By the time they arrived, almost the whole party was gathered on the balcony, awaiting the start of the spectacle. A chair was brought for Poppy and she found herself settled between Eloise and Isobel, with Michel behind her, a hand resting lightly on her shoulder. She glanced around. ‘Where’s Peter?’
‘Embarking on his third helping of Lucia’s almond tart and lemonade, I believe,’ Eloise said drily, ‘and encouraging Robbie to do the same. It’s all right, Lucia has asked one of the maids to keep an eye on them.’ The atmosphere of the occasion seemed to have affected even the normally cool Eloise; there was faint colour in her cheeks and her extraordinary eyes were bright. She looked very beautiful, yet appeared totally unaware of the attention she was attracting from various – male – sections of the crowd below. Even when it was forced upon her in the shape of a young man who was lifted amidst good-natured laughter on to the shoulders of his companions to toss her a flower, her response was no more than a small smile and a nod of the head. Whatever Eloise’s faults, vanity was not one of them. ‘Listen!’ Isobel, unusually animated, cocked her head and took Poppy’s hand. ‘Here they come!’
The crowds too had caught the sound of the fanfare and, as one man, with a roar had turned in the direction of the entrance to the Piazza through which the procession was to come. And through it they came; the mace-bearers, the standard-bearers, the drummers and the trumpeters, the mounted knights and the sober clerics, the Captains and the Lieutenants, the pages and the ensigns in a kaleidoscope of colour and pageantry, a spectacle straight out of the Middle Ages. Some on horseback, some afoot, the pace was slow and stately. It would take two hours for this splendid pageant to pass. In the crowd, favours and scarves were waved wildly, patches of bright, primary colour as the members and supporters of each Contrada stood and acted together, and each section of the procession was greeted by a renewed and rapturous roar. Giovanni, standing between Poppy and Eloise, bent and lifted his voice so that they could hear him. ‘See how high the Ensigns toss their banners.’ Poppy nodded; the huge, colourful banners so skilfully handled soared through the air like great, flamboyant birds, ‘Each Contrada wishes to be the best. They compete for the Masgalano – the prize awarded to the Contrada who is judged to be the most excellent of the year. Rivalry is very strong.’
‘Look!’ – Peter, who was hanging perilously over the balcony, pointed. ‘There’s Umberto! He’s waving!’ He waved back so vigorously that he seemed to be in imminent danger of toppling into the crowds below. Michel extended a long arm and towed him back. Robbie, sitting on his father’s shoulders, shrieked with delight, bouncing Dog on Kit’s head. ‘Look, Dog, look! Pretty flags!’
‘Where are the horses that are to race?’ Poppy asked Giovanni.
He pointed. ‘They wait in the inner courtyard of the Palazzo. When the procession is finished, the gun will tell them it is time to come out, they will be given their whips and called to the start. Until that moment no one knows their position on the line. It is a greatly guarded secret, for the places are drawn by lot and some are more advantageous than others. Poppy, your glass is empty. I will fetch more wine.’
Amongst the onlookers the crescendo of excitement was building. When at last in a final display of deftness and skill one Ensign from each Contrada stood before the Palazzo and, to the accompaniment of a single drum, enjoyed his personal moment of glory by tossing the huge flag high in the air, the jubilant roars that greeted each throw were literally deafening.
And then, amazingly, silence fell; or at the very least a kind of buzzing quiet. Heady expectation held the crowds. Poppy felt Michel’s fingers grip her shoulder; she lifted a hand to cover his. Such was the tension that the thump of the mortar that summoned horses and riders out into the square almost made her jump from her skin. And once more, as the jockeys received their whips and began to line up for the start, the noise began to rise again. The horses danced and jostled, excited and eager, unsettled by the tumult around them. The riders were already using their whips; not upon their own mounts but on their rivals’, in an attempt to gain advantage. Then the mortar sounded again, the rope dropped and they were off, hurtling round the square like things possessed, urged on by the screams and shouts of the onlookers who surged at the barriers. And now battle was truly engaged; whips lashed, horses were barged off course, jockeys tumbled and rolled as they were unseated. Poppy jumped to her feet, her hand to her mouth, as two horses collided and fell at the San Martino curve, rolling in a brutal tangle of lashing hooves, bringing another mount down with a crash, its rider tossed into the air like a boneless doll. For perhaps eighty or ninety seconds a dusty and tumultuous pandemonium reigned. Loose horses raced perilously on, still urged on by their vociferous supporters, for this was a race that was won by the horse, not the rider, and a horse could win with or without its jockey in the saddle.
And then it was over. Members of the winning Contrada – Poppy recognised the colours as being that of the Panther – swarmed across the barricades, risking life and limb beneath the hooves of the still-running horses, embracing, back-slapping, dancing in the sand. Grown men were crying. A band had struck up the Palio Hymn. Then in a swirling wave of movement the members of the winning Contrada, waving, shouting and singing, ran out of the Piazza, not even waiting to see their victorious flag unfurled from the Palazzo.
‘Where are they going?’ Poppy asked Giovanni, surprised.
‘To the church of Santa Maria di Provenzano, to give thanks. It is the tradition. And then—’ he laughed ‘—ah, then the real celebrations will begin. There will be some very sore heads in the city tomorrow, I can assure you!’
Poppy turned back to the square. An odd, anti-climactic quiet had descended. The horses were being led away, sweating and snorting, one of them limping badly. Faces were downcast, voices low. Only one Contrada could win; for the rest there was nothing but ignominious defeat.
‘Horsy failed down.’ Robbie informed Dog, solemnly. ‘Hurt his leg.’
Kit swung the child down on to the floor. ‘Umberto won’t be too happy,’ he said.
Giovanni shrugged. ‘They’ll all get over it. There is the next race to look forward to now. In six weeks they do it all over again.’ His handsome smile gleamed. ‘It is the madness of the Siena summer.’
*
That phrase recurred to Poppy as the tired party travelled through the warm gathering darkness back to the Tenuta di Gordini. Robbie, curled on Poppy’s lap, thumb in mouth, Dog clutched as always in his arms, slept the whole way, and within a couple of miles Isobel too was asleep. The madness of the Siena summer. She supposed with a little stab of amusement that some might say she was suffering a dose of that herself; indeed, if it came to it, she was more than ready to admit that it might be true. The Poppy of old would certainly have said so.
But then the Poppy of old had never been in love.
Chapter Thirteen
A week or so after the July Palio Eloise unexpectedly announced that she intended to take Peter to Rome for a few days.
‘We’ll leave you in peace for a while,’ she said to her brother, mildly malicious, ‘perhaps at last to seduce your little English Poppy?’
He ignored the not-unfriendly jibe. ‘You’re sure you’ll be all right alone? I’ll come with you if you wish.’ They spoke in French, as they always did when they were alone together.
Eloise shook her head. ‘No, there’s no need. We’ll be perfectly all right.’ Her smile flickered. ‘Peter will take care of me. And, anyway, I have some small business to attend to. You’d be bored. No, I am resolved; put the time to good use. Seduce your little virgin. I insist! I shall expect a report when I get back.’
‘Don’t be mischievous, Eloise.’ Michel’s voice was amiable, ‘What Poppy and I do or don’t do is none of your business.’
His sister lit a cigarette, blew smoke to the ceiling and regarded him with pale, contemplative eyes. ‘But you do want to? Seduce her, I mean?’
‘Eloise!’ A faint, amu
sed exasperation tinged the word.
She held up her hand. ‘All right, all right! I’m sorry.’ She put her sleek head on one side, still watching him, real curiosity in her eyes. ‘Do you love her?’ she asked, suddenly and directly.
Michel nodded calmly, submitting with patience to an inquisition he had been expecting for some time. ‘Indeed I do.’
Eloise swung an idle foot, her face thoughtful. ‘In what way do you love her?’
Michel frowned a little. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Exactly what I say: in what way do you love her? As a friend who may become a lover? As an attractive, sensible girl who may become a wife? As a grand passion? An obsession? Would you die without her?’ Her brother shook his head helplessly. ‘Eloise, I’m not like you! It hasn’t occurred to me to pigeon-hole it in any of those ways. I love her. I love to be with her. She makes me laugh, she makes me happy. She’s pretty and she’s fun and I don’t believe she has a malicious bone in her body. What more can I say? I love her.’
‘Yet you don’t want to seduce her?’ Eloise raised mockingly amused eyebrows, ‘What a paragon you are, little brother!’
He had to laugh. ‘I didn’t say that—’
Her own laugh was quick and husky as she leaned forward to stab a long and slender finger at him. ‘Ah! So you do! Then my suggestion is not such a silly one after all, eh?’
‘I told you, it’s none of your business.’ His words were gentle, tolerant, but very firm. ‘Now – would you tell me something?’
‘What’s that?’
‘Do you like Poppy?’
She thought for a moment, then shrugged a little. ‘Yes, I suppose I do. She’s a nice enough little thing, if a touch lacking in fire. Unless—’ she cast a sly glance at him ‘—unless there are hidden depths that are not immediately obvious?’
‘Is anyone truly what they seem?’ Michel asked mildly.
There was a pensive silence. Then, briskly, Eloise rose, dropped a sisterly kiss on his cheek and went to the door. ‘What a startlingly serious question. I’d better be getting back. I’ll see you later.’ As she turned, she threw back over her shoulder a bright, impenitent glance, and her laughter was soft. ‘I still think you should seduce her. It would be good for both of you.’
*
A little uncomfortably, Michel found himself remembering those words more than once in the days that followed, and they came to him again a week or so later when, having seen Eloise and Peter off to the station with Umberto on the first stage of their journey to Rome, he walked up the hill to the Tenuta and came upon Poppy, bareheaded and in grubby shorts and shirt, pulling weeds out in the vegetable garden. She looked up at his footsteps, jumped to her feet with a glowing smile, pushing her hair back from her damp forehead with a dirty hand. ‘Michel!’ She raised her face happily for his kiss.
He kissed her gently, put her from him, holding her shoulders. ‘Eloise thinks I should seduce you whilst she is away,’ he said solemnly.
For a moment the brown eyes were startled, then, ‘What, now? Oh dear,’ Poppy said with composure. ‘If I’d known, I’d have done the weeding in sequins. You wouldn’t guess it, but I look very fetching in sequins. Have I blown my chance?’
He gave a small shout of laughter. ‘My darling Poppy, you look very fetching, as you put it, as you are. Any man would find himself hard put not to seduce you.’
‘Well, you’re the only one around at the moment,’ she said, encouragingly, ‘unless you count Robbie, and he’s asleep and just a little inexperienced for my taste.’ She kissed him again. ‘Would you care for a glass of wine while you consider it?’ She took his hand to lead him into the little back courtyard. In fact Michel had spoken nothing but the truth; in the few weeks she had been here she had blossomed. The sun had gilded her smooth skin and brightened her shining hair, her eyes were soft and clear and almost always close to laughter. Poppy was no Eloise, to veil her feelings with a subtle skill and a schooled face; every time she looked at him, her love and happiness shone clearly through, unguarded.
He followed her into the kitchen, where she fetched glasses and poured dark wine from a cask into a jug. ‘Where are Kit and Isobel?’
‘Gone for a walk. Isobel doesn’t get enough exercise. I’m sure it’s part of her trouble. Since it’s a little cooler today, Kit persuaded her to take a stroll with him. Did Eloise and Peter get off in good time?’
He nodded. ‘They’re on their way. They’ll be back on Friday.’
She had turned, jug in hand, studying his face. ‘Isn’t it strange – just a few weeks ago I didn’t even know you existed. Now, I’m so pleased you didn’t go off to Rome with them. I’d have missed you so.’
‘I did offer – oh, not because I wanted to go, simply because – well, Eloise is my sister and I thought I ought at least to make the effort.’
Poppy led the way out to the table, set the jug and glasses on it. ‘I dare say she’s pleased to have Peter to herself for a while.’
‘Yes, I think that’s true. She also said she had some business to attend to, and I’d be bored.’ He took her hand as she passed and raised it to his lips, kissing the grubby palm. ‘I didn’t argue.’
‘Business? In Rome?’
‘Money, I should think. Siena isn’t exactly the centre of the financial world and although Peter’s father’s family help to support him, she keeps a very firm eye on the money and interests her grandmother left her.’ Poppy sat down, poured the wine, pushed a glass towards him and rested her chin on her knuckles, looking at him. A warm and easy silence fell. A cicada chirruped close by. Two colourful butterflies danced in the still air.
‘I have a bone to pick with you,’ he said, smiling.
She did not look over-alarmed. ‘Oh?’
‘Isobel told Eloise, and Eloise told me that it is your birthday soon.’
‘Oh – that. Yes. In three weeks or so.’
‘And that it is no ordinary birthday.’
She grinned. ‘My twenty-first. Grown up at last.’
‘You didn’t tell me.’
She sipped her wine. ‘It didn’t occur to me.’ Their eyes were still locked in a perfect, private communion that had little to do with the desultory conversation.
‘Dog’s hungry,’ said a small, firm voice from the doorway of the kitchen. ‘So’s Robbie.’
The spell was broken. Laughing, Poppy rose and picked the little boy up, planting a kiss on his smooth, sleep-flushed cheek. ‘We’ll have to do something about that, won’t we? Egg and soldiers for Robbie and a biscuit for Dog. Do you think he’ll be able to manage that?’
The child nodded gravely. ‘Robbie help him,’ he said kindly.
*
It was inevitable, of course, that sooner or later they would have their first quarrel, and equally inevitable that the spark that started the blaze should be struck in innocent and light-hearted conversation. They were strolling along the woodland path towards the tower. The sunlight glittered through the trees in slender shafts of gold, the air was very still, and rang with birdsong. High above the treetops swifts and swallows swooped, the soaring curve of their flight the very essence of grace and freedom. Poppy tilted her head to look at them. ‘I love swallows. They’re my favourite birds. They nest under the eaves every year at home. I always think that they bring the summer with them.’
He smiled at that. ‘I spent the summer vacation in Paris a few years ago, staying in an attic apartment on the Left Bank. Swallows were nesting right outside the window. They woke us each morning with their chatter.’
‘I’ve never been to Paris. Is it as romantic as they say?’
‘Yes, it is. At least, I think so.’ He squeezed her fingers in his. ‘Perhaps we’ll go there together one day? Would you like that?’
‘I’d love it. Would your friend let us stay in the romantic attic on the Left Bank?’
He shook his head. ‘She doesn’t live there any more. She went to America a couple of years ago. But there are lots of apar
tments in Paris. And lots of swallows.’
They walked on in silence. The tower loomed ahead, the swallows circling and diving about it. Poppy had lost interest in them. She was watching her sandalled feet as they scuffed through the soft leaf mould of the woodland floor. ‘Michel?’ she asked at last, in a voice that did not quite succeed in its effort to appear casual. ‘Did you say “she”?’
He looked at her, but she kept her head determinedly down. ‘Yes,’ he said gently, ‘I did.’
‘But you said—’ She lifted her head suddenly to look him in the face. A faint flush stained her cheeks. ‘You said you stayed with her. You said “woke us up”. Did you mean – that is—’ She stopped, biting her lip and the colour in her face deepened.
They had both stopped walking. Michel was watching her, his face faintly, almost amusedly, puzzled. ‘Darling, I told you. It was a long time ago.’
‘That wasn’t what I asked,’ she said stubbornly.
He laughed a little, teasingly. ‘You didn’t actually ask anything!’
‘Well, I’m glad you think it funny.’ Poppy herself was astounded at the emotions that had so suddenly and surprisingly engulfed her at Michel’s casual reference to his past.
‘Poppy—’ Michel laid a hand on her arm. She shook it off, turned and began walking again towards the ruined building. Michel looked after her for a moment then hurried to catch her up. ‘Poppy!’ he said again, more sharply.
‘Might I ask the name of this “she” who went to America?’ she asked, her voice chill.
‘What does it matter? I haven’t seen her for years.’
‘It matters to me.’ She knew she was being quite unjustifiably childish, yet not for the life of her could she stop it.
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