The Italian House

by Teresa Crane

  She stood with her breath held, so certain was she that he would kiss her; but then he turned, his hand dropping to his side. ‘Well. I suppose we’d better get started.’ Briskly he threw open the door of the enormous old wardrobe. ‘Knowing Beatrice this could be full of ostrich eggs or matchboxes or some such thing. Hello, what’s this?’

  ‘What? What have you found?’

  He reached into the cupboard and lifted out a small pile of neatly folded clothes, carried them to the bed, shook them out as he laid them upon it. A dark green ankle length skirt trimmed with copper-coloured braid, two cotton blouses, high-necked and prim, one the same copper colour as the braid, the other the same green as the skirt, and a fringed shawl, faded where it had been folded but obviously matching the other things. The faint fragrance of lavender filled the air.

  Carrie stared at the clothes. ‘Leo? Do you think…?’ she stopped.

  Leo nodded. ‘I can’t think of anyone else they might have belonged to.’

  Gently Carrie touched the silken shawl with her finger. ‘I can’t believe it. I wonder—’ She picked up the skirt and held it against her.

  He laughed. ‘It looks as though it could have been made for you.’

  She shook out one of the blouses. Like the shawl it had faded in patches, but the material seemed strong and the stitching perfectly secure. ‘Shall I? Oh, Leo, would it be all right to see if they fit?’

  ‘Of course it would. Why are you asking me? They belong to you, remember?’

  She gathered the clothes into her arms. ‘Wait there. I won’t be long.’

  She sped along the corridor to the other bedroom, stripped off shirt and slacks and slipped her arms into the sleeves of the copper-coloured blouse. It fitted, as Leo had said, as if it had been made for her. The waist of the skirt was a little tight, and it barely reached to her ankles, but nevertheless that too was perfectly wearable. She draped the shawl prettily about her shoulders and glanced in the mirror. Frowned a little. Something was not quite right. She studied her reflection for a long moment before she suddenly realised what it was.

  Five minutes later she walked back along the corridor to the tower room and pushed open the door.

  Leo was standing with his back to the room, looking out of the window. He turned, smiling, as she entered, stopped dead. ‘Good Lord!’

  Carrie laughed, twirled on tiptoe. ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘But you could be her! Your hair – it looks marvellous like that.’

  She flushed with pleasure. ‘Thank you. I copied that,’ she pointed to the bronze on the mantelpiece. ‘It didn’t look right with my hair loose.’

  ‘You should wear it like that all the time.’

  ‘It’s not very fashionable.’

  ‘Who cares about fashionable? It suits you, that’s what matters.’ Leo’s voice was very soft. His back was to the window; she could not see the expression on his face. He held out his hands to her. ‘Carrie. Come here.’

  Still smiling she took a couple of quick steps towards him then stopped in sudden confusion as he moved a little and the light fell upon his face.

  ‘Come here,’ he said again.

  There was a second when she could have refused, when she could have deflected the moment with laughter or a flippant comment. She did neither. She stood quite still, watching him, making no attempt to defend herself, to hide what she knew he must see in her eyes.

  And eventually it was he who came to her.

  They were almost of a height. She felt his hands upon her shoulders, hardly had to lift her head to meet his mouth with hers. His kiss was as she had known it would be; tender, and sure and searching. She did not even lift her hands to touch him, but stood quite still beneath his hands, hardly daring to breathe, aware of nothing but the warm touch of his lips on hers.

  He released her suddenly, very sharply. Turned away from her, the back of his hand to his mouth. ‘I’m sorry. Christ, Carrie, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. Please don’t be.’

  ‘I wouldn’t do anything to—’

  ‘I know. Of course I know.’

  There was a long and difficult moment of silence. The room had become very warm. The valley beyond the long windows was darkening. ‘Leo—’ she said at last, reaching a diffident hand to him.

  He shook his head.

  ‘Leo!’

  The face he turned to her then was anguished, almost to the point of hostility. ‘Carrie, stop it! I said I’m sorry.’

  ‘And I said don’t be!’ To her own surprise Carrie heard the answering anger in her own voice, felt her chin go up stubbornly. ‘Leo, don’t be! I don’t want you to be sorry.’

  Which of them made the first move would have been impossible for either to say. For the briefest of moments his arms were fierce about her, his mouth on hers again, but this time with a force that verged on violence. And suddenly, terribly, she remembered Arthur; the hot, wet mouth, the devouring greed in the darkness – she heard the sound she made, felt her body stiffen in resistance to his.

  He let her go immediately, stepped back, hands spread wide, the blaze of his eyes for a moment so intimidating that she took a quick, apprehensive breath. And then he was gone, striding from the room in silence and without a backward glance. She heard his footsteps, his rapid descent of the stairs, the slamming of the front door.

  She flew to the window. Below her she saw him as he half ran across the terrace, skipped fleet-footed down the stone steps and set off at a fast pace down the track towards the woods, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders tense.

  ‘Leo!’ the wrought iron of the balcony rail cut into her fingers as she gripped it. ‘Leo!’

  He did not look back.

  *

  He did not come for breakfast the next day.

  Carrie had spent a restless night and had been up since dawn, watching for him. By nine, accepting at last that he would not come, and knowing that she could settle to nothing without him she decided to go down into the village to see Maria again. The alternative would have been to go to San Marco to seek Leo out; and that she would not do. One thing she had determined during the night; whatever her feelings she would not run after him. If he wanted to see her he must come to her.

  The thought that he might not – that indeed there was a strong possibility that even at this moment he might be readying himself to leave Bagni – was one she tried not to contemplate.

  As usual within ten minutes of starting down the mountain a cart stopped to offer her a lift. The voluble family who took up almost all the available space cheerfully shuffled along to make room for her and then after polite ‘Buon giorno’s settled back into their own conversations and left her to herself. In the marketplace she jumped to the ground, calling her thanks and brushing the dust from her skirt. The children were in their habitual play spot by the bridge. Recognising her now they smiled and called greetings. She stopped for a moment, watching them, before walking across the bridge to Maria’s small house.

  The door stood open. The interior was dark, and quiet.

  ‘Maria? It’s me, Carrie Stowe. Are you there? May I come in?’

  A mangy tabby cat stalked past her, tail in air, out into the sunshine.

  ‘Maria?’

  The silence was broken only by the rushing of the nearby river.

  She stepped across the threshold and into the dim, sparsely furnished room. It was empty. The chair where Maria had sat stood in ramshackle fashion by the window, but of Maria herself there was no sign.

  ‘Hello? Maria?’ She moved across the room, pushed tentatively at an ill-fitting wooden door. It swung open to reveal a tiny bedroom, stone-floored and furnished only with a narrow pallet bed and a wooden chair. The battered shutters were closed, and through them a narrow gleam of sunlight fell across the figure huddled upon the bed. ‘Maria!’

  The old woman did not move. Maria’s mouth was open, her breathing difficult.

  Carrie knelt on the floor, took the thin, chilled hand in
her own warm one. ‘Maria, can you hear me?’

  For a moment there was no response. Then the wrinkled eyelids fluttered, and opened.

  ‘Maria, are you sick?’

  The small dark eyes looked at her for a moment, startled, and with a look of almost joyful recognition. Carrie saw the moment when it died, and knew the cause. She gently stroked the hand she held. ‘It’s all right. It’s me. Carrie. I came – that is – I hoped that you’d talk to me again. But if you’re unwell it doesn’t matter. Here. Let me make you more comfortable.’ She eased the small head onto the lumpy pillow, tucked the thin blanket around her. ‘You’re so cold. Don’t you have another blanket somewhere?’

  Maria was still watching her, unblinking. She did not speak. Carrie looked around the room. She could see nothing of any warmth or comfort. Quickly she slipped her own cardigan from her shoulders. ‘At least let me put this around you. Maria – I’m so sorry – why ever didn’t I think of it before? There’s so much up at the villa that you could have: blankets, pillows, a proper bed. A nice chair, warm shawls. Oh why didn’t I think of it last time I was here?’ She stood up with sudden energy. ‘Have you eaten?’

  Maria shook her head.

  ‘I’ll make you something. You must eat.’ Anxious again she touched the old lady’s cheek. ‘You are all right? You don’t need a doctor?’

  Again the shaken head. But this time as Carrie straightened the frail hand caught her wrist with surprising strength. ‘Your hair,’ Maria said, softly.

  A little self-consciously Carrie lifted a hand to tuck a strand into a loosening comb. ‘I found a bronze bust. In the tower room—’ she hesitated, fancying she had seen a sudden flicker of the old wariness in the woman’s eyes. ‘I copied it.’ She smiled a little, hoping to coax some warmer response. ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘Si. I like.’ The words were so quiet she could barely hear them. Maria’s eyes closed.

  Carrie left the door ajar and went back into the other room. She had seen before that in the corner, half-hidden by a tattered curtain, was a tiny, ancient stove, blackened by years of use. Beside it were a couple of logs and some sticks of kindling, a small stack of cooking utensils and a basket containing a few vegetables, a chunk of rock hard cheese and a stale half-loaf of bread. So far as she could see these seemed to constitute all of Maria’s stock of food. She stood for a moment, considering. ‘Soup,’ she said aloud. ‘I’ll make some soup.’ She looked around. ‘Water. There must be some water somewhere.’

  It took her only a few minutes to discover the pump that the hovel shared with its equally dilapidated neighbours in the back yard. Happy to have found something positive to do to help, and to give at least some relief from the constant and demanding presence of Leo in her heart and in her head, she lit the stove – not without considerable difficulty – and set the vegetables to simmer upon it. That done she went back into the bedroom. The old lady was dozing, her breathing quieter. Gently Carrie touched her hand. ‘Maria, I’m going out for a moment. Only for a moment, I won’t be long. You need some fresh bread. I’m making soup. You’ll enjoy that, won’t you?’

  ‘Si.’

  Quietly Carrie turned away.

  ‘Signora Stowe?’

  At the door she turned. The old lady was watching her with that disconcertingly steady gaze. ‘Grazie. Molte grazie.’

  Carrie smiled. ‘Prego.’

  *

  The children were still there, and answered her greeting easily. She walked briskly to the bakery, the mouthwatering smell of which filled the sunny street. She made her purchases amidst a fair amount of laughter and hand-waving, and then went round the corner to the small grocery store. Since she had very little money with her she chose carefully; half a dozen eggs, some freshly made pasta, olive oil, and a few tomatoes. Before she left she would make certain that Maria had a proper meal. Tomorrow she would buy more. Despite her own lack of funds she would not see the old woman go without, and anyway food was so cheap here it would hardly cost a fortune to provide at least some of the basics. She must – she would – make sure that Maria was given enough from the sale of the house to live comfortably for the rest of her days. Arthur and his parsimony could go hang together. Maria, after all, had kept faith with Beatrice when she could have made things extremely difficult. She must be treated fairly.

  Absorbed in thought she stepped from the dark interior of the shop into the sunlight. Dazzled she hesitated for a moment, blinking. The square shimmered in the midday sun. figures moved hazily. She lifted a hand to rub her eyes, smiled and apologised as someone jostled into her from behind. Then her eyes adjusted to the brightness; and in the shadows beneath an awning not ten yards from her she saw the woman Leo had named as Angelique. Tall, slender, and apparently effortlessly beautiful she stood, watching her. And the look in the lovely eyes was such that for an instant Carrie found herself incapable of breath or of movement. In the warmth of the sun she was suddenly cold. And then the moment was gone. Languidly Angelique turned and sauntered to a nearby stall, her progress followed either openly or surreptitiously by the eyes of almost every man in the square.

  ‘Signora? You buy?’

  ‘What?’ Carrie forced her unfocused eyes to the man in front of her.

  He stood, obsequious, a tray of trinkets strapped about his neck. ‘You buy?’ he asked again, anxiously.

  ‘I – no – I’m sorry. I don’t have any money. Next time perhaps.’

  He smiled, bleak and unbelieving. ‘Grazie, Signora. Grazie.’

  Blindly Carrie turned and walked down the busy street towards the Ponte di Serraglio. The children still played, the shriek of their laughter lifting above the sound of the water that churned and splashed in the sunlit shadows beneath the ancient bridge.

  Carrie shivered a little in the cool air that the river’s swift movement generated; and in her mind’s eye she saw again the malice, the undisguised venom in Angelique’s eyes.

  And realised that she was afraid.

  Chapter Seven

  The house was quiet in the afternoon sunshine. A light breeze drifted through the house, stirring curtains and hangings. Carrie counted through the small pile of things she had put on the kitchen table: two blankets, a couple of warm shawls, two large, soft pillows. At least it was a start. She would find someone in San Marco to help her take them down to Maria, and then she would work out what else could be done to make the little house by the river more comfortable. Much of the furniture in the villa was simply too big to be of any practical use, but there were quite a few smaller pieces scattered about the house that would certainly come in handy.

  ‘Carrie?’

  The softly spoken word startled her so that she almost jumped from her skin. She turned.

  Leo stood in the shadows just inside the door, his figure dark against the brilliance of the light beyond.

  They looked at each other for a long moment in silence. Then he came towards her with his hands outstretched. ‘Forgive me?’

  She cleared her throat. ‘Don’t be silly. There’s nothing to forgive.’

  ‘Of course there is. I frightened you. I wouldn’t do that for the world.’

  She shook her head. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

  ‘It won’t happen again. I promise you.’

  Their hands were still linked. Carrie lifted her chin, half defiantly, looked long and steadily at him. ‘Supposing—’ she hesitated, ‘supposing I told you that I want it to happen again?’

  His fingers gripped hers harder, but he said nothing.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Be careful, Carrie,’ he said, quietly.

  She shook her head. ‘No. I won’t be careful. Not this time. I can’t be.’ She pulled her hands from his and turned from him, standing with her back to him, leaning upon the table. ‘Leo, I know I shouldn’t. I know it’s wrong. But I love you.’ She turned to face him. Asked, a little uncertainly in face of his silence: ‘Leo – did you hear what I said? I mean it. I love you.’

&n
bsp; He came to her and cupped her chin in his hand, tilting her head a little, his expression sombre. ‘Carrie, Carrie. Are you sure? Are you really sure it’s love that you feel? That it’s me that you love?’ He leaned forward and kissed her very, very gently on the forehead, ‘Or is it the time, the place, the strangeness of it all? The lovely – the seductive — strangeness of it all?’

  ‘No!’

  The grip on her face strengthened. The narrowed eyes glittered in the shadows. ‘I say again, Carrie; be careful.’

  The trembling had begun again, and she could not control it. Neither could she look away from him.

  ‘You quoted to me in this very room,’ he said, softly, ‘remember? Shaw’s two greatest tragedies in life. The one, not to get your heart’s desire—’

  ‘And the other to get it. Yes. I know.’

  ‘So, for the third time – for the last time – I say, be careful, Carrie.’

  There was a daunting intensity of emotion in him, that communicated itself through his eyes and through the fierce and painful grip of his fingers. She forced herself to hold steady before it, though still she trembled. ‘It is, I think, a little late for that. Leo, do you remember when I first came and found you here? Do you remember what you said, about my not having found my very own adventure yet? Well perhaps I have. Perhaps this is it. Perhaps you are my adventure. So how can I be careful? Adventures don’t happen if you’re careful, do they?’

  He kissed her then; a long and almost painfully tender kiss that said more than any words could have expressed. When at last he drew away she reached a hand to his face. ‘Leo?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Will you, that is—’ she stopped, despite every effort found herself ducking her head, avoiding his eyes, unable at the last moment to sustain her courage.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Will you – please – make love to me?’ Her voice was a whisper. ‘Please?’

  He stood for a long, silent moment, waiting for her to raise her eyes once more to his. When she did he smiled. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I will.’