Siena Summer

by Teresa Crane

  ‘Kit wouldn’t do that.’ The words were quick and firm.

  Isobel glanced at her. ‘No, of course he wouldn’t.’ Her voice was lifeless.

  The kettle danced suddenly on the hob. Poppy jumped to her feet, splashed water into the pot to warm it, then spooned in the tea, waiting until she had made the brew and tucked it under a tea cosy before she turned and said gently, ‘Isobel – don’t you think you’re being a little silly? Why torment yourself like this? Why not ask Kit outright? I’m sure you’ll find there’s nothing—’

  ’No!’ The word was fierce. ‘No, I can’t. He’d only deny it. Of course he would. But he might get upset. Or angry. I couldn’t stand that. I really couldn’t. Poppy – please – don’t say anything to him? Please? I couldn’t bear any unpleasantness.’

  ‘Of course I won’t.’

  Isobel dropped her face into her hands. ‘I shouldn’t have said anything. I know I’m being stupid. I know it! But I can’t help it!’ She lifted her head to look at Poppy. ‘It’s this wretched pregnancy,’ she whispered. ‘I get—’ she hesitated, searching for the word ‘—fraught when I’m pregnant. When I was carrying Robbie I spent almost the entire nine months crying because I was convinced Kit was going to leave me. I promised him – promised him – I wouldn’t do it again. Please don’t tell him.’

  ‘I’ve already said of course I won’t.’ Poppy crossed to her, put a hand on her shoulder, feeling beneath her palm the knotted tension of her sister’s body. ‘Look, darling, this is awfully bad for you, you know. And for the baby, too. Why don’t you pop up to bed for a rest? I’ll bring your tea up to you.’ Isobel gestured vaguely around the kitchen.

  ‘There are things to do—’

  ‘I’ll do them. That’s what I’m here for. Just go up and rest. Go on. Off you go.’

  ‘I am tired.’

  ‘Then go. I’ll be up presently with the tea. Could you eat a biscuit with it?’

  Isobel, dragging herself to her feet and easing her back with her hands, shook her head. ‘No, thank you. Just tea would be lovely.’

  Poppy watched her to the door. ‘Isobel?’

  Isobel turned.

  ‘Tell me – If you feel like that about Eloise – though I still think you’re wrong – why do you let her come here so often? You seem so friendly?’

  Isobel’s eyes slid from hers. ‘We are,’ she said. ‘Truly, we are. Please forget what I said. I’m just being stupid.’

  She left the room, walking awkwardly, her hand still at her back. Poppy looked after her, a small puzzled line creasing her brow, then she reached into the cupboard for a cup and saucer.

  *

  ‘Is Umberto about?’ Poppy’s bobbed brown head appeared round the door jamb of Kit’s studio. ‘He picked a lovely bunch of flowers for the kitchen. I wanted to thank him.’ Her eye fell upon the half-finished portrait of Eloise that leaned against the wall, and she looked away. In the time since her conversation with her sister the day before she had, despite every effort, found herself more than once thinking about what had been said. Was there any seed of truth – however small – in Isobel’s fears? She did not want to believe so. ‘Kit’s an artist, after all. He loves beautiful things.’ But no; whenever the words came back to her she recalled the couple of times she had seen them together and mentally shook her head. Whatever there might be between these two, it was not love. She was certain of it.

  Kit was working on the landscape on the easel, and did not look round. ‘He’s gone into the city, to pick up Eloise’s brother and son.’

  ‘Oh, of course. I forgot.’ Seeing him like this reminded Poppy so strongly of those childhood days at Tellington Place when he had painted – or rather half-painted – the portrait of herself and Isobel that for a moment she could almost see and smell the place; see the hall with its curving staircase, smell the too-sweet scent of the hothouse flowers her mother had loved that had always pervaded every room, and that she, Poppy, had so disliked. She watched him for a moment. ‘Papa put the portrait you almost painted of us up in the attic,’ she said, apparently inconsequentially.

  His long mouth twitched wryly. ‘I’m not surprised. You could hardly expect him to do anything else. Except, perhaps, to burn it.’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’ She came further into the room, stood watching him, head cocked. ‘But I’m glad he didn’t do that. I went up to look at it, before I left. It really was very good.’

  ‘I’ve got a couple of sketches somewhere, if you’d like to see them? They’re in a box up in the attic, I think.’

  ‘Really? Yes, I would.’ She watched him for a moment longer. ‘Tell me; which do you prefer to paint – portraits or landscapes and things?’

  ‘Portraits.’ The word was patient. He leaned to the canvas. ‘They’re more demanding. And more satisfying. A portrait – a good portrait – is not just a picture of a person. It’s the essence of that person. The more complicated the character, the more difficult it is to capture and the more rewarding if you manage it, even in part.’

  Her eyes flickered to the half-finished portrait propped against the wall. ‘Is that why you like to paint Eloise?’ she asked, and even as she said it winced – as she often did – at her own unthinking outspokenness.

  ‘Yes.’ The word came with no hesitation.

  She had the grace to blush a little. ‘Sorry. You know me. Where angels and Poppies fear to tread and all that. It’s none of my business.’

  ‘It’s all right.’

  She opened her mouth to say more, caught the faintest exasperated movement of his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘I’m disturbing you.’

  His mouth twitched to a smile, but he said nothing. Poppy stuck her hands in the pockets of her slacks and pulled a self-deprecatingly apologetic face. ‘I think perhaps I’d better go and play pirates with Robbie. I promised him I’d walk the plank. It seems to be his favourite game at the moment.’ She waited for a second, but he made no effort to prevent her leaving.

  ‘I’ll see you later,’ he said, already engrossed again.

  *

  Robbie had quite got over his shyness with his young aunt. He was a sunny child with an enchanting smile, an infectious laugh and enough energy to run even Poppy off her feet. Isobel, drained as she was, could not keep up with him and was more than ready to hand over his care almost entirely to her sister. Poppy for her part grew fonder of the child every day and was more than happy with the arrangement. Already they had spent hours together inventing games and stories, building complicated edifices with the brightly coloured multi-shaped wooden bricks that Kit had made for his son, messily painting huge and colourful pictures or playing a Robbie-invented game of hide and seek in which he always hid in the same place, giggling noisily and excitedly as Poppy consistently failed to find him, then jumping out upon her with a loud ‘Boo!’ and squealing with laughter at her dramatically exaggerated fright. He had soon got used to the fact that it was Poppy who tucked him into bed for his daily sleep, Poppy who sat him at the table for his afternoon tea, Poppy who took him walking in the surrounding fields and woodlands. This afternoon, after leaving Kit in his studio, she took the child out into the sunshine of the field at the side of the house to play ball and then to pick a bunch of flowers for his mother.

  They were still there when Umberto drove the empty calesse up the drive and into the courtyard at the front of the house. Poppy waved, and the little man waved back. So Eloise’s visitors had presumably arrived safely. Poppy wondered – or was it more truly hoped? – if the little household might see less of the woman with her own family around her. She saw Kit come out of his studio and exchange a few words with Umberto, though she could not hear what was said.

  ‘Pop,’ Robbie said, pulling impatiently at her shirt. ‘Come play.’

  Smiling, she stooped to pick him up and dropped a quick kiss on his hot, plump little cheek. His small hand clutched at the bedraggled flowers, squeezing the stems so hard that they drooped already. His curls w
ere damp and springy in the heat. ‘No more play, little man. Let’s take these flowers in to Mummy and then it’s time for your rest. No, no—’ she kissed him again, lightly, on the forehead as he opened his mouth to protest ‘—we’ll have more games later. It’s getting too hot now. Come on, off we go.’

  She left him, half an hour or so later, thumb firmly in mouth, Dog tucked in beside him, long lashes drooping, and went back downstairs to find Isobel sitting at the table drinking tea. As she entered the room, yet again Poppy was struck by the shadowed fragility of her looks. ‘He’s well settled,’ she said. ‘Are you all right?’

  Isobel gave her a smile so palpably false that it could more be described as a grimace. When she spoke, her voice too held a spurious brightness. ‘I’m fine. Truly I am. As a matter of fact—’ she hesitated, dropped her eyes from Poppy’s ‘—as a matter of fact, I was thinking of going for a little walk.’

  ‘A walk?’ Poppy dropped into the chair opposite. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Still Isobel did not look at her. ‘Oh, yes, honestly. I’ll be all right. I just – fancy a drop of air, that’s all.’

  ‘It’s very hot,’ Poppy said dubiously. ‘Don’t you think you should leave it until later?’

  ‘No.’ Isobel’s softly pretty mouth, so like her son’s, set in the stubborn line that Poppy had already learned to recognise in Robbie’s. ‘I want to go now. I might not feel up to it later.’

  ‘I don’t think you should go alone. I’ll come with you.’ Poppy stood up.

  ‘No.’ The word was quick. ‘Please, Poppy, don’t fuss. I want to go on my own. Just down to the village and back, that’s all. And anyway, someone has to stay with Robbie.’

  ‘Umberto’s back,’ Poppy said. ‘He’d listen out for him if I asked.’

  There was an odd moment of stillness. Isobel lifted her head to look at her. ‘Umberto? Back already?’

  ‘Yes. I saw him just now. Isobel? Is something wrong?’

  ‘No. Nothing.’ Isobel’s voice was dull. ‘So they’re here, are they? Eloise’s visitors?’

  ‘I assume so. Isobel, I really would rather you didn’t go out alone.’

  Isobel’s shoulders slumped a little. ‘All right, I won’t. I suppose you’re right – it was rather a silly idea.’

  ‘Leave it till later. Rest for the afternoon. Read one of your books. And when it’s a bit cooler perhaps we could all go for a stroll together? You’re right – you should get some exercise, and you have been cooped up here for a long time. I just don’t think you should go out in the heat of the day, that’s all.’

  ‘You’re right. Of course you are.’ Isobel put a hand to her head. ‘If you don’t mind, I think I’ll lie down for a little while. I feel a headache coming on. No, it’s all right—’ Her smile this time was faint but genuine as Poppy had made a move to help her up. ‘For goodness’ sake, Poppy, I’m not actually an invalid, you know. I can put myself to bed.’

  ‘Can I get you anything?’

  Isobel shook her head. ‘No. Nothing. Thank you.’ She turned to the door.

  ‘Shall I wake you when I get Robbie up?’

  ‘I doubt I shall actually sleep, but yes, just let me know and I’ll come down.’ She walked slowly and heavily out of the room. Poppy sat and listened as the sound of footsteps faded and the quiet of the house settled again like a shroud about her. It really was very hot today. She crossed her arms on the table and laid her head upon them, listening to the drowsy sounds of the afternoon as they drifted through the door.

  She was dozing when she heard the voices. She straightened, blinking, as a shadow fell across the bright rectangle of the doorway.

  ‘Poppy?’ Eloise’s voice. ‘Where is everyone?’

  Poppy rubbed sleep from her eyes. ‘Isobel and Robbie are resting. Kit’s in his studio. I’m here.’ With some difficulty she suppressed a yawn. ‘I’m sorry – I was almost asleep.’ She rubbed her eyes again, narrowing them against the light.

  Eloise was not alone. She came into the kitchen with her arm about the shoulders of a child, and a tall, slim man followed, for the moment nothing but a dark silhouette against the sunlight. Sleepily Poppy scrambled to her feet, the chair-legs scraping noisily against the tiles of the floor. Eloise walked the child forward. ‘Poppy, this is my son, Peter.’

  The boy extended a hand. ‘How do you do.’

  Poppy shook hands. The boy was, she judged, about ten years old, a grave, handsome lad with a shy smile. The most immediately eye-catching thing about him was his hair; heavy, and shining, cut to a neat, thick cap about his face, it was the colour of burnished chestnuts and fell across his wide forehead in a soft wave. Poppy knew several girls who would have killed for such hair. Even in the dimness of the kitchen one thing was certain; the boy’s looks were inherited not from his mother but from his father. Here was none of Eloise’s slender elegance – the boy was well and strongly built – neither had he inherited those strange, pale eyes. His were bright and direct, a sparkling hazel, a deep green-gold as he turned his head to the light.

  ‘And this is my brother Michel.’

  The man stepped forward, smiling, and he too shook her hand, acknowledging her in a light, melodious voice. ‘Ma’mselle.’ The first thing Poppy noticed was how like his sister he was; and the next, somewhat confusingly, how very unlike. His face was longer, the features less regular, the clear eyes a less remarkable green. His dark hair receded from a lofty forehead and the hand that held hers was bony, long-fingered and strong. But the main contrast between brother and sister was the genuine and open friendliness of the smile. Her own smile broadened in reply. Inasmuch as she had bothered to think about Eloise’s brother at all, she supposed she had expected something close to a mirror-image of the woman, cool and disdainful; the relaxed warmth that this young man exuded was a surprise of the pleasantest kind.

  ‘You say Kit is in the studio?’

  Poppy turned to Eloise. She was a little startled to see a slight flush of colour in the alabaster cheeks, a glitter of excitement in her eyes. She had never before seen the woman’s composure ruffled; the thumb of the hand that still rested upon the boy’s shoulder stroked rhythmically, almost nervously, on the cloth of his navy blue blazer. Poppy nodded. ‘Yes. He’s working.’

  Eloise smiled her most dazzling smile. ‘Then come – we will introduce my two handsome young men to him.’ To Poppy’s astonishment, she slipped an arm in hers, drawing her towards the door. ‘Robbie—’ she began.

  Eloise lifted an elegant shoulder. ‘Isobel will hear him if he wakes. Come. I warn you—’ her voice was almost teasing ‘—have told my Michel all about you and promised him you will help me to make his stay here a happy one.’

  Poppy found herself blushing to the roots of her hair; which, mortified, she suddenly found herself realising must still be tousled from her afternoon doze. She hastily and ineffectively ran the fingers of her free hand through it. Eloise saw the gesture and smiled. ‘Come,’ she said again.

  Kit was standing at the window when, with no ceremony, Eloise pushed the door open and led the way into the room. He turned, startled. ‘Eloise? What-?’ His eyes moved from the adults’ faces to the child’s, and he stopped. There was a strange, suspended moment of silence. Eloise was watching him intently. Poppy looked from one to the other, puzzled. Kit appeared to have frozen where he stood. She would have sworn that his tanned face had actually paled. The look on the woman’s face was one of almost rapacious expectation. Even the lad felt the moment of tension. Like Poppy, he glanced from Kit to his mother in enquiry; but it was indeed only a moment, and it passed so quickly that Poppy thought she well might have imagined it. With a quick, spontaneous smile Kit stepped forward, hand outstretched. ‘Well, hello, young man. You must be Peter.’

  The boy relaxed, took the hand. ‘Yes. How do you do, Mr Enever.’

  ‘Kit. Call me Kit. Welcome to Tenuta di Gordini. And this must be Michel?’ He turned to the other man and they too shook hands. P
oppy was so busy noticing once again what an extremely attractive smile the young Frenchman had that she almost missed the look that Kit shot at Eloise as he said, ‘How very kind of you to bring your guests to meet us so soon.’ Almost, but not quite; for so fierce was the sudden flicker of bitter hostility in the normally smiling light-brown eyes that it astonished her.

  ‘I promised I would,’ Eloise said, relaxed now, her voice openly amused, ‘And you know, Kit, that I always keep my promises.’ She seemed to Poppy positively to be glowing with delight. ‘Are you not going to offer us a glass of wine? Come—’ Laughing aloud she slipped her arm through Kit’s, as she had through Poppy’s earlier, and almost danced him out of the door. ‘We should celebrate, I think. Let us go and find Isobel and small Robbie. Everyone must be introduced.’

  Peter had followed his mother and Kit out into the courtyard. Poppy, left alone with Michel, to her own surprise found herself, almost for the first time in her life, completely tongue-tied. There was a small but not uncomfortable silence. He stood smiling down at her; a smile, Poppy found herself thinking bemusedly, that would most certainly charm the most reluctant of birds from its perch. ‘Poppy,’ he said thoughtfully, in that quiet, musical voice. His accent, like his sister’s, was slight. Why did she find it infinitely more attractive? ‘What a very pretty name,’ he added after a moment. ‘It suits you.’ The words were as unselfconscious and as candidly friendly as if they had known each other for years.

  She found her missing tongue. ‘Kit used to call me Mouse.’

  He chuckled; and to her utter astonishment her heart quite literally skipped a beat. Another first. ‘Now that,’ he said, amused, ‘doesn’t suit you at all, I think.’

  She smiled, briefly, turned to lead the way out to the others, suddenly and exasperatedly aware that she was in some danger of behaving like a character in one of her sister’s dafter novels. Don’t be silly, she scolded herself as she followed the little party into the house; he’s tall and he’s dark, but you could hardly describe him as handsome.