‘You’re very quiet?’ It was early evening. They had dined and were about to set out for their evening stroll around the Konigsplatz. The band was already playing, liltingly light and pretty music that floated upon the warm air like brightly coloured bubbles.
‘I’m all right.’
Robert shook his head. ‘It’s the weather. It will storm, I think. A walk in the air will do you good. Ah – here come the others—’
She took his arm and they joined Annabel and David under the trees. A small, too-warm breath of air shivered the leaves and was still. Jessica was suddenly and somehow shockingly aware of the warmth of Robert’s arm through the thin material of his lightweight coat. Her shoulder rubbed his. She leaned to him a little.
Annabel was laughing at something he had said. David had an arm about her waist. The band struck up again. A passing couple nodded, smiling, and the man courteously lifted his hat.
Jessica slipped her hand more firmly into the crook of Robert’s elbow. She turned her head to look at him. The neat dark hair curled a very little into the nape of his slender neck. The line of his jaw was sharp and fragile. She could see a small pulse beating softly beneath the skin.
David was talking. ‘—and so I said to the fellow – “Good God, man, what do you take me for? A Lord of the Realm? Two guineas, you say—?”’
‘And he got it for one.’ Annabel cut in pertly, obviously heading off a lengthy story she had heard often before. ‘Wasn’t that clever of him?’ She lifted a hand and tweaked his nose. He growled and pretended to bite her finger.
Robert laughed softly. The flat, handsome planes of his face were lit and shaded by the coloured lanterns that were strung in the trees. Suddenly a flood of tenderness lifted in Jessica, so unexpected and so intense that it brought an absurd sting of tears to her eyes, an awkward lump to her throat. She wanted to lay her head upon his shoulder, to trace the delicate lines of his face with tender fingers, as she had seen Annabel do with David.
‘Well—’ David had stopped, swinging Annabel close to him and dropping a light kiss upon her cheek, ‘anyone for a nightcap?’
Robert glanced at the bemusedly silent Jessica and shook his head. ‘I think not tonight. Jessica is tired, I believe. An early night will do her no harm.’
Annabel pulled a droll face and chuckled a little.
‘It’s the weather,’ Jessica said. ‘I have a headache.’
‘Of course. Off you go, children.’ Annabel beamed, making no pretence at belief. ‘We’ll see you tomorrow. Darling David – are you going to treat me to just one of those wonderful chocolate cakies—?’
‘You’ll get fat, you little pig,’ he said.
‘All the more to cuddle!’
They walked off, squabbling fondly, and crossed the square that was still busy with people. With Robert’s hand on her elbow Jessica climbed the steps to the guesthouse and then the single flight of wide stairs to their room, which was large and comfortably furnished and looked out onto the square. The atmosphere was very close. Robert opened the curtains and threw open the double doors onto the balcony. Music and a babble of talk and laughter rose. The ceiling was gay with coloured light. ‘Is that too noisy for you?’ He was solicitous, as always.
She shook her head. ‘No.’
‘Would you like me to get you something? A glass of water, perhaps?’
‘That would be nice. Thank you.’
He left the room. She walked restlessly to the window and stood looking down into the square. She could see Annabel and David sitting at a table in the shadow of a tree, their chairs drawn close together. As she watched Annabel broke off a small piece of the cake she was eating and lifted it to her husband’s mouth. He took the cake with his lips, nibbled her fingers, kissed the palm of her hand.
Jessica turned away.
She took off her hat and gloves and tossed them on to a chair. Kicked off her slippers, not caring where they landed.
The door opened and Robert came in carrying a glass which he put on the table by the bed. She watched him in silence, watched the neat, graceful movements, the turn of the small, handsome head.
‘Would you help me with my buttons?’ She turned her back to him, looking over her shoulder.
‘I’ll ring for the maid.’
‘Oh, no – please don’t. It’s so embarrassing to be waited upon by someone who doesn’t understand a word you say. Please – won’t you do it ?’ Despite her best efforts her voice was forlornly cajoling, the voice of a child begging a favour from an adult.
‘Of course.’ He was as always unfailingly courteous. She felt his fingers, light and competent and totally impersonal upon the small buttons that fastened the back of her dress. ‘There.’
‘Thank you.’
Light from the swinging lanterns danced upon the wall.
‘Shall I close the shutters?’
‘Oh, no! It’s so very hot – so very close—’ She turned. He had not moved. She stood not a foot from him, her head tilted to look into his face. ‘Robert—?’ she whispered, her voice almost lost in the music and laughter of the world outside.
Infinitesimally the sharp lines of his face tautened further. He did not move.
‘—please – couldn’t we – couldn’t we try?’ She could not believe what she was saying, nor the sudden fierce note of pleading in her voice. With no thought she let the dress slip from her shoulders to the floor and stood before him in her petticoat, flimsy for the heat, the fine material, damp with perspiration, clinging to her breasts and hips. ‘Couldn’t we – shouldn’t we – just try?’
He stepped back from her, putting out a hand as if to ward her off. She caught it in both of hers, carrying it fiercely to her lips. ‘Robert – please! I’m your wife—!’ She fought the rise of tears.
He had frozen where he stood, his hand taut and still in hers. Very slowly she drew it to her breast. He did not move. The involuntary brush of his curled fingers against her nipple made her tremble. The teat hardened, standing against the damp cloth of her petticoat. She moved instinctively, arching her back, rubbing the small, sharp, sensitive point of her breast against his hand. Pulsing warmth flooded her belly and the secret places of her body moistened. She made a small sound.
‘Christ!’ The agonized violence of the word pierced her consciousness like a needle. He snatched his hand from hers.
‘Robert—!’ Hands outstretched, she stepped towards him.
‘No!’ He pushed her, violently, the action almost a blow, one arm crooked before his face as if to ward off the very sight of her. ‘No!’ His face was convulsed. ‘She did that! She made me do that! God in heaven – I should have known it! You’re no better than she was! None of you are! She made me touch her—!’
As she staggered from him she stumbled upon the hem of her petticoat, dragging it from her shoulders, baring her breasts. She recovered her footing and swung to face him. The revulsion in his face, lit by the demonic lantern light, stopped her like a flung stone. Yet she stood, and in pride would make no move to cover her nakedness. ‘What are you talking about?’ she asked.
His face was rigid with disgust. He lifted a finger, pointing. ‘Slut,’ he said. ‘She was a slut, and you are too. I thought you were different, but you aren’t. You’re the same as all of them. A slut—!’ His voice was trembling uncontrollably.
‘Who? Robert – who are you talking about?’ She was desperately confused.
‘Who?’ His eyes gleamed in the light, his voice was suddenly soft. ‘Why the girl – the woman – who made me suck her dugs before she would give me my supper. An eight-year-old boy. The woman who would make me take down my breeches for the birch and then—’ he could not go on. His face had turned sickly pale.
She crossed her arms over her bared breasts, staring at him. ‘A – a nursemaid? Did that?’
‘And more. Do you want to hear more?’ He was beside himself with rage and revulsion. She could see his trembling from where she stood. ‘She’d make me put my fin
gers in her. Wet, and hot! Disgusting. Disgusting!’ He retched. She took a step towards him. He backed away from her, his eyes wild.
‘Robert, stop it,’ she said, the calmness of desperation in her voice. ‘This is nothing like that. I’m not her. I’m Jessica. Your wife.’
He had calmed a little, but his voice still shook. ‘You’re all the same. All of you.’
She made her voice gentle. ‘You don’t mean that.’ Very slowly she reached a hand towards him. He jerked back.
‘Get away from me. Get away!’ He knocked her hand aside, violently.
The violence frightened her, but she hid it, trying to keepin her voice. ‘We should try, Robert – we should! For both our sakes.’
‘No.’
‘Please!’ She was surprised to discover that tears were sliding unchecked down her cheeks.
‘No!’ He tried to brush past her, making for the refuge of the dressing room. Without thought she caught at his arm. With a sudden savage movement he tore himself free of her, and as he did so, whether by ill luck or design she could not tell, his hand caught her sharply on the side of her jaw, knocking her head back painfully and sending her spinning from him to land on hands and knees by the bed. He cried out, in anger and despair. She heard his swiftly-moving footsteps and the slam of the dressing room door. Heard the turning of the key in the lock.
She lifted her head. ‘Robert? Robert!’
Silence.
She staggered to her feet and ran to the door. ‘Robert!’
‘Go away,’ he said. ‘Please, just get away from me.’
‘Robert—!’
He did not speak again. Half an hour later, exhausted, she gave up her tearful pleading, left the door and stumbled to the bed. Outside the music played, cruelly gay. There was no sound from the dressing room. She crawled into the bed like an injured animal crawling into its lair, and there she lay, the silent tears shining on her face whilst beyond the open windows the world danced and laughed and took its pleasure.
In the distance the thunder rumbled, but the storm stubbornly refused to break.
* * *
The custom-house by the city gate was an officious and fly-specked shambles, a vexation after the lovely drive down through the terraced vineyards of the mountains with the tantalizing vision of the spires and roofs of Florence growing closer at every turn. A swarm of slovenly-uniformed police, soldiers and officials presided over the chaos, that seemed rather more designed to prevent the flow of traffic into the city than to facilitate it.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ David’s fair face was flushed with exasperation and the heat of the afternoon, ‘We’ll be here till next week at this rate!’
Robert put his hand into his pocket and Jessica saw the gleam of silver. ‘Wait here a moment.’
A scant half-hour later a hired carriage, lighter and blessedly cooler than the heavy coach in which they had travelled from Bologna, was bowling down the Via St Gallo towards the centre of the city. The road was wide, straight and smoothly paved with the huge flat stones which graced almost all of the main streets of Florence and which made travelling in the city less of a penance than the cobblestones most city-dwellers were used to. Impressive buildings lined the way, façades by Michelangelo and Raphael jostling shoulder to shoulder with the more ancient frontages of the early medieval city. So much had Jessica read of this place, so often had she studied its layout, with its Roman grid of straight streets, its piazzas, its palaces, its numerous churches, that she felt an odd but reassuring sense of recognition, as if, far from being a stranger in a strange city, she were returning to a familiar and much-loved place.
‘Look – oh, look! The cathedral! Isn’t it splendid? – And the baptistry! Oh, Annabel, do look—!’ Jessica breathed. The mass of buildings gleamed in the light, the brilliance of their colourful marble façades blinding in the sunlight. The slender campanile towered to a flawless blue sky. Enthralled, Jessica twisted in her seat, leaning through the window as they passed through the great square. ‘Just look at the gates of the baptistry! Even from here you can see how wonderful they are—!’ She drew her head in and turned back to Annabel. ‘They’re by Ghiberti – I knew someone once who said they were one of the wonders of the artistic world—’
Annabel smiled wanly. She was hot, she was extremely tired, and she had seen enough cathedrals, baptistries and campaniles over the past weeks to last her a long lifetime.
They were in the narrow via Calzaioli now in the old, crowded part of the city and moving towards the river. The Romseys’ hotel was on the far side of the river, by the Pitti Palace, whilst the apartment that the young FitzBoltons had rented was in the via Condotta, not far from the ancient piazza del Gran Duca, where stood possibly the most famous and most certainly the most pictured place of Florence, the Palazzo Vecchio. Most of the FitzBoltons’ luggage had been sent on and hopefully awaited them at the apartment. The trunk that had travelled with them through Europe had been left at the custom-house for later collection, for both had decided, to their travelling-companions’ amazement, that their first approach to their new home should be afoot. They consequently took their leave of Annabel and David at the city end of the Ponte Vecchio, promising to meet at the Romseys’ hotel for dinner a couple of evenings later. Jessica stepped from the carriage into the dusty heat of the afternoon, raised her parasol against the sun’s glare. The greenish-brown river moved sluggishly beneath the ancient bridge, slapping softly against the stone pillars that supported the structure and its huddled fringe of picturesquely dilapidated houses. A dog chased in the shallows, where a woman with tired, rhythmic movements slapped the garments she was washing against a stone, and in the centre of the wide river, summer-low, a boy waded, the water no higher than his thighs. The midden-smell of it assaulted Jessica’s nostrils. In an alleyway running down to the river washing hung like dispirited flags, unstirring in the hot air. She hardly noticed as the carriage drew away, with Annabel waving bravely and very slightly tearfully from the window.
Frowning a little Robert studied the map he carried, then pointed. ‘There, I think. It isn’t very far.’
She nodded. Since Vienna conversation between them had not been easy. She could not look at him without remembering with a flush of almost unendurable humiliation the bitter shame of that night. It had never been mentioned between them, but they had been like strangers since, polite travelling companions who shared nothing but the accident of travel. It was a relief, she discovered now, to be free of the company of the Romseys, for at least that meant that they were free too from the need for pretence. She laid her fingers lightly upon the arm he courteously proffered, barely touching him, and from habit neither spoke as they walked into the shaded canyon of the via por Santa Maria, for neither had a thought to share with the other.
Until they walked, unsuspecting, from the short, darkly-shadowed street into the wide and sunlit space of the piazza del Gran Duca.
As one they stopped, staring. On the far side of the L-shaped square the bulk of the great, fortress-like Palazzio Vecchio, square-built and imposing, dominated the place, its incongruously slender, crenellated tower, strangely elegant, reaching like a pointed finger into the blaze of the sunlit sky. Two colossal sculptures stood before the palace and more glorious statuary adorned the great ornamented Loggia which stood at right angles to the ancient palace. A huge white fountain, one of the few in this city where public fountains were oddly rare, played in the square. But even at this distance one object drew the eye and stopped the breath. Michelangelo’s David, one of the master’s greatest works, stood gleaming in the sun before the palace – huge, the stone smooth as a boy’s skin, unbelievably and beautifully lifelike.
With no word they both moved towards it, drawn as if by a magnet, Jessica folding her parasol as she went. At the statue’s foot they stopped, looking up in awe at the smoothly sculptured muscle and bone, the gallantly lovely face. Enormous as it was it would have been no surprise had the figure moved and breathed, low
ered the sling it carried, stretched, smiling, in the sunshine. Danny had spoken of it in such terms to Jessica. And she, in innocence, had believed he exaggerated.
‘It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,’ she said.
Robert nodded, blinking.
‘How – how can it be so huge, and yet so lifelike? So utterly perfect?’ Faced with this shared wonder, all constraint between them had fallen away. She spoke not to the man who had refused and shamed her but to the boy, the friend of a lifetime with whom she had shared so much.
‘Genius is beyond the bounds of the normal,’ Robert said. ‘That’s what genius is. Like Mozart. Or Haydn. Genius is – has to be – larger than life.’
An odd catch in his voice made her glance at him. The sharp glitter of tears in his eyes made her turn hastily from him. They stood for a very long time, looking at the statue, studying in thoughtful silence every last lovely detail of the figure. Through her fingers Jessica could feel the strung tension of Robert’s body. The slender arm she touched was taut as steel beneath the elegance of his lightweight coat.
‘Jessica,’ he said at last, his eyes still upon the statue, ‘we have to talk.’
Panic rose. She shook her head.
‘I hurt you.’ He spoke with difficulty. ‘I’m sorry. I wouldn’t do that for the world.’
‘I know.’
‘It was unforgivable.’
She said nothing.
It was – you took me by surprise—’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ Her voice was high, threaded faintly with nerves. ‘Don’t talk about it.’
‘We have to. We can’t go on like this.’
She remained silent for a moment. Then, ‘How else?’ she asked, her voice bleak.
Still he did not look at her. His pleasant voice was controlled now, quiet and firm. He might have been discussing still the genius that had produced the masterpiece that stood before them, beautiful, perfectly formed, and as far removed from the paltry emotions and troubles of man as it was possible to be.
The Hawthorne Heritage Page 27