by Teresa Crane
Chapter Nine
For the first few days after Leo’s cruelly abrupt departure Carrie felt physically ill; she could not eat, and sleep was all but impossible. Everywhere she looked she saw him, every sound was his voice. On the first night she could not bring herself to go to bed, but spent the night uncomfortably upon the musty-smelling sofa in the drawing room, dozing, jumping awake at the slightest sound, straining her ears for the sound of his footsteps; body, mind and heart ached for his presence, and try as she might she could not control the real, almost physical anguish of it. Dawn found her starting on her second pot of coffee on the terrace outside the kitchen; and even here she could not escape him. As clearly as if he were there she saw him running up the steps, heard his voice and his laughter, saw the bright, narrow eyes, the long mouth, the flick of his head as he tossed the hair back from his forehead. Once or twice she even fancied she smelled a drift of cigarette smoke on the air.
Infatuation? Or love? Could love, or the loss of it, hurt this much? What, indeed, was infatuation if not love taken to the extreme? And when, if the link were so suddenly and brutally broken, did the pain stop? Would it ever?
Wearily she laid her head on her crossed arms upon the table, closed her eyes against the clear, merciless light of a brightly beautiful morning; a morning without Leo. As spring moved towards summer the days were getting longer and hotter, even here in the foothills of the mountains. Suddenly the thought of it oppressed her. She wanted grey skies, and rain. She wanted the world to weep with her. For weep she did, sometimes silently, the tears simply sliding all but unnoticed down her cheeks, sometimes suddenly and uncontrollably, until she felt there must surely come a time when there could be no more tears in her; until she believed, like Alice, that this would be her punishment; to drown in her own tears.
She wandered from room to room, not bothering to open the shutters, made no attempt to order the chaos about her. Half-packed tea chests and boxes were scattered throughout the house, piles of books were on every floor, stacks of paintings against every wall. Late in the afternoon she finally went to the tower room – their room – and threw herself at last, exhausted, upon the bed, her head buried in her arms. After a moment she rolled on to her side, reached for Leo’s pillow, curled herself about it, knees drawn up, like a child in pain.
And still she cried; still she could not sleep. Still she listened for his return.
The next day she could not stand the confines of the house, with its strong and recent memories, and spent the best part of the day in the garden, coming at last to the arbour with the fountain. She sat on its edge, fingers dabbling absently in the dark water.
She had to stop this, she knew it. She must do something. She was not a child. She was a grown woman; she must not indulge herself in this disgraceful way.
The musical sound of the water that trickled down the rock face and ran from the child’s jar soothed her a little. It was shady and cool. All at once she found herself remembering the day she had stood in the boxroom, looking at the picture of this very spot, building dreams.
She leaned towards one of the dolphins, ran her hand over the smooth curve of its head. Some of the algae rubbed off on her palm. Pale marble gleamed wetly. l-low lovely this place must have been in Beatrice’s day. No wonder she had loved it so. And how sad to see it now, neglected, overgrown, belonging to no one.
Would the whole world be sad from now onwards? Would there be happiness anywhere? And if she were offered a miracle – to go back in time, to make things different; never to have met him, never to have loved him, never to have suffered because of that love – what would she do?
Even unhappy as she was, without thought she knew the answer to that.
She sat for a very long time, calmer than she had been since Leo’s going, though the pain was still there, raw as a fresh wound.
She was alone. She would have to make plans, get herself organised.
She would have to go home. If she did not, then Arthur might well lose patience and decide to come and fetch her, and the thought of that was all but unendurable.
Where was Leo? In Bagni with Angelique? That thought was unendurable too. Surely they would have left by now? Surely they would not stay to torment her?
Then she remembered the look in Angelique’s eyes, and was not so certain.
Insects scudded across the reflecting water, tiny wakes and ripples glittered. Carrie stood up, shoulders hunched, hands in the pockets of her crumpled slacks, looking about her. The nymph still gazed serenely down into the water despite the dirt and lichen that caked her, the curves of the fountain with its dolphins and sea creatures was classically beautiful as ever. ‘If things had been different,’ Carrie said softly, aloud, ‘If I – if we – had been able to stay—’ She took a long breath. Sunshine flickered and glittered through the tree canopy above her; and suddenly she knew that she could not bear it; she must leave the house as soon as possible. She must go back to England. But with Leo gone, now, she needed help. Signor Bellini must be contacted, the arrangements made to ship Beatrice’s belongings back to England, the house put up for sale. That meant getting to a telephone. And that meant going to Bagni.
She heard in her head Maria’s words: ‘He has a woman, this cousin of yours. Is true. The whole of Bagni knows.’ And presumably, by now, the whole of Bagni would know that he had gone away with her. Well, she would have to face it sooner or later.
But not now. Not today, almost light-headed as she was with misery and lack of food and sleep and with the tears still so perilously close. She must give herself another day to pull herself together. Tomorrow. She would confront Bagni and its gossip tomorrow.
That night, unable to face the tower room she went to bed in her old bedroom; and still she could not sleep.
*
She walked down the mountain the following day, through a hot and somnolent afternoon. There was hardly anyone around; even most of the dogs lifted sleepy heads and kept to the shade as she passed. The village was quiet, most of the shutters closed. Not without qualms, remembering the redoubtable Mrs Webber had made her home there, Carrie made her way to the Continentiale and the telephone.
Signor Bellini, as always, was helpful charm personified. Of course he would help with the arrangements, and of course he would be pleased to take over the sale of the house for her. He would be coming to Bagni in a few days – could he perhaps come to see her? Friday afternoon would suit him best.
The arrangements made, Carrie paid for the call and slipped quickly from the hotel foyer, cheered at least a little by the fact that she had, for once, avoided meeting Mary Webber.
Her cheer was short-lived; Mrs Webber was waiting for her on the pavement outside. ‘I saw you were using the telephone, my dear, and couldn’t bring myself to interrupt. My goodness, isn’t it hot? Summer’s coming, that’s for sure. You were telephoning your cousin?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Your cousin, you were telephoning him? He left on the train the day before yesterday. Well, I suppose you must know that, of course you do, with the – the young lady.’ Again that avid curiosity. Carrie could not for the life of her fathom if it were malicious or not. But at least now she knew; Leo and Angelique had left. The thought brought despair and relief in about equal measure. fighting that she had little time or energy left for Mrs Webber.
‘No. I wasn’t phoning Leo. I was calling Signor Bellini. He’s handling the sale of the house for me. Now if you don’t mind, Mrs Webber—’
‘Mary. You must call me Mary, my dear.’
‘If you don’t mind I really am awfully busy, and—’ she cast her mind about for an excuse ‘and I promised Maria faithfully that I’d call on her before I went back.’
Her arm was taken firmly. ‘Oh, but I’ll walk with you. It’s only just across the bridge.’ Mary Webber peered with those uncomfortably sharp eyes into her face. ‘My dear, are you quite well? You look peaky. Very peaky. And you’ve lost weight, I swear.’ She took on a lightly scolding voi
ce. ‘Now, I know what it is: you aren’t feeding yourself properly, up there in that great rambling house all on your own. How often must I invite you to supper?’
Carrie endured the woman’s company to Maria’s cottage, then perforce had to tap on the front door; something she had had, in fact, no intention of doing.
Mary Webber waved cheerfully before turning and walking briskly back the way she had come. Entirely unable to resist the childish impulse Carrie stuck out her tongue at the retreating back, then turned to find Maria watching through the window, a shadow of amusement on her face.
Carrie pushed open the door.
‘That woman!’ Maria said, and shook the fingers of her right hand in a gesture of scorn.
‘She’s certainly a pest.’ Carrie rubbed her forehead tiredly, then added with a brightness that was entirely spurious, ‘Is there anything I can do for you? Anything I can get you?’
The old woman was watching her narrowly. She shook her head.
Carrie walked to the window, stood looking out, her back to Maria. There was a very long silence.
‘You are – triste? Sad?’ the old woman questioned at last, quietly.
Carrie nodded, unable to speak.
‘Because he is gone.’
‘Yes.’
‘With the woman.’
‘Yes.’
‘Is good he is gone.’
‘No!’
‘Is good he is gone,’ Maria repeated, stubbornly. Carrie turned. Unexpectedly the old woman held out a small brown hand. Carrie took it.
‘It will pass,’ Maria said.
Numbly Carrie shook her head again. ‘No. It won’t.’
‘Ah, yes. Everything passes, cara mia, everything. In time.’
‘In a lifetime, perhaps.’ The small endearment had unnerved Carrie completely; the silent tears were there again. Still holding the tiny, frail hand she knelt beside Maria and, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, laid her head upon her knee. With her free hand Maria gently stroked her hair, murmuring soothingly.
‘I love him,’ Carrie said. ‘Oh, Maria, I love him so much. Nothing has ever hurt as much as losing him does. I can’t live without him. I can’t!’
The stroking hand had stilled. ‘No. Is not true.’
Carrie lifted her head, startled at the vehemence of the words. The small claw of a hand that held hers gripped with a surprising strength.
‘Listen. Is wrong this love. Wrong! You are too close in blood. His father, your mother, they were brother and sister. There is wickedness in this. Let him go. Or God will punish you both.’
‘I don’t care.’ Carrie was sobbing now, ‘I don’t care! If I could get him back I would. Let God punish us if He’s really that cruel! I wouldn’t care. Not if I had Leo.’
The old woman leaned close to her. ‘And if the punishment falls on another?’ she asked, fiercely.
Carrie fell silent, her brow furrowed, the sobs still catching unevenly in her throat. ‘What do you mean?’
The old woman did not answer. Her grip on Carrie’s hand loosened. She leaned back in her chair. ‘You have a husband, cara. Go to him. Forget this – cousin. Is best, believe me. Think of him as dead.’
Carrie sat back on her heels, her face set in misery. ‘It would – almost – be easier if that were true. At least I could grieve. At least I’d know that I could never see him again, never hear his voice. This way, each time I turn my head I fancy he may be there, watching me, waiting for me—’ She choked suddenly, swallowing tears, and bowed her face to her cupped hands.
‘You are young,’ the old woman said. ‘Pain is worse for the young, for they believe it will last for ever.’
‘It will. It will!’
‘No.’ Maria took a long breath. ‘I say again – you have a husband. Go to him, before greater damage is done.’
Carrie lifted her tear-wet face to look directly into the old, tired eyes. ‘I hate my husband,’ she said. ‘I love Leo. I don’t care how wrong it is. I won’t deny it. I love him.’
‘Then you are in danger. You must go. Leave this place. Go home.’
‘Home,’ Carrie repeated, bleakly. ‘Home?’
Maria’s claw hand reached again, gently, drew her head back down onto the musty black material of the skirt. ‘Life is hard, cara mia, life is hard,’ Maria said.
Half an hour later, calmer, Carrie left. She had opened her heart to Maria, talked of Leo, and the simple pleasure of being able to speak his name had eased the pain a little.
The old woman sat, eyes distant, hands idle upon her lap for a long time after the door closed behind her young and troubled guest. Then with some difficulty she eased herself out of the chair and reached for her stick. It was a full minute before she could steady herself enough to walk across the room to where a largish, flat box lay on top of the bureau that had been one of Carrie’s gifts to her. With some difficulty she opened it, gnarled hands shaking, and lifted out a book.
A book that Carrie would have recognised instantly.
Maria carried it with her, back to her chair, laid it upon the small table, and contemplated it with pensive eyes.
*
At least knowing that Signor Bellini was coming on Friday gave Carrie some purpose, some goal towards which to work. And work she did, deliberately to the point of exhaustion, dragging cases from room to room, wrapping and packing and making lists that sometimes seemed a mile long. She worked into the night, until her strength was gone, and then was up at dawn, starting again.
And still, every time she passed a window in the front of the house, she found herself pausing for a moment, eyes searching the mountainside, hoping against all reason to see him; and never, of course, seeing him.
She was standing at the window of the tower room, three days after her conversation with Maria, when she noticed a small cart labouring around the bend that led up to the house. With her heart hammering in her throat she stepped out onto the balcony; but it took only the most cursory of inspections to dash her hopes. The hair of the young man who drove the cart was very dark, his shoulders broad. Beside him, diminutive in black, her head shaded suffocatingly by a heavy shawl, perched a figure that looked remarkably like Maria. A few moments later, when she went downstairs to greet her unexpected guests it was to discover that this was indeed Maria, come to call upon her. She introduced her companion as her great-nephew. He shook Carrie’s hand, smiling, an enormous young man with an infectious grin. He spoke no English, Maria explained, dismissively, and would be spending the afternoon with a cousin in San Marco. She let fly several sentences in rapid-fire Italian. The young man grinned again, kissed her dutifully and affectionately on the cheek, saluted Carrie and swung back onto the cart. As Maria and Carrie turned away he called, obviously asking a question, gesturing to something that lay beside him on the seat. Impatiently Maria shook her head, and replied sharply. He shrugged goodnaturedly and raised a hand, clucked to the pony, and the cart pulled away.
Carrie, in honesty, was nonplussed. ‘Maria, may I get you something? A cool drink? Something to eat?’
‘Later,’ Maria said. ‘First my wish is to see the house. It will be the last time, you see.’
The simple words touched Carrie. Gently she offered her arm. ‘Of course. Come in. You’re more than welcome. I’m just sorry that everything’s in such a mess.’
The afternoon was not an easy one. Maria said little as they moved from room to room; yet still, occasionally, the odd illuminating observation made Carrie wish it had occurred to her to ask the old woman up to the house earlier.
‘Here Signorina Beatrice would sit for hours,’ Maria said, standing at the window of the drawing room. ‘Here she would read, and sew, and sometimes sing to herself.’
Carrie smiled, ‘Sing to herself?’
‘But yes. All the time. Until—’
‘Until?’
Maria shook her head. ‘Until she no longer sang.’
‘Was the kitchen terrace here in your time?’ Ca
rrie asked, standing looking out to the mountains, suppressing memory.
Maria shook her head. ‘This was later. When the children—’ she stopped, ‘when Signorina Beatrice and Signore Leonard were young this was a place to grow – things for the kitchen?’ She opened her hands in a typical Italian gesture, looking at Carrie in enquiry.
‘Vegetables? Fruit?’
‘Ah, si. Vegetables.’
‘Ah. Il studio. In this room they learned, my little ones.’ The library was perhaps the most chaotic room of all. Maria stood in the doorway, declining to enter. Carrie, in conscience, could not blame her. An agile cat would have found difficulty in manoeuvring its way round the obstacle course of the floor. Maria chuckled, the sound dry. ‘They had a—’ she hesitated, ‘precettore, ah, a teacher.’
‘A tutor?’ Carrie suggested.
‘Yes. A tutor.’ Again Maria spread gnarled, expressive hands. ‘Poor man,’ she said.
Upstairs she showed Carrie the two rooms, entirely empty now, at the far end of the main corridor, which had been hers. ‘One to sleep and one to sit. It was a good life.’ She smiled. ‘They never left me alone. Never. Cattivos!’
At the door of the tower room she baulked. ‘I know this room. I don’t need to see it.’
‘But please, Maria, there’s something here I’d really like to show you.’
The woman’s reluctance was obvious. Carrie was puzzled. ‘This was Leonard’s room, wasn’t it?’
‘Si.’
‘Most of the books have his name in them.’ Carrie pushed open the door, ‘Look. This is what I wanted you to see.’ She walked to the mantel and took down the bust. ‘It’s Grandmother, isn’t it?’
Maria nodded. For a moment Carrie fancied she saw her blink against tears; but when the other woman spoke there was no sign of emotion in her voice. ‘Was Leonard’s favourite.’
‘I thought it might be. That’s why I left it here. I’m going to take it home with me. To keep for myself. I couldn’t bear to sell it.’
‘Is good that you keep it.’