The Italian House

by Teresa Crane

  In answer he simply tightened his arms about her. She laid her head on his shoulder again, tried to control the inevitable trembling. ‘Leo?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Take me to bed. Please?’

  She sensed his smile. ‘No. Not yet. Not yet, my darling.’

  Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. It must be different. It must surely be different?

  ‘But, Leo, when? When?’

  ‘When you’re ready, Carrie, my love. When you’re ready.’

  *

  The hours of the warm and quiet day drifted past them; and as they wore on, as Leo had predicted, Carrie felt better. In the heat of the afternoon she dozed in the green shade of a chestnut tree, woke as the sun began to dip behind the mountain peak to the west.

  ‘Feeling better?’ Leo sat beside her, watching her, a tray with two glasses on it upon the grass beside him.

  ‘Yes, thank you. Much.’

  ‘Here. Lemonade, nice and cool.’

  She drank thirstily. He leaned to her, kissed her lips, licking gently at the moisture on them. ‘Best lemonade I ever tasted,’ he said. ‘It’s much nicer second-hand.’

  ‘Leo—’

  ‘Yes?’

  She laughed a little. ‘Nothing. Just Leo. Leo, Leo, Leo. I love you.’

  ‘Yes. I know.’ He stood, held out a hand. She took it, and leaving the glasses where they stood they walked towards the house. Neither spoke as they moved through the shadowed rooms to the stairs. At the foot of the staircase Leo stopped, turned her to face him, his hands on her shoulders, his eyes searching her face. ‘Carrie, you’re sure?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  They mounted the stairs with hands linked. In the tower room Leo closed the shutters. Carrie stood watching him. He came to her, took her face in his hands. She closed her eyes. ‘Is it time?’

  ‘Yes. It’s time.’ He kissed her very gently, dropped his hands to her shoulders, stroked them softly down her arms, the palms barely touching her skin.

  ‘What – what do you want me to do?’ Her voice was unsteady, her dark eyes suddenly haunted.

  ‘Nothing, my darling. Nothing you don’t want to.’ One by one he undid the buttons of her shirt. ‘Come now, don’t shake so.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I can’t help it.’

  He undressed her and laid her naked on the bed, gently but insistently preventing her instinctive attempt to cover herself. ‘Don’t hide from me,’ he said. ‘You’re lovely.’ Shyly then she watched as he took off his own clothes, stood smiling down at her. She held out a hand. He took it.

  ‘It’s strange,’ she said.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘I’ve been married for nearly five years yet I’ve never seen a naked man before. You’re beautiful, Leo. Beautiful.’

  He settled himself beside her, stroking her face. ‘Now, my love, let me show you there’s nothing to be afraid of. I won’t hurt you. I promise I’ll never hurt you. I want to give you nothing but pleasure. There – tell me – isn’t that good? and this?’

  He made love to her gently and with a fierce tenderness that aroused her in a way for which nothing in her past experience had prepared her; in the end it was she who all but begged him at last to abandon his restraint and take his own pleasure. Afterwards they lay for a long time in silence. Carrie had turned on her stomach, her head on her arms, studying him, sleepily, as he lay beside her. At last he raised himself on one elbow, started to spread her tangled hair about her bare shoulders. She trapped his hand, brought it to her lips, nibbling at each fingertip. ‘Wicked fingers,’ she said, softly, and lifted a hand to touch his mouth. ‘And wicked, wicked tongue!’

  He smiled, lazily, stroked her hair.

  ‘Wicked,’ she said again, closing her eyes, smiling. ‘Where did you learn such wicked tricks?’

  There was a moment’s silence. ‘Does it matter?’ he asked, very quietly.

  Her eyes opened, huge, and calm and trusting. ‘No,’ she said, ‘It doesn’t.’ And knew it for the truth.

  Much later, half asleep, she asked. ‘Leo? What day is it?’

  He considered. ‘Thursday, I think. No, Friday. It’s Friday. Why?’

  She smiled, dreamily, eyes closed. ‘No reason. I just wanted to know.’

  ‘Did I tell you?’ he wound a strand of hair about his wrist, ‘I’ve found a garage in Bagni that will rent me a car. Tomorrow,’ he bent to kiss the small of her back, ‘tomorrow I’ll take you to Siena.’

  *

  They drove to Siena through the rolling hills of Chianti, taking a full day to get there – as Leo observed, whatever the new Fascist government had managed to do for the railways they had not yet managed to get to grips with the roads. They spent two days and two nights in the city – days and nights that were an utter enchantment for Carrie. The journey itself was a voyage of discovery for her as they chugged through sleepy towns and villages that looked as if nothing in them had changed with the passing of centuries. As they drove south, and away from the mountains the weather became noticeably hotter; her first view of Siena – the massive terracotta-coloured brick walls and slender, decorative towers shimmering in sunlight – was a sight she knew she would never forget. They stayed as man and wife in a small hotel near the centre of the ancient city; the days they spent wandering the cool canyons of the ancient streets and beautiful squares, exploring the magnificent buildings, sipping wine at a table in the fascinating Piazza del Campo; the nights they spent in love and laughter. Carrie had never been happier. With each moment spent in Leo’s company she loved him more, and to her delight it seemed that Leo, too, became more attentive, more loving with each passing hour. Neither could resist touching the other; the brushing of hands, the meeting of eyes could spark an immediate excitement that more often than not led them back to their small, stuffy room and more lovemaking.

  ‘What a shameless hussy I’ve become,’ Carrie said, faint and amused surprise in her voice. She lay sprawled on the narrow bed. Leo sat on the floor beside her, the smoke from his cigarette spiralling in the still air. Their clothes lay in an untidy heap by the door. ‘The man at the desk, I’m sure he knows. Why we keep coming back, I mean. And I don’t care. I just don’t care.’

  Leo smiled.

  Carrie rolled over on to her back, arms spread wide. ‘No one in Hastings would believe it,’ she added, solemnly, and in the way of lovers they laughed, not because the thought was particularly funny but for the sheer joy of being together, of being in love.

  He took her hand, traced the lines of her palm with his finger. ‘We’ll have to set off fairly early in the morning,’ he said. ‘It will take best part of a day to get back.’

  ‘Oh, Leo, must we? I don’t want to go back. I want to stay here. For ever and ever and ever.’

  He shook his head, smiling a little.

  She sat up, drawing her knees to her chin, folding her arms about them, her expression suddenly sober. ‘Leo, what are we going to do?’

  It was a question neither of them had asked – a question, indeed that both until now had assiduously avoided.

  Leo, very precisely, stubbed out his cigarette in the ash tray.

  ‘Leo? We have to talk about it. Don’t we?’

  He drew a long breath. ‘Yes. I suppose we do. But not now. Not yet, my darling.’ He stood up, leaning over her, lifting her chin with his finger, bending to kiss her, pushing her slowly back down onto the bed. ‘Not yet.’

  She slept for the greater part of the journey home, her head on Leo’s shoulder, woke as they drove past the massive walls of Lucca and on up the river valley towards Bagni. The sun was dipping towards the mountains as they passed the odd and ancient structure known as the Ponte del Diavolo, a strangely constructed affair whose builder was said to have asked the assistance of the devil, and then to have tricked him out of his demanded payment – the first soul to cross the bridge – by driving a pig across first. ‘Poor pig!’ Carrie had said, when Leo first told her the story. ‘That was hardly fair,
was it?’ Now they stopped for a few moments and climbed the narrow, steep path that led over the bridge, leaned hand in hand upon the parapet watching the rushing waters of the Serchio beneath.

  ‘Leo?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  She turned her head to look at him. ‘I love you.’

  His smile was slow. ‘And do I love you?’

  She pretended to consider it. Nodded. ‘Yes. Oh, yes. I do believe you do.’

  The car did not have to be returned until morning, so they enjoyed the slightly doubtful luxury of driving up the mountain track to the villa. Despite her reluctance to leave Siena, Carrie was surprised and delighted to discover how pleased she was to be back in the house. Home. It felt like home. Indeed, with Leo here with her it felt like heaven. They opened a bottle of wine and took it with them to the tower room. They made love, drank the wine, made love again, and slept, with the shutters open to the cool mountain air.

  Carrie woke in the small hours, frightened. Beside her Leo’s breathing was uneven.

  ‘Leo? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing. I’m all right.’

  ‘But you cried out.’

  ‘A nightmare, that’s all. Sorry I woke you.’

  She leaned on her elbow, put out a hand in the darkness. His body was tense as a spring, his hair wet with sweat. ‘Leo – please – what’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing, Carrie. Nothing. I told you – a nightmare.’ He pulled away from her, threw back the bedclothes, got up and walked to the washstand and then to the window. She sensed his movements, heard the tap of a cigarette upon the silver case, watched in silence as a match flared, silhouetting his neat head against the dark sky. ‘Go to sleep Carrie,’ he said, softly. ‘I’m all right, I promise you.’ His voice was strained.

  Her eyes had grown used to the darkness now. She could see him, his slight figure very still, as he watched from the window. She lay quietly for a very long time before dozing off. Later she stirred sleepily and turned to him as he climbed back into bed beside her. With no word he drew her head down onto his shoulder, and within moments both were asleep again.

  *

  In the brightness of early morning the sudden and unexpected jangle of the front door bell startled them awake.

  ‘God Almighty!’ Leo sat up, tousled hair falling across his forehead. ‘What the hell was that?’

  Carrie was clutching the sheet to her breasts. ‘The front door bell! It can’t be!’

  The bell rang again, insistently.

  Leo groaned, head in hands. ‘It bloody is.’

  ‘But who on earth—’ Carrie scrambled from the bed, grabbed for her dressing gown, pulled it on and went out onto the balcony; found herself looking down at the crown of a large straw hat decorated rakishly with flowers and a bright red scarf. As the shutter clattered behind her, the woman looked up, beaming, and gave a cheerful wave.

  Carrie’s heart sank.

  Mary Webber waved again. ‘Cooee, Mrs Stowe. I said I’d come, and here I am.’ She lifted her hand, in which she held a long white envelope. ‘What an adventure! The most charming young man offered me a lift up the mountain in his cart. See – I’ve brought a letter for you; it arrived at the post office yesterday.’

  Chapter Eight

  Leo, pale and in chancy temper, did not take to Mary Webber, despite the fact – or perhaps, more likely, because of it – that she took a lively and quite open interest in him.

  ‘Well I never, another of dear Beatrice’s grandchildren! I remember now of course – Mrs Stowe mentioned you the first time we met. I wondered then how it was that no one seemed to know you were here. If I had known you were such a personable young man I’d have been even more surprised.’ The woman’s eyes, sharp with curiosity, darted about the kitchen, flicked from Carrie to Leo and back again. Carrie self-consciously tightened the belt of her dressing gown. At least in the time it had taken her to let Mrs Webber in, take her into the kitchen and make a pot of coffee Leo had shaved and dressed, slipped out into the garden via the drawing room windows and re-entered the house by the kitchen door; Carrie did not, however, have any great faith in the deception. The car, after all, had been standing outside the front door ever since Mary Webber arrived, large as life and twice as obvious.

  ‘I’m helping Carrie with the business of clearing the house,’ Leo said.

  ‘Why of course. Of course.’ The letter Mrs Webber had brought with her lay unopened on the table. She eyed it and looked at Carrie expectantly. Carrie ignored the look. She had already recognised the handwriting.

  Leo stood. ‘I’ve got to take the car back.’ He regarded Mary Webber levelly. ‘May I offer you a lift down the mountain Mrs Webber? It’s a warm day for walking.’

  It was the first time Carrie had seen the woman flustered. ‘Er, why, I hadn’t exactly planned—’ she stopped. Neither Carrie nor Leo said anything. ‘That is, I thought I might offer you a hand with something?’ she turned to Carrie expectantly.

  With Leo’s eyes steady upon her Carrie shook her head. ‘Thank you, but it really isn’t necessary. We’re managing very well.’

  Leo picked up the car key and tossed it in the air, gently impatient. The woman resolutely ignored the hint. ‘Tell me, how much longer do you think you’ll be here, my dear?’

  ‘I really don’t have any idea.’ Taking her cue from Leo Carrie picked up the three coffee cups and carried them to the sink. ‘Another—’ she stopped, astonished at the sudden heaviness of her heart at the thought. She cleared her throat. ‘Another week or so, perhaps two. I’m not sure. There are arrangements to make.’

  ‘To be sure. To be sure. Well you must come down to the village for supper with me. I absolutely insist.’ Mrs Webber’s quick, brightly curious eyes flickered to Leo again, and she beamed, ‘Both of you, of course.’ The eyes returned to Carrie. ‘Bagni has quite taken you to its heart for your goodness to Maria, you know.’

  ‘It was the least we could do,’ Carrie said.

  ‘It was an act of great kindness.’ Still the woman made no move to leave.

  Leo walked to the door, held it open, courteously inviting. He glanced at Carrie, eyebrows raised. ‘Is there anything I can get you in the village?’

  ‘We—’ cursing herself, Carrie stumbled a little over that, ‘I could do with some tomatoes. And some olive oil.’

  ‘I’ll get them. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.’ He looked again at Mary Webber in polite and patient enquiry.

  Reluctantly, faced with the resolutely open door, the older woman hauled herself to her feet. Still with unflawed civility Leo offered his arm.

  ‘Why thank you. How kind. Tell me, are you well acquainted with this part of the world, Mr Swann? It really is quite lovely. What a pity Mrs Stowe has to sell the villa, she does still intend to sell it, I take it?’

  The insistent voice faded at last. Carrie looked at the envelope that lay upon the table. Outside she heard the car engine roar into life, and the spin of the tyres as Leo started away on the gravel. She winced a little, allowing herself to feel some faint sympathy for Mary Webber. Something told her that with Leo in such perilously touchy mood it would not be a comfortable journey down the steep mountain track.

  The letter lay, waiting, on the table.

  She turned away from it, walked to the door, and then with an exclamation that was half anger, half impatience, spun on her heel and snatched it up.

  It was short, brusque and dictatorial. How much longer, Arthur wanted to know, did she intend that he should run his own household as well as hold down a by no means undemanding position at the bank? Had he intended to lead a bachelor life he would never have married in the first place. People were asking questions. Surely by now she had had time enough to put her grandmother’s affairs in order? Or was the task so far beyond her that she needed his assistance? He dreaded to think how much money she was spending. He commanded her home, and signed himself, ‘Your loving husband, Arthur’.

  She threw her head back and yelle
d, inarticulately, at the ceiling, the letter crushed in her two hands. ‘Damn you!’ she said, very quietly. ‘Damn you, Arthur. My loving husband? My loving husband? God Almighty! I wish—’ she expelled a breath, threw the crumpled letter onto the table, ‘Oh, I wish you were dead. I do! I mean it. You hear me?’ She was talking to the ceiling again. ‘I wish he were dead.’

  *

  Leo returned to the house about noon. His thin face was still translucently pale and there was a quiet, a reserve about him that worried Carrie a little. ‘Are you all right?’ She put out a hand to him.

  He took it. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘I don’t think you are. Leo, is it last night? The nightmare, or whatever it was? It’s bothering you still?’

  He dropped her hand, turned from her. ‘Don’t keep on about it, Carrie. I’m all right, I tell you.’

  ‘I’m not keeping on about it,’ she said, reasonably, ‘I just wondered, that’s all. You didn’t sleep well. And now you’re very touchy—’

  ‘I’m not touchy!’

  She grinned.

  He laughed a little, rubbed his forehead. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s all right.’ With some difficulty she levered herself to her feet. He had found her in the drawing room, cataloguing books – or at least, that was the task she had set herself. Finding an old leather-bound tome on Pompeii and Herculaneum she had quickly become absorbed, and her right foot had gone to sleep. ‘Ouch.’ She hopped, rubbing it.

  ‘Wine,’ he said. ‘Let’s have some wine. Sovereign remedy for cramp, I believe.’

  ‘Tea,’ she said, firmly. ‘Let’s have a cup of tea. How was the redoubtable Mrs Webber?’

  He directed a reassuringly subversive smile at her. ‘Disappointed,’ he said. ‘The nosey old bat. You can have tea. I’m having wine.’

  In the kitchen, true to his word, he opened a bottle. Carrie put the kettle on the stove. From behind her she heard the rustling of paper. ‘May I?’ Leo asked.