers. ‘Welcome to Tenuta di Gordini.’

  Chapter Six

  At first viewing, despite what Kit had said, the house did indeed look grand. As they turned a curve in the overgrown driveway, Poppy gave a small gasp of surprise. From this vantage-point the place stood like a fortress, three or four storeys high, four-square, the peeling stuccoed walls massive, the windows long and narrow. The ancient iron-studded door stood within a huge archway approached by a flight of wide, shallow steps. There were stables to the right and a run of barns and outbuildings to the left, forming an open-sided courtyard. It was only as they drew closer that the real state of the place became apparent. The windows were blank and dirty, some glassless, the walls not simply flaking but, in places, so badly neglected that the mortar had fallen completely away to reveal the rough stone beneath. Weeds and nettles choked the courtyard. The steps that led to the door were cracked and broken, the heave of the ground beneath tilting them to perilous angles. The great door itself looked as though it had not been opened in a hundred years; an impression that Poppy later discovered to be the simple truth. An ancient, abandoned calesse, one shaft broken, rested in waist-high grass in one corner of the yard. Most of the outhouses were derelict, doors hanging off or missing altogether, tiled roofs holed. Chickens scratched about the courtyard and outbuildings and a solitary cat sat upon a crumbling wall, watching them with detached condescension. As the cart rolled to a halt, the rasping chirrup of cicadas was suddenly loud on the warm, thyme-scented air, as was the hum of the bees that clustered about the wild flower heads. Beyond the house the dark-shadowed, bright-dappled woodland, fern-carpeted and trackless, started again, the ground sloping gently upwards.

  ‘It’s like—’ Poppy stopped, shook her head a little, laughing ‘—it’s like Sleeping Beauty’s castle! Apart from the hedge of thorns, that is.’

  ‘If it weren’t for Umberto we’d have that, too, believe me,’ Kit said wryly. ‘I’m sorry. I did warn you.’

  ‘Don’t be silly!’ Poppy’s dark eyes were shining. ‘I think it’s absolutely enchanting.’ She stopped as a tiny figure, laughing and babbling excitedly, almost tumbled around the corner of the house and flung himself towards the trap. ‘Daddy! Daddy!’ Clamped under one arm was a knitted woollen toy, so battered that its identity as a dog could only just be discerned.

  Umberto was out of the calesse in a flash and had scooped the little boy up, squealing with laughter, to be deposited upon his father’s lap. ‘Hello, sunshine!’ Kit hugged him, burying his face in the tousled fair curls. The child struggled free, flung his arms about his father’s neck, smacking great wet kisses all over his face: Poppy, watching, laughed delightedly. Her little nephew turned his head to look at her, fair brows drawing together for a moment before, suddenly shy, he hid his face in Kit’s shoulder.

  ‘Hey!’ Kit was gentle, shaking him free. ‘Come along, little man. Look – here’s your Aunt Poppy come all the way from England to see you. At least say Hello.’

  The blonde head shook, the softly pretty face still hidden.

  ‘Robbie, don’t be silly—’

  ‘No, don’t force him.’ Smiling, Poppy put out a hand to touch the silken curls. ‘There’s plenty of time.’

  ‘Signorina—’ She tu
rned. Umberto stood beside the trap, courteous, work-hardened hand outstretched. When she took it, she was amazed at the strength of its grip. Trying to reveal as little leg as possible – not an easy task – she scrambled with rather more speed than elegance to the ground. Kit handed the still bashful Robbie down to Umberto and jumped down beside her. A flash of movement caught her eye. A figure, moving heavily and carefully, had come around the corner of the house. For a moment, sun-blinded, Poppy blinked. Then, with only one fleet moment to register the changes in her sister, she was in her arms, hugging and rocking, laughing and all but crying, both speaking at once.

  ‘Isobel – darling – how are you?’

  ‘Oh, Poppy, Poppy, I am so very pleased to see you! Was the journey too awful?’

  ‘It’s been such a long time!’

  Robbie, watching perplexed from Umberto’s arms, did the safest thing and burst into tears. Isobel immediately pulled away from Poppy and turned to the child, arms outstretched.

  ‘No, no.’ Gently Kit restrained her. ‘You know you shouldn’t carry him. I’ll take him. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with him. He just wants a share of the attention. Come on, let’s get Poppy in out of this heat. The poor girl’s exhausted. She couldn’t keep her eyes open on the way out here.’

  Isobel slipped an arm through Poppy’s and they followed Kit and the now pacified Robbie round towards the back of the house. Poppy was shocked at how thin and tense was the arm that was linked with hers, at how heavily Isobel leaned upon her. When her sister asked with sudden urgency, ‘Poppy?’ she almost jumped.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Tell me something—’ the blue, beseeching eyes held hers anxiously ‘—you did remember to bring the tea?’