The Italian House

by Teresa Crane

  She turned. He had picked up the crumpled letter and was smoothing it out on the table.

  She shrugged. ‘Please yourself. It’s – predictable.’

  The room was quiet as he read the single sheet of neat, cramped writing. ‘So,’ he said, ‘what are you going to do?’

  She took a long breath. ‘Answer it. Tell him—’ she spread helpless hands. ‘Tell him what, Leo? What are we going to do?’

  He straightened, tossing the letter back onto the table. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. And then again, turning from her, walking to the door, reaching into his pocket for his cigarette case, ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, her voice over-bright, over-controlled, ‘That’s reassuring.’

  Again that oddly vulnerable gesture, his fingers to his forehead.

  She joined him at the door, slid her arms about his waist, turning him to face her. ‘Do you have a headache?’

  ‘Yes. Sort of.’

  She indicated the glass that he held. ‘Is that good for it?’

  ‘Very.’ He tilted his head and drank. ‘It’s that kind of headache.’ His smile was wry.

  She leaned against him in what had become a habitual gesture, rested her forehead lightly upon his shoulder.

  Your loving husband, Arthur.

  Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays.

  How could she stand it? How could she ever stand it again?

  She shut her eyes tightly for a moment. Leo’s arms rested lightly about her. His eyes were distant upon the mountains.

  ‘Leo, what are we going to do?’ she asked again, quietly.

  He drained his glass. ‘We’re going to bed,’ he said. ‘Now. Unless you have any other more pressing plans?’

  *

  ‘Such a headstrong child,’ Maria said. ‘Always so quick. No sooner did she think of something than it was done. No sooner did she want something than she must have it.’ She fell for a moment to pensive silence.

  ‘And Leonard?’ Carrie asked. ‘Was he the same?’

  ‘No. He was different. A quiet boy. Very—’ she pondered, ‘the word is gone. Sensibile.’

  ‘It’s the same,’ Carrie said. ‘Sensitive. Intense?’

  ‘Ah. Yes.’

  ‘That’s the feeling I get from the journals. They were quite opposite characters, yet quite extraordinarily close, weren’t they? Have I got it right?’

  ‘They were’ Maria spread gnarled hands, ‘brother and sister.’

  ‘But not all brothers and sisters are necessarily as close as that. It comes out over and over again in the journals. They did everything together. It was as if, as if they lived in their own world. The villa, the garden – until—’ Carrie took a long breath ‘until poor Leonard died, that is.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘Beatrice must have been devastated.’

  ‘Si. Is true.’

  ‘But then she married.’ Carrie stood and moved to the window. The afternoon was sultry, heavy and humid. Not a breath of wind stirred in the trees. Even the sound of the river was muted.

  ‘Yes. She married.’

  ‘The last journal ends on the day she had her first child. Uncle Henry. The last entry – it’s an odd one. I shall no longer be alone, she says. A strange thing to say, don’t you think? Have you read it?’

  There was a long moment’s quiet. ‘Si,’ Maria said, softly. ‘I have read it. I remember.’

  Impulsively Carrie turned. ‘Maria – please tell me – do you know where the missing journal is?’

  Stiffly the old lady stood. ‘A glass of wine,’ she said. ‘Then we talk more.’

  *

  ‘I don’t quite know why,’ Carrie shifted a little, settled her head more comfortably on Leo’s shoulder, ‘but I feel absolutely certain that Maria knows where the 1867 diary is. Why won’t she tell me? Why won’t she let me see it?’

  Leo picked up a strand of her hair and wound it about his finger. ‘Why does it matter?’

  ‘I don’t know. But it does. She told me so much today about Beatrice when she was young, about her later life here, as a young married woman, and afterwards, when she lived here with Uncle Henry. About our parents, and about her friends, and her love of the garden. But she won’t talk about Leonard, or how he died. There is a mystery there, I know it. And it’s something to do with that missing book.’

  Leo yawned.

  ‘I’m sorry. You’re tired, I know. Do you want to go to sleep?’

  He turned his head on the pillow, smiling. While she had been with Maria that afternoon his odd and difficult mood appeared to have dissipated entirely. ‘In an hour or two,’ he said. ‘Or three.’ He propped himself up on his elbow, looking down at her. ‘Well, let’s just say at some time between now and the morning at any rate.’

  *

  It was a couple of days before Carrie got down into the village again, during which time she wrote a short, apologetic but carefully uncommunicative letter to Arthur. She took it to the post office, did some shopping and then went to visit Maria.

  ‘Maria. It’s me. I’ve brought you some grapes—’ she stopped.

  Mary Webber beamed. ‘Mrs Stowe. How nice to see you again. I was just telling Maria about my little trip up the mountain the other day—’

  Carrie glanced at Maria. The old woman’s face was expressionless, showed no sign of warmth, offered no smile of greeting.

  ‘—and saying how grand it was to have two of Beatrice’s grandchildren in the village. She’s met Mr Swann, I gather, but didn’t realise who he was?’

  Carrie schooled her face. She said nothing.

  Maria sat bolt upright, her hands folded in her lap.

  ‘Well,’ Mary Webber stood. ‘I must be on my way. Do come to supper one day next week, Mrs Stowe, and bring that handsome cousin of yours with you. A charming young man. Quite charming.’ She smiled her wide, bland smile. ‘Though his driving. I have to say, leaves something to be desired.’

  In the silence that followed her going Maria lifted small, expressionless eyes to Carrie’s face.

  Carrie nodded. ‘Yes. Leo is my cousin. He’s John’s son. We know that John and Beatrice didn’t get on. We know that the arrangements she made about the house were specifically to disinherit Leo. I – he – was afraid that if you knew who he was you wouldn’t talk to me.’

  ‘Is true,’ Maria said.

  ‘But why? Maria, why? Why did Beatrice hate her own son so much? What happened between them?’

  ‘He was a bad child,’ Maria said, ‘And grew to be a bad man.’

  ‘How? What did he do?’

  ‘He took much money.’

  ‘Took? You mean from Beatrice? He stole from her?’

  Maria shook her head. ‘Not stole. Took.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘He knew—’ the old woman stopped, mouth pinched together.

  ‘Knew what?’ Carrie frowned. ‘Maria, what did he know? Something about Beatrice?’ she hesitated, ‘Something – bad?’

  Maria did not answer.

  ‘Maria, please, won’t you tell me? Beatrice’s son – Leo’s father – found out something about her, and then took money from her. You mean he blackmailed her?’

  The almost lashless lids flickered. ‘I don’t know this word.’

  Carrie studied her. ‘I think you do,’ she said, quietly.

  Maria turned her head. ‘You go now, please. Signora Webber, she has tired me.’

  ‘Signora Webber is enough to tire anyone,’ Carrie said, grimly. ‘Maria, please. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you who Leo is. Believe me, I did it for the best. Please don’t let it come between us. He isn’t his father. He’s himself.’ And I love him. She did not say it.

  ‘The blood is bad,’ Maria said.

  ‘No! That isn’t true.’ The words were vehement; goo vehement. Maria lifted her head, studied Carrie’s face.

  Carrie flushed. ‘It isn’t true,’ she said again, more calmly. ‘I’ll bring him to see you, and you’ll see for yourself.’
r />   Maria shook her head, her expression obstinate. ‘No.’

  Still seething at Mary Webber’s mischief Carrie held on to her patience and her temper by a thread. ‘All right,’ she said, reasonably, ‘I won’t. But please, don’t let it come between us. I so much enjoy our talks. I may come again?’

  For a moment she feared the woman would refuse. Then the bony shoulders lifted in a shrug. ‘Si.’

  It was obvious she would, for now, get no more concession than that. Marshalling good sense over temper Carrie unloaded her small purchases on to the kitchen table, and left.

  Maria neither thanked her nor gave her farewell.

  *

  ‘Do you think it’s possible?’ Carrie asked Leo, later, over the supper table. ‘Would your father have done such a thing?’

  ‘Blackmailed his own mother?’ Leo leaned back in his chair, lifted his wine glass, surveyed it grimfaced. ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘Leo!’

  ‘It’s true.’ He lifted sombre eyes to hers. ‘My father was a bastard. Of the worst kind. I hated him.’

  ‘But – that’s awful.’

  He shrugged.

  The silence was difficult. Then Carrie said ‘So it is possible that something of the kind happened, and that’s why Beatrice was so determined that I should have the house?’

  He stood up, abruptly, scraping his chair on the kitchen floor. ‘Carrie, for God’s sake! Does it matter? What’s done is done. It’s over. They’re both dead. We’ll never know.’

  ‘Maria knows,’ Carrie said.

  ‘Leave it, for Christ’s sake!’

  Carrie stared at him.

  He turned from her, shoulders hunched, reached for his cigarettes.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, at last, uncertainly.

  Without a word he left her. She heard him light his cigarette on the terrace outside, saw the quick flare of the match in the darkness.

  That night, for the first time, they did not make love. Carrie lay staring into starlit darkness, acutely aware of Leo’s turned back, his too-even breathing. ‘Leo?’ she ventured, quietly.

  He did not reply.

  But with absolute certainty she knew he was awake.

  *

  The next day was difficult. They were careful of each other, nothing out of the way was said, but still there lingered an awkwardness, a left-over anger that was as hard to explain as it was to ignore. Heavy upon Carrie’s heart was the knowledge that every precious minute wasted was a minute never to be reclaimed; soon – too soon! – she would have to leave.

  Never to see Leo again? The thought was all but unbearable.

  In the early afternoon he came to the study, where she was packing books and paintings into one of the large tea chests they had found in the attic. ‘I’m going down into the village. I’ll see you later.’

  She waited, unwilling to ask what his errand might be; hoping he would tell her without her asking.

  He turned.

  ‘How long will you be?’

  ‘I don’t know. It depends.’

  Anger stirred. She went back to her task, not looking at him. ‘Okay.’

  She heard the door close behind him.

  She spent a miserable afternoon packing. As evening approached she found herself more and more often going to one window or another, hoping against hope she would see the slight, graceful figure swinging up the path towards the house. The sun slipped behind the mountain, the shadows lengthened. And still he did not come.

  She tried, with less and less success as the hours wore on, not to think of the woman Angelique – Leo’s beautiful, difficult friend – who waited in Bagni. Carrie had not told Leo of the encounter in the village; it had seemed best not to mention it. She had not seen the other woman since. But she was still there, of that she was uncompromisingly certain.

  And was Leo, at this very moment, with her?

  As the silent twilight deepened she ate alone; an hour or so later she picked up a book and carried it to the tower room. One last time she went to the window, stood for a long time gazing down the track that was by now all but lost in the gathering dusk. Then, precariously close to tears, she lit the lamp, climbed into bed and attempted to read.

  Several empty hours later she heard footsteps on the gravel, and the kitchen door opened and closed. Watching the door, she waited. It was several minutes before he came. He closed the door quietly behind him, stood leaning against it, his face all but expressionless, the set of his head faintly challenging. ‘You’re still awake.’

  ‘Yes.’

  He stepped away from the door, slipped his jacket from his shoulders. As the lamp light fell on his face she saw how tired he looked. She held out a hand. ‘Leo? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You’re angry that I asked about your father?’

  ‘No.’ He sat on the side of the bed, kicked his shoes off. She smelled the wine on his breath; saw, suddenly and with a terrible twist of her heart, that his hands were shaking. Her anger left her. To have him so close and not to touch him was more than she could bear. She threw back the bedclothes and came to her knees beside him.

  ‘Leo, I don’t understand. I don’t understand what’s happened. Please look at me. Please try to explain.’ Her voice trembled on the edge of the tears that had threatened all day.

  For a long moment he did not move. Then, very slowly he turned, and his eyes met hers. ‘All right, Carrie. I’ll tell you what’s wrong,’ he said. ‘I knew I loved you. I have only now realised just how much. That’s what’s wrong.’

  She stared at him in silent astonishment.

  With a hand that still, very slightly, trembled he touched her cheek. ‘Do you realise how little you know me?’ he asked, unexpectedly.

  She considered that. ‘Yes,’ she said, and kissed him. Then with a quick movement she slipped her nightdress over her head, shook her hair about her shoulders. ‘Yes, I do realise it. But I don’t care. Because I love you. Nothing will ever stop me loving you.’

  He reached for her then, fiercely, his hands sliding from her waist to her buttocks, pulling her to him, his mouth at her breast. She bent above him, curtaining him with her hair.

  And smelled distinctly a faint, sweet perfume that was neither wine not the scent of tobacco.

  She could not herself have said with honesty if the tears that she shed during their lovemaking that night were born of happiness or pain.

  *

  It was Maria who told her, two days later: ‘He has a woman, this cousin of yours,’ she said, a glint of satisfaction in her eyes, ‘at the hotel. I told you. Bad blood.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’ But she did. Leo’s mood swings in the past couple of days had become more unpredictable than ever; and in her heart she had known why.

  ‘Is true. The whole of Bagni knows. My sister’s son – he works at the hotel. Ask him if you wish. The woman is very beautiful.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  The old woman took her hand, held it with surprising strength. ‘Because you are like my Beatrice. Because if you love you will love too well.’

  ‘I don’t love him!’ Carrie wrenched her hand away, jumped to her feet. ‘I have a husband. Leo is my cousin. That’s all.’

  ‘Then why are you crying?’ Maria asked, not unkindly.

  *

  Leo was sitting on the terrace with a glass of wine in his hand when she arrived at the villa. He turned, smiling. ‘Caught me. I really have only just—’ he stopped. Stood up. ‘Carrie? What is it?’

  ‘Tell me about Angelique,’ she said, and the tears had started again, ‘Tell me about your beautiful – difficult – friend.’

  He drank the wine in silence. Placed the glass with great care upon the table.

  ‘Leo. Tell me!’ Her voice had lifted to the shriek of a fishwife; there was nothing she could do to control it.

  He lifted his head sharply. The narrow eyes blazed.

  ‘You went to her the other day, didn’
t you? And then you came home and made love to me. I could kill you for that, Leo. You hear me? I could kill you.’

  Still he did not speak.

  Goaded beyond reason she flew at him. He trapped her wrists, held her from him, his grip tightening as she struggled. Abruptly she stopped. Immediately he let her go, stepped back.

  ‘Tell me about Angelique,’ she said again, but quietly now.

  He took a long breath. ‘Someone, it seems, already has.’

  ‘You don’t deny it?’

  His silence answered her.

  She dropped into the chair he had vacated, put her elbows on the table, buried her face in her hands in despair.

  When she lifted her head, he had gone.

  She found him in the tower room, packing his small, battered leather case.

  ‘You’re going to her?’

  ‘I’m going.’

  ‘To her?’

  He turned. ‘Carrie. We have known from the start what had to happen. We always knew it would have to end.’

  ‘But like this? Like this?’

  He rolled up a shirt, tucked it into the case. His face was blanched, tight drawn.

  ‘Do you love me at all?’ she asked, desolate.

  His movements stilled, apart from the shaking of his hands. Then he snapped the lid shut and straightened. ‘Believe me, my darling—’

  She flinched.

  ‘—it’s better this way. Finish here. Sell the house. Then go home to England. To Arthur.’ He met her eyes, levelly. ‘Your husband. You never would have brought yourself to leave him. You know it.’

  The tears slid unchecked down her face.

  Passing her as he walked to the door he stopped, lifted a finger to her wet cheek. Then he was gone.

  She heard his swift, light footsteps in the passageway, running fleetly down the stairs, heard the thud of the front door behind him like the knell of death.

  She flew to the window.

  He did not look back.