by Teresa Crane
‘Now?’
‘No.’
That startled her. ‘Wh-why not?’
He rested his hands lightly upon her shoulders. ‘Because you’re frightened,’ he said.
‘Of course I’m not!’ The words were much too swift.
‘Yes. You are. We both know it. And we both know why. Don’t we?’
She looked at him in silence.
‘It’s Arthur, isn’t it? I don’t know what the man’s done to you, but by Christ he’s done something. Something that has made you afraid.’
‘Then help me. Show me how not to be afraid.’
‘I will. I promise. But not yet. It’s too soon.’
‘When? When will it not be too soon?’
‘We’ll both know that when the time comes.’ He bent to kiss her again. This time she clung to him fiercely; this time she kissed him back.
Smiling now he freed himself, holding her wrists lightly. ‘Enough of that, my darling. Or I might find that I can’t control myself after all!’
She had lifted her head and was looking at him in delight. ‘Oh, Leo, what did you call me?’
He brought her hands to his mouth. kissed first one open palm and then the other. ‘My darling,’ he said. ‘I called you my darling.’
‘And am I?’
‘Oh, yes,’ he said.
She slid an arm about his waist and leaned against him, resting her forehead on his shoulder. They stood in silence for a long moment. ‘Carrie?’ he said.
‘Mmm?’
‘Will you tell me something?’
She lifted her head. ‘What?’
He was laughing. ‘Are you thinking of sleeping on the kitchen table tonight?’
She stared at him, blankly.
He nodded towards the blankets and pillows on the table. ‘You appear to be making up a bed. I just wondered who it was for.’
Told of Maria’s situation Leo quickly became briskly practical. Within the hour, leaving Carrie to collect her gifts for Maria he had gone back to San Marco and arranged transport. By the time they had gathered the comforts and the positive pyramid of small pieces of furniture that Carrie planned to take down the mountain, young Pietro was at the door with his cart. It was a gay party that set off at last in the sunshine, the rumbling, swaying vehicle piled high behind them.
Progress was necessarily slow. It was early evening before, attended by a posse of scampering, shouting children, the cart pulled up outside Maria’s door. Carrie jumped down and ran into the cottage, leaving the two men to begin untying the load. ‘Maria – look – see what we’ve brought for you. There are bedclothes, and curtains, and a comfortable mattress, and a couple of chairs.’
The old woman was sitting by the window. As Carrie entered she stood up, standing straight-backed, steadying herself with her stick. Unsmiling she nodded her head in dignified greeting. Carrie was glad to see that there was a little more colour in her face. Happily she held out a hand. ‘I’m so pleased to see you looking better. Do come and see—’
‘Is kind,’ Maria said, firmly. ‘But I don’t need.’
Carrie stared at her, her hand dropping to her side. ‘But Maria,’ she glanced around the sparsely furnished room. ‘Oh, please, don’t say that. We can make you so much more comfortable.’
Maria shook her head. ‘I need nothing.’
A quick, small spark of anger flared; Carrie planted her fists on her hips. ‘Don’t be silly. Oh, for goodness’ sake, don’t be so obstinate. Of course you do. And, quite apart from anything else, if you think we’re turning round and hauling this load back up that beastly mountain then you have another think coming. It isn’t very gracious, is it, after all the trouble we’ve gone to—’ she fell to silence. The old woman’s face was working in a most peculiar way. Concerned, Carrie stepped forward, hand again outstretched. ‘Maria? What is it?’ She stopped again, suddenly understanding. Astoundingly, Maria was laughing, utterly without sound, her mouth clamped tight shut, her thin shoulders shaking. ‘Maria? You’re – you’re laughing? Why are you laughing?’
It was a minute or so before the old woman could recover the composure to speak. ‘This,’ she said, parodying with one gnarled fist Carrie’s action. The small black eyes gleamed still with amusement. ‘Is many years since I have seen this.’
Carrie laughed a little, suddenly enlightened. ‘You mean – Beatrice?’
Maria nodded ‘Si.’ She drew the word out; the shake of her head was more than a little rueful. ‘Many times. Many, many times.’ Her glance flickered then from Carrie’s face, to the door behind her. All vestiges of laughter disappeared.
Carrie turned. Leo stood in the doorway, a rolled rug upon his shoulder. Eyes alight with the simple pleasure of seeing him, Carrie turned back to the old woman. ‘Maria, this is—’
‘A friend,’ Leo said, easily, from behind her. ‘An old friend of Carrie’s. I’m helping her up at the villa.’ He set the rug upon the floor, moved between Carrie and Maria, taking Maria’s hand, bowing over it with an oddly old-fashioned gesture of deference. ‘My name is Leo.’
The old woman eyed him warily.
He smiled his most charming smile. ‘I’m staying in the bar at San Marco. Ask anyone. I’m her friend, nothing more. I mean her no harm, I promise you. Now,’ briskly he turned to Carrie, ignoring the suspicious and searching look Maria was directing at him, ‘come and tell us where you want things put. It’s like a circus out there; the word has gone round – half of Bagni has come to watch!’
They had indeed. Willing hands unloaded a comfortably upholstered chair for Maria to occupy upon the pavement whilst the rest of the furniture was moved in, to much advice, admiration and comment. In no time the small house was swarming with people; the well meaning, the warmly and volubly helpful and the openly and avidly curious. Leo had a quiet word in Pietro’s ear, and the boy disappeared for a few minutes, to return quickly with a small cask. The glasses and cups that Carrie had packed were quickly appropriated whilst children were sent scurrying to nearby houses for more. Carrie watched with amusement and affection as Leo, with no more of the language than she herself possessed, but with laughter and the lightest of touches, organised and diffused the energy and enthusiasm of Maria’s friends and neighbours. She herself perched upon the arm of Maria’s chair, a cup of wine in her hand, watching happily as her small, private gesture of thanks turned, in what she was coming to understand was typical Italian fashion, into a party.
And then suddenly, in the midst of the noisy talk and laughter, she found herself remembering the ordered soullessness of number 11 Barrymore Walk, with its clipped hedge and straight path, its wooden gate always shut against the world, its bright lights and modern conveniences; remembering Arthur, fingers drumming, waiting for tea at five; remembering Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays.
Swiftly she drained the cup.
‘Carrie.’ She lifted her head. Leo had materialised beside her, one hand light upon her shoulder, in the other a large stoneware jug. He was obviously enjoying himself, his slight figure alive with energy and enthusiasm. The mere sight of him brought a smile to her face. ‘Have some more wine.’
‘Oh, really no—’
‘Nonsense. It’s Pietro’s cousin’s very best. Awfully expensive. Works out at all of—’ he pretended to think for a moment. ‘oh, about tuppence ha’penny a gallon, I would guess. Don’t turn it down. He’d be most put out. And at the moment he’s in charge of unpacking the china. We wouldn’t want any accidents, now would we?’
Laughingly she surrendered her cup, aware that she had already drunk rather more than was good for her, and that too quickly. Leo filled it, saluted her with a quick grin, and disappeared into the crowd. Carrie turned to smile down at Maria, and was astonished to see the gleam of tears in the sharp, dark eyes. A small, bony hand lifted to take hers. ‘Grazie,’ Maria said softly, ‘Molte grazie, Signora Stowe.’
Carrie smiled, the wine warm and heavy and sweet on her lips and tongue. ‘Prego. And ple
ase,’ she squeezed gently upon the frail hand that held hers, ‘please, Maria, won’t you call me Carrie?’
By the time the little house was straight, the last of the toasts had been drunk and the cask emptied, darkness had fallen. In ones and twos or in laughing groups the uninvited guests drifted off. The upholstered chair, with some ceremony, was installed by the window. Maria, utterly refusing to admit to exhaustion, sat herself firmly upon it. Carrie, by now rather more than a little unsteady on her feet, bent to kiss the withered cheek. The old lady muttered something into her ear. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘Come soon,’ Maria said. ‘There is much to tell you.’
‘I will.’ Carrie straightened. The world shifted a little, queasily, about her.
Then Leo was there, his hand beneath her elbow, his smile warm and teasing. ‘I hate to remind you of this, but there’s a mountainside between here and home. I think we should go.’
The evening was warm and humid. Somewhere in the mountains thunder rolled, distantly. Tiredly and a little clumsily Carrie began to clamber onto the high seat at the front of the cart.
‘Hey, if you fell off there in this darkness we’d never find you!’ A hand detained her, drew her away; bemusedly she allowed Leo, with a single easy movement to lift her onto the body of the cart. ‘Come on. You’re exhausted.’ She was aware that he had climbed up beside her, drawn her to him, her head on his shoulder, his arms tight about her. ‘Presto, Pietro, presto.’ She felt his cheek pressed against her hair, and through the dizzy waves of languid, unaccustomed, wine-born sleepiness heard him add, very quietly, ‘My darling needs her bed.’
She smiled, dreamily. ‘What did you call me? Leo? What did you call me?’
And did not hear his answer.
*
Carrie was aware of the storm in the night; woke once or twice with a dry mouth, thudding head and roiling stomach, then slipped back into the black depths of a deep and dreamless sleep. It was the sun that finally woke her, striking painfully into eyes that for a moment she could barely open. The air was clear and cool after the night’s rain, the sky ablaze with painful light. She winced, groaned, turned over and tried to bury her splitting head beneath the pillow. She was dying. Definitely dying.
She was also, she realised, except for her shoes, still fully dressed.
She lay quite still, trying to focus mind and memory; and for the moment absolutely could not. She remembered climbing into the cart, remembered the feel of Leo’s arms about her, and then – nothing. For goodness’ sake, how had she got here?
As realisation dawned she winced again, mortified. Whatever must Leo think of her?
After a few moments, only too aware that the sun was high and that she could not hide beneath the pillow for the rest of the day she sat up, gingerly swinging her legs over the side of the bed. The room swung unpleasantly around her. She clenched her eyes shut. The world settled a little. She sat very still for a long time before opening her eyes again and carefully standing up. Every movement threatened, it seemed, to crack her skull. She poured water from the jug on the washstand into the basin, gratefully splashed it over her face. Her tangled hair fell about her shoulders, the ends dangling in the water. The image that confronted her when she glanced into the mirror appalled her; her face was pale, her hair a bird’s nest, her slacks and shirt disgracefully rumpled. With a determination born mostly of desperation she set about repairing the damage.
It was about half an hour later that, still moving with a great deal of care, she made her way downstairs to the kitchen. She knew that Leo was there; the smell of hot coffee and toast had been drifting through the house for some time – a smell she would normally have found delicious but that, on this particular morning, was almost more than her delicate stomach could take. Trying to move her head as little as possible she pushed open the door, shading her half-closed eyes against the flood of sunlight, and leaned against the doorjamb.
Leo turned, grinning. ‘Good morning, my love.’ He was heinously cheerful. ‘Feeling good?’
‘Don’t be such a heartless pig.’ She managed to focus her aching eyes upon him; neatly and immaculately garbed in crisply laundered shirt and flannels he looked as fresh as a daisy. ‘You’re disgusting. Why haven’t you got a hangover? I do assume that’s what it is?’
His grin widened. ‘Practice. And yes, that’s what it is. Is it bad?’
‘I’m dying,’ she said, simply.
His smile widened. ‘I’ll get you something.’ He reached for a glass, went to the cupboard. Carrie walked to the table, dropped into a chair, buried her face in her hands. ‘God, I feel ghastly! I’m never going to touch another drop of alcohol as long as I live. I swear it.’
He laughed, ‘Famous last words. Say rather that you won’t try Pietro’s cousin’s home-made brew again – at least not until you’ve developed more of a head for it.’
She lifted her head. Winced. ‘How the devil do you achieve that without killing yourself in the process? I swear I’ve never felt so bad.’
‘Here. Try this.’
She eyed the awful-looking concoction in the glass with real suspicion. ‘What on earth is it?’
‘Prairie oyster. You knock it back in one gulp. without breaking the egg yolk. Try it. It works.’
She pushed it away, shaking her head. ‘I couldn’t.’
He in his turn pushed it back to her. ‘Try it,’ he insisted, and beneath the laughter was a warm and teasing affection that lifted her eyes to his. ‘Try it, my darling,’ he said, softly.
‘What’s in it?’ As ill as she felt she could not take her eyes from his face. She rested her chin on her hand, watching him.
He perched on the table beside her, took her other hand. ‘Egg. Worcestershire sauce. Salt. Pepper. And a very little of the hair of the dog.’
‘It sounds disgusting.’
‘It works. Try it.’
‘Have you had one?’
He shook his head.
‘Well. There you are then.’
‘I—’ lightly and laughing he bent to kiss the top of her head ‘didn’t need one. I promise you; it will help.’
‘I think you’re trying to poison me,’ she said, solemnly, ‘so that you can inherit the house after all.’
There was a long moment’s silence.
‘Sorry.’ She picked up the glass and scowled into it. ‘Not a very good joke.’
‘No.’ His voice was quiet.
She smiled shakily, lifted the glass to her lips. ‘Not even a very clever one. Because you wouldn’t inherit it anyway, would you? You’d have to share it with Arthur. God, what a thought. All in one swallow did you say?’
‘Yes. It’s the only way to do it.’
Obediently she gulped down the potion. ‘Oh, Lord! That is truly awful.’
Briskly he stood. ‘Right. That’s the first part of the prescription. The second is breakfast.’
‘Leo, I couldn’t possibly—’
‘Breakfast!’ he said, firmly. ‘Coffee and a piece of toast. You’ll feel better, I promise. Later you can have a snooze somewhere cool and quiet. In a few hours you’ll be right as ninepence.’
‘You’re very kind,’ she said, softly. ‘I’m not sure I deserve it. Did you,’ she felt colour rise in her cheeks, ‘did you put me to bed last night?’
He flicked the hair from his eyes, smiling, turned to reach for the coffee pot. ‘Yes. You were dead to the world by the time we got back to the house. You didn’t even stir. Here, try to drink at least a little of this.’
She heaped sugar into the coffee, stirred the liquid pensively. ‘And you?’
He was by the stove, his back to her. ‘I stayed,’ he said. ‘In case you needed me. I slept in the next room. Popped down to San Marco for some fresh togs this morning.’
‘Leo?’ In the tree beyond the open door a bird sang, piercingly beautiful, and the scent of magnolia drifted upon the air. ‘Why are you so good to me?’
He turned. His laughter had died. His thi
n face had upon it that unguardedly intent look that so disturbed her. ‘Because I love you,’ he said. ‘I’ve tried not to. You can’t know how hard I’ve tried not to. But I do.’
Oblivious, the bird still sang. A breeze whispered in the branches of the tree.
Leo came to her, held out his hands. She took them, allowed herself to be drawn to him, her face almost level with his. ‘I watched you last night as you slept,’ he said. ‘You looked like a child. A lovely, innocent child. I have never felt—’ he stopped.
‘What? What have you never felt?’
He hesitated for a moment. ‘I have never felt so – touched. So protective of anyone.’ The hands that held hers tightened. ‘And I have never wanted anyone so much. Never.’
A sudden and unwelcome vision arose; of the woman Angelique, effortlessly beautiful. A friend. A difficult – beautiful – friend. ‘Are you sure?’ she found herself asking.
‘Oh yes. I’m sure.’
‘Then—’ she stopped, the old fears, the new excitements tying her tongue.
He shook his head, half-smiling now. ‘No. Not yet.’
‘When?’
He gathered her into his arms, drew her head down onto his shoulder. ‘When you’re ready, my darling. When you’re ready.’ She felt a small spasm of laughter shake him. ‘Apart from anything else a socking great hangover isn’t exactly a recommended aphrodisiac you know. You’d be asleep before you knew it.’
She laughed a little, tiredly, her eyes closed, loving the feel of him, the smell of him, the sound of his voice so close to her ear. ‘What a blissful thought!’
They stood for a very long time in silence. Then, ‘It’s terribly wrong, isn’t it?’ she asked at last, quietly.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m a married woman. We’re first cousins; when we were children we were like brother and sister.’
‘Yes.’
‘Wrong. All wrong.’
‘In the eyes of the world? In a word? Yes.’
She lifted her head to look at him, dark eyes wide and clear. ‘Then why doesn’t it feel wrong? Why does it feel so utterly, wonderfully right?’