The Italian House
Page 10
She lifted her head, and in doing so caught sight of her own face in the mirror, shadowed and highlighted by the lamplight. She smiled in sudden delight. Of course! Of course the face was familiar. She looked back at the bronze. This was Beatrice as a young woman; she was certain of it. She set the lamp upon the mantelpiece and turned the bust a little; the likeness was unmistakable, even more marked than in the picture downstairs. She put out a gentle hand to touch the smooth, cool, immobile face. This above all must come home with her.
She inspected the books. They were old, leather bound and most of them seemed to be books of poetry; Donne and Lovelace, Milton and Dryden, Shelley and Byron and many others, all well thumbed. She pulled one from the shelf. In faded ink a name was inscribed on the frontispiece. Leonard Charles Johnstone. She turned the book over in her hands. It was the strangest of sensations to know that Beatrice’s brother, so long dead, had owned this book, handled it, read it. She picked another at random. This too was marked with Leonard’s name, and was Byron. A brittle and faded piece of paper marked a page. She opened it. ‘She walks in beauty, like the night/Of cloudless climes and starry skies’ she remembered the poem from her schooldays; learned by rote and still familiar, she had never before truly appreciated the meaning and the beauty of the words. Softly she read it aloud, ‘One shade the more, one my the less,/Had half impaired the nameless grace/Which waves in every raven tress,/Or softly lightens o’er her face’ and then the tender, gentlest of conclusions ‘A heart whose love is innocent.’
Carrie stood, head bowed, for a long time, looking at the words. A heart whose love is innocent. Suddenly and with a disturbing stab of something that encompassed both excitement and fear she saw the expression in Leo’s momentarily unguarded eyes when he had looked at her that evening. Innocent? No. Even in her own innocence and inexperience she knew that to pretend so would be to lie to herself.
She put the book carefully back on the shelf. Had this, then, been Leonard’s room? The books inscribed with his name seemed to prove so. Had Beatrice run in here on a sunlit morning, perched on the bed, chattered to her brother of poetry and gardens and the city of Pompeii? She smiled a little at the thought. A heart whose love was innocent. That surely must have described the young Beatrice?
She went back to the mantelpiece, stood looking at the small bronze head. Had Beatrice ever experienced the confusing – the agonising – emotions that she, Carrie, was experiencing now? Had she ever found her heart, her head, her senses apparently entirely possessed by the need to see, to hear, to touch one person, and one person only? Had she ever stood in this room, alone, and helpless to defend herself against the pain of it?
‘What’s happening to me?’ she asked aloud, very softly. ‘What’s happening to me?’
The house was quiet now, the breeze had dropped. She walked to the window and opened the shutter. The mountains were dark. Lights glimmered in the valley and on the slopes beneath the house.
I’ll see him tomorrow. Whatever happens, he’ll come tomorrow.
The thought was like a beacon in the darkness.
I don’t care if what I feel is wrong. I can’t help what I feel; I can help what I do about it. And I’ll do nothing. I’ll never ask anything of him. I won’t ask that he loves me. It is enough, for now, that he’s here, that he’ll come again, that we’ll talk, and laugh, and share each other’s company. I’ll live each day as it comes. Then we’ll part, and there will be an end. But not yet. Please God, not yet. Let me have a little more time with him. Then I’ll go home. Back to England, and to Arthur.
She tilted her head back and closed her eyes for a moment, pushing that thought away from her.
He’ll come tomorrow.
Behind her closed lids Leo watched her, steadily, smiling in the sunshine.
She drew the shutters and latched them, turned to survey the room again. Yes, she would move in here tomorrow.
In passing, she paused to touch the bust again, running a finger down the angle of the cheek, smiling a little.
At least, now, she had Beatrice to talk to. She was smiling at that silly, fanciful yet somehow comforting thought as she left the room.
Chapter Six
When Leo arrived the following morning he brought with him a letter. The postmark was Hastings, England; the writing was very familiar, neat and precise.
‘Young Pietro brought it up from the village last night. It had been left at the post office.’
‘Thank you.’ She took it from him, laid it on the table. ‘Coffee?’
‘Please.’
She poured the coffee, without looking at him, maddeningly aware that from the moment he had walked into the kitchen she had begun to shake, slightly but perceptibly. The letter lay between them. She pushed the cup across the table towards him, knowing herself unable to trust her treacherous hands. ‘Did you mean what you suggested yesterday? Could we really go to Siena for a couple of days?’ She picked up the envelope, turned it in her hands.
‘Yes. Of course. If you’d like to?’
‘I would.’ She reached for a knife and slid it under the flap.
‘Then we will.’ He was smiling, and relaxed. ‘We can go by train or – I wondered – it might be possible to hire a car? Either here or in Lucca. Would you enjoy that?’
‘Oh, yes. I’d love it.’
‘It would be more fun to drive, if you’re ready to risk the Italian roads and my driving. And Siena’s a wonderful city, whatever Leonard may have thought of it. I’m sure you’ll like it.’
She had carried the letter to the door. ‘My dear Carrie, just a line to tell you that all is well here. The weather is still very cold – it will be some time before we can forgo the expense of a fire each evening. I trust you are in good health, and that the journey was not too arduous for you. I trust also that all has gone to plan in the matter of the house and its contents. I took the time to contact an auction house in London. The fellow I wrote to was most gratifyingly interested in anything of your grandmother’s that might be available for sale, so do take care that anything of any value is safely packed and crated before you ship it home.’ She lifted her eyes to the sunlit mountainside, trying to control the sudden flare of her anger. ‘I think it wise for you to leave the matter of the sale of the house in the hands of Signor Bellini. No doubt the man will take more than his fair share of the proceeds, but nevertheless I feel it is the sensible thing to do. When are you coming home? Soon, I hope. You will, I assume, write to tell me when to expect you? Be sure to let me know in good time. I shall, of course, take a day’s leave to meet you. Your loving husband. Arthur.’
She refolded the letter very precisely, put it in the pocket of her cardigan. Your loving husband. The empty phrase rang in her head. She turned. Leo was watching her. ‘Arthur?’
She nodded, half smiling. ‘Yes. Very Arthur. He thinks Signor Bellini will fleece us if we let him sell the house.’
He grinned. ‘He probably will.’
She stood quite still for a moment, her head lifted. ‘I don’t want to sell it,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to!’ And was astounded at the sudden intemperate passion in her own usually quiet voice.
He came to her gently, laid calm and friendly hands upon her shoulders. ‘You have to, Carrie. You know it. It’s a dream. It isn’t possible. Your life is in England, with Arthur.’
She clenched her teeth. His hands were warm, his body so close to hers that the slightest of movements would have taken her into his arms. It was unendurable. She was trembling again, and knew that he must feel it. She wrenched herself away from him, shaking her head angrily, knowing that anger was her only defence. ‘My life isn’t anywhere. I have no life.’
‘Come on, Carrie. You know that isn’t true.’ His voice was quiet, the words reasoned.
She walked to the door, stood with her arms folded tight across her breasts, her shoulders tensed against him. She tilted her head back, looking into the sunlit sky. ‘What do you know about it Leo? What can you possi
bly know about it?’ The words were harsh; desolate. Once again she hardly recognised her own voice, ragged and sharp with unshed tears. ‘Damn it look – there’s that bird again. Isn’t he beautiful? Isn’t he lucky? Does he know it, do you think? Does he understand how lucky he is?’
He made no move towards her; she sensed his stillness, and the intent of his silence, but she would not turn to face him. She heard his movements as he took the cigarette case from his pocket, and the strike and flare of a match.
The oddly charged quiet stretched to a minute, perhaps two. The bird wheeled, drifted and dipped, great wings spread to catch the slightest breath of air.
‘The letter has upset you,’ he said, at last.
She turned then, with a brisk and deliberate lift of her chin. ‘Yes. The letter has upset me. It has reminded me of who and what I am. But there – I know who and what I am. Why should that upset me?’ She was still striving to keep the edge of anger in her voice. She glared at him, challengingly.
Disconcertingly, he smiled; and her heart all but stopped beating. ‘Then it isn’t just the bird that’s lucky, Carrie.’
‘What do you mean?’
He joined her at the door, stepped out onto the terrace. ‘Not many people can say that they truly know who or what they are.’
The words arrested her, drew her from her self-inflicted anger and misery. ‘What do you mean? You of all people surely know who and what you are?’
He turned his head; and she almost found herself flinching from the sudden intensity of his gaze. ‘Who am I, Carrie? What am I?’
‘You’re Leo,’ she said. ‘And you are—’ she hesitated, then unexpectedly found herself laughing, breaking the odd tension of the moment, ‘and you are my very favourite cousin.’
‘Why so I am.’ The smile widened. ‘So that’s settled to everyone’s satisfaction. Listen, I have a suggestion.’
She waited, watching him.
‘Forget the house for today. We’ll walk up the mountain, and take a picnic. What do you think?’
‘What a perfectly lovely idea.’ The mere thought was enough to lighten the black mood that had so suddenly descended upon her. Damn Arthur. Damn Hastings. She would not even think of them. She was here, with Leo. She would not waste this time. Minute by minute, day by day, she would gather the moments; a secret and precious hoard of memories, a treasure trove that would have to last her a lifetime. She took the letter from her pocket and tossed it onto the table. ‘We’ve bread, and cheese—’
‘—and a bottle of wine.’
‘A positive feast.’
He stretched out a hand. Quite naturally, she took it.
‘That’s better,’ he said, gently. ‘I do so love to see you laugh.’
She dropped his hand and turned quickly, hiding her face from him. ‘I’d better find some decent walking shoes. And slacks would be better than a skirt. I’ll go and change.’ At the door she stopped. ‘That reminds me – I’ve decided to move into the tower room. Would you mind giving me a hand this afternoon?’
‘Of course.’ He cocked his head enquiringly. ‘Any particular reason?’
‘No. Just that it’s a lovely room. It has an – an atmosphere.’ She laughed a little, self-mockingly. ‘And Beatrice lives in there. I have the feeling that she’s lived there for a long time – it was Leonard’s room, I think. I don’t feel I should move her out. So,’ she shrugged, laughing again, ‘I’ve decided that I shall just have to move in with her.’
*
They climbed through the flowered spring woodlands, following a narrow track that took them steadily up the mountainside. Leo, in shirtsleeves and flannels, carried the picnic in a haversack, his thumbs hooked through the straps at his shoulders. Carrie took off her wide straw sunhat and shook her hair loose, looking through the bright canopy of leaves above her to the arching blue of the sky beyond. Shafts of sunlight struck like blades of gold through the branches of the trees. Every now and again a glimpse could be caught of the lovely valley below, the waters of the Lima glittering and sparkling in the sunshine.
‘Oh, Leo, it’s perfect! Just perfect. Thank you for having such a wonderful idea.’
He smiled.
They passed a small, nameless hamlet with its shrine to Our Lady decked with ribbons and wild flowers. Dogs barked and small children watched them with large, solemn eyes, one or two of them shyly returning Carrie’s smile. Beyond the hamlet the woodlands thinned and they came out on to the high hillside that overlooked the Villa Castellini. They stopped for a while and sat upon a flat rock, warm from the sun, looking at the panorama spread beneath them.
‘Do you think this might be the rock?’ Carrie asked after a moment. ‘The one that Beatrice and Leonard sat on? When she told him of her plans for the garden?’
He considered for a moment. ‘Why yes, I suppose it could be. There’s certainly a clear view of the house.’ He leaned forward, looking intently down at the tiled and turreted roof of the villa. From here the disarray of the terraced garden was very obvious. As he idly inspected it Carrie allowed herself, momentarily, the indulgence of studying him. The sunlight gilded the flat planes of his face, the straight, disciplined line of his mouth, turned the fine hair to strands of gold. Despite the lightness of his build, the narrowness of shoulder – or perhaps even because of it – there was no sense of frailty about him; on the contrary the slight, muscled body conveyed an unmistakable impression of graceful, contained strength. He had turned up the cuffs of his shirt, almost to the elbow. His fair skin had darkened a very little in the sunshine. He was, she found herself thinking with lucid and painful clarity, quite the most beautiful person that she had ever seen.
He flicked the hair from his eyes and turned. She jumped up, dusting her hands and her trousers briskly. ‘Time to go.’
He pulled a comical face. ‘What a taskmaster! If this were the Himalayas and I were a poor hard-working Sherpa, I’d surely at least have the chance of a quick fag?’
She grinned cheerfully, not looking at him. ‘Well it isn’t, and you’re not. Come on. Let’s see if we can make it to that building up there – see it? It looks like a church.’
He swung the knapsack easily on to his back. ‘My dear Carrie, this is Italy. If it looks like a bloody church, it is a bloody church.’ The words were mild, amused. ‘Right. Your packhorse is ready to plod on. You’d better eat this lot, you know. I’m damned if I’m carrying it all the way back down.’
The building she had spotted high above them was indeed a church. Small, stone-built, it stood sturdily upon a rocky outcrop, as if it had grown from the very fabric of the mountain. Carrie pushed open the heavy door. The interior was simple, shadowed and cool, the plaster walls white painted, their only decoration the dozen pictures, crudely painted yet potent images, that made up the Way of the Cross. The wooden ceiling was vaulted and dark with age and the smoke of candles. A small stained glass window over the marble altar glowed with light that filtered, jewel-like, into the little building, casting soft splashes of colour upon the floor and walls. On the tiny side altars stood two statues, of Our Lady and the Sacred Heart, again both primitively carved and coloured, yet both, like the pictures, compelling in their power: the still, painted faces ageless and melancholy. A brass Sanctuary lamp burned steadily upon the altar, and the smell of incense permeated the air.
They stood in silence for a long moment. With the heavy door shut behind them even the sound of the songbirds was hushed. When Carrie spoke it was almost in a whisper. ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
Something in the tone of the word made her turn. Leo was looking not at the altar, nor at the statues or pictures, but directly at her, unsmiling. ‘Very beautiful,’ he added, softly.
The trembling had begun again, and the hammering of her heart; she could control neither, nor could she look away.
He held out his hand. ‘Come on. Let’s find somewhere to eat. This damned bag’s getting heavier by the minute.’
Perfect was the word, Carrie thought later as, with the sun dipping towards the west, they made their way back down the mountain. Leo had been the best of companions: gentle and witty, and lazily charming, he had set out to entertain and divert her; and all the while, beneath the surface of their banter and laughter, the perilous excitement of their attraction for each other had grown and strengthened, heightening their awareness of each other, making the sun brighter, the mountains more lovely, the day more beautiful. They spoke hardly at all as they followed the path back down through the woods, but there was no strain in the silence; on the contrary, it seemed to Carrie to be a silence of warmth and a certain thoughtful understanding; almost a dialogue in itself.
The house was cool and shady. She made tea, and they drank it on the terrace, making desultory conversation, saying nothing of any consequence. And all the time Carrie was aware of that other, darker communication between them; a sense of waiting, of anticipation.
At last he stretched, arms above his head. ‘It’s getting cooler. Shall we go inside?’
She led the way back into the kitchen. ‘Before you go, would you give me a hand to move my things into the tower room?’
‘Of course I will.’
Upstairs the heat of the day was still trapped in the shuttered rooms. Carrie threw open the windows of the tower room and stepped out onto the balcony, stood looking across the valley.
‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ Leo said softly from behind her.
‘Yes. The loveliest thing I’ve ever seen, I think.’
‘No. Not quite.’
She turned, leaning against the balcony rail. He was smiling; he reached to take her hand and draw her towards him. ‘Come away from there. You’re too close to the edge.’ His hand came up, cupped her chin gently. ‘I don’t want anything to happen to you.’