by Anna Jacobs
At the door he bowed again. ‘I have to thank you, signora, on behalf of the family, for your many - er - kindnesses to my father, and, above all, for your discretion.’
He was gone before she had realised what he meant by that and there was no one in whom she could confide her indignation, deeply though it burned. Almost she wrote to him to reject the bequest, but in the end, common sense prevailed, and the thought of Harry made her swallow her pride and sign the papers the lawyer presented to her a few days later.
She was filled with quiet joy afterwards as she wandered round her house, touching a window frame, a door, a pot of flowers. With no rent to pay, she might be able to save more from now on.
But sadness crept in behind the joy. She would miss il Conte dreadfully. Her life would be very lonely without an intelligent, educated friend to talk to.
The following year brought more summer visitors to Serugia than ever before. The region was becoming popular with the gentry and nobility of Europe, especially those with artistic pretensions. The palazzo was rented first by a family from Rome, then by one from Milan.
Maria complained about all the visitors. They smelled of new money, she said scornfully, elevating her button of a nose and shaking her plump jowls. Not like il Conte, who had been a true aristocrat. His son was a poor substitute, for he cared naught for the land or for his dependants. He no doubt took after his mother's side of the family!
Helen, however, couldn’t afford to turn up her nose at the Gracchioli, who hired her to keep their three young daughters company and to teach them some English while they were in Serugia.
The Umbertini came next, from Milan. They had no children, and signor Umbertini was often away on business. His young wife grew bored and hired Helen as a companion. She made a pretence of learning some English, but she was a rather indolent young woman and spent most of the time in idle gossip, only happy when recounting the social triumphs that her husband's money had purchased for her, or when experimenting with her clothes and hair.
Helen, bored by this constant iteration of her employer's social successes, gritted her teeth and reminded herself of the good money she was earning simply by listening.
In the autumn the town became much quieter, though a few visitors still lingered. Helen was able to devote more time to her son and his education, and to spend an occasional hour with her friend Francesca, but she was thinking of returning to England the following year. It would need careful planning, but perhaps she could manage to work something out. It would be best to sell this house, because she didn’t think she would ever return. But if not, she could perhaps rent it out and let Francesca collect the rent money for her. No tenants would get the better of her friend, she was sure.
One evening, as she was returning home from giving a French lesson, Helen found her way barred by a group of young men, visitors. One of them swept her into his arms and demanded the forfeit of a kiss before he would let her pass. Alarmed, she cried out in English and another of the revellers stiffened.
‘Smettila, Tonio!’ He laid his hand on her captor's shoulder. ‘Excuse me, signora, but are you English?’
‘Yes, sir! And I would be obliged if you would tell your friend to let me go!’ She spoke angrily, but her voice trembled, for the street was dark and there was no one from the town in sight.
‘Tonio! Non insistere! Lasciala!’
Tonio tightened his grip on Helen's arm and the other hand came up to fumble at her face, making her squeak in alarm. He then declared in a slurred, stubborn voice that he had seen her first and he would have his kiss.
Helen kicked him in the shins at the same time as her would-be rescuer pulled him away from her. Yelping, Tonio spun round, wobbled mightily and sat down with a bump. Helen too would have fallen had not an arm supported her. As soon as she had regained her balance, the arm was withdrawn and the gentleman bowed to her. The bow was a trifle unsteady, but the gentleman was in no way abashed by that.
‘I fear the streets are not safe, ma'am. I shall, with your permission, escort you home.’
‘There is no need to trouble yourself, sir. But I thank you for your assistance.’
Her voice was cool, her tone dismissive. Definitely respectable, he thought to himself. Pity.
The two other men did nothing, but neither did they move out of the way. The one called Tonio, having risen to his feet, brushed down his clothes, then lurched towards Helen again, complaining that it was unfair of Carlo to poach on a friend's preserves.
As he and his companions were blocking her way, Helen couldn’t get past, and she began to feel alarmed again. Why had she not left immediately the man let go of her arm?
Tonio came close to her, arms outstretched, and of necessity, she drew back towards her rescuer, who offered her one arm and shoved his friend away with the other. He was tall and well-built, and it took little effort to push Tonio over again.
‘I think, ma'am, you must accept my protection. Permit me to introduce myself. Charles Carnforth at your service.’
She took his arm, but she could not like being seen in company with a stranger at this hour of the night. She hoped she wouldn’t meet anyone she knew. ‘I’m Mrs Perriman,’ she responded curtly. ‘And I thank you for your help. Fortunately, I don't have far to go.’ She set a brisk pace along the street.
‘You're English.’ It was not a question and was followed by a sigh.
‘Yes.’
‘On holiday here?’
‘No. We live here.’
He eyed her black clothes in the light of a lantern at the corner of a street. She looked like a widow. Though it could be mourning for another relative. She had a lovely voice, soft and low. He was getting homesick for English voices, he realised suddenly. But this lady was obviously not inviting any familiarities.
‘It's good to hear an English voice again,’ he ventured. ‘It's been a while.’
‘You will find that there are still one or two English families staying in the district. I'm sure they’ll be happy to talk to you.’ She stopped in front of her door.
As you are not, he thought ruefully. But he knew when not to push his luck, so he simply bowed to her.
‘Again, I'm very grateful for your help. I wish you goodnight, sir.’ She whisked inside and had turned the key in the lock before he could think of anything else to say.
‘You made a mess of that, Charles,’ he murmured, staring at the closed door. ‘Nice voice she had, too. A lady's voice. I'm a bit tired of shrieking whores, however generous in nature.’
He turned and walked slowly away. Damn Tonio! Stupid braggart! Could he not recognise a lady when he saw one? Somehow the savour had gone out of the evening. Charles made his way slowly back to the inn and sat in a corner of the main room, wishing he had someone intelligent to talk to. He was getting tired of drunken revels. He always needed a bit of jollity to wipe out the taste of a letter from his lawyer at home, but enough was enough.
To him in the corner came Francesca. The signor was all alone tonight. Had his friends, then, deserted him?
Any companionship was welcome just then, especially that of a respectable woman. In his near-fluent Italian, he told her that, rather, he had deserted them, having no taste for their drunken buffooneries. Doubtless he was growing old.
She nodded sagely and cocked her head, waiting to see if he wanted anything.
‘Perhaps the signora would have time to share a bottle of wine with me?’ he ventured. ‘I would be most grateful to be informed about this charming town. I've been travelling for too long and am thinking of settling down somewhere for the winter. I very much appreciate the excellent comfort you offer here.’ Which was no lie.
Francesca's face brightened at this prospect. Winter was a slow time. A long-term guest would bring a welcome addition to the profits. ‘I will send my husband for some of the good wine.’
He asked a few questions about the town, for form's sake, then slipped in the question he really wanted the answer to. ‘Are there
any permanent English residents here, signora? People who would be here in the winter? It's good sometimes to speak one's own language. Not that Italian is not a truly beautiful language. But I'm sure you will understand that one likes to hear the sound of one's own tongue sometimes.’
Very flattered, Francesca explained that they had only one permanent English resident. She went on to tell him exactly who his mystery lady was. He heard about her brute of a husband -
God rest his soul! - and the kindness of il Conte - who had treated la signora Perriman as a daughter, please understand!
‘How could it be otherwise?’
‘La signora Perriman is of the most respectable, as everyone in Serugia will testify.’
Finally, Francesca spoke glowingly of the signora's angel of a son - the apple of his mother's eye - with hair of gold and the manners of a nobleman, young as he was.
Charles listened avidly, drank very little more and afterwards thought much about his mystery lady. He had been very struck by her sweet face, he admitted to himself. He had a great desire to pursue the acquaintance, but she had made it clear that she didn’t share this desire. So he would have to win her round. In fact - he brightened at the thought - he would enjoy the challenge of getting behind her defences.
When he eventually went up to bed, his valet and general factotum, Alfred Briggs, found him unusually quiet and almost sober, for a change. He had been a bit worried about his master lately, who only drank like that when he was unhappy. Not that the Captain was ever nastily drunk. No, Charles Carnforth was a gentleman, whether in his cups or sober. He was considerate of those who served him, and always fair in his demands. He was the best of masters, as he had been the best of officers in the army.
Alfred, who had had the honour of saving the then Captain Carnforth’s life at Waterloo, and who had left the army with him once Old Bony had been defeated, was totally devoted to his master, even to the extent of following him around the world to some very nasty heathen countries.
The next day, Charles called on Mrs Perriman formally, to tender his apologies for his companions’ behaviour. He took a large bunch of flowers with him as a peace offering, and found that he was nervous, as a man of over fifty might very well be, when calling upon a much younger woman who had caught his fancy and given him no encouragement to pursue the acquaintance.
The door opened and she stood there, her hair loose about her shoulders, a chestnut glory in the morning sunshine. ‘Oh! I thought you were the butcher!’
‘No.’ An inauspicious start. She was embarrassed about her hair, which was not quite dry after being washed. No doubt she would screw it up into a knot again as soon as it was dry. Respectable women usually did, for some obscure reason.
‘Ma'am, I've come here to apologise properly for my companions' boorish behaviour last night.’ He sounded stiff and pompous, he knew. Awkwardly he held out the flowers. ‘Would you please accept these?’
Helen hesitated, then took them. ‘There was no need, sir. The incident is forgotten and no harm was done, thanks to your intervention.’
He bowed slightly. ‘Permit me to introduce myself properly. Charles Carnforth, of Ashdown Park in Hampshire, at your service.’ He handed her his card.
She sighed and took the card reluctantly. What did he want with her? She had no desire to complicate her life with such an acquaintance. But she couldn’t be rude to him, for he had been kind to her. ‘It's very kind of you to bring me these, but I'm afraid that you must excuse me now. I have an appointment at eleven o'clock to give an English lesson and I mustn’t be late.’ That would show him she was below his touch, socially, ‘Thank you again for the flowers.’
Charles Carnforth - noted ladies' man, who rarely failed to charm a member of the fair sex upon whom he set his sights, be she five or fifty - found himself standing once more outside a firmly-closed door, as lacking in words and address as the most callow of youths.
As he walked away, he acknowledged the irony of this, if only to himself. He went for a walk along the cliffs, his eyes still filled with a pretty English face and a tumbling mass of gently curling chestnut hair. Or was it the sweetness of her smile that attracted him? Or even perhaps the roughness of her hands, which he hadn’t been able to help noticing? She looked like a woman who worked hard for her living. A woman of determination, who had no time for frivolous flirtations with itinerant gentlemen like him.
‘And yet, I want to know her,’ he said aloud, staring down at the waves breaking on the small half-moon of beach. ‘I just have to get to know her.’
Maybe once he did, she would appeal to him less. People did not, in his experience, improve with acquaintance. Or maybe . . . He didn’t finish that thought. But he set his mind to finding a way to gain her acquaintance.
Chapter 10
Morosely Charles made his way back to the inn. There, he ordered a bottle of red wine and sat in his room, sipping a glass and staring out at the village square. People came and went, but he saw none of them. His thoughts were still filled with the lovely Mrs Perriman.
When Alfred came upstairs, to see if the Captain had any orders for him, any plans for the following day. he found his master uncharacteristically quiet. This raised his spirits considerably.
The Captain only behaved in a heedless, roistering fashion when he was upset about something, usually something connected with his home or his family in England. Perhaps the fit of gloom was passing. Alfred certainly hoped so. He was getting too old for these late nights and drunken capers. As was his master.
‘Sit down and have a drink with me,’ Charles ordered abruptly.
‘Happy to, sir.’ Alfred poured himself half a glass and sat back, prepared for the confidences that usually ensued in this sort of situation.
Quietly, Charles began to talk, confiding in the servant who had been with him so long. They had been under fire together, had bivouacked in some very uncomfortable circumstances, and had quite literally shared their last crust. They were more than master and servant; in all but name, they were close friends.
‘She's a beauty,’ Charles said reflectively.
‘Is she, sir?’
‘She is indeed.’
Alfred had a fair idea of whom his master was talking, but he asked anyway, ‘And what might this paragon's name be, sir?’
‘Helen - Helen Perriman. Our hostess was telling me all about her last night - well, not all, obviously, but a great deal.’
Alfred nodded, took another sip, though he thought wine a poor substitute for a glass of good English ale, and waited.
‘She's a widow. Was married to an actor fellow. Bit of a gambler, too. He died of consumption two years ago. Good riddance, from what the signora tells me. Used to ill-treat her.’
‘Not a gentleman, then.’
‘Definitely not a gentleman.’
Another pause, then, ‘And she has a son, fine little lad by all accounts. She sounds to be a brave woman. Earns her own living, keeps herself respectable. Damn fine thing that, eh?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Alfred frowned. The lady didn't sound at all like his master's usual type. ‘But if she's respectable, then why are you - ?’ He broke off, seeing the frown on the Captain’s forehead.
‘Dashed if I know why. I just - want to get to know her. And damme, I'm not leaving until I do.’
‘It'll be nice to have a bit of a rest, sir,’ Alfred said philosophically. ‘Pleasant little town, this.’
‘Yes.’
After a while, Alfred put down his empty glass and left quietly. Charles sat on, with his wine barely tasted, for another hour or two, then roused himself to go for a ride.
When his erstwhile drinking friends, who were staying at one of the houses on the hill, came to find him that night, he sent them away, saying he was feeling unwell.
But try as he might, Charles could find no way of getting to know Mrs Perriman, and although he caught a glimpse of her once or twice in the street in the next few days, she hurried away so quickly it wo
uld have made his pursuit far too obvious if he had run after her.
In the end, it was Alfred who furthered the acquaintance with Mrs Perriman for his grateful master. He was in the stables, checking on his lordship's horse, because he didn't trust the groom at the inn to look after it properly. After a small contretemps with the stable boy over the way the stall had been cleaned out, Alfred turned round to find himself being solemnly regarded by a little lad with dark blond hair. Not many Italians had hair that colour. Alfred observed him through narrowed eyes. Could this be the son of the widow to whom his master had taken such a fancy?
Yes, surely it must be?
He smiled encouragingly. ‘Hello, young fellow.’
He was rewarded by a tentative smile. ‘Good morning, sir. Are you - are you English?’
‘Yes, young shaver, I am, and proud of it.’
‘I'm English too, but I’m afraid I don't remember England. We left when I was only a baby.’
They studied the horse together for a while, then Harry recalled his manners. ‘Oh, I'm sorry, sir! I didn't introduce myself. I'm Harry Perriman.’
‘Are you, now?’ Yes, that was definitely the name his master had mentioned. ‘And I'm Alfred Briggs, young sir. Valet and general factotum to Charles Carnforth, late Captain in the Light Horse.’
Harry frowned at him. ‘If you please, sir, what's a general factotum?’
‘It's a servant what is prepared to do any job that is needed, my lad.’
‘I see.’ Another thought penetrated Harry's mind. ‘Carnforth, you said? That's the gentleman who called and gave my mother some flowers the other day, isn't it? I didn't see him, but I heard his voice and the flowers were lovely. I pick flowers for her sometimes, but not beautiful ones like that.’
‘She's a lucky lady to have a son as picks her flowers. I dare say she likes yours best.’
Harry beamed. ‘She says she does. I help her in other ways too, you know,’ he confided eagerly. ‘She works very hard for us both, so I try to do what I can.’
‘That's a good lad.’
There was a companionable silence for a while, as they both continued to study the horse, then Harry said wistfully, ‘He's a fine-looking animal, sir.’