“Well,” she says to him, fanning herself slowly, “perhaps you would like to sing it here.”
“Here? What do you mean?”
“We’re planning a masked ball in a few weeks, a forest fantasy. We shall make it an Italian forest, and you might please us by singing that aria, or any other aria of your choice. As you see, we have a wonderful band. I shall speak to our bandleader, so that you may come in that afternoon for a brief rehearsal, and sing to us that night. If you wish, you may wear a mask.” She is nearly smiling behind her own mask. Nearly, but not quite.
Mr. B. is scrutinizing her carefully, finally. “You would do that for me?” he asks.
She shrugs. “It would be a pleasure.”
It is just like Belladonna that the only male recipient of her favor in the Club Belladonna is a thug, a boor, and a mobster. She hadn’t asked him to sing because he intimidated her, or expected a favor in return, although Mr. B. assures her after his appearance the night of the forest fantasy"incognito, of course"that he would happily pull any strings or knit a pair of cement booties should she wish it. It’s not such a bad thing to have a mobster owe you one.
She does it because she feels like doing it. Besides, Mr. B. has a surprisingly nice baritone.
But his voice pales and disappears into insignificance when Matteo comes to Belladonna just as Mr. B. finishes his second set. Even under his mask I can tell there’s a look on Matteo’s face I’ve been waiting to see for a long time. One of heightened expectation.
“It’s Laura,” he says. “Laura Garnett. She’s here with a group.”
Laura Garnett, well, well. An uninvited jolt from the past. This is a sign. I feel it careening down the veins from my knee to twinkle between my toes. First Laura, then June will come. She won’t be able to resist the invitation we sent her for our Night in the Casbah Ball.
And then one of them. The members of the Club. One of them has to come now.
The sound of Laura’s name transports me instantly back to Merano, to bitter water and a man with piercing hazel eyes, a cane topped with a golden lion, and a heavy burden. Leandro told us Laura had a voice that could melt a glacier. How appropriate that she’s come here tonight. Maybe we could ask her to sing an encore with Mr. B.
Belladonna and I look at each other. “Did she recognize you?” I ask.
Matteo shakes his head no.
Belladonna smiles. She actually smiles broadly under the mask.
“How splendid,” says my darling Belladonna. “Show her in. Show them all in.”
9
A Whiff of
the Waters
“Guy, you are such a roué,” says Laura with a fond smile. She is sitting with her friends at the next table, and we are listening carefully as they direct their comments our way. Two of them look vaguely familiar: the man named Guy, and the other Englishman. I know I’ve seen them in here before; I can’t remember yet when.
Laura is as beautiful as ever, her skin flawless cream, her blond hair twisted into a tight chignon, her lips full and pink, her cheeks flushed with excitement. In the dim light of the club it seems she’s aged only so slightly, but I’ll bet that in the light of day the undeniable marks of her misery have left deeper tracings etched into her face.
“Naturally,” says Guy, “like Peregrine, I have my reputation to uphold. But that’s no reason for me to have patience with a man who is both a fool and a rogue, and willing to serve any master. Especially if that master is a woman.” He winks broadly at Laura. “It is quite impossible to be ‘in love’ with a woman without experiencing on occasion an irresistible desire to strangle her.” He pulls out a silver cigarette holder. “If you treat your lovers like dogs, you’ll be much happier. What do our dogs want from us? Affection, firm discipline, and food. Give them that and they love and worship you.”
“It reminds me of the lady who complained about her lover, who kept calling her a randy bitch in bed,” Peregrine says. “He said, ‘But darling, it’s a compliment. I’m an Englishman, and you know how much we love our dogs.’”
General hilarity all around. Except from Belladonna, who is idly waving her fan back and forth. I can imagine the look on her face.
“Well, you’ve called your wife a bitch often enough, haven’t you, Peregrine?” someone says.
“Quite right,” he replies, “because she is. Pauvre moi.”
“Pauvre toi, bollocks,” Guy says. “We all know she’s”"he pauses for dramatic effect, then says in a stage whisper so loud we can hear it"”a lesbian.”
Peregrine shrugs. “One can’t have everything. Do you know what she said the other night? We were at a lovely dinner, and just before I was about to tuck into the most delectable roast quail she announced, ‘Darlings, I have a terrible confession to make.’ Naturally, I assumed she’d totaled the car or broken the Ming vase or contracted leprosy. But no. ‘Twice,’ she said, ‘twice in my life I’ve slept with men.’”
More laughter.
Now I remember. Guy and Peregrine were here the night of the Ball of the Elements, sitting at the next table with a bunch of haughty fashion people. Guy is still tan and trim, his deep-set dark blue eyes flashing with wit and good spirits. Or is it malice? Botheration. I’d completely forgotten about them after the excitement with Annabeth. Now I am wondering who they are and how they know Laura.
“What a honeymoon you must have had! But can you blame her?” says one of the women at the table. “It is an indisputable fact that nearly all Englishmen"present company excluded, of course"are pathetic in the boudoir. If a man has gone to public schools, he’s ruined for life. And I should know: I sampled the entire sixth form at Eton. Or should I say it certainly felt as if I had.” She smiles. She has a lot of teeth. “The courtship la-di-da is quite fine and dandy, but when push comes to shove, well, they simply can’t manage.”
“But it is nice being courted,” Laura says. “Nice does start to work on you.”
Not in my Belladonna’s book. Nice gets you nowhere.
“I suppose you heard what happened to Dragonier’s nice sister,” Guy says. His friends shake their heads no as he inhales deeply and blows perfect smoke rings into the haze of the club. “She fell in love with a wonderful man she met in Paris, married him rather spur of the moment, in the heat of passion, that sort of thing. He reminded her so much of someone she knew, you see. They both have eyes the same beautiful shade of blue, and they laughed about it, deciding that they were soul mates indeed. What luck to have found each other. They had an ecstatically passionate honeymoon and settled in for a long life of domestic bliss, although personally you are quite aware that I see no point whatsoever in entering the marital state. Are wedding bands and a mortgage in some mysterious way recompense for a lifetime of incompatibility and boredom?” He shudders. “We so often mistake chaos for passion and obsession for love.”
“Oh do go on with it,” Peregrine says, pouting. “One needn’t pontificate in the midst of such splendid gossip.”
Guy blows more smoke rings and waits a minute before continuing. He’s a genuine piece of work, this one. A seductive, master manipulator, the type who’s always going to be the one walking out the door, with his latest lady love begging him to stay.
“After a few months, Dragonier’s sister"her name is Clementine, I believe"decided to go home with her lovely husband to introduce him to dear old mum and dad. As I recall, she was with child at this point. Yes, pregnant and beginning to show. Very sweet.” He downs his drink and signals the waiter for another bottle of champagne. “There was only one slight hitch. Which, had Clemmie been a bit more observant, might have brought this sorry saga to a rather more abrupt ending before it was given a chance to begin.”
The champagne arrives and Guy waits for his glass to be refilled. He certainly knows how to stretch out a story. I notice that Belladonna is paying very close attention. My toes start to tingle, and I feel a twinge of weirdness travel up my leg to lodge behind my kneecap in my premonition place.
<
br /> “When Clementine arrived with her husband for the happy homecoming, her father took one look at the charming young chap and his face turned a rather interesting shade of puce,” Guy continues. “It seems that daddy’s dearest darling, in fact, had married the son of daddy’s dearest mistress. She didn’t know it, of course. Nor did her mummy. Only dear old darling daddy, who naturally felt his eyes drawn to Clemmie’s lovely swollen belly.”
“Is this true?” Laura asks. “How do you know?”
Guy smiles. “Would I make up such a wicked story merely to amuse you?”
“Well, what happened?” Peregrine presses eagerly. “I’m quite put out that I never ever heard one iota about this.”
“She had the baby, of course,” Guy says. “Dear old daddy was not about to confess to the monstrous consequences of his infidelity at this late stage, was he? It was rather divine retribution, though, don’t you think?”
“Was the baby all right?” Laura asks.
“You could say she resembled both her parents quite strongly.”
“You ought to be ashamed, Guy,” Laura says, all humor wiped off her features. “Joking about an innocent baby isn’t funny.”
“You’re quite right,” he replies. “I do most humbly beg your forgiveness, darling Laura.” Then he picks up her hand and kisses it She smiles slightly, but I can tell she’s still upset. Guy starts to pour her a drink but she waves his hand away.
“What do you think?” I ask Belladonna.
“I think she’s still a mess,” she tells me. “I want her in my office. And soon. I want to talk to her.”
I show Laura in to Belladonna’s secret lair a few days later. It was easy enough to have her tailed, and send her a note asking her to come to tea. We’d never been quite so brazen, but I figured Laura would be curious enough to show up. Surely she’s heard that Belladonna has a way with women in need. Everyone in the world seems to know it, from the letters we get by the sackful.
Nor would she dare turn down an invitation from Belladonna herself.
Belladonna is already masked and costumed, sitting behind her desk, toying with her jewelry boxes, when Laura walks in, nervously clasping a camel-colored Kelly bag. I offer her a cup of Belladonna’s favorite Lapsang souchong, and she takes it with a polite smile.
“Here at the Club Belladonna we have costume balls with different themes, as you may already know,” I say conversationally.
“Yes, I’d heard that.”
“Our Countryside Ball was a big hit,” I go on. “Likewise the Carnival Ball, the Zodiac Ball, the Garden Ball, among others. We always welcome new ideas, especially from those who come from abroad. Americans can be so, well, limited in the scope of their imagination.”
Laura looks a bit astonished that I seem to be soliciting her advice. “We were thinking of having an English Hunt Ball,” I say, lying sweetly. “Perhaps you could advise us.”
“I’ve never been much of a hunter,” Laura says, “but I do have friends who would be pleased to talk to you, if you like.”
“That’s very kind,” I say. “Do you happen to know if there are English-type hunts in countries like France or Italy?”
“France, I wouldn’t know about, but in Italy… let me think,” she replies.
“Ah, so you have been to Italy?” I ask. “I’m of Italian ancestry, so I’m partial to all things from that country, senza dubbio.”
“Yes, I used to go there quite often,” Laura tells me. “I had a friend from school who lived there with her father. I’d visit her on school hols and wish her father were mine.”
“What was her name?”
“Beatrice.” She says it the lovely Italian way, Bay-a-tree-chay, and it instantly conjures a scent of basil wafting over us as we lounge on the terrace outside Leandro’s bedroom.
“What happened to her?” Belladonna asks. It’s the first time she’s spoken
“She died during the war,” she says, venturing a glance at Belladonna. “In childbirth.”
“And her father?”
“He died, too.”
“Died when she did?”
“No, several years later. It was about six years afterward.”
“What was his name?”
“His name?” Laura is perplexed by these personal questions. “His name was Leandro. Leandro della Robbia. He was a count, and in the shipping business.”
I can’t describe the effect of her innocently saying Leandro’s name in this room, the blessed sound of it like a whiff of rosemary and lavender from Caterina’s gardens. We so rarely speak of Italy, or Leandro. How I wish for Belladonna to bring him up so I can talk about how much I miss him, the conversations we had, everything he taught me. How he would have been pleased by our meticulous plotting and planning, by the ever-vigilant diligence of Jack and the Pritch and our spying waiters. How he would have smiled at the sight of Andromeda and her red toenails, guarding the door with her bark, and the sinuous curves of mirrored hallway leading our visitors into paradise. How he would have loved to have been seated with us at the center banquette, his golden-headed cane by his side as he watched and listened and laughed at the happy and ridiculous throng in the Club Belladonna.
“You miss them.”
Laura nods. “Leandro helped me when things became difficult with Andrew.”
“Andrew is your husband,” I say. Belladonna had given me a signal, so I could take over the questioning once again. “What happened to Leandro?”
“He met this woman at a spa, in Merano. In Italy. It’s where one goes to take the waters. This woman had a little baby, and she needed help. Leandro never told me what had happened to her, but it must have been something awful. She had two strange big men with her, bodyguards, I suppose. I really don’t know anything about her. But I didn’t like her. He took them in, you see, the woman and her baby and those two men. They went to live at his palazzo in Tuscany.”
Funny to hear yourself described, especially as a strange big man. I’m glad Matteo is off this evening, home with Annabeth, and the slightly built Geoffrey is preparing to man the door proudly on his own. I don’t want her to suspect that Belladonna is the woman with the baby, even though there’s no reason she should. Laura rarely saw Belladonna when we were in Merano. Only me, really. Not that I am any less devastatingly attractive now, but my mask and costume are slightly more flashy than the casual wear I used to throw on in Italy.
And I’m not that big.
“Were you jealous?” I ask, trying to keep my voice kind. “I’d be.”
Laura looks at me, and her eyes narrow slightly. I see her stiffen, realizing what she’s confessing, but she’s still too intimidated by Belladonna and flummoxed by our conversational twists not to reply.
“Did that woman live with him?” I press on.
“Not exactly together. Leandro had several houses on his estate. She kept to herself, getting over whatever it was that had happened to her, I suppose, but eventually they became quite close. Leandro wrote to tell me this.”
“So what happened?” I ask.
“Leandro died.” Laura shrugs, trying to pretend she doesn’t care. “And the worst was that he married her.”
“Who? The woman?”
“Yes. I was shocked. He’d married her secretly in Florence and they never told anyone.”
“Did she want his money, do you think?”
It’s strange. Laura never calls the woman she’s talking about by the name she knew she had"the long-lost Ariel"and we are certainly never going to mention it.
“I don’t think so,” Laura says. “Obviously, he left her most of his fortune, but he also left me a tremendous sum. He was always generous.” She is growing more confident Must be Leandro’s influence. “I think she had money, but I’m not sure. Leandro mentioned that she was not in need of anything but a man who asked nothing of her.”
Belladonna is waving her fan back and forth like an automaton.
“What do you think he meant?” I ask after a long p
ause.
“I’ve no idea.” Laura shrugs again, and frowns. “I find it quite difficult to believe I’m telling you any of this.”
“It’s always easier to talk to strangers,” I reply. “Particularly when they are masked. It happens to us all the time, in the club. You’ve nothing to risk and much to gain.”
“Gain? What do you mean?”
“You are in need of help, are you not?”
“How did you know?” Laura asks, her eyes narrowing again as she flushes a deep pink, like her lipstick. Lilac Champagne, I think the shade is. It suits her.
Blondes always do have a problem biding their blushes, don’t they? Natural blondes, I mean.
“A feeling,” I reply calmly. “We were sitting at the table next to yours the other night when your friend began talking about a woman named Clementine and her baby, and it became obvious to us that you were upset.”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
“Of course. That’s why we asked you here. To see if we could be of any assistance.”
“That is terribly thoughtful.” Laura bites her lip. I think she is wavering between misery and hauteur, just as I’d first seen her in Merano. “I don’t know what to say; I don’t really know Clemmie. Or her brother. I think they’re all right I’m quite …”
“Yes, it is a bit of a dilemma,” I say to help her out. “I doubt Clemmie knows of her husband’s quarterings. Alluding to such may create more problems than it would solve. But do you think your friend was telling the truth?”
“I honestly don’t know,” Laura tells me. “Guy can appear to be perfectly horrid, but he’s a terribly good egg. He is not the type of man capable of inventing such a dreadful story.”
“How do you know him?” I slip the question in so smoothly, Laura doesn’t pick up on it. That’s because she is blushing an even darker pink.
“He’s a friend of my friend Hugh,” she says.
I know what that means. Guy’s the liaison between Laura and her friend, Hugh. How sweet. How convenient for us, once we get the Pritch on the case, I mean. Let’s hope her taste has improved and this man is nothing like Mr. Nutley.
Belladonna Page 20