by Teresa Crane
Carrie turned. Beaming and cheerfully determined, Mary Webber was pushing her way towards her.
‘How very nice to see you again my dear. I was thinking of you just yesterday. How are you managing?’
‘Very well, thank you.’
‘Good, good. That’s splendid. Now – I insist – you must come and have a cup of chocolate with me. The hotel’s just across the road.’ She put a firm hand upon Carrie’s arm.
‘Well I—’
‘No excuses now. I can’t tell you what a pleasure it is to see a fresh face. You must come and tell me all that you’re doing up at the Villa. It’s many years since I was there, but I must say that I remember it as a truly enchanting – a fascinating – place.’
Carrie allowed herself to be guided back towards the main street. ‘It is. It’s absolutely packed with—’ she stopped, abruptly.
Mary Webber did not notice; she herself was in full flow. ‘I do believe I shall climb the mountain to visit you. I could help perhaps – there must be so much to do.’
‘Yes.’ Carrie watched a sleek, dark head bend to a stallholder, caught a glimpse of a high-boned, creamy-skinned face with wide, dark eyes beneath clearly arched brows. The woman was tall, and willowy. She was wearing a simple summer frock of some filmy, flowered material, with a scoop neck and dropped waist, that on anyone else might have looked pretty but unexceptional; this woman wore it with an easy and casual elegance that drew and held the eye.
‘—poor Henry, of course, never did much by way of socialising. But really, my dear, you must come down to the Bridge Club. Mrs Stowe? Is there something amiss?’
‘I’m sorry?’
With eager curiosity Mary Webber followed the direction of her gaze. ‘What a very attractive young woman. Do you know her?’
‘No. Oh, no. I was just thinking what a very pretty dress she’s wearing.’
‘Yes, isn’t it? Ah, here we are. Shall we take an outside table? It really is delightfully warm for the time of year.’
Carrie turned her head. The woman had gone. For an instant she found herself scanning the crowds, looking for Leo. Was it sheer coincidence that the woman with whom she had seen him in Lucca was now here, in Bagni di Lucca? Had she followed him? Did Leo know?
She smiled faintly and fixedly at Mrs Webber, nodded, allowing the woman’s busy chatter to pass her by. It was none of her business. Leo’s life was his own.
Why did she care so much? Why, suddenly, had the sunshine gone from the day?
She became aware of silence. Mary Webber was looking at her expectantly.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I asked how long you were going to stay, my dear.’ There was concern in the other woman’s eyes. ‘I say, are you feeling quite well?’
Carrie forced a smile. ‘I’m fine. fine. The sun’s a little warm, that’s all. I’m not accustomed to it.’
‘Well, of course not.’ Mary Webber beamed again. ‘But you’ll get used to it, I’m sure. Now, as I was saying—’
*
‘You’re very quiet.’ Leo’s narrow, lazy eyes were half shut against the last of the evening sunshine. He leaned back in his chair, feet propped upon the wooden table.
Carrie shrugged a little. ‘I’m a bit tired, that’s all.’
He opened his eyes, fixed them upon her with a disconcerting steadiness. ‘All work and no play?’ he suggested gently.
‘Perhaps.’
He grinned, tilted his head back again to face the sun. ‘Too much climbing up and down mountains?’
She laughed. ‘I enjoy it.’
‘Perhaps,’ he slanted a look at her through his half-closed lashes ‘perhaps we should take some time off? Take the train to Florence or Siena, maybe? Spend a day or two exploring the city? It seems a shame to be here and not see something of these places.’
She looked at him in sheer delight. ‘Oh, could we? I should so enjoy that. Beatrice mentions Siena so often in the journals. She obviously adored it, though Leonard equally obviously didn’t. Pompeii was his favourite place. He loved it. In fact he was almost obsessed with it. Have you read what Beatrice wrote?’
Leo shook his head.
The journal for 1864 was on the table in front of Carrie. She pulled it towards her. ‘It seems to have been where Beatrice got the idea of creating ‘the garden.’ She leafed through the book. ‘Ah, here it is. “Leo and I” – isn’t it funny that she used to call Leonard Leo sometimes? Do you think that’s why you were called Leo? It’s possible, isn’t it? “Leo and I sat upon a rock above the house on the mountainside together this afternoon, and he spoke, as he so often does, of his love for that mysterious lost city of Pompeii. So little is known of it, yet Leonard is quite passionate about it; one might almost say obsessive. He says that if he could choose a life he would choose to live in that city, and to die the day before the volcano erupted. (I asked, and he did agree that I should be there with him – though it must be said that to conspire to die upon the same day might be difficult!) I take his point. Our recent trip to those fascinating ruins was certainly most interesting and instructive. Signor Fiorelli is the most charismatic and intelligent of men. Everyone agrees that his methodic excavations of the past four years have uncovered more of the history of the city than all the blundering and plundering that has gone on for the past hundred years; he is one of those fortunate men who has the ability to convey his own enthusiasms. As we sat above the house I told Leo of my plans; that I would create here, for him – and for me – a little Pompeii. A place of treasures. A sybaritic place of beauty and of peace. A garden about the house, shaded and beautiful, terraced and vined, arboured and graced with statues. I told him that the garden was to be for him. He teased me, saying that the first bright-eyed young man who crooked a finger would soon change my plans. How wrong he is! I will never marry. I’ll never leave Leo and the Villa Castellini. I told him so. He laughed at me, though gently, as always. Well, we shall see. Meanwhile, I plan my garden.” Leo, look,’ Carrie pushed the book towards him, ‘the picture she’s drawn. Isn’t it lovely? And the plan – see – it isn’t unlike the way the garden must finally have looked.’
‘A very determined lady, our grandmother,’ Leo said, drily.
Carrie let her hands rest, flat, upon the page, looked up into the spaces of the pale, evening sky. A bird – the same bird as before? she wondered – wheeled high above the valley. ‘She must have been devastated when he died.’
‘Yes.’ Leo felt in the breast pocket of his jacket, extracted his cigarette case. ‘She must.’
‘She married very soon afterwards.’
He nodded. ‘We all know the story. The old family friend who had known and loved her from childhood. A strong and independent man, much older than her, who had a life of his own and who had the sense to let Beatrice stay free.’
‘It’s strange, though,’ Carrie said. ‘The last journal. The one for 1868. She was married by then, and expecting her first child: poor Uncle Henry. Yet she seems to have been living here alone, still grieving for her brother, and she hardly mentions her husband or the coming child at all. Except for the very last entry, that she writes as if addressing someone else. “It has started my love,” she says. “The child is coming at last. I shall no longer be alone.” Well – something like that, anyway. Don’t you think that an odd thing to say?’
Watching her thoughtfully he tapped his cigarette upon the worn silver case. ‘Come on, now, Carrie. Don’t make a tragedy where there isn’t one. All marriages aren’t the same, you know.’ The words were quiet, and again the blue gleam of his eyes was wide and steady.
‘I know. It’s just, well, the more you read the earlier diaries the more you see what a strange, almost magical life they – Beatrice and Leonard – created here together. Enclosed and separate and – I don’t know—’ she closed her eyes for a moment, ‘enchanted seems to be the word I’m looking for.’ She got up and wandered to the low wall that enclosed the yard in which they sat. Stood looking ac
ross to the shadowed, tree-cloaked slopes opposite.
‘Are you sure you aren’t simply reflecting your own feelings?’ he asked, softly, from behind her. ‘Are you certain that it isn’t your own needs, your own responses to this place that make you feel so?’
She turned, smiling. ‘No. Of course I’m not sure. You’re very probably right. But reading the journals, it’s uncannily like getting inside the young Beatrice’s mind, isn’t it?’ She came back to the table, closed the journal, looked again at the date inscribed upon it. ‘1864. She was eighteen years old, and so very happy.’ She turned away from him, half sitting upon the table, her arms folded across her breast. ‘She was lucky in that at least.’
He watched her, saying nothing.
‘Leo?’
‘Yes?’
She kept her eyes fixed upon the far slopes of the valley. Smoke plumed from a cottage chimney, drifted a little in the mountain air. Clearly they could hear the bleating of sheep, the sweet sound of a child’s laughter.
‘When we went to Lucca to see Signor Bellini, you met a woman – you were in the Via Fillungo – you obviously knew each other well. I saw you. I was in the office, looking out of the window—’ She was aware of the sudden, still silence behind her. She swallowed. ‘I know it’s none of my business. Of course it isn’t. But you didn’t mention her. That’s what puzzled me. You didn’t say anything. And then today—’ She hesitated, turned to him. His thin, sharp-boned face was expressionless. ‘Today I saw her down in the marketplace at Bagni. She’s very beautiful,’ she added, helplessly, spreading her hands, acutely aware of the tension in the man’s apparently relaxed body. She did not know why she had asked; she truly had not intended to do so. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, miserably. ‘I just – I just wondered – that’s all.’
For a moment he neither moved nor looked at her. Then he flicked a quick glance at her, smiling a little, rueful and easy. ‘Angelique,’ he said. ‘Her name is Angelique. She’s back in Bagni, is she?’
‘You didn’t know?’
He shook his head.
‘I saw her in the marketplace. I’m sure it was her. As I said, she’s very lovely. You couldn’t mistake her, could you?’
‘No. You couldn’t.’ Again that small smile.
‘Leo? Who is she?’
The narrow, expressionless eyes surveyed the valley. ‘A friend. That’s all. A friend.’
Her heart was suddenly a leaden weight. ‘A beautiful friend,’ she said, lightly.
‘Yes.’ In that disconcerting way he suddenly looked at her, directly and openly. ‘A beautiful—’ he spread artless hands ‘difficult friend.’
She ducked her head, making patterns on the table with her finger. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.’
‘Did you know,’ he said, after a quiet moment, ‘that you say “I’m sorry” all the time?’
She looked up at him in genuine surprise. ‘Do I?’
‘Yes.’
She took a breath. The sky was bright with light, the valley steeped in mysterious shadows. The sun glowed behind the western peak, sinking almost visibly, minute by minute. ‘I’m sorry.’ She laughed a little, trying to lighten the moment.
He leaned forward, poured her another glass
of wine. ‘It’s a bad habit,’ he said. ‘You should break it.’
‘I’m not sure I can.’
‘Oh, yes. You most certainly could. If you wanted to.’
Carrie turned, half-smiling, ‘I suppose—’ she stopped, unable to continue the sentence, a pulse suddenly beating hard in her throat. He had stilled, and was watching her, openly and with a sudden and unnerving intentness. And helplessly she knew, as clearly as if she could see with his eyes, what was written plain upon her face, and was powerless to hide or disguise it. Just simply to look at him, to study the neat, handsome face line by line, to sustain the searching, subtle blue gaze upon her own face brought a pleasure so fierce it was close to pain. She could not look away. He opened his mouth as if to speak. Shook his head a little and said nothing.
She was aware of his hands, well-shaped and relaxed, resting upon the table.
Touch me. Please touch me.
As if she had communicated the words through her eyes he lifted a finger gently to brush her cheek.
She closed her eyes, her skin growing warm beneath his touch. She was aware that she was shaking, and that he must sense it.
‘I must go,’ he said, quietly.
She could neither move nor speak.
‘I’ll be back early tomorrow. We can make a start on the tower room.’
She nodded.
His chair scraped upon the flagstones as he stood. ‘Do we need anything apart from fresh bread?’
‘No.’
‘Right. I’ll see you tomorrow then.’ Still he made no move to leave. Still he watched her.
‘Yes. Tomorrow.’
Don’t go. Please, don’t go.
He turned abruptly and strode away from her, running lightfooted down the steps that led to the path below, his movements, as always, fluent and graceful. At the foot of the steps he stopped to light a cigarette, cupping his hands about the flame, then lifted his head to smile up at her before swiftly setting off down the track. She watched the slight figure until it merged with the shadows beneath a stand of chestnut trees. Willing him to stop. Willing him to come back.
He neither turned, nor waved.
Carrie sat for a very long time, quite still, watching the spot where he had disappeared, the wine Leo had poured her untouched upon the table before her. Then she reached for the journal and drew it towards her, bent her head to stare sightlessly at the small, battered book.
All she could see was Leo’s face. His voice was in her ears.
She opened the journal at random, trying to force herself to concentrate.
Narrow eyes, blue as the skies, looked back at her.
‘The garden is a project, of course, that will take many years. A project for a lifetime, I suppose, and for many lifetimes on.’
A beautiful – difficult – friend. What had he meant?
‘I intend that it should be our monument — Leonard’s and mine – our gift to the world, and to those who come after us.’
Had she imagined the expression in his eyes when he had looked at her, the tenderness of his touch?
She bent her head, covered her own eyes with her spread hands. Leo looked steadily back at her, enigmatic and disturbing.
Take a grip of yourself, Carrie Stowe.
She leaned back in her chair. A breeze had sprung up, and clouds were gathering above the peaks, bruising the sky. She slipped her arms into the sleeves of her cardigan and sat on, watching them build.
What is it that you want, Carrie Stowe?
The answer came with no thought. Leo. It’s Leo that I want.
And what, exactly, does that mean?
I want to be with him. I desperately want him to want to be with me. I want him not to be able to leave me. I want to listen to him, to watch him. I want to touch him.
I want him to touch me.
The thought shocked her; with a sudden and unpleasant stirring in the pit of her stomach she found herself thinking of Hastings and of Arthur. And of Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. ‘You won’t forget to bathe, will you?’ All at once she shivered, violently. The wind was lifting, gusting about the house, swirling dust and debris in small whirlwinds. The evening air was chill.
‘He’s my cousin,’ she said, aloud, into the lifting wind. ‘My nearest – my only – blood relative. Almost my brother. And I’m a married woman. I can’t feel like this about him. I mustn’t.’
The silence mocked her. And the wind grew colder.
*
For the first time, that evening, she felt lonely in the house. She could not settle. Even Beatrice’s journal could not distract her from her thoughts. Each time she tried to read it despite her every effort she found herself within seconds staring abstractedly into space, reli
ving those last moments with Leo. Had she imagined it? Had there truly been that sudden, electric attraction between them? Had he felt it?
Outside the wind still blew, nowhere near as strongly as it had on that first night, but hard enough to rattle the shutters and to send chill draughts through the house.
Restlessly she closed the journal and, carrying the lamp, went into the sitting room; stood surveying the untidy heaps of books, pictures and knick-knacks that were stacked upon the floor. She hadn’t the heart to tackle any more of this tonight.
The room was cold; the wind whistled in the chimney.
She looked at her watch; it was early to go to bed, yet she could think of nothing else to do. Slowly she climbed the stairs, the light from the lamp sending shadows moving and leaping eerily about her. At her bedroom door she hesitated, then on impulse walked on down the passage, pushed open the door of the tower room and went in, setting the lamp upon a table by the window.
This was a large room, square and well proportioned, with a high, decorated plaster ceiling, a stone fireplace and shuttered doors that opened onto a balcony. Within moments she knew why she had come here; very faintly the scent of Leo’s cigarettes still lingered in the air. Here was the bed in which he had slept. She touched a match to the lamp that stood upon the table, looked around her, taking comfort from the stronger glow of light, the sense of warmth and safety that it brought. This really was a lovely room. Perhaps she would take it for her own for the time she had left here. She wandered round, exploring. There were the inevitable shelves full of books, and the equally inevitable walls full of paintings, mostly pictures of the mountains and valleys of the Garfagnana.
On the mantelpiece amongst a jumble of candlesticks, vases and an extremely elderly clock stood a small bronze bust of a girl.
Carrie picked up the smaller of the lamps and carried it closer. The light reflected in the spotted mirror above the fireplace, shining in her eyes. She moved the lamp a little, studied the bust intently, frowning thoughtfully. There was something about it, something familiar, that she could not put her finger on.