She went up the first few crumbling steps on all fours, frantic fingers clutching at any hand-hold she could find. Above her the child was sobbing wildly, completely beyond control.
‘Poppy!’ Michel’s voice behind her almost made her lose her footing. She froze. He came to her, held out a hand to support her. ‘Come down. I’ll get him.’ He neither hesitated nor questioned. She had no idea how much he had heard. Her legs were trembling so badly that they almost failed her as she stepped thankfully on to firm ground, backed away as Michel started carefully up the steps. ‘Peter!’ His voice was authoritative. ‘Calm yourself. And turn around. Put your feet on the platform. Wait for me.’ His foot slipped. Poppy watched, heart pounding, as he righted himself. The boy had lifted his head at the sound of his uncle’s voice, his sobs quietening a little. ‘Turn around,’ Michel said again firmly, inching his way up. ‘Come away from the edge. I’m coming up to get you.’
‘I went to find you last night.’ The child’s choking voice whispered in the enclosed space. ‘I was going to tell you then. I wanted to tell you. But I couldn’t find you. I couldn’t find you!’
Last night.
Poppy bowed her head in despair.
It took fifteen perilous minutes to bring the child down, fifteen minutes that to the watching Poppy seemed half a lifetime. When at last, dusty, sweat-streaked and dishevelled, Michel at last helped Peter down the final few steps she could do nothing but close her eyes for a moment, weak with relief. She felt Michel’s arm about her shoulder, and opened her eyes to find him beside her, his other hand upon Peter’s shoulder. Peter had stopped crying, though his thin, dirty face was still tear-streaked. He was standing quite still, watching Poppy with opaque, almost expressionless, eyes.
‘I did do what I said I did,’ he said, a frightened, stubborn defiance in every line of his small face.
Poppy looked at Michel, and saw from the bleak, impassive set of his mouth that he had indeed heard enough to know what the words meant, but ‘We’d best take him back to his mother’, was all he said as he turned to lead the way out into the noon sunlight.
Chapter Sixteen
The late afternoon sun, sinking towards the mountainous skyline of the west, cast a flood of golden light through the windows of Eloise Martin’s fastidiously ordered room. In the yard below, children were playing, their voices and laughter ringing in acute contrast to the constrained silence within. Poppy sat sombre and quiet, watching the other woman. She had had her say, she had offered her bargain; now it was up to Peter’s mother if she accepted it or not. Eloise stood with her back to the room, looking out of the window. Poppy could see the flawless, clear-cut profile, still and expressionless as a carved effigy. She had stood so for a very long time. Poppy folded her hands and her lips and waited.
‘So,’ Eloise said at last, her low voice calm, ‘it is agreed.’ She turned, her sleek head high, her pale eyes direct and dauntless. There had been tears, but now they were gone. There had been flat disbelief, but her son’s stubborn corroboration of what Michel and Poppy had told her dispelled that. There had been, for a moment, horror, and perhaps an awareness of culpability, but that, at least apparently, had not lasted long. Eloise was herself again, elegantly and obdurately composed, coolly self-contained.
Poppy stood up. ‘You do understand that I mean what I say? If I ever hear that you’ve been anywhere near Kit, Isobel or the child again then I shall tell what I know, whatever might happen in the future between me and Michel. This is between you and me. Don’t think I won’t do it.’
The other woman shook her head slowly; even, austerely, smiled a little. ‘Oh, I don’t. I have underestimated you once, Poppy Brookes. I shan’t make the same mistake again.’
‘By the same token,’ Poppy added, ‘providing you do stay away I see no profit to anyone by saying anything. There’s been grief enough. It would only hurt them more. A tragic accident is one thing – something that perhaps eventually they will come to terms with. This would crucify them.’
Eloise said nothing. She stood unmoving, her face impassive once more.
Poppy turned to leave.
‘Are you not going to wait for Michel?’ Eloise asked, softly.
Poppy turned, and shook her head. Michel was in Peter’s room with the exhausted and unhappy child, watching over him as, at last, he slept. Much as she wanted to see him, much as she longed for the reassurance of his love, for the moment he belonged here and she did not. In her revulsion at what she had discovered, her every instinct was urging her to get away from this place; to escape from the nightmare. Even her feelings for Michel could not overcome her need for a breathing space, for time to come to terms with the anguish of what she now knew. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Best not, I think. Peter needs him. And so do you. We’ll have time together later. I’m going to find Umberto. It isn’t too late for me to ask him to take me back to the city this evening. Perhaps you’d explain to Michel?’
Eloise nodded. ‘I’m sure he’ll understand.’
Again Poppy made to leave, and again the other woman’s voice stopped her. ‘Poppy?’
Poppy waited.
Eloise looked at her steadily for a long moment. ‘You do realise that you’ll never know?’ she asked at last.
‘Know what?’
‘Whom to believe. Me or Kit. About what really happened to Peter’s father.’
Poppy fought hard but not entirely successfully to keep her composure. ‘I believe you lied,’ she said, hating the tremor in her voice in face of the other woman’s calm.
Eloise shook her head.
Poppy stared at her. ‘I said the last time I was in this room that you were the sick one,’ she said very quietly, ‘and now I say it again. And now I tell you—’ she took a breath to control the sudden, choking anger, lifted a steadily pointing finger towards the other woman ‘—that you’ve passed your sickness on to your son.’
This time she left the room silent behind her. And as she ran precipitously down the stairs and out into the yard where the children played, noisily and happily as children should, it came to her, with no remorse whatsoever, that she had just said to Eloise the cruellest thing she had ever said to anyone.
Face pale and still as marble, Eloise watched from the window as the slim, leggy figure ran up the street towards Umberto’s house. She did not move as she heard the click of the door opening behind her, but stood like a statue, arms folded across her breasts, her hands holding her upper arms as if, in the full flood of sunlight, she were cold.
‘Has Poppy gone?’ Michel asked, wearily and a little surprised.
‘Yes. To find Umberto. She’s going back to the city. To her family.’ She turned, looked at her brother with direct and steady eyes. ‘I fear it has all proved too much for her. She has taken flight from us. You can’t blame the poor child, Michel. She’s very young.’
There was a very long silence. Then, ‘Yes, of course. I suppose it was bound to happen,’ and Michel left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
*
On the morning of the funeral a note arrived, exquisitely written, gracefully worded. Eloise expressed once more her sympathy for the unhappy accident, her confidence that Isobel’s little daughter, whilst never taking the place of the child that had been lost, would nevertheless prove a comfort and consolation to her bereaved parents, and gently excusing herself, her brother and her son from attending the funeral. Peter, she explained, had been so badly affected by the tragedy that she feared for his health; she and Michel were to take him home to England and under the circumstances it seemed prudent to leave as soon as possible. They were to catch the Florence train on Tuesday afternoon.
‘Tuesday afternoon?’ Poppy said blankly. ‘That’s tomorrow.’
Kit looked up from the note, the flare of hope and relief in his tired eyes quickly veiled. ‘You didn’t know?’
She shook her head.
He touched her arm with a sympathetic hand. ‘He’ll call before they leave.’
‘Perhaps,’ she said, then, looking down at the workaday clothes in which she had been helping Lucia in the kitchen, she added, ‘I’d better go and get changed, I suppose. I want to look in on Isobel before we leave.’ Alone in her room she stood looking bleakly out across the sunlit square. Tomorrow. Michel was leaving tomorrow, apparently without so much as a word. Why had he not included a message for her? At least some word of love, of reassurance? Why would he leave her to face this day of all days alone? Through a wretched and wakeful night she had bitterly regretted the impulse that had carried her away from him. But, surely, he had understood? Surely the bond between them was not so fragile? Surely he wouldn’t leave without coming to her? The night of their loving seemed a lifetime ago; but, surely, he could not have forgotten? Unless—
Unless he had come to regret their entanglement. Unless he saw and wanted to grasp in this a convenient way out.
Sick at heart, she turned away to face the melancholy day.
Little Robbie was laid to rest with simple ceremony in a graveyard sheltered by an ancient, evergreen holm oak whose great branches spread like a canopy, shading and protecting the spot where he lay. There are always tears at a funeral; but those shed for a lost child must surely be the saddest. It was a subdued group that made its way back to the city, to the house where a new flame of life had been kindled, and was being nurtured with love and with hope. Whilst Kit sat with Isobel and the baby, Poppy joined Lucia in playing hostess to the mourners, handing round food and trays of drinks, trying not to remember that the last gathering in this room had been her own ill-fated birthday party.
There had been no word from, nor sign of, Michel.
*
Once again, though weary to the bone, she slept badly that night. Once again she went over and over the harrowing events of the past days in a mind that refused to rest. And once again she wept; for Robbie, for poor, weak Isobel, for Kit, whose fragile and heroic self-control that day had all but broken her heart; and for herself. Was Michel really going to be so cruel as to leave without attempting to see or speak to her? Did he really care so little? Or – worse – was his pride so high, so tender, that he could not bear what she knew of Peter? As the pastel wash of dawn lightened the sky and the spires and domes of the city stood stark against it, a miserable anger grew. Let him go, then. He wasn’t the only man in the world, not by a long chalk. Let him get on his beastly train. Let him leave. Good riddance. She wished him joy of his elegant, manipulative sister and her flawed and damaged son.
She lay, grieving and sleepless, until she judged it the time when she could decently get up. Even so, the whole household was astir by the time she went downstairs; no one it seemed had rested too well. She paid her morning visit to Isobel – on doctor’s orders all visits but Kit’s were restricted – and found her pale but strengthened and remarkably calm. With her fair curls and shadowed blue eyes, and the tiny, sleepy baby in her arms she was the very picture of motherhood. The peaceful room, with its baby clutter and baby smells, its blinds drawn against the sun, was a world apart; a world, hopefully, of care and of healing. On this particular morning, however, it was too much for Poppy. Restless and aware of a precarious temper she went back downstairs.
Kit it was who cornered her a couple of hours later, joining her as she stood on the balcony. She was leaning, her shoulders resting against the wall between the long windows, long legs crossed, hands jammed in the pockets of her slacks, scowling across the square. She neither moved nor spoke as he walked out from the drawing-room. He went to the parapet, leaned his elbows upon it and turned his head to eye her quizzically. There was a long and, on Poppy’s side at least, uninviting silence.
‘You know where the station is,’ Kit said, at last, mildly.
‘And he knows where this house is!’ Poppy snapped back, not without logic. ‘It’s his choice, not mine.’
Kit shook his head slowly. ‘Oh, Poppy, Poppy – this isn’t like you! Where’s my smart, practical Poppy? Go and find him. Speak to him! If only to give him a piece of your mind. The train leaves at two.’ He pushed up his cuff to look at his watch. ‘You’ve plenty of time.’
‘No.’ The word was obdurate.
‘You’re sure there hasn’t been some misunderstanding?’
‘On the contrary. I’m sure there has.’ She was herself surprised at the bitterness of that. She snapped her mouth shut.
He pushed himself upright, shrugging resignedly. ‘Mohammed and the mountain come to mind,’ he said ruefully. ‘And blowed if I’d want to get in the path of either of them. But think about it. As I say – even if only to give him a piece of your undoubtedly sharp mind.’
‘I doubt if screaming at him in public could possibly be in the least bit therapeutic!’ Poppy said drily.
He looked at her in a creditable attempt at amazement. ‘You? Scream?’
Tears were pricking her eyes again. ‘I could,’ she said tartly, ‘very easily. Here and now if you don’t stop nagging me.’
‘I’m not nagging you.’ His voice was so gentle her composure almost broke. She bit her lip fiercely. ‘I just want to see you happy, that’s all.’
‘He knows where I am.’
Sighing, he turned to leave her, hesitated. ‘It’s not in character,’ he said before he went in. ‘It doesn’t fit at all with what I know of the man. But – there’s someone else involved in this. Think about it.’
She did, and almost for too long. She had left herself perilously short of time when she slipped out into the square and set off, half running, through the steep and narrow streets that led down towards the Porta Ovile, the gate in the ancient walls that was closest to the station.
*
She arrived with perhaps five minutes to spare. The train was standing at the platform, shrieking steam, the place was an ant-heap of activity. Half Siena, it seemed, had chosen to travel to Florence this afternoon. Townsmen smart in suit and tie, peasants with baskets, piglets and chickens. A crocodile of schoolchildren, escorted by two formidable, black-robed nuns. She stopped in dismay. Oddly and foolishly, it had not occurred to her to realise that, once here, Michel might not be waiting alone on an empty platform. Feverishly she began to push through the crowd. He must be here somewhere. He must!
‘Scusi – Scusi—’ She elbowed her way through frantically, looking about her, standing on tiptoe. So far as she could see, neither he nor Eloise were anywhere in the crowd. Which meant they must already be on the train. ‘Scusi—’
In the event Michel saw her before she saw him. ‘Poppy! Poppy!’ No one in the vicinity could fail to hear the bellow, and many eyes turned in amusement to the tall young man who, leaving the door swinging behind him, jumped from the train and ploughed through the now thinning crowds to where the girl stood, struck to stillness at the sight of him. There were more smiles when her tongue loosened. Even though most of the interested listeners could not understand a word of what she said, the tone spoke, eloquently, for itself.
‘How could you? How could you? How could you leave without saying goodbye at least? What the hell kind of game have you been playing?’
He caught her by the shoulders and kissed her, briefly and hard.
She struggled free. ‘Let me be! Tell me! Why didn’t you come?’
‘I thought you didn’t want me to.’
Doors were slamming. The train whistle shrieked again.
‘Michel!’ Eloise’s imperious voice.
‘What do you mean? Why wouldn’t I want you to?’
‘Eloise said—’ He stopped, a sudden tautness in his good-natured face.
‘Eloise? Bloody Eloise! Why believe her?’ She was openly crying.
‘Michel!’
He raised a hand without taking his eyes from Poppy’s face. ‘I’m coming.’ Then, ‘Poppy, I love you so much. Please don’t cry. I thought I was doing the best for you.’
‘By leaving me?’
‘I thought it was what you wanted.’
‘Was that
what she said?’
He made a small, disarmingly helpless, gesture. The guard was marching officiously down the platform, flag tucked under his arm, slamming the open doors as he went.
Eloise leaned through the window to throw the door open again. ‘Michel! Viens!’
Michel began to hurry back towards the train, drawing Poppy with him by the hand. His voice was urgent. ‘I was wrong?’
‘You’ve never been so bloody wrong!’ Tears were still streaming down Poppy’s face. ‘You never will again! I hate you! No, I don’t. No, I don’t!’ They had stopped by the open carriage door.
‘Tell me you love me.’
‘I love you.’
He leapt the step into the carriage Poppy caught the briefest glimpse of Eloise’s face, coldly furious, her last mischief undone.
Michel leaned from the window, and caught her hand painfully hard. A whistle shrilled. ‘Marry me.’ He raised his voice against the noise. ‘Please, Poppy! Marry me!’
The train was moving. Still holding Michel’s hand, Poppy walked beside it.
‘Poppy, please! Marry me—’
Steam billowed, engulfing them for a moment.
‘Poppy!’
The train had picked up speed. She was almost running. ‘Yes.’ She shouted the word just as she had to let go of his hand. ‘Yes,’ she said again, quietly, to herself, as she saw the gleam of delight in his face, his open hand still stretched towards her, and stopped, watching as the train snaked slowly from the platform, gleaming in sunshine, trailing its ribbon of smoke.
Michel, leaning perilously far from the window, waved once more.
She lifted her hand; stood in utter stillness as the train chugged busily into the sunlit distance.
‘Signorina? Scusi?’ She turned. A plump little man in a gold-braided peaked cap that would have done justice to any admiral was standing behind her, a broom in his hand.
She stepped aside with an apologetic lift of her hand. He put his head on one side, his eyes sympathetic, looked from her to where the train was disappearing into the rolling hills. ‘Ah – l’amore!’ he said with an exaggerated shrug and an even more exaggerated roll of the eyes.
Siena Summer Page 24