by Jane Arbor
‘Leaving on Tuesday, staying three nights. Now you aren’t going to make difficulties, are you?’ Cicely begged. ‘You can duck lessons for once, can’t you?’
‘No, but I may be able to switch them.’ Ruth found her diary, took over the telephone, and set to work. She found her pupils very co-operative and when she replaced the receiver after her last call, she felt a little thrill of anticipation. Except for one visit to Malta to see her parents, she hadn’t been out of Rome since Alec died. And if Erle proved difficult over the Roscuro dress she had refused, she had Cicely as a kind of buffer state between him and herself. Yes, she was looking forward to Tuesday.
Erle drove fast along the motorway; they stopped for lunch on the lake of Bolsano and reached Siena in time for dinner. The narrow streets of the hilltop town were already putting themselves en fete for the carnival two days hence; on the day itself every window would be flying flags and tapestries, and virtually the whole population would be on the streets. To Ruth’s relief, Erle was his usual urbane self. If her rebuff had said anything to him, he must have forgotten it.
The next day he was occupied, holding his auditions at one of the two music academies, and Ruth and Cicely went sightseeing in the town. In the evening after dinner Erle was taking them to a classical concert at the Chigi-Saracini Palace, an occasion which Cicely was prepared to tolerate for the sake of being able to dress up for it.
It had been a tiring day and Ruth was resting before dressing for dinner when a knock at her door heralded a pageboy with a large dress-box.
Ruth frowned at it. ‘I haven’t ordered anything—’
‘With the compliments of Signore Nash,’ said the boy stolidly.
‘For me from the signore? You are sure?’
‘Quite sure, signora. For Signora Sargent. Room 152.’
‘Very well, I’ll take it.’ Mystified, Ruth gave him a tip and shut the door on him. She put the box on the bed and stared at it unopened, an intuition which owed nothing to reason now telling her what it contained.
She broke the seals and threw back the lid. Yes, there it was, beneath the folds of tissue—the sea green model dinner dress she had coveted from the Roscuro collection.
Her first thought was instinctively feminine—It’s lovely! Her second—How had Erle contrived to send it to her? Her third—How dared he—when he knew from Cicely that she had already refused to accept it? She could not resist taking it out, shaking out its folds and holding it against her. Even that cursory trial showed it had been made to her measurements, and as to how that had been achieved Cicely might know the answer.
Cicely was at her dressing-table in her room when she called ‘Come in’ to Ruth’s knock. Ruth went in and backed against the door. Without preliminaries she demanded, ‘When you told Erle I refused to take a Roscuro model from him, you said you couldn’t remember what he replied. What did he really say?’
Cicely hedged, ‘Oh dear, has he given it to you?’
‘He sent it by a bellboy. Come along, what did he say?’
‘I didn’t like to tell you. You were in a state. He said, “We’ll see about that.” ’
‘Meaning? All right, I can guess. What then?’
‘He asked if I knew your measurements, and I did pretty well, so I gave them to him.’
‘Knowing, or at least guessing, what he meant to do?’
‘I didn’t have to guess. He told me.’
‘But you didn’t see fit to tell me?’
Cicely said, ‘Well, I wasn’t altogether on your side, you see. I’m still not.’
‘Well, thanks,’ said Ruth coldly. ‘Now we know. Where is Erle, by the way? Have you seen him since we came in?’
‘When you came up before I did, he was reading the paper in the residents’ lounge.’
‘Good. Let’s hope he’s still there.’ Ruth heard Cicely say ‘Oh dear’ again as she went out, closing the door.
Erle was alone in the lounge. At sight of her he put aside the paper and stood. ‘Time for a drink before you dress?’ he asked easily.
‘Time enough, I daresay. Except that I’d rather not.’
‘No?’ Hands in trouser pockets, shoulders thrown back, rocking slightly on the balls of his feet, he was virile, assured, very much his own man. Against her will Ruth acknowledged it as she snapped, ‘No, and I’ve no doubt you know why!’
He laughed then. ‘Though I don’t understand why, I can guess. You disapprove of my gesture, I take it?’
‘You should have known I would. Cicely told you, and if you were in doubt you could have come to me.’
‘And have been turned down? I make Cicely a present which she has the grace to accept. In the same spirit I try to make you one, and anyone would think I was bribing your virtue with the Koh-i-noor diamond! As a matter of interest, would you spurn flowers or a box of chocolates with the same dudgeon?’
‘Of course not. But there’s a very definite fine between flowers and haute couture models offered to a—mere employee.’
‘This line being drawn with flowers or a dinner-date on this side, and mink on the other, I suppose?’
On the defensive, Ruth muttered, ‘You know very well that the line is there.’
He nodded. ‘And very proper too,’ he mocked. ‘So I’m not to have the pleasure of seeing you wear my gift tonight?’
Reckless with chagrin at his mockery, Ruth said, ‘I’d rather wear a sack!’
‘You wouldn’t, and you know it,’ he retorted. ‘There’s a bit of woman in you that’s itching to try that model on. But if a sack is really your preference, I daresay the management could oblige. Which would you like—corn, coal, or chicken-meal? Or all-purpose polythene?’ As Ruth flinched he laughed again. ‘I declare, one is tempted to bait you—you rise so beautifully, he said. Then he came over to her and took her by the wrist. ‘Now listen to me—’
She tried to twist free, but he held fast, steering her gently but masterfully to a chair. ‘Sit down and listen and see reason if you can,’ he ordered. ‘Think back to our first interview. Supposing I’d found you suitable as a hostess for Cicely in every particular, except for your appearance, what might I have done?’
‘Turned me down, I suppose.’
‘I said—“all other things being equal”, didn’t I? As it was, your taste in clothes didn’t need any prompting, I judged. But if it had, I’d probably have suggested you take a cash allowance or run an account in addition to your salary, as your right.’
‘Well?’ said Ruth unhelpfully.
‘Well—this. If we’d arranged things so, I should have been picking up the bills, shouldn’t I?’
‘You wouldn’t have sanctioned haute couture models for me.’
‘That’s beside the point. You’d have bought some things on my account—or if you want to split hairs, on Mrs. Mordaunt’s account. And if I choose to order a model gown for you for a special occasion, what’s so improper about that? And for me tonight happens to be a special occasion. I’m well known in Sienese musical circles, and I’d like my womenfolk to do me proud. And so—will you bury that stiff pride of yours and wear the dress tonight?’
Ruth saw that she must give in. ‘You make it very difficult to refuse,’ she said.
‘Good. And now the pipe of peace in the shape of a drink?’
But Ruth, who had had a sudden resolve, excused herself. In her room again she rang the hotel hairdresser to get an immediate set and evening styling, and when that had been done to her satisfaction she set about as exotic a toilette as she had ever achieved. If he wanted her to do him credit, she would do just that or die in the attempt!
Eyebrow pencil and mascara; a touch of green shadow to emphasise the green of the eyes which were the complement of her russet hair; colour, no more than the faintest blush for the cheeks; pale lipstick; no jewellery but pendant earrings—and the dress, its corsage caped, its skirt tiered, its graceful fall entirely flattering.
She was giving herself a final appraisal at her mirror wh
en the pageboy knocked again. This time he brought a square perspex box containing a spray of orchids tinged with green at the petal-tips. With it was a card —‘This for a peace-offering. If your conscience needs salving in accepting it, note that I am sending one to Cicely too.’ The signature was ‘Erle’.
Ruth couldn’t remember when she had last had a gift of flowers from a man. Certainly not since she had been widowed, and these were the first orchids she had ever been given. They were the final touch the lovely dress needed. Pinning them on, she went out to meet her Cinderella evening.
It was long past midnight when she was again in her room. First she had gone with Cicely to her room to talk over the dinner, the concert, and the party of Erle’s friends afterwards. But now she was at her own dressing-table, her reflection looking back at her as her thoughts ranged over all that the evening had done for her ... to her.
It had begun with a look in Erle’s eyes which, turned upon her, she had never chanced upon before. She had seen them laughing, coolly appraising, mocking, reflective, but never wide with admiration of her, as they had been at his first sight of her tonight.
And in the instant of meeting them with her own and having to look away, she had learned something about herself. She hadn’t gone to all her trouble to create an effect of which he would approve, out of bravado or pique. She had done it in the hope of earning just that unstinted look, wanting it to say more than she knew it could, wanting him to know how dearly she valued it.
That meant his admiration was important to her— that he had become important, too important, to her life. She could remember the glow of first knowing that she was in love with Alec; that he loved her in return and that if he asked her to marry him their life together would have the makings of a happily fitted jigsaw puzzle. Tonight there had been no such confident glow. Instead there had been a heady, nervous excitement to her awareness of Erle as another man she could love (had once loved in an immature, adoring way?). It was an extension of that woman-to-man response to him which she had experienced in the Gardens. It was a magnetism, working only one way, which for her peace of mind she ought to resist, and could not. For on his own admission, for Erle Nash there wasn’t a consummate love for any woman; only the ‘jam’ of a passing pleasure in the company of many of them; that, and the expedience of cultivating them for his professional ends.
And between herself and him there was not even that necessity. What was she to him but a convenient appendage to his sponsorship of Cicely? He had admitted that even his gift to her had had an ulterior motive—that under his escort she should do him credit with his friends.
She had seen the danger of Cicely’s falling for him. Why hadn’t she seen it for herself? Because, she supposed, she had thought she was immunised against a second love. But she hadn’t reckoned with a capacity to love which hadn’t died with Alec. Nor with her woman’s need to give and to share and to partner which had been starved since Alec’s death. More than once she had doubted that she had it any longer. Only tonight, had she rediscovered it in full measure. It was an ache at the heart; a hunger that had to be endured.
She rose from the dressing-stool and slowly began to undress. There were all the tomorrows of the summer to be faced. For only when Cicely went home could the link with Erle be broken. Though just how much, her honesty wondered, did she want it broken? When the days to autumn could be counted on the fingers, would she do the counting eagerly—or with pain?
The preliminaries of the Corso del Palio were afoot early the next day. The shops were shut, but outside booths were set up for the sale of snacks and drinks. The central square, the Piazza del Campo, where the historic horse-race would be run, was ringed about with seating-stands, and all the overlooking windows and even the rooftops were at a premium. Ruth and Cicely heard that as the race had some remote religious connections, each horse and each jockey competing would be blessed with holy water before the start. Each of the seventeen town districts had an entrant; the betting ran high, and long before the race was due the jockeys were in their colourful costumes of doublet and breeches and hose, mingling with and being feted by the crowds. Though the race itself would be a headlong stampede round the arena lasting only a few minutes, the whole day was given over to carnival which would last far into the night.
Erle’s influence had obtained good viewing seats for his party and after making a morning’s tour of the sideshows, they were in them in time for the parade of runners and riders before the race. They had placed their bets, Erle playing safe with the favourite, Ruth and Cicely hoping to make money with outsiders.
Suddenly Cicely was staring across the arena and nudging Ruth. ‘Look over there. Who’s that? It can’t be. Why, it is! It’s Jeremy. Keep my place—’ She was out of her seat and darting through the crowds to accost the young man in scarlet shirt and black jeans whom she had pointed out to Ruth.
Ruth identified him for Erle. ‘It’s Jeremy Slade, the English boy I told you about,’ she told him as Cicely brought the young man over, plying him with questions and offering him six inches of her seat.
‘He hitch-hiked all the way from Rome,’ she told the other two. ‘But I’ve said he can have a lift back with us. That’s all right, isn’t it?’ she appealed to Erle.
‘Of course. We’ve got a spare seat, which he could have had on the way up, if he’d asked. What brought you?’ Erle asked the boy.
‘Well, Vivien—my sister—went down with a bit of summer throat, and with Cicely away that left me on my own. So as I knew there’s a special Sienese school of painting, I thought I ought to see it and at the same time make some sketches of the Palio that I can translate into colour later on.’
‘Just to look and sketch? I hoped you’d say you came because I was here,’ Cicely teased him.
‘Well, I did wonder if I might run into you,’ he admitted.
Erle asked, ‘Where are you staying?’
‘Oh, just a cheap youth place behind the Cathedral.’
‘But you’ll join us now and have dinner with us tonight?’
‘Thanks, sir. I’d like that,’ said Jeremy, and edged in beside Cicely, his precarious hold on the narrow slice of seat necessitating his putting his arm round her waist.
They all concentrated on the arena, where the horses were being manoeuvred into position for the start. In that confined space it hadn’t the slightest chance of being a fair start, but once a ragged line-up was achieved, the signal for the Off was given to a deafening roar from the crowd. The race was a short mad rush. The winner, named Leo, which had led all the way, had been Cicely’s choice, and as soon as they could edge through the crowds, she and Jeremy went off to collect her winnings.
Watching them go, Erle commented drily, ‘Do you really believe that story of single-minded dedication to his art? I’m afraid I don’t.’
Ruth laughed. ‘You think he really came to see Cicely?’
‘Well, don’t you?’ Erle countered. ‘And what do you bet we don’t see much more of them until they turn up for dinner?’
Nor did they, until Cicely and Jeremy reappeared for a meal for which no one had changed from day clothes, as the ‘done thing’ for the evening was to tour the town on foot to see the various street parties which each district laid on for its particular competing jockey. After dinner Cicely and Jeremy again went off on their own and Erle and Ruth joined a party of the hotel guests for an evening on the town which culminated in the ward which had won the banner and where the winning horse as well as his rider were being feted at a long supper-table in the main street; the banner being displayed at the head of the table and the whole scene lighted by flares and lanterns hung from the buildings.
Afterwards Erle and Ruth strolled back towards their hotel across the Piazza del Campo, comparatively deserted now that most of the inhabitants were scattered to their own district’s junketings. Erle halted suddenly, pointing to the dominating tower of the Palazzo Publico, one of the main buildings on the square.
‘Wh
at about taking a bird’s-eye-view?’ he suggested.
‘From the tower? Will it still be open?’ queried Ruth.
‘Tonight, I should think so.’
They went toilfully up the stairs and emerged on to the top platform where, for the first time that day, they found themselves alone in a public place. Ruth had expected that others would have had the same idea—of viewing the lighted town from far above its streets. She hadn’t thought to be isolated there with Erle, too vividly aware of his physical nearness, while in everything else he was as remote from her as a far star.
They moved to the parapet and stood, elbow to elbow, looking down at the lighted island that was the town. The streets were narrow canyons, beaded along their length by the light of lamp-standards; the noise of the revelry, though muted by the distance, could still be heard.
‘There are going to be some thick heads in the morning,’ Erle commented.
‘Yes. I hope Jeremy Slade doesn’t keep Cicely out too late.’
Erle said, ‘I shouldn’t worry. He seems a fairly responsible youth. But what happens to your theory now that Cicely has an incurable crush on me? I must say she greeted the boy as if he were manna from heaven.’
‘Oh, she can be charming enough when she pleases; she was, with Zeppo Sforza until she dropped him.’ Privately Ruth thought Cicely had been using Jeremy as a foil—showing Erle that someone appreciated her, if he didn’t in the way she wanted.
He said next, ‘I wonder you haven’t been to Siena before. Did you have to wait for me to bring you?’
‘I haven’t been about very much at all since I’ve been a widow,’ Ruth said.
‘That’s a mistake. Life has to go on. And friends, travel, the odd party now and then ought to help.’
‘Except that a widow makes uneven numbers at parties, and anywhere she goes alone men tend to see her as fair game.’
‘Oh, come! You can’t blame an unattached man for chancing his arm with an attractive widow.’