The trumpets sounded again.
Poppy glanced around. ‘Where’s Peter?’
‘Gone to get some more almond tart, I should think.’ The words were interrupted by a roar from a section of the crowd directly beneath them. Backs were slapped, grown men hugged and kissed each other like girls, one youngster threw back his head and crowed like a rooster. A good horse had been drawn. Poppy watched as the animal was claimed by its temporary owners and led proudly through the crowds, that parted to make way for it. The sun was high now, and the air warm. One by one the lots were drawn, to be greeted with joy or, occasionally, dejection when a Contrada drew a horse it was less than satisfied with. Then at last it was over and the crowds began to drift away, talking animatedly. At last the real business of the Palio was begun, the horses had been seen and judged; and every Sienese would fiercely support one of them, either because it was of his own Contrada, or if his was not amongst those to race this time, that of a Contrada traditionally allied to his own. Over the next four days more trials would be run, alliances made, vendettas revived. The horses would be jealously guarded, and every attempt would be made to bribe the rival jockeys. The plans and dreams of a long year were coming to joyous fruition.
Much later that afternoon, as Kit, Peter, Poppy and Michel passed through the streets of the city making their way to the meeting place by the Porta Romana that they had agreed with Umberto, the place still had the feeling of carnival. The weather had become sultry and clouds were building to the south, but nothing could dim the bright spirits of the gangs of youngsters who chanted and sang and spun their gallant flags into the air with the insouciance of long and dedicated practice. In one quarter of the city two such groups, old rivals, met – by contrivance or by accident, no one knew or cared – in one of the narrowest streets and a few heads were broken in consequence, but on the whole, at least on the surface, the atmosphere was one of ebullient and happy anticipation.
Umberto and the calesse were at the gate before them. Umberto, settled comfortably in to the scuffed leather seat of the little vehicle, was sound asleep and snoring, and showed no sign whatsoever of being anything else for some good time.
Kit surveyed him with cheerfully resigned eyes. ‘I think perhaps I’d better take the reins, don’t you? It looks as if the Torre drew a good mount.’
Michel grinned. ‘I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes when he gets home. It won’t just be the wine that gives him a headache.’
Poppy suppressed a yawn. ‘Just looking at him makes me feel tired.’
‘It’s been a long day.’ Michel held out a hand to help her into the trap, then picked Peter up bodily to set him next to the slumbering Umberto before climbing in himself and settling himself comfortably beside Poppy, his arm about her, her head on his shoulder.
‘Home, sir?’ Kit enquired, gently caustic, one eyebrow cocked.
‘Home,’ Michel agreed placidly, and leaned his own head back on the worn leather upholstery.
Thunder muttered, far distant, as Kit expertly swung the pony around and on to the road. For perhaps ten minutes he heard the sound of desultory conversation behind him, then silence. When he turned his head to survey his passengers, not one was awake.
The storm, if it were coming, was still a long way off, though the air was still and sultry. Kit clucked to the pony and, nothing loth, she picked up pace and trotted on down the well-known road that led to stable and oats. They’d be home in good time. Kit gave himself up to the smoothly sprung motion of the calesse, to the feel of the worn reins in his hands; the welcome brush of air upon his face, and tried to empty his mind. Thought, especially solitary thought, was not always comfortable.
He glanced once more behind him to where Poppy lay asleep with her head on Michel’s shoulder. Not for the first time the irony of that tender, growing relationship struck him like physical pain.
Dear God – suddenly sombre, he addressed, as so many do, a being in whom he did not believe but with whom he communed with idiotic frequency – whatever happens, don’t let Poppy be hurt. Don’t let that be my fault, too.
Chapter Twelve
Poppy Brookes – in common, she presumed, with the great majority of those who knew her – had always considered herself by nature to be a level-headed and sensible soul little given to extremes of emotion or extravagant flights of fancy; the suddenness – and the intensity – therefore of her feelings for Michel took her entirely by surprise, as did the effect of those feelings upon the world about her. Was the sunshine really brighter? The sky bluer? Was the countryside truly more beautiful than it had been? She knew of course, rationally, that it could not be so, yet could in no way rid herself of the impression that they were. It was all quite extraordinary, totally uncharacteristic and undeniably the most enchanting thing that had ever happened to her. She sang about the house like a lark, mentioned Michel’s name in at least every other sentence she uttered and serenely ignored the fond and amused smiles that her behaviour elicited from Isobel and Kit. For the first time in her adult life she found herself acting in a manner that could at the very best be called irrational and at the worst foolish; and to her own astonishment did not care a jot. She and Michel saw each other at least once a day, sometimes twice, and even the most casual observer would have seen that he was as beguiled by her as was she by him.
‘I do believe my little brother’s in love,’ Eloise commented to Kit, watching the two come laughing, hand in hand across the meadow towards them. She slanted a pale, oblique look along her shoulder at him. She was not smiling. ‘What a strange and ironic affair life can be.’
Kit took a long, slow breath. ‘Eloise—’
‘Oh, don’t worry.’ She lifted an elegant chin to look directly at him. ‘My quarrel is not with Poppy. And Michel is very special to me; it would be a bad day when I hurt him. Who knows what will come of this? It’s far too early to say. Perhaps it is simply a summer love, a romance of sunshine that will die with the season. Perhaps not. We’ll see. But rest assured that I shall neither say nor do anything to spoil Michel’s pleasure. Not unless I see reason to.’ She slipped a hand into the pocket of her jacket, fingering something, and for the first time smiled a little. ‘I shall go to find Isobel. I hope she’s resting? I know she’ll be very disappointed if she is not well enough to come with us to the race.’
She turned and walked away towards the house, spare, erect and supple. He watched after her, face expressionless. Then very briefly he rubbed at his forehead with his fingertips before turning to greet the two young people.
*
Since Isobel, Robbie and Eloise were joining the party going to Siena this time, they were taking two traps, the one from the Tenuta and another that Umberto had borrowed from a friend in the village. Kit was to drive one, Umberto the other.
‘Can I ride with you, Kit?’ Peter was sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor with Robbie astride his shoulders. The little boy, drumming his heels and crowing with glee and with absolutely no regard for the ungiving nature of a stone floor, threw himself backwards. Isobel gasped. Poppy yelped. Peter caught the child neatly and expertly and swung him around on to the floor in front of him. ‘Can I?’
‘More!’ Robbie said.
Poppy leaned to scoop him on to her lap. ‘Leave Peter alone for a minute, for goodness’ sake!’ she scolded, her voice indulgent.
‘I don’t mind,’ Peter said, and looked back at Kit with a gaze as clear and brilliant as water in sunshine. ‘Please, can I?’
Kit’s hesitation spoke for itself. ‘I think perhaps—’
Peter cocked his head and waited, eyes steady and confident.
‘I think perhaps you should speak to your mother about it,’ Kit said cautiously. ‘She’d probably prefer for you to go with her. And then there’s the problem of space. Isobel needs enough for two—’ he flashed a swift smile at his wife who, head back on the chair, eyes closed, did not see it ‘—and Robbie probably needs enough room for three, and then there’s Poppy, b
ecause Isobel shouldn’t have to look after Robbie on her own.’
‘I could look after Robbie,’ Peter said reasonably.
‘Then Poppy could ride with Michel and Mother.’ His quick grin was cheeky as he glanced at Poppy. ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Poppy?’
To be perfectly honest Poppy was not at all sure that she would; it was unfortunate but true that, Michel’s sister or no, too close a proximity to Eloise for any length of time she always found profoundly uncomfortable. She smiled noncommittally and bounced Robbie on her knee.
‘I think Kit’s right,’ Michel said from the armchair where he had been leafing through an ancient newspaper. ‘You should speak to your mother. Ah!’ He held up a quick, checking finger as the boy opened his mouth to argue. ‘Enough. If your mother says you may, then I’m sure Kit will work something out. Let’s wait and see.’
Peter pulled a face. ‘It’s as bad as being at school,’ he grumbled.
Michel was amused. ‘I’ll remind you of that during class in September,’ he said drily. He stood up. ‘Poppy, will you walk down to the house with me? I found that book you wanted, but forgot to bring it with me.’
Poppy hesitated, glancing down at the child.
‘It’s all right, Poppy. Give him to me.’ Isobel had opened dreamy eyes. ‘Come to Mummy, darling.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Don’t worry, you run along.’ Kit took the child from her and very gently deposited him on his mother’s lap, where he immediately began wriggling like a demented eel. ‘I’ll stay with them. Off you go.’ He watched as the three of them trooped out into the sunlight. ‘I dare say she’ll walk home with him, then he’ll see her back here,’ he said, laughing. ‘It could go on all day. I seem to remember there’s an old music hall song about it. Come on, young fellow-me-lad. If you can’t sit still, then down you come, leave Mummy to rest.’ He picked up the wriggling child, set him on his feet, bent to touch Isobel’s hand. ‘Are you feeling better?’
Her smile was slow, her lids heavy over the harebell gleam of her eyes. Her fingers curled about his for a moment and she nodded.
‘Will you be well enough to come with us tomorrow?’
The eyes opened. ‘Oh, yes. I promise I will. I shan’t miss it. I’m so looking forward to it. Apart from anything else it’s ages since I saw Giovanni and Lucia. I wouldn’t miss it for anything.’
‘We’ll make you comfy, you’ll see. And there’s no need to worry about this little tinker.’ He laid a hand upon Robbie’s tangled curls. ‘There are enough of us around to manage him. All you need to do is relax and enjoy yourself.’
She closed her eyes again. ‘Dear Kit,’ she murmured sleepily. ‘You’re very good to me.’
He looked down at her, unsmiling, before turning away. ‘I’ll take Robbie outside for a while. You rest for a bit.’
*
‘Do you think,’ Poppy asked, a little carefully, as they strolled slowly down the hillside towards the village, Peter doing his aeroplane impressions a little way ahead, ‘that Eloise realises just how fond Peter is growing of Kit?’
Michel shrugged, half smiling. ‘I don’t know. Why?’
She shook her head. ‘I – just wondered, that’s all. I’m sorry—’ she squeezed his fingers in her own. ‘I know she’s your sister, but she doesn’t strike me as the kind of person to share her only son with anyone.’ Not, above all, with Kit Enever; once again she found herself regretting the promise she had given so easily to Kit.
‘You’re right, of course. But you can understand the boy. He is fatherless.’
‘He has you,’ she said, swiftly defensive.
‘Yes, yes, of course. But I am also his schoolmaster, remember. There is no glamour in me.’
‘I think there is.’ The words were spoken entirely artlessly; the face she turned to him held nothing of guile nor of coquettishness.
Impulsive and laughing, he swung her towards him, catching her other hand in his, looking down into her face. ‘I love you, Poppy Brookes!’ he said, and stopped, his own eyes as startled as hers. When she said nothing, he put a gentle finger to her cheek. ‘Poppy – I’m sorry—’
‘No!’ she said. ‘There’s no need. It’s just—’ she sucked her lower lip, nibbling it with small, sharp teeth. ‘It’s just – I don’t suppose you feel like saying that again? Just to be sure I heard it right?’
There was a moment’s silence. Then, ‘I said “I love you, Poppy Brookes.”’ All laughter had gone from his voice. He waited for a moment before asking gently, ‘Shall I say it again?’
‘No,’ she said faintly, shaking her head. ‘I heard it this time.’
‘Do me a favour?’ The teasing laughter was back now.
‘Mm?’
‘Don’t say “I love you too.” Think of something original?’
‘I love you three,’ she said promptly. ‘Four? Five? Do I hear any advance on five?’ Her eyes were still locked to his, wide and wondering.
‘Hey – what are you two doing?’ The aeroplane zoomed in to land beside them. Peter’s grin was as pleased as it was brightly derisive. ‘Do hurry. I’m hungry.’
‘We’re coming,’ Michel said and, hands linked, they followed the scampering child down the hillside in a warm and companionably pensive silence.
*
On the day of the Palio it was obvious from the moment that Kit drew the pony to a halt outside the house in which Eloise and Peter lodged that Poppy’s misgivings had been realised. The occupants of the other calesse were ready and waiting for them, Eloise collected as ever in a faultlessly elegant, softly cut beige suit, a pale scarf floating at her neck, Peter sitting ramrod-straight beside her in immaculate shirt and shorts, his floppy sun-hat jammed on his head and every line of his young face set in mutiny. Michel, relaxed in open-necked shirt and slacks, jumped from the trap and crossed to them. His eyes signalled to Poppy; first, love, then a little roll of exasperation that brought an answering grin to her face.
‘Eloise wishes Peter to travel with us. She feels it is more suitable.’
Kit steadied the skittish pony. ‘I think she’s right. To be honest, Robbie’s at such a fever pitch of excitement I think he needs a sterner hand than Peter’s. Tell Umberto I’ll follow him. Dolce, dolce!’ he soothed the restless pony.
Michel took Poppy’s hand, turned it and dropped a light kiss onto the palm. ‘I’ll see you in Siena.’ With his quick, warm smile he turned and ran back to the other vehicle, vaulted into it and spoke to Umberto before settling back into his seat. The diminutive Umberto signalled to Kit with his whip raised to the wide brim of his hat and swung his big-wheeled trap out on the stony track. Kit, the pony’s head tossing, followed suit.
Poppy found her hand taken and held softly in her sister’s. ‘He’s such a very nice young man,’ Isobel said.
And, ‘Yes, he is,’ Poppy said, deciding upon the moment that this was not the time to take her sister to task for her lack of imagination in her use of the English language. ‘Very nice indeed.’
The journey was a happy one; Robbie, Dog tucked firmly under his arm, having with devilish instinct behaved impeccably for the first couple of miles was rewarded by being installed upon his father’s knee with his small dimpled hands upon the reins, and was entranced. Poppy, thus having the responsibility of his safety removed from her, sat beside her sister exchanging desultory comment and laughter and watching the calesse that moved steadily on in front of them, listening for Michel’s mellow voice, his instantly recognisable laughter, seeing him turn, as he frequently did, lifting an answering hand to his. She was looking forward to the day as much as she had ever looked forward to anything. In fact as they moved down into the valley and joined the steady stream of festive traffic heading for the city, it came to her that she had never in her life before been as happy as she was at this precise moment.
Obscurely, and only for a moment, the thought bothered her; even her practical soul was aware of the legends about the dangers of tem
pting the gods. She shook her head, smiling a little.
Isobel cocked her head. ‘What is it?’
‘Nothing,’ Poppy said. ‘Nothing at all.’
*
By the time they had left Umberto to his own concerns and fought their way on foot through the packed, colourful and feverishly excited city to the Martelli house, most of Giovanni’s and Lucia’s other guests had already arrived and the house was filled with animated and voluble people all dressed in their Sunday best and all, it seemed to Poppy, talking at once. Above the hubbub boomed the sound of the great bell of the Mangia Tower, called Sunto, which had been proclaiming the day of the Palio across the Piazza del Campo since eight that morning, and through the tall, open windows came in waves the ever-increasing noise of the already gathering crowds. Although the main ceremonies, the spectacular Corteo Storico, and the race itself would take place here in the Piazza later that afternoon and evening, for most of the city the festivities had begun the night before when thousands of Contrada members and their guests had attended dinners in the streets to the accompaniment of rousing speeches and passionately partisan songs; for many there had been no sleep at all last night. Many more had been in the square for the Jockeys’ Mass at eight in the morning. It was doubtful if there were a single Sienese citizen not caught up in the events of the day.
The Martellis, as might have been expected, had outdone themselves. The food was splendid, varied and plentiful and both the quality and the quantity of the wines more than matched it. The balcony overlooking the Piazza had been decked with bunting, and there were chairs for the ladies of the party. After lunch Poppy and Michel slipped out of the house to savour the atmosphere of the city as Sunto once more boomed its summons, this time to the young men of the Contrade to don their finery and make ready for the great procession, the Corteo Storico. As the two of them made their way back to the Martelli house, the various components of the procession were already parading through the streets to where all would meet in the Cathedral Piazza to assemble into the final magnificent whole.
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