by Teresa Crane
She frowned a little. ‘Leo? You didn’t really? Enjoy it, I mean?’
He took a long time to answer. ‘No. Of course not. It was bloody; everyone knows how bloody it was. But, Carrie, even the bloodiest of things you have to learn to live with. To—’ he hesitated ‘to adapt to, if you like. It’s either that or you go under.’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘So. I learned to live with it. I learned to keep the odds on my side. I taught myself to enjoy the risks. The challenges.’ He grinned swiftly. ‘Excitement – danger – can act like a drug, you know. The more you get the more you want.’
‘What, exactly, did you do?’
He shrugged. ‘This and that. The odd foray across the lines. Taking the fight to the enemy was what I seem to remember they called it.’ He smiled again, the very ghost of a self-deprecating smile. ‘Quietly, and never in broad daylight, of course. Be fair. If you remember, I could always dodge the column. I discovered very early that I wasn’t one for ploughing off across no-man’s-land with a whistle and an officer’s revolver and a pack of scared squaddies at my back when the opposition was an extremely efficient Hun with a machine-gun. I found a quiet word in the middle of the night worked very efficiently, and was much more fun. For most of the duration I was – let’s just say – more independent than most.’
She found herself looking at his hands, lying quiet upon the table – had they killed, in the quiet, the dark of night? Was that what he was saying? For an instant she tried to imagine it; the intensity, the barbarity of it. And could not.
He poured more wine. ‘What will you do?’
She jumped from her reverie. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘What will you do? About Arthur?’
She looked at him in true surprise. ‘Why nothing,’ she said. ‘What can I do? I’ll finish what needs to be done here, and then—’ the very thought was like a dead weight on her heart ‘and then, I suppose, I’ll go home.’
For the first time it occurred to her; she had no idea where his home was. And where, now, she found herself wondering, was hers?
‘Of course.’ He handed her her glass. Lifted his own. ‘Well.’ He smiled. ‘Perhaps we should drink to today?’
She looked across the valley, and then up, to the bright-lit peaks. The bird was there again, wheeling in the clear air.
‘To today,’ she agreed.
*
They went to Lucca the next day. Carrie was enchanted. ‘Leo – it’s like stepping back in time!’ Set on its plain beyond the foothills within the circle of its ancient walls the little city had hardly changed since it had reached the height of its power as a City State in the Middle Ages. It was a busy and attractive place; its narrow streets and alleyways, its handsome piazzas and small courtyards teemed with life; the lovely buildings, tall and decorative and well proportioned, effortlessly harmonised the styles of several centuries. With an hour to spare before Carrie’s appointment with Signor Bellini there was plenty of time to explore the centre of the city; to admire the lovely black and white facade of the cathedral, the fascinating, multi-arched Gothic front of the Church of San Michele with its huge statue of the archangel vanquishing the dragon.
‘I’ll meet you back here,’ Leo said. ‘At half past three. Is that okay?’
‘It’s fine.’ Carrie looked up at the church front. ‘What a wonderful building.’
‘Yes. Isn’t it? I’ll meet you back here on the steps at three thirty. We can go inside then. You’ll like it. There’s a wonderful Madonna and Child.’
‘Right.’ She checked her watch. ‘I’d better go.’ They had already ascertained the whereabouts of Signor Bellini’s office. ‘I’ll see you later.’
‘Good luck.’
She flashed him a smile. ‘Thanks.’
The building that housed the office of P. D. Bellini, Procuratore Legale was in the Via Fillungo, not far from the clock tower. A little tentatively she pushed open the great carved wooden door to find herself in an atrium; a well-proportioned, enclosed courtyard of black and white marble in which a small fountain played and from which a wide marble staircase rose to the first floor. The polished wood of the banister was like satin beneath her hand. At the top of the stairs a wide, arched hallway ran from the back to the front of the building. She found the door with Signor Bellini’s nameplate beside it and tapped, hesitantly.
The door opened to reveal a dapper, middle-aged man in the most elegantly cut suit Carrie had ever seen. The hand he extended was small and soft. A diamond gleamed in gold on his little finger.
‘Signora Stowe. Welcome.’
‘Thank you.’ She followed him into a large office, the long windows of which looked down the narrow street outside, towards the clock tower. There was a huge, leather-covered desk, and several comfortable leather armchairs. The walls were covered in pictures.
‘Coffee?’ he said, in his flawless, attractively accented English. ‘Or no – tea, of course. Your grandmother always preferred tea.’
She turned to him, smiling at that. ‘Did she? You knew her well?’
He waved a hand. The diamond flashed. ‘But of course. I saw to all of her affairs in the last ten years of her life, and then to those of her son. Such a gentle man.’ He made a courteous gesture towards one of the armchairs. ‘I hope to serve her granddaughter as well. You must know, Signora Stowe, how very like her you look? Please. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll organise some tea.’
He left the room. She wandered to the window, looking down with pleasure into the busy street below. The Via Fillungo was very narrow; it was lined with the tall, shuttered, balconied houses that so characterised the city; in one place the overhanging roofs almost touched. The ancient clock tower was silhouetted against a pale, spring sky. The street itself was in shadow.
‘There. It will be only a moment.’ The lawyer came to stand beside her. ‘A good view, yes?’
‘Lovely.’
‘The tower is the only one left in Lucca. There were once many more, so they say.’
‘Oh?’
‘In past times there were many families here, powerful families, you understand. There was much struggle between them. They built the towers, for protection, and for power. Higher and higher they built them—’
Carrie, her breath held suddenly in her throat, had stopped listening. In the street below, in the shadow of the tower, two figures stood, in intent and absorbed conversation. One was unmistakably her cousin. The other was a woman, tall and very slim. Even from here Carrie could see from her carriage, and from the paleness of her skin, the raven’s wing of her hair that she must be beautiful. What held her was the inexplicable intimacy of the picture they made together, standing in the busy street as if they were alone, oblivious to the tide of humanity that parted about them, unheeded, like water about a rock. The woman was talking animatedly, waving her hands. Leo stood, shoulders hunched a little, his hands in his pockets, head tilted towards her. Carrie knew, with a cruel clarity, exactly what the expression on his face would be. ‘– I’m, I’m sorry?’
Signor Bellini looked at her a little questioningly. ‘The towers,’ he said, gently. ‘I apologise. You are not interested.’
Carrie flushed furiously. ‘Oh, but of course I am. I was distracted, that’s all. I thought I saw someone I knew—’ She looked back into the street. The woman had a hand on Leo’s arm. Leo turned, jerked his head to flick the hair from his forehead. Together they started to walk, quickly, down the street.
‘—so to prevent such riots and public dangers the Comune of Lucca decreed that the rivalries must stop and the towers must come down. The clock tower is the only one to survive.’
‘I see.’
Leo and the woman had gone, swallowed up in the crowds. A donkey laden with pots, pans and terracotta jars plodded down the street.
Carrie turned to smile brightly at Signor Bellini. Why shouldn’t Leo know a woman – any number of women, come to that – in Lucca? What business was it of hers?
&nb
sp; Why hadn’t he mentioned her?
‘Now, Signora Stowe – if you’ll take a seat – we’ll talk of what must be done. Tell me, how much did Signor Bagshaw explain?’
She drank her tea and listened to it all again. Her grandmother had sold something called the ‘nuda proprieta’ of the property to someone she trusted, keeping the use and occupation, the ‘usu frutto’ for herself and for Henry. On Henry’s death Carrie, by paying a small sum – literally ‘buying back’ the property – became sole owner of the house and of all its contents.
‘When do I do that?’ She could still see it in her head, that strangely intimate picture, the neat brown head bowed to the sleek dark one—
‘Why, today.’ He consulted a gold watch. ‘I had hoped that Signora Carina would be here by now. She’s old. She becomes forgetful, I’m afraid—’
‘Signora? It’s a woman?’
‘Why, yes. Your grandmother’s—’ his words were interrupted by a sharp rap upon the door. ‘Ah! That surely must be her.’
He went to the outer door, opened it. Carrie stood up expectantly.
And found herself facing the diminutive, black-veiled figure she had seen watching her in the cemetery.
‘Signora Stowe, this is Signora Carina. Your grandmother’s nurse and companion from childhood. She it is who has guarded the property for you.’
With tiny, black-gloved hands the woman lifted the veil, and Carrie found herself looking into a face as brown and wrinkled as an ancient walnut, dominated by a pair of the smallest, brightest and possibly the most hostile eyes she had ever seen.
She stepped forward, hand outstretched. ‘Signora Carina. I saw you at my grandmother’s grave yesterday, didn’t I? I am so very pleased to meet you.’
*
Leo was waiting for her on the steps - why had she even begun to imagine that he would not be there? — when she hurried, breathless, across the Piazza San Michele to the church. He leaned to kiss her lightly on the cheek. ‘How did it go?’
‘Fine. I’m sorry I’m late.’
‘That’s all right. So, it’s all settled?’
‘Yes. It was Maria. The person who was holding the house for me. It was Maria Carina. Grandmother’s childhood nurse. I told you, I saw her at the grave yesterday.’
‘Oh, of course.’ He had taken her arm and was walking her slowly up the wide steps that led to the huge door of the church.
‘I suppose I should have guessed. Signor Bellini persuaded her to let me visit her. Tomorrow. She lives in Bagni. She speaks English, of course, though a little rustily. She’s a rather strange old lady.’
‘In what way?’
Carrie shrugged. ‘I don’t know. She seemed – suspicious of me, somehow. It took all of Signor Bellini’s considerable tact and charm to persuade her to agree to see me tomorrow.’ She glanced up at him. ‘Do you want to come?’
He had been looking up at the impressive facade above them. He shook his head. ‘Oh, I think not. It might make her even more distrustful, don’t you think, if you turned up with the grandson Beatrice so determinedly disowned?’ His voice was light.
‘Oh, Leo!’
He stopped her with another shake of his head. ‘It’s true, Carrie, and you know it. If you want to talk to her about Beatrice you don’t need me there. It doesn’t matter. Truly it doesn’t. Now, come and see the church.’
She caught up with him at the door. ‘How have you spent your day?’ She had absolutely determined that she would not ask.
He shrugged a little. ‘Mooched about the city a bit. Stopped off for a glass of something. Sat watching the world go by. This is a very good place to do that.’
‘Yes. I’m sure it is.’ She smiled her very brightest smile.
‘There – look – that’s what I wanted you to see.’ He pointed. ‘The Madonna. It’s della Robbia, or so they think.’
She stared fixedly at the glazed terracotta figure.
‘It doesn’t seem possible that she’s four hundred years old, does it?’ His voice was quiet.
She shook her head.
Why did she care so much? Why?
Leo, hands in pockets, sauntered towards the main altar, looking around him. For a moment he paused and his slight, graceful figure was caught by the light that fell through one of the high windows, gilding his face, his hair, the set of his narrow shoulders. And in that single moment she knew with a lucid and lacerating certainty why she cared that he had met a beautiful woman in the streets of Lucca. And – worse – had lied to her about it.
‘Leo?’
He turned.
‘I’m sorry,’ she put a hand to her forehead. ‘I’ve got something of a headache. Do you think we could start back to Bagni? It’s quite a trek.’
He was beside her, contrite and attentive, in a moment. ‘Well, of course. Why didn’t you tell me? Is it very bad?’
She shook her head, despising herself. ‘No. just nagging. I’d really like to get back. A bit of mountain air’s what I need, that’s all.’
‘Come on.’ He took her hand, drew it within the shelter of his arm. ‘Stupid of me. I should have realised that the journey took more out of you than you thought.’
‘No, really it’s nothing, it’s just—’ she stopped.
It’s just that the lovely, raven-haired woman who puts a hand on your sleeve, who talks to you with such easy animation is in Lucca.
‘It’s just, I’d like to go home,’ she said.
And in her strange and unnerving agitation, she did not realise precisely what she had said.
Chapter Five
‘You look like her,’ Maria said, unsmiling.
‘Yes. So I understand.’ Carrie shifted a little in the uncomfortably upholstered chair. ‘Signor Bellini said the same thing. And there’s a picture—’ She fell to silence.
She could not pretend that this first meeting had gone well; from the moment she had arrived in the small house by the river she had been aware of that strange, wary hostility that she had sensed first in the churchyard and then again in Signor Bellini’s office. Maria, certainly, had answered her questions but had actually volunteered very little, and at no time had the conversation been easy.
The silence lengthened.
‘We found some journals,’ Carrie said, tentatively. ‘Beatrice’s journals. But there seems to be one missing.’
Maria said nothing. She sat bolt upright in an ancient leather armchair, her small, dark eyes fixed, unblinking and unreadable, upon Carrie’s face.
‘I don’t suppose you’d know where it might be? It’s the one for 1867. I’ve looked all over the house but can’t find it anywhere. It seems a shame; they’re so very interesting.’
There was a long, still moment of quiet; then Maria shook her head.
Something in the aged, sunbrowned face made Carrie ask, gently, ‘But, you do remember the journals?’
‘Yes. I remember well. She would show them to me.’
‘Did Beatrice do the drawings too?’
‘Some. Or sometimes Leonard.’
Again the silence was awkward. And again Carrie found herself feeling certain that Maria was holding something back. The mention of Beatrice’s brother, and of the missing journal had, however, almost without thought, brought another question to her lips; a question that had niggled in the back of her mind ever since her conversation with Mary Webber in the churchyard. ‘Maria, how did Leonard die?’ she asked, and immediately wished she had held her tongue; for although the woman’s face scarcely changed it was as if a shutter had closed.
‘He was sick,’ Maria said. ‘And now – please, Signora Stowe – I am tired.’
‘Oh, of course. I’m sorry.’ Carrie scrambled to her feet. ‘I shouldn’t have stayed so long.’ She held out her hand. The old woman took it, briefly. Her skin was like paper, the bones birdlike and frail. ‘Thank you so much for seeing me.’
‘Is all right.’
‘Please – might I come again? In a day or so? There’s so much I wa
nt to know.’
The woman hesitated, the austerely emotionless eyes still probing Carrie’s. Then, suddenly – and to Carrie’s surprise – she nodded. ‘Si.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Prego.’
Carrie stepped from the dark room into the sunshine and the glad sound of the water. It had been very cool in the house, it was pleasant now to feel the warmth of the sun on her face and shoulders. She walked back across the Ponte di Serraglio, stopping for a moment to look down into the foaming waters beneath. Maria’s attitude truly puzzled her. She could think of no reason why the old lady should be so very wary of her; indeed she had hoped that she would have been pleased to have the opportunity to talk about Beatrice, of whom she had obviously been so fond. The odd and grudging reluctance to share her memories was disappointing; but then, she had at least agreed to speak to her again, so all was not lost. Maria was a very old woman; many elderly people, Carrie knew, regarded the young with some distrust. Perhaps it was as simple as that. She would take it very slowly and win her confidence. There was, as she had told Maria, so much that she wanted to know. And, too, there was the mystery of the missing journal. For the briefest of moments she had glimpsed something in Maria’s face when she had asked about it. But what? From nowhere an extraordinary thought occurred; had Maria herself taken it? Or perhaps even destroyed it? And if so why? Was it something to do with Leonard’s death? ‘He was sick,’ Maria had said. It could have meant anything. But whatever happened, given her reaction to the question, Carrie would tread very carefully before venturing to mention it again.
She turned and strolled slowly to the village end of the bridge. Dark—eyed children played in the dust of the road, absorbed in a game with small sticks and stones. She stood watching them for a moment, smiling, before walking on under the trees that edged the river, towards the main street. It was market day; as she approached the small market-place the streets were thronged and busy. She edged her way through the noisy crowds towards a stall selling eggs and vegetables.
‘Hello-oh. Mrs Stowe! Hello there!’