Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances

by Dorothy Fletcher

  She saw my face and hastened to add, “My dear, she didn’t suffer for a moment. You mustn’t think about it. She was never in pain. She died instantly.”

  “Did she bleed much?”

  “Bleed?” Elizabeth looked astonished, and for a second narrowed her eyes with what seemed to me distaste. I didn’t want her to think I was looking for sensationalism, for goodness’ sake. But yet I didn’t want to mention the handkerchief Eleanora had found. I said carefully, “I suppose I want to be reassured … that she didn’t suffer, as you say.”

  “Love, it was as quick a death as anyone could ask for. She broke her neck and aside from the quite horrible position she was in, there was no other outward sign. She certainly didn’t bleed.”

  Well that, I thought, was puzzling indeed. No blood on the dead woman … but a hankie stained with it in Eleanora’s basket. What could one make of it?

  I could hear, in the adjoining gardens, the voices of the Monteverdis, carried by the cool currents of clear air. A shriek of childish laughter, followed by Gianni’s voice, told me that uncle was teasing niece, and I had to smile. I must tell Gianni, I thought, that they made a charming couple, he and Eleanora. Looking up, I saw the Principe sitting at the window on the upper story of the villa: he was communing with some bird or other in the branches of a tree which was close enough to sweep the house. The bird would cheep and then the Principe would answer it. I thought it was very touching, that while the rest of his family was gathered for their apertivi down below he was playing a child’s game.

  “Let’s move our chairs a bit,” Elizabeth said. “So we get the last of the sun. If you were raised in England, you’d appreciate the value of the sun. Let me help you.”

  “No, let me do it.” I pulled the chairs out from under the sheltering umbrella and felt the sun scorching my face. I agreed with Elizabeth. If you were raised in smoggy Manhattan you also appreciated the value of the sun.

  “Isn’t that lovely,” she said.

  “Yes, wonderful.”

  “Buona sera,” I heard someone say next door, and recognized Benedetto’s voice. Evidently he had just returned from his daily stint at La Nazione and was joining his family. I heard answering greetings, and Eleanora’s delighted screech.

  “Papa!”

  “Yes,” Elizabeth said suddenly, turning to look at me. “I do so envy them. A close family.”

  I thought of her, now that Mercedes was dead, sitting there night after night, listening to the sounds of affection, coveting the ties that bound lives together.

  Oh, poor Elizabeth …

  “Well, I must rouse myself,” she said, after a long, companionable silence. “I daresay you’re hungry and so am I.”

  Eleanora, peering through the gate, waved a tentative hand. Elizabeth waved back. “Come say hello to us, Nora.”

  Nothing loath, the little girl skipped across the grass. “I must go to bed soon,” she confided. “I wanted to say good night.”

  “That was nice of you,” Elizabeth said. “Did you have a pleasant day?”

  “Like all the other days,” she said, with an innocent wisdom. “Did you?”

  Both Elizabeth and I agreed that our day had been fine, and then Gianni walked through the gate. He came toward us, looking splendid, lean and handsome in white pants, a shirt half unbuttoned and an orange handkerchief stuck in the pocket of his shirt. I thought he looked rather Neopolitan, or what I imagined to be Neopolitan. He looked me up and down, in my “little” dress that had cost a good bit of money at Saks, and smiled dazlingly.

  I smiled back; a most attractive boy, I was thinking, and had to laugh at the designation. He was several years older than I. I wondered if I was being condescending … or defensive. Because I could feel a kind of pull toward him … and I didn’t want to do what so many American girls did when they went to Europe, namely, fall head over heels with some vagabond lover.

  “I’ve come to take you home,” he said to Eleanora. He held out a hand and she took it. “Say good-night,” Gianni ordered.

  “Good night, good night …”

  “Remember me to your family,” Elizabeth said, her wiry hair tangling in the iron of the chair in which she was sitting. “Buona notte, children.”

  And then they went off, swishing through the grass, and vanished through the dividing gate. Elizabeth looked over at me. “Gianni has eyes for you,” she said, as if she were telling me that two and two made four.

  “He has eyes, I surmise, for lots of girls,” I answered.

  “Well, why not, he’s young, and still fancy free.” She got up. “And now I must fix us something to eat.”

  “I’ll help you.”

  “No, please.” She made it plain that she was averse to anyone interfering with her “joy of cooking,” as she phrased it. “Don’t you see,” she said, in that clipped British voice, “now that I have freedom of choice I simply am so fond of planning meals and thinking up gourmet menus. It’s the only thing I really care about.”

  There was an almost girlish smile on her seamed face. I sometimes feel like a child, making mudpies. And there’s no one to stop me.”

  “It’s just that I wanted to do my part,” I said, and she smiled down at me.

  “Don’t worry about that,” she said. “To have you here, someone to break bread with … well, I simply wish it could be forever.”

  “So do I,” I said, knowing it was true. “It seems I don’t want to leave.”

  “Like your aunt,” she said. “You’re very much like your aunt.”

  And then she left me, making her way across the grass to the house. I sat there, dreaming, listening to the voices from across the way. I listened, and it seemed to me that Elizabeth and I were the freeloaders, that the Monteverdis, expansive and voluble, were the masters … and we the serfs, the tenants. The low-pitched voices of the men, the authoritative tones of the Principessa, Francesca’s fruity dulcet made me envious too, and I longed to share their camaraderie.

  But there was something else. It made me faintly resentful, angry perhaps, and questioning. The property had been my aunt’s and was now that of Elizabeth Wadley. But on our side of the gate was only quiet, as Elizabeth cooked our lonely dinner.

  A bird flew low and winged past me, settling down, fleetingly, on the grass. I called to it and it looked up, with bright, curious eyes. I remembered the Principe, sitting at that upstairs window, having an aviatic conversation with a wren or sparrow or whatever. Now I could hear his deep voice, like that of a basso cantante, mingling with the others, and the window in which I had seen him earlier was dark, untenanted.

  Lucrezia appeared in the aperture of the french doors, waving to me.

  “Buona notte,” she called, and I got up.

  “You’re going home?” I asked.

  “Si,” she said.

  I followed her around the house, over the graveled path, and she climbed onto a little Vespa, straddling the motorcycle with solid, sturdy legs. “Arrivaderci,” she said, and revved the motor. Then she roared off, her coarse brown sweater ballooning behind her. The last I saw of her was a scarf at her neck billowing in the breeze.

  • • •

  When I went into the house again the cooking smells made me salivate. Garlic … the odor of meat fat sizzling. I was famished. I poked my head in the kitchen and said, honestly, couldn’t I do something?

  She looked up, abstracted. “What? Oh no, I’m getting along famously,” she said, her face flushed from the range. “Would you care to play the piano again? I do so love music.”

  I went to the Boesendorfer and started a Brahms Ballade. I don’t know precisely when it was that I saw the reflection in the glass of the many framed photographs on top of the piano. At first it was only a vague impression, that there was something wavering in front of my eyes. And then I saw the face, as in a mirror, Gianni’s face, hovering outside the french doors, not knowing I could see him reflected a dozen or so times, in the pictures spread over the embroidered
silk scarf.

  He was peering in at me, bent slightly forward, and a funny chill went up my back. What was he doing there? Why didn’t he come in, say something, make his presence known? He seemed to me to be lurking, to be spying on me …

  I came to the end of the Ballade, with its final chord, and got up quickly from the piano stool. I turned and faced him, at which he straightened up, guiltily, and drew in his breath.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Hello,” he answered, but I saw his discomfiture, though he carried it off well enough. He walked through the french doors and raised a casual hand. “You play well,” he said. “I heard it, and couldn’t resist — ”

  “It’s a glorious instrument,” I said. “It needs tuning, though. How about a drink?”

  “Thank you, but I must get back. Another time, signorina.”

  “My name is Barbara.”

  “Yes, I know. I — ”

  “It’s not all that important,” I said, annoyed and a little bit angered. “Signorina will do, if you can’t manage anything else.” I knew I sounded shrewish, but I couldn’t help it. Was I, then, a barbarian? An American outlander who merited nothing more than an impersonal “Miss?” Even though he had kissed me and put his arms around me? I was beginning to form a cold, crystal-clear picture of the Monteverdis. Snobs, whether you called them by title or addressed them simply as signore and signora.

  He was backing out the french doors again. Smiling, with those long eyelashes, and looking more than a little embarrassed. I said, crisply, “Have a good evening.”

  “Grazie, e lei” he said, and was gone.

  I could hear his soft footsteps over the grass. And looking out, saw him go through the dividing gate. Right after that there was the pop of a cork and pleased exclamations.

  A party? It sounded like it. Apparently the Monteverdis were drinking champagne. Having a high old time. Poor or not poor, they certainly lived well.

  I couldn’t account for the spleen that rose in me. That they were out there, on the other side of the gate, laughing and enjoying themselves. I just thought, after all this was my aunt’s villa …

  But my aunt was dead. And the Monteverdis, apparently, weren’t grieving, to any great extent, about that circumstance. They seemed to be getting along just fine. And although there was no reason for it, it made me angry … and querulous …

  After all, it was still the property of someone else. Of Elizabeth Wadley. The carnival atmosphere next door made me peevish, uneasy too, and even unhappy. I wished, at that moment, that my dead aunt could have risen up from her grave, to put them in their place. Pious they were, about what a fine woman Mercedes had been … but they had forgotten. And they made merry, while she lay in her cerements …

  • • •

  We sat once more at the table between the windows, looking out onto the purpling evening and eating a delicious dish of clams, crisp bacon, springy mazzorella cheese and delicate breading. It was fit for a king, and I told Elizabeth so.

  She accepted my compliments with a pleased smile, and ate twice as much as I did. It was almost ten o’clock when we turned on the television, and I saw at once that she had spoken the truth. The reception was horrible. “It’s hopeless,” Elizabeth said at last, and admitted that, anyway, it was her bedtime. I said fine with me, that I really had to write some letters. “I must get some things from the shops tomorrow,” she said. “The larder’s running low.”

  “May I do the shopping?” I asked. “If I can take the car … or we could both go. Whatever you say.”

  “You wouldn’t mind going yourself?”

  “I’d enjoy it very much.”

  “Then I’ll make out a list,” she said. “Oh, my, I’m enjoying having you here so much, Barbara.”

  She kissed my cheek. “It’s such a blessing having you here. I don’t really like being alone. It’s a difficult adjustment.”

  “I’m sure.”

  I left her at the door of her room and then went on to mine. Lucrezia reported at eight o’clock in the morning, so I didn’t bother to set my alarm. I sat at a table near the open windows, with a rosy lamp and my postcards, at last letting all and sundry know of my whereabouts and, rather elaborately, I fear, described the environs. There was much purple prose, for which anyone, under the circumstances, might have been forgiven. Let them know what they were missing.

  I knocked off ten cards, wrote a long letter to my parents, brushed my teeth and went to bed. It was difficult falling asleep, because I was enchanted with my surroundings, intoxicated with the ineffable smells that wafted in from outdoors. I remember muttering, “Lucky, lucky girl,” and then I sank into a deep sleep.

  I woke sluggishly, because someone was screaming, but it was difficult to orient myself. My eyes were tight shut, my body in a kind of mummy vise. But someone had screamed. You heard it, a part of my numbed brain said. A scream in the night … you must do something about it.

  Yes, some part of me answered dutifully. I must certainly do something about it.

  I sank into slumber again. But conscience was nagging at me. I had heard a scream. Therefore I must do something about it.

  And my eyes flew open. Someone had screamed!

  I was suddenly with it. Torpor vanished, and I sprang out of bed, listened. Then stopped hesitating and reached for my robe.

  The house, in the darkness, gave me to pause. I stood for a second, trying to get my bearings, and then groped my way, bumping into a few pieces of furniture, to Elizabeth’s room. Because who else was in this house? Just the two of us. So it must have been Elizabeth who had screamed.

  “Elizabeth?” I called, and then reached her bedroom. The door was open and the moonlight poured in. She had stopped screaming and was now swearing softly. I heard a couple of very explicit four letter words, uttered with feeling, and I went over to where she was sitting up in bed.

  “What is it?” I asked, “what is it?”

  She gave vent to a particularly expressive Anglo-Saxonism and then said, “It’s all right.”

  “But what happened?”

  She stopped muttering. “Oh, I’m so very sorry,” she said at last. “I was sleeping too soundly, and I turned over to my right side. I didn’t think I could move. I was paralyzed. It’s so … damned painful.”

  “Oh, poor dear,” I said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Yes, I understand, you told me about it. Your hip. Are you a little better now?”

  “Yes, of course. Oh, I do so hate being old! I think sometimes I should be strapped down, like someone in a madhouse. So that I don’t turn the wrong way. It’s such a cross! And it does hurt so …”

  She put a hand to her mouth. “My dear, I apologize. I suppose I was screeching and keening. Mercedes was used to it. She simply ignored it, and so, my dear, must you.”

  “Let me make you some hot tea. Or rather a brandy?”

  “Please don’t bother. Except … you could fetch me my pills, dear. They’re on the bottom shelf of the cabinet. Would you mind? The medicine chest. They’re sleeping capsules … red and green.”

  I groped my way to the bathroom, found the light switch and then, opening the medicine chest, found the sleeping caps. There was a plastic glass on a shelf; I filled it with water from the tap and brought the vial and glass to her. By this time she had turned on a bedside lamp.

  She swallowed one of the pills, drank the water, and handed the lot back to me. “You’re a good girl,” she said. “I’m sorry to have woken you. Everything will be all right now. I’ll sleep well, and I won’t turn. My mind is obedient now. I’ll be fine. Thank you. Now go back to your bed.”

  I bent to put my lips on her cheek. “Barbara, you’re a lovely girl,” she said tremulously, and I shushed her. When I left she was lying on her “good” side, her left. Her nightgown was a grannie gown, a soft fleece, in a pale shade of yellow. Somehow, in spite of her years, she looked like a little girl, being put to bed by Mother. It caught at my heart. You grew old … but yo
u wanted help, and succor … and love.

  “I’ll see you in the morning,” I said, rubbing my cheek against hers. “Remember, I’m not far from your room. If you should need me, I’ll be there. Count on it.”

  The faded blue eyes looked up at me. With gratitude, with trust. “Thank you, my dear,” Elizabeth Wadley said. “Thank you so very much.”

  I turned out the light and went back to my own room. I was wide awake. I lit a cigarette, went to the windows, and looked out onto the beautiful gardens, lit fitfully by the light of a sickle moon. Thoughts were churning in my mind. The handkerchief that had belonged to my great-aunt. Stiff and crumpled with the dark residue of blood. But Mercedes hadn’t bled. She had broken her neck … otherwise there was no sign.

  Then what about the stained handkerchief?

  And then a really electric thought came to me. The cookie. In Eleanora’s basket. In the pocket of one of my jackets now … with the cambric handkerchief.

  My God, I thought. My God! I had taken only a taste of one of Eleanora’s cookies and shortly thereafter had been violently ill. Vomiting, nausea, a horrendous headache. Just from a tiny taste.

  Most of it I had spit out. I hadn’t swallowed more than a grain or two.

  And the dog, Paolo, dying with a blood-specked muzzle …

  Gianni had said, “He must have gotten into some weed-killer.”

  Weed-killer?

  An animal didn’t eat grass, or flowers. Except for a rabbit, or a rat. Dogs had a better intelligence. Dogs, who lived in the country, didn’t die from weed-killer. They knew better. They knew better.

  I turned away from the windows and went to the jacket I’d worn that morning. Pulled out the cookie I’d taken from the little girl’s basket and looked at it.