‘Was his body ever recovered?’
He shook his head. ‘No. It was weeks before the Allies retook that ground, so Eloise didn’t even have a grave to tend. By that time I’d been sent north, to Ypres. It was there that I was wounded.’ Absently he rubbed his leg. ‘I didn’t see Eloise again until the day I met her in the woods here.’
‘But what does she want?’
‘For want of any better word I suppose you could say vengeance. She wants to hurt me. Peter is dead. I am alive. She’ll never forgive me for that. She still holds me responsible. I think above all she wanted me to meet young Peter. If what she believes had been true, that would have hurt, badly. Even though it isn’t, it still hurt. And she knows it.’
‘Is he so very much like his father?’
‘The living image. Peter was only a couple of years older when I first met him. I told you – we’d been friends for years.’
‘You haven’t told Isobel any of this?’
‘No.’ He lifted his head to look into her face. It was almost full dark. The shadowed sockets of his eyes were lightless. ‘And I’m going to ask you not to, either. Poppy, your sister isn’t well. She’s terribly highly strung, as you know. I’d almost go so far as to say she’s unstable. Pregnancy doesn’t suit her. Her health, both mental and physical, is very fragile. She mustn’t be upset, especially now. She’s—’ he hesitated ‘—very possessive. Almost obsessively so. If she believed—’ again he paused, then shrugged. ‘All right, let’s be honest, if she discovered that I married her on the rebound from another woman – and from Eloise, for Christ’s sake! – she’d be devastated.’
‘But – it was all so long ago.’
‘That won’t stop Isobel from being hurt and I won’t have that. Especially not at the moment. Eloise is playing a game; a sick game, but a game nevertheless. She’ll tire of it. I think she already is tiring of it. Hopefully at the end of the summer she’ll leave, and Isobel need never know any of this.’
‘How do you know she won’t tell Isobel herself? She must have realised that would cause trouble for you, if that’s what she’s after?’
He answered promptly; obviously he had pondered this himself. ‘Two reasons, I think. First, it would be too easy; she prefers to play cat to my mouse. Second, and perhaps more important than that, she’s come to know Isobel very well. To be truthful, I do believe she has become sincerely fond of her in her own fashion, and she knows that if Isobel gets herself into a state she could easily lose the baby. I don’t think even Eloise would go that far.’
Poppy pulled a faint, doubtful face, but said nothing.
Kit reached a hand to her. ‘Please, Poppy, don’t say anything? To anyone?’ He paused, then added, ‘Even Michel? The more people know, the more likely it is that there’ll be some kind of row. I really don’t want that.’
She hesitated for a moment, regarding him levelly. ‘All right. I won’t say anything. It’s your business, after all, not mine. I just wanted to know why you’d lied, that’s all.’
He sighed. ‘It’s one of those stupid things. If I’d told Isobel about Eloise right from the start, all this silliness could have been avoided. But I didn’t, and now it’s too late to talk about it without hurting her. And, yes, I played into Eloise’s hands by lying.’
‘The most disturbing thing about lies, even those told with the best of intentions,’ Poppy said, ‘is that one tends to lead to another.’
In the sudden silence that followed the remark, Isobel’s voice called from outside. ‘Kit? Poppy? Are you there? Supper’s on the table.’
Kit stood up abruptly, picked up the picture and stowed it in the back of a cupboard.
‘Kit?’ Isobel’s voice was closer.
‘Coming.’ Kit laid a hand on Poppy’s shoulder. ‘You won’t say anything?’
‘I won’t say anything.’
He dropped a swift, light kiss on the top of her head. ‘Thank you.’ He held open the door for her.
‘Oh, there you are, you two! I thought I’d lost you!’ Isobel came across the courtyard, holding Robbie by the hand.
Kit went to her, scooped the little boy up on to his shoulder, put an affectionate arm about his wife. ‘You won’t lose me as easily as that!’
Poppy heard their laughter as they walked towards the house, heard Robbie’s squeals as his father bounced him on his shoulder.
Why, she asked herself, did she have a small, almost indefinable, feeling that somehow, somewhere, the whole truth had still not been told? That Kit’s simple, straightforward tale of love and betrayal – surely by no means unique – did not quite explain the situation here? She shook her head firmly. She was being unfair; looking for shadows where there were none.
Yet still her steps were slow and her brow pensive as she followed the family into the house.
*
In the days that followed, Poppy found herself thinking often of the story Kit had told. It intrigued and affected her that, at the time of which he had spoken, he had been almost exactly the age she was now, though admittedly a lifetime older in experience. Like so many of his generation he had lived cheek by jowl with death and with horror – she had heard and read enough about the War to understand that. He had found love, and lost it. He had been betrayed by a friend, and then seen that friend die – worse, had been himself bitterly blamed for that death. She found herself thinking back on the young man she had met by the river in Kent, and saw, in retrospect, the shadows that had haunted him. And, too, more than once, she pondered on what both Kit and Michel had said of Eloise. In hardly any aspect of the enigmatic, coolly imperturbable woman that she knew – and, she had to face it, Michel’s sister or no, thoroughly disliked – could she recognise the warm, impassioned and obviously captivating girl she had once been. A sad little story made all the sadder by the fact that Eloise still held such a savage grudge against Kit that, Poppy suspected, it stood between her and the rest of the world, between her and the possibility of happiness.
But as the warm, calm days followed one upon the other it was not so much that ten-year-old love story that engaged her as the gentle burgeoning of her own relationship with Michel. Since their day together in Siena they had fallen into an easy and affectionate friendship that nevertheless had about it that small spark of suspense, perhaps even of danger, that is engendered by physical attraction. It had become accepted that they saw each other every day, sometimes simply sharing a glass of wine in the kitchen courtyard with the Enevers, Robbie and Peter charging about them, sometimes strolling the woods and fields about the house. Both were aware of the amiably interested eyes upon them; Poppy, occasionally and exasperatedly could not help feeling that she was conducting the affair, if that were how it could be described, in a glorious, sunlit goldfish bowl. Of Eloise she saw little. It was noticeable that Michel always came to the Tenuta. Only when Eloise visited Isobel did her path cross Poppy’s, and at those times the most emotion that Poppy could discern with regard to her brother’s growing attachment to Kit’s young sister-in-law was a mildly amused indifference. Which suited Poppy very well. Things were delicately balanced enough; she had the feeling that an Eloise who chose to set herself against her would be a formidable opponent indeed.
‘Peter’s terribly good with little Robbie, isn’t he?’
Poppy shaded her eyes with her hand. She and Michel were standing on a low ridge above the house, watching the two children in the field below as, shouting and laughing, they chased and rolled in the flower-dappled grass. ‘It’s quite unusual for a boy of his age, isn’t it?’
‘He’s an unusual lad.’ Poppy was acutely aware that Michel was looking not down at the playing children, but at her, the sunlight reflecting, lucent, in the pale, attentive eyes.
‘Does Eloise mind? That Peter spends so much time up here?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’ The infinitesimal pause before the words was barely noticeable. ‘She’s quite happy for him to spend time with the little one.’
; But not perhaps so happy about the time he spends with the little one’s father? Poppy could not ask the question. The rapport between Kit and Eloise’s son had been obvious from the start. Looking at it from the new perspective that Kit’s story had given her, she could understand – even sympathise – if Eloise were not quite so sanguine about that as she appeared. If Kit had been right, Eloise had had in mind punishment rather than pleasure when she had introduced the two.
They turned to stroll into the woodland, and within minutes were enfolded in an entrancing sun-dappled stillness that was disturbed only by birdsong, the distant cries of the playing children and the sound of their own feet quiet on the soft rich leaf mould of the forest floor. Golden dust-motes danced in the shafts of sunlight that struck through the branches about them. The quiet was spell-binding; it was a long time before Michel broke it, and then he spoke quietly.
‘You’re coming with Kit to the tratta?’
‘Yes. I’m looking forward to it, though I must confess I haven’t quite worked out what it’s all about.’
‘From what I can gather, it’s a sort of lottery, where the Contrade who are taking part in this Palio draw their horses, though I’m sure—’ he added with soft laughter ‘—that Umberto would be outraged to hear me describe it so. It’s another of these ceremonies so steeped in the culture and traditions of the city that it’s hard for an outsider to comprehend the depth of its significance to the Sienese. Umberto is quite beside himself with anticipation. His Contrada rides in this Palio. He prays each night for the best horse.’
Poppy glanced at him, interested. ‘So they don’t all ride in both the races?’
Michel shook his head. ‘There are seventeen Contrade. It’s tradition that only ten ride in each of the Patios.’
‘So how are they chosen?’
‘Seven run by right; simply enough, the seven who didn’t run in the last race; The other three are drawn by lot, in May for the July race and in July for the August one. Umberto’s Contrada – it’s called “Torre”, or “the Tower” – drew lucky in May. He’s ready to cut the throat of anyone who suggests they might not win.’
‘Umberto? Surely not!’ They had reached a clearing, their way barred by a fallen tree. Poppy slanted an incredulous, laughing look at her companion ‘Umberto!’ she repeated. ‘He wouldn’t hurt a fly!’
‘Just wait and see. He’s boiling over with excitement about it all.’
‘I’m pretty excited myself as a matter of fact.’ Poppy turned, leaning back against the tree. ‘I gather that for this horse-choosing ceremony we’re going to the city and staying the night in the house in the Campo that we’re going to watch the race from?’
‘So I understand. The draw is made at dawn. We couldn’t make it from here in time. Anyway, there would be no Umberto to drive us, I think. He has already informed me he will take us to the city by noon. He has duties, it seems, with his cousins. Duties only death would keep him from. There will be a lot to see, a lot to experience. It is a privilege to be in Siena for the tratta, so Umberto assures me.’ Michel, as he spoke, bent and reached for something. When he straightened, he was holding a small golden flower. ‘Tell me something.’ The large lids, arched and shadowed, were lowered, masking any expression; he spun the buttercup back and forth pensively in his fingers.
‘Mm?’ Poppy had tilted her head to the sky, half closing her own eyes against the sunlight. She turned her head to glance at him. Rainbow light dazzled her.
‘Do you like butter?’ His voice had dropped a tone, and there was laughter in it, warm and affectionate. The lids lifted a little and his eyes gleamed. He pushed himself away from the tree, turned his body to her, was standing very close, smiling, the buttercup held beneath her chin, tickling her skin. His shadow fell across her face, darkening the sun.
Suddenly she could feel her heartbeat, strong and slow.
‘Yes,’ she said, a little faintly.
‘Wait. Isn’t the flower supposed to tell me that?’
‘Yes,’ she said again, valiantly exercising the common sense for which she knew she was, within her own small circle, renowned. ‘But you’re a little too close, I’m afraid. You’re supposed to let the sun shine on it.’
‘Oh, no.’ He relaxed his fingers. The flower fluttered, glinting, to earth. ‘I think I’ll take your word for it.’ His big hands were on her waist, gently pulling her to him. He lifted a hand to her face, tilting her chin.
She watched him, wide-eyed and still. It could not be denied that she had wondered how it would feel to have him kiss her. She had never much enjoyed being kissed before.
The surprise was of the most pleasant kind possible. The hand that cupped her face was gentle; to her astonishment it trembled a little. His kiss was tender, undemanding.
After a moment, to her even greater surprise, too undemanding.
She lifted her arms about his neck, drew his mouth hard against hers. His arms tightened painfully about her. This time, his kiss was very demanding indeed.
It was some time before they drew away from each other. Michel put her from him, holding her lightly by the shoulders, studying the serene oval of her face, the wide, grave eyes, velvet soft, that searched his, unsmiling. ‘Should I apologise?’
She shook her head. ‘No.’ The word was quiet as a breath. She cleared her throat. ‘No,’ she said again clearly. ‘Not, that is, unless you didn’t mean it.’
His smile was slow, and lit his face as the sun lit the forest about them, ‘In that case, Ma’mselle, I owe you no apology.’
‘I didn’t for a moment think you did.’ She lifted her mouth to his again.
An hour or so later Kit, working in the vegetable garden, heard their voices and their laughter and lifting his head watched them as they strolled together out of the woods, hand in hand and quite openly with no eyes but for each other. The die then was cast. For reasons that were not entirely selfish, he was glad. He straightened, absently rubbing a dirty hand across his damp forehead. The two young people stopped for a moment, turned to each other. Michel dropped a light kiss on Poppy’s nose. Kit heard the happy peal of her laughter; and to his own surprise experienced a small, unexpected and wholly unworthy twinge of envy. Or – in fairness perhaps – not exactly envy. He leaned his crossed arms on his hoe, his blue eyes pensive as he watched their dawdling approach. Only the most unrepentant of sinners would not covet the bright, untainted, innocence that shone from these two. Only the greatest cynic would be tempted to question how long it could last, in this world inured to wickedness.
Poppy had seen him. They quickened their pace to join him. Still leaning on his hoe, he returned their greetings, then, eyes openly quizzical, studied first one face and then the other and was rewarded by a broad grin from Michel and a flustered little smile from a suddenly bright-faced Poppy.
Kit laid his hoe aside. ‘I find,’ he said, ‘that I have a sudden and absolutely irresistible desire for a large glass of wine. Can I persuade you two to join me?
Chapter Eleven
The city was seething with excitement. In the end only Kit, Peter, Poppy and Michel had travelled with Umberto; Isobel, who had hoped to come, had in the event not felt well enough and Eloise, in her cool, wayward way, had unexpectedly offered to remain at the house with her and Robbie.
By the time the party from the Tenuta di Gordini arrived at noon on the day before the tratta, Siena was already at fever pitch. The ‘rat-ta-tat-tat’ of the marching drums echoed in the streets, everywhere great silken banners, their symbols emblazoned in jewel colours, billowed in the soft breeze. Women hurried through the narrow streets with trays and with pitchers, and men called and sang as they finished the cleaning, stocking and loving beautification of the well-guarded stables that would receive their prized and pampered occupants the following day, after the draw. Here and there small groups of young men, their everyday clothes brightened by scarves and favours in their Contrada’s colours practised the intricacies of the flags; swinging, swirling, tos
sing, catching, deft as jugglers and proud as lords, of their skill and of the honour of serving their Contrada.
When they reached the Piazza del Campo, Peter stopped and stared about him, hazel eyes wide in astonishment, at the great draped stands that had risen about the outer perimeter of the square, at the wide, sanded track and the heavy fencing that enclosed and defined it. From the handsome façade of the Palazzo Pubblico ten colourful banners – the banners of those Contrade who were to race in four days’ time and who at sunrise tomorrow would learn upon which sleek and shining back their hopes would be carried – blazed in the sunshine, bright, brazen and challenging. The place was a hive of activity. Hammers rang as last-minute constructions were put together. People hurried in and out of the Palazzo, the Town Hall of the city. There were many who stood in groups in the spacious area created in the centre of the square and talked, their hands as eloquent as their voices. The atmosphere was electric with a euphoric anticipation that even an outsider could not help but feel a part of.
‘Golly! Look at that!’ Peter craned his neck. ‘There’s Umberto’s flag – look – the red one with the sun on it. He’s told me all about the banners. The black and white one is the Wolf. And the blue and yellow stripy one is the Tortoise. Funny, isn’t it, having a Contrada called Tortoise? Where’s the house we’re going to stay in, Kit?’
Kit pointed. ‘That one over there. The one with the row of tall windows, see? On the corner, by the steps.’
‘Gosh – it looks rather grand!’
Kit laughed. ‘It is very nice. The Martellis bought it a couple of years ago. It wasn’t in any great shape at the time, but they’re making a splendid job of renovating it.’
Poppy and Michel, hand in hand, fell into step with him as they crossed the Piazza, with Peter skipping excitedly ahead. ‘How did you meet them?’ Poppy asked.
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