The courtyard was filled with pale marble statuary and softly whispering fountains, and there were small palm trees that rustled in the night breeze. Men and women in evening dress were standing about in clusters, exchanging voluble Christmas greetings by the light of well-positioned flambeaux, and most of the women, Candy noticed, were protected from the slight but definite chill by expensive furs. There was the flash of jewels, too—the sort of jewels that it would undoubtedly be quite a responsibility to wear—and some of the dresses were spectacularly beautiful. On the far side of the courtyard a fan-shaped marble staircase rose to the first of a series of galleries, and as Candy slowly climbed it at Caterina’s side she looked about her with the astonished fascination of a child let loose in Aladdin’s cave.
And then, at the top of the steps, she received a slight shock, for here her hostess was standing and the moment of her evening to which she had looked forward with a certain amount of apprehension was upon her.
The Contessa di Lucca—otherwise known as Miss Anna Landi—was swathed from head to foot in the silky folds of a scarlet and gold sari, and she looked, Candy thought, like a lovely slender flame. Her carefully made-up face was flawlessly beautiful and she was smiling a lot, showing off her small, perfect white teeth. On one of her fingers a huge ruby glimmered and flashed as if it were alive, and there was something about her that seemed almost unreal.
She recognized Candy immediately and greeted her enthusiastically, kissing her, as she had done before, on both cheeks.
“Candida, how lovely you look! It’s nice to be young. To wear white, and not appear ridiculous! But I am so happy to see you again. Caterina, mia cara…”
And then she broke off, for just at that moment her brother-in-law, Michele’s uncle, reached the top of the stairs, having apparently disposed of the Jaguar, and subtly her expression changed.
“Marco, you are late!” She was smiling at him brilliantly, as if to make up for the sudden harshness in her voice, but even the smile was a little taut. “Without Michele I should have been lost!”
“Without Michele you would always be lost, Anna.” Her brother-in-law bowed over her hand, raising the vivid tips of her fingers to his lips. He stood looking at her with his head on one side, and his smile was a little strange. “You don’t look lost,” he remarked.
She drew her hand away from him abruptly, and gestured vaguely in Candy’s direction. “I have a job for you, my friend. You are to look after this child, and see to it that she meets everybody. If is a pleasant job, yes?”
“Yes,” he agreed. He turned to Candy, and a certain tension in the uneven lines of his face relaxed. “Little Signorina Wells, I am very happy at what I hear of you.”
“What do you hear of me?” Candy asked, smilingly. He had put a hand beneath her elbow to propel her forward, and with a sensation of relief she left the Contessa to receive the remainder of her guests.
“I hear that your voice is becoming strong and beautiful, and soon it will be being used to delight us all.”
Her lips twisted wryly. “I’m a little better than I was.”
“That is not what I hear.”
“What do you hear, signore?”
“I hear that when you sing it is a sound to enchant the nightingales. That you are to be a prima donna who will create history. E vero, I assure you.”
She stood still, looking up at him. “Who told you that?”
The smile in his eyes was teasing and thoughtful at the same time. “Who has heard you sing?” he countered.
“Not many people. And nobody could have thought—”
“Ah, but they did.”
They were moving on now through a, series of long, high-ceilinged rooms, each one slightly more magnificent than the one before it, and suddenly, as Candy looked around her in fascinated admiration, a portrait caught her eye. It startled her so much that she almost stood still, and as he glanced round her companion laughed softly.
“So you have noticed Paolo, my distant ancestor. He is, like Michele, no?”
“Yes ... it’s astonishing.” They went over to study the portrait more closely, and Candy felt shaken, for the nearer she got to the painting the more difficult it was to believe that the man in dark doublet and snowy ruff who stood looking down at her from his heavy, gilded frame was not Michele di Lucca. Without realizing it, she stood staring up at the beautifully regular features and the grave dark eyes for nearly a minute before she spoke. Then: “Who was he?” she asked.
“He was Paolo, Conte di Lucca, and he lived during the sixteenth century, when Rome was a very bad city.”
“And was he bad?” Looting up at the thoughtful eyes and the humorous mouth, she found it very difficult to believe.
“No, he was not. He was a fighter, but he fought for the return of honour and order and justice when this city had forgotten that such ideals existed.”
“And did he succeed—I mean, did he do anything to improve things?”
The descendant of Paolo di Lucca shrugged, and glanced up at his forebear with a trace of rueful affection. “Perhaps not. But at least he himself remained incorruptible.” Almost under his breath he added: “And that is not always easy. That can require more courage than anything!”
Something in his voice made Candy look round at him with curiosity, but he had taken her arm again, and was urging her back into the thickening crowd of guests.
It was not long after that that she caught sight of John Ryland. She was in the process of being whisked from group to glittering group, and was beginning to feel slightly dizzy and to wish that Marco di Lucca would stop taking his responsibility for her entertainment quite so seriously. He seemed to think it was his duty to make sure that she was introduced to as large a proportion of Roman society as was possible in the time, and the bewildering variety of faces, coupled with the noise and laughter all around her, was giving her a headache. Everyone seemed to smile on her benevolently—possibly some of the women were less benevolent than the men, but even they were reasonably affable—and she supposed she ought to be enjoying herself tremendously, but the nagging feeling that something was missing, that she couldn’t possibly be enjoying herself completely, which had been present with her ever since John ceased to be part of her life was somehow stronger than ever.
And then she saw him. He was with the Contessa di Lucca, and they were moving towards her—in fact, almost before she knew it they were right beside her! She had become separated, temporarily, from the Contessa s brother-in-law, who had glimpsed an old friend on the other side of the room, and having also just succeeded in throwing off the persistent attentions: of one of the dozens of young Romans for whom she seemed to have the fascination of a magnet she was, at that moment, without any means of escape. The Contessa bore down on her.
“Candida, carissima! Does Marco not look after you, the bad one?”
“He’s been looking after me very well,” Candy assured her hastily, and then she found herself looking at John., He glanced at her sheepishly, and then away, but she suddenly realized that she herself had no feeling of confusion. She didn’t really feel anything at all, except that as she studied his face with the calm of a strange new detachment it struck her for the first time that, as a face, it contained remarkably little in the way of character. Although she had never realized it before, it was an empty face—empty and weak. She suddenly felt very clear-headed and cool.
“Well, enjoy yourself!” Extending a slim forefinger, the Contessa patted her cheek. “At your age, and looking as you do, it should not be difficult!” All at once she glanced round, and a warmer smile touched her lips. “And here is someone else to take charge of you.”
Candy looked round, and with a small start she realized that Michele had joined them. He had come up so quietly that she hadn’t noticed him, but now she saw he was looking at her—watching her with a queer bright intensity. His eyes were rather serious, yet there was a half-smile on his lips. His gaze seemed to draw her own, and because she c
ouldn’t help it she found herself staring into his soft dark eyes as if something in their depths had laid a spell on her. A little shiver ran through her, and all at once she began to feel the thudding of her own heart.
And then she looked away, half conscious of a sudden interested alertness in the face of the Conte’s mother, and knew that now she really did feel dizzy. The room was revolving around her—the world was turning upside down—and it was all because her eyes had met the eyes of Michele di Lucca. Because while they were gazing at one another she had entered another world, and she needed time to readjust.
CHAPTER EIGHT
AFTER those few short moments during which something strange and vital had seemed to flash between them, Michele reverted to treating Candy with his usual blend of gentleness and reserve, and in fact it seemed to her that he was slightly more reserved than usual. He apologized for not being on hand to greet her when she arrived, and told her she looked ‘most charming’, but there was a formality about his every word that made her feel he was treating her like a stranger. She was bewildered, and after a time a sort of dull chill seemed to settle over her. For weeks she had taken his kindness, his attentiveness, for granted ... Now, suddenly, it was important that he should notice her—so important that once, as he turned away from her to speak to somebody else, she actually felt the prickle of moisture behind her eyelids—and just as suddenly he had evidently decided to relegate her to a lower place in his scheme of things. She didn’t feel resentful, for she told herself that after all there was no reason why he should pay her so much attention—and tonight he was more than fully occupied with his brilliant concourse of guests—but no matter how hard she tried to reason with herself the strange chill persisted.
And then she saw him with Caterina, laughing and talking, looking relaxed for the first time that evening, and the chill intensified as she remembered something she had forgotten ... the fact that, quite obviously, he was Caterina’s property, and if he were going to show a particular interest in anyone it would be her.
After a time Marco di Lucca rejoined her, full of apologies for his neglect, and at the same time expressing the certainty that she wouldn’t have had time to notice his absence.
“I am sure you have not been alone,” he told her. “Once I looked, and...”An expressive gesture. “There was nothing to see but the top of your head. You were surrounded!”
“People are ... friendly,” Candy said abstractedly and a little foolishly, and the Italian put his head on one side and regarded her thoughtfully for a moment or two.
“You are tired?” he asked.
“No—no, of course not.” She smiled brightly, “It’s all so fascinating and bewildering, though. I feel a little bit lost.”
“Well, I will not leave you again.” He smiled back at her with paternal benevolence, and lightly put an arm about her shoulders. “Come and have some supper.” The buffet supper, set out on long tables in the palazzo’s sumptuous sala da pranzo, was bewilderingly lavish and colourful. If Candy had been feeling hungry she might have been able to do reasonable justice to the bewildering array of cold meats and pastry confections, and the mountains of gleaming fruit, but as it was all she could face was a microscopic portion of chicken, followed by fruit salad and black coffee. She had already had a glass of sherry, and she firmly refused anything further in the nature of alcoholic refreshment.
Nothing her companion could say had any power to alter her decision, but he himself seemed to place no such limitations on his intake.
It was some time before Candy began to realize that Marco was drinking too much, and even then she didn’t think nearly as much of it as she might have done in different circumstances. In this strange, glittering, bewildering world of Roman ‘high society’ people obviously didn’t behave at any time as they might have been expected to behave back in her mother-in-law’s village of Great Mincham, and even in that model English parish itself a certain amount of over-indulgence was by no means uncommon on Christmas Eve. For some time she had been becoming convinced that Marco di Lucca was anything but a happy man, and she supposed any excuse to drown his sorrows would be too big a temptation to resist. In any case, it didn’t seem to her that the effects showed particularly, and after supper she was still grateful for his protection against the bewildering overtures of his fellow-countrymen. In one of the long rooms a few couples were dancing, rather lethargically, to music provided by a pianist and a couple of violinists, and after a time Marco asked Candy if she would like to join them. She didn’t really want to dance—in fact, she had the beginnings of a violent headache, and was thinking longingly of the moment when she would be able to get away—but her host’s uncle seemed to feel strongly that she ought to, and rather than argue with him she allowed herself to be led out to join the twenty or thirty young Italians moving in a desultory fashion round the floor.
As it turned out, Marco di Lucca was not by any means a brilliant dancer, and as he was also becoming increasingly abstracted she didn’t find the exercise very entertaining. When the music stopped he passed a hand across his forehead as if he was feeling the effects of unaccustomed exertion, and to Candy’s profound relief he suggested that they should sit down.
“I am not a good companion, little one.” His voice had just a suspicion of unsteadiness about it. “I shall bore you.”
“You don’t bore me at all.” She sat down beside him, smiling. “You’ve been terribly nice to me... But I do think perhaps I’m boring you. Shall I go and find Caterina?”
He shook his head. “Stay with me ... stay with me. Michele asked me to keep—keep an eye on you, as you say in England, and, ecco, I am doing so.” He looked across the room, and Candy saw that he was watching Michele’s mother, still moving among the guests like a graceful, slender flame.
“Michele asked you to keep an eye on me?” She felt a burning curiosity to know what Michele had said.
“Yes.” He turned to stare at her—a strange, penetrating, appraising stare that seemed to explore her soul. “My nephew’s instructions were precise. You are a rare prize, and are to be guarded.”
“Why am I to be guarded?” She tried to speak lightly, but her heart was beating fast.
Marco di Lucca’s expression changed. He looked away from her, and shrugged. “I told you ... you are a great hope of the musical world, a prima donna of the future.” His eyes were once again on the brilliant figure of his sister-in-law, and Candy could tell that she herself had only half his attention, but something made her go on probing. With a faint flush in her cheeks she asked:
“Does—does Michele ... does the Conte really think I’m good?”
The Italian turned to look at her again. Quite suddenly his good-humoured face had become old and world-weary. “You want very much to know?”
The colour deepened a little, but she said, calmly: “Yes, of course.”
“For Michele you are a miracle. A beautiful talent ... a beautiful talent that he can work upon, and then present to the world as a gift.”
“Oh!” She swallowed.
“You don’t wish to be a gift to the world?”
“I’m just not a beautiful talent.”
“My nephew thinks you are. You can give his life a meaning. In later years, when you remember that, it will be a good feeling.”
“I can—what do you mean?” Feeling oddly shaken, she stared at the man beside her as if he had temporarily taken leave of his senses. “There’s so much in his life. He has everything...” Caterina Marchetti to begin with, she wanted to add.
“You think a man has everything when he wakes every morning to face an almost intolerable burden?”
There was silence for a moment. As she repeated the words, Candy’s voice sounded rather strange. “An intolerable burden?”
“You didn’t know?” Several seconds ticked away while the Italian studied her face. Then his lips twisted wryly. “No, you didn’t know.”
“I don’t understand.”
“T
here is no need for you to understand. Forget what I said. It doesn’t concern you.”
Candy’s eyes searched his face. Her own looked small and pale and troubled. “Please ... I’d like to know what you meant.”
He leant towards her. “Listen to me, Candy.” On his lips, her name sounded as if it were spelt ‘Kendy’. “I’m a funny person. Sometimes I don’t talk at all. You have noticed, uh? And sometimes I talk too much. I say things that don’t mean anything—anything at all. What I said just now meant nothing.”
She was silent, her eyes still troubled, and he reached out and patted her hand. “Come, cara ... smile! It’s Christmas Eve.”
She knew she couldn’t press him any further. If he hadn’t intended to say what he had said then it would be very wrong of her to try and insist that he should enlarge upon it. But for the rest of the evening the extraordinary words nagged at her like a dull toothache. ‘He wakes every morning to face an intolerable burden. An intolerable burden.’
In some countries a party such as the one that filled the Palazzo di Lucca with colour and movement that evening would have been expected to go on into the early hours of Christmas morning. But this was Italy, and punctually at a quarter to eleven everyone started to disperse in order to make their way to midnight Mass. Once again the marble staircase leading down to the courtyard glowed with the vivid hues of multi-coloured evening dresses, and from the street outside came the sound of ringing laughter and the slamming of car doors.
Candy stood on the stairs under the bright, cool, distant stars and looked around for Caterina. She hadn’t seen her for some time, and for that matter she hadn’t seen Michele, either. Apart from Marco di Lucca and his dazzling sister-in-law—who had paused once, in passing, to pat her cheek and express the hope that she was having a wonderful time—she hadn’t seen anyone she really knew for hours, and she felt tired and a little lost. She had said good-night to Marco, thanking him for his kindness and telling him she was going to look for Caterina, but now she was beginning to wonder whether she ought to try and find him again, for the building was emptying quite rapidly, and she could see no sign of the Italian girl anywhere.
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