Siena Summer

by Siena Summer (retail) (epub)

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were here?’

  ‘I was going to. I’d have come down in an hour or so. There were some things I needed to do here.’

  His hands tightened. very slightly on hers, encouraging and sympathetic. ‘I came up yesterday. I was going to do it for you. But the house was locked.’

  ‘It was a kind thought. Thank you.’ Not for a moment had either gaze wavered. They stood as if each were attempting to see through to the very heart of the other. ‘How did you know I was here?’

  ‘Eloise saw you go past. She assumed I knew. I called in just now, and she told me. I came at once.’

  The rain was lessening a little into a steady, drumming downpour, and the clouds still lowered, bringing the darkness of night to the day, shadowing the corners of the vast kitchen. Their linked, wet hands were warm. Water dripped from Poppy’s hair and ran down her back. ‘We’re making puddles,’ she said.

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘No.’

  Their kiss this time was impulsive, long and fervent; a kiss to rouse them both, and to prompt them, too, when at last they drew apart to sudden, delicate cau­tion. Poppy stepped back, aware all at once that the all-enveloping shirt, wet, was plastered to her body like a second skin. Self-consciously she crossed her arms over her breasts.

  He shook his head. ‘Please.’ His light voice was very quiet. ‘Don’t do that.’

  Her eyes on his, she let her hands drop to her sides. He stepped to her, lifted her chin in his hand and kissed her again, quickly and lightly. ‘A glass of wine,’ he suggested, ‘would go down very well. Don’t you think?’

  They sat at the table, lamp unlit, as the storm growled and grumbled around them, holding hands, a jug of wine between them, their prosaic tongues speaking of the events of the past few days, their less rational eyes and clasped fingers sending other messages entirely. ‘How’s Peter?’ Poppy asked at last, her own news having been delivered and discussed.

  Michel shook his head, his pale eyes clouding a little. ‘Still very shocked. He’s very quiet. He won’t talk about what happened.’

  ‘It’s natural, I suppose. He was so fond of Robbie. And he’s very young himself to witness such a thing. I’m sure he’ll get over it.’

  ‘Yes.’

  A log in the stove shifted and crackled. Beyond the open door the rain still flittered through the vine leaves. Full dark had fallen; every now and again there was a murmur of thunder, the faintest flicker of lightning over the hilltops. Gently Poppy disengaged her hand, fetched the lamp to the table and lit it. Before she could step back, Michel had caught her wrist and drawn her to him, his head upon her breast. ‘I love you.’

  ‘And I you.’ She was trembling.

  ‘Don’t be afraid.’ His hand, too, was at her breast, softly stroking.

  ‘I’m not.’ But, suddenly, and intemperately, she was. Afraid, exalted, enchanted.

  He was undoing the buttons of her shirt, baring her breasts to the light. She stood utterly motionless, hardly breathing. His face, lifted to hers, gilded and shadowed by the dim rays of the lamp, was intent, watching, with hard-held and fragile self-control, her every reaction, studying for any withdrawal, any protest.

  She made none. His long hands brushed her breasts. It was she who caught his head in her hands and brought his mouth to her nipple.

  After a moment, with a sound half gasp, half groan, he stood up abruptly, his hand once more about her wrist, not painfully, but with strength, holding her a little from him. Still she stood in silence, breathing shallowly and fast; still she trembled. But her face was serene. ‘I hope you’re not thinking of leaving?’

  He began to speak, cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps I should.’

  ‘Perhaps you should,’ she agreed, equably, ‘but you’d better not. I might have to come after you with a knife. A bit operatic, don’t you think? Even given the backdrop.’ She lifted her free hand, drew his mouth down upon hers. The rain fell steadily, a warm curtain between them and the world beyond. The shadowed house was still, silent, impassively compassionate about them. It had seen it all before: love and anger, birth and death, all came to the same in the end. Now was the only moment.

  Poppy it was who took his hand and led him from the kitchen, lifting the lamp high to light the way, not faltering as they passed the closed door next to Kit’s and Isobel’s bedroom. Beyond the long window of her own bedroom the pyrotechnics of the storm, though distant now, continued to light the sky in the direction of the city, a firefly light through the curtain of rain.

  *

  ‘When will you be going back?’ Michel asked quietly, into the darkness. They were lying naked and relaxed together, Poppy’s head on his shoulder, in a tranquil quiet no longer broken by the rain. Outside the window something rustled, and an owl hooted, flittering on soft wings.

  Poppy stirred a little, ran a light finger over his chest.

  ‘Sunday. Umberto will take me. You’ll be coming to the funeral?’

  ‘Of course. So – we have all day tomorrow, you and I?’

  ‘Yes.’ The word was a breath in the darkness. And all night. She did not say it, but the lover’s thought was there between them. A day and a night. A lifetime.

  He turned his head to look at her. ‘Perhaps tomorrow the sun will shine for us again?’

  ‘I don’t care if it doesn’t. I find, suddenly, that I am very fond of rain.’

  They lay in silence for a long while, Michel’s fingers softly and rhythmically stroking her shoulder, his breath in her hair. ‘Perhaps,’ he ventured at last, ‘I should go?’ He did not move, nor did the caressing finger stop.

  Sleepily she snuggled closer to him. ‘Oh dear! Am I boring you already?’

  She felt his laughter through his body. ‘Don’t be silly!’

  She came up on one elbow, looking down at him as if she would memorise every line of his face in the lamplight. ‘Then no,’ she said, ‘you shouldn’t go. Stay. Please me. And show me how to please you.’ She grinned her gamin, anarchic grin, and whatever was left of his heart was lost. ‘You are a teacher, after all.’

  *

  He left at first light, promising to return later with fruit and cheese for breakfast, and leaving Poppy curled sleepily amongst the bedclothes. Despite her best intentions, within minutes she had dozed off again, and woke with a start after a sound and refreshing sleep to find the sun well up in a cool, clear sky and the birds singing their hearts out in the woodland behind the house. She stirred and stretched, then suddenly stilled as the full memory of the night before came back to her. She lay for a very long time, her eyes wide and unseeing upon the stained ceiling, a small smile curving her lips. She drew a long, sighing breath, ran her hands lightly down her body, remembering. She was a little sore; but she had expected that. She was, for this moment, utterly, blissfully happy; after the events of the past week she would not, this time yesterday, have believed that possible. With a surge of energy she swung her feet to the floor and ran to the mirror, peering into it, studying her own face, a little put out that nothing appeared to have changed. There should surely be something to mark this rite of passage? Something to show the world that Poppy Brookes had grown up at last? That Poppy Brookes – she almost danced away from the mirror and stood by the window for a moment, stretching her arms above her head – that Poppy Brookes was in love?

  She glanced at her watch. Ten o’clock! Michel would be back any minute. For a mischievous moment she was tempted to jump back into bed and pretend to be asleep when he came, just to see what might happen, but then with a quick grin she decided against it. When he came back they would have the rest of the day – to say nothing of the night – together. She would set the little outside table – put some flowers on it, borrow Isobel’s prettiest china – even as she was thinking it she was flying about the room, washing, dressing, brushing her hair until it shone. Only when she hurried from the room and turned the corner into the passage where the oth
er bedrooms were did her surge of happiness falter. She stopped for a moment outside Robbie’s closed door, touched it gently with her fingertips, then briefly rested her forehead against it, closing her eyes. Nothing, not even the discovery of love, not even the finding, for the first time in her life, a fount of true personal joy could overcome or ease that pain. Only time, she supposed, would do that.

  In more sober mood she went down to the kitchen.

  *

  An hour or more later, she was still waiting, table prettily laid, for Michel. She had made one pot of coffee only to pour it down the sink when it cooled too much to be drinkable, had made herself tea and sat drinking it alone in the sunshine, with just the smallest shadow of unease beginning to shade her happy confidence. He would come. Of course he would. He had meant everything he had said last night. Of course he had. The worms of doubt began to wriggle in her mind; how many dire warnings had she seen and heard about the girls men slept with and the girls they married? For the first time she found herself thinking of the details of her behaviour the night before with a slight stain of colour in her cheeks. The first stirrings of fear, almost of panic, churned in her stomach. She reached a hand for her cup, and seeing its nervous trembling drew it back again. He would come. He would!

  Five minutes later he did, full of apologies, crushing her to him, kissing her with all the ardour she could wish. ‘I’m sorry, my darling, I’m sorry.’ He put a bag of fruit on the table, and now she saw what she had not in her relief and pleasure in his arrival at first noticed. A faint thread of worry fretted between his brows, and his smile, though warm, was brief. He looked around, glancing into the kitchen. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen Peter this morning?’

  She looked at him blankly. ‘Peter? No. I haven’t seen him since I arrived. Why?’

  He chewed his lip a moment. ‘That’s a pity. I had hoped he would be here.’

  Poppy, too, was frowning now. ‘But Michel, why? What’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing.’ He was quick to reassure her, but his face belied the words. ‘Eloise says he wanted to talk to me last night. Apparently he went to my room and waited for quite a long time.’ His eyes flickered to Poppy’s face and seeing there the faint rise of colour, reached for her hand, shaking his head gently. ‘Don’t worry. Anyway, apparently the boy came back late – not having found me, of course. Eloise said he was very quiet; she thought he was getting one of his headaches again, so this morning she let him lie in bed. But when she finally went in to wake him he wasn’t there.’

  ‘What do you mean he wasn’t there?’ Even as she spoke, Poppy heard the idiocy of her own question and added hurriedly, ‘I mean – where was he?’

  ‘That’s the problem. We don’t know. That’s why I hoped he had come here. Presumably he’s looking for me, but so far as I know he didn’t come to the house this morning.’

  Poppy was thinking. ‘I did sleep late,’ she said. ‘He could have come, and thought there was no one here?’

  Michel shook his head, unable now to disguise his concern. ‘Darling, I’m sorry. I’d better go back to let Eloise know he isn’t here. We’ve already been through the village, and to the places she knows he likes to play. No one seems to have seen him.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’ Briskly Poppy had begun to gather the cups and saucers ready to take them back indoors.

  ‘No.’ Michel’s hand restrained her. ‘It’s best you stay here, my love, in case he comes. I’m sure we’re worrying about nothing. He’s probably safely back home already. But – just in case – I have to go back to tell Eloise. I’m sorry. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’ He bent to kiss her upturned face. ‘I love you,’ he said, and was gone, his long legs taking him around the corner and out of sight in moments.

  Poppy, nonplussed, stood for a moment watching the spot where he had disappeared, then, picking up the cups and saucers, went back indoors. Once in the kitchen she set them upon the table and went to the stairs. It was an unlikely chance, but worth a try. ‘Peter?’ she called, her voice echoing into the gloom. ‘Peter? Are you there?’

  Silence.

  She called once more, advancing up the stairs a little, but still there was no response. Would he have gone into the closed part of the house? He might have done, she supposed. He was after all a ten-year-old boy with a ten-year-old boy’s nose for adventure. But a swift search revealed nothing. If he had been there, she was sure he woUld have answered her calls. She went back downstairs and on the way slipped into her bedroom to fetch her sun-hat, which she had left on the chair by the window; and as she bent to pick it up a tiny glint of colour and movement caught her eye in the morning sunlight, deep in the woodland beyond the window. She stared, screwing up her eyes. Had she really seen it? The smallest flash of blue in the shadows amongst the dappled greens and golds?

  She dropped the hat and ran down the stairs and out into the courtyard. ‘Peter? Pe-eter?’ She strained her ears to listen, but any sound was masked by the song of birds and the stirring of leaves in the breeze. She ran a little way up the path. ‘Peter!’ Again she stood still, listening. Again there was no reply. She walked further into the woods, towards the tower, and was about to call again when a sudden, startled flock of pigeons fluttered from the building and wheeled about the sky, wings beating in the air. Something, or someone, had alarmed them from their roost. Poppy quickened her footsteps, half-running towards the tower. The air was still and dusty, and smelled of decay and of the bird-droppings that were everywhere. It was utterly quiet. A pigeon swooped from the roof and she glanced up. And ‘God Almighty!’ she whispered, almost beneath her breath.

  The child, sitting, shoulders hunched, high above her in the window embrasure neither moved nor spoke. He had his back to her and quite obviously his legs were dangling over the crumbling edge; it brought the sickness of vertigo to Poppy just to think of it. ‘Peter?’ It was such an effort to keep her voice low and calm that she sweated with it. ‘What on earth are you doing? Sweetheart, please come down. You shouldn’t be up there. It’s too dangerous.’

  She saw by the slight movement of his head that he had heard her, but he neither acknowledged her presence nor spoke. She moved to the bottom of the crumbling, unguarded steps. ‘Peter, please come down. You’re being very silly.’ She caught her breath. Very slowly the small figure had begun to rock, back and forth, back and forth, rhythmically. A shower of small stones and ancient mortar cascaded from the ledge at the movement. Panic gripped her, dried her throat, thundered in her chest like a drum. ‘Peter!’ She fought for a moment to control herself, drew a deep breath. ‘Peter, you’re being very naughty. Come down at once.’ Desperately she tried to combine authority with gentleness and was aware she was succeeding with neither. ‘What’s the matter?’ Her voice was almost pleading. ‘Peter, please tell me. What’s the matter?’

  ‘Robbie’s dead.’ The child’s voice echoed within the decaying walls. He did not stop the rocking movement. Another small avalanche of stones fell around Poppy, and she winced. ‘Robbie’s dead,’ Peter said again, dully.

  Poppy’s skin in the stuffy heat was stone cold and slick with sweat. She stood helpless, her head tilted back, watching him. ‘I know. I know!’ She tried to keep her own distress from the words. ‘But it isn’t your fault. Hurting yourself won’t bring him back. Please come down, there’s a good boy?’

  This time he did turn a little, to look down at her, and she flinched from the look on his face. ‘It is,’ he said. ‘It is my fault.’

  ‘No!’ She shook her head vehemently. ‘It isn’t! Just because you weren’t with him—’

  ‘I was.’ The quiet words cut across hers and stunned her to silence. ‘I was with him.’

  There was a long and difficult silence.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Poppy asked at last, very carefully.

  The boy had turned away again, shifting a little on his precarious perch. His voice floated down to her, light and disembodied. ‘I was with him. In the room with the ceiling�
��’ His voice faded to silence.

  Poppy’s mind was racing. ‘You mean you went up there, to watch the race? And – Robbie followed you?’

  He shook his head. ‘I took him.’

  ‘That still doesn’t make it your fault! The window had been left open.’

  ‘No, it hadn’t.’ The words were unnaturally calm and flat. Once again the russet head turned and the burning eyes looked down at her. ‘I opened it.’

  The silence this time was truly terrible.

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ Poppy said at last. ‘Peter, why are you saying such things?’

  ‘It’s the truth.’

  ‘But why? Why? Why would you do such a thing?’ He leaned forward a little and instinctively she held up her hands in a sharp gesture, as if to prevent him from falling. ‘Because his father killed my father,’ he said, and his voice was suddenly savage. ‘Mother said so.’

  Poppy was aghast. ‘She told you that?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. She told you. I was there. I heard you. You were shouting. I came up to see what was going on. You’d left the door open.’

  The words were like a physical blow. To hell with keeping my voice down!

  Poppy bowed her head, closing her eyes against the memory.

  ‘I thought Robbie was really lucky to have a father like Kit.’ There were tears now too in the tight little voice above her. ‘I thought he was smashing. I wanted him to be my Dad!’ Suddenly he was sobbing hysterically, his hands over his face. A small piece of loose masonry bounced off the wooden rungs of the ladder and hit the floor. ‘I hate him now. I hate him. That’s why I opened the door. He killed my father. He killed him! That’s why I pushed Robbie out!’ The words were disjointed, a howl of anguish and rage.

  Poppy was fighting physical sickness; there was bile in her throat. When she spoke, her voice shook so badly she could hardly get the words out. ‘Peter, we’ll talk about this later. I’m coming up to get you. To help you down.’