by Angela Arney
With that thought in place, the tattered remnants of her conscience subsided, collapsing beneath the sheer force of the devastating logic. History had spelled out her damnation many years before. Truth would wreck her own life; silence was wrecking Eleanora’s. Broadacres and her own survival merged into one, assuming the same identity. She could not, would not tell the truth. Nothing was more important than keeping Broadacres.
PART FOUR
1966
Chapter Twenty-Six
‘If you are sure this is what you want.’
‘Quite sure. I’ve already written to Levi, the Italian director. I know he is directing Euridice in Florence this summer. It’s an open-air performance in the Boboli Gardens, so hundreds of singers will be needed.’
‘And after that?’
‘After that, I shall move from Florence to Milan, find myself a good singing teacher and hopefully get work during the winter season at La Scala.’ Eleanora paced up and down the cloister library, her dark eyes darting aimlessly about from the Waterford chandeliers to the Chippendale bureau and bookcases, anything rather than look at her mother. God, the sooner she could shake the dust of England and Broadacres off her feet, the better.
‘I’ve never heard of this opera Euridice. Is it popular?’
Liana made a determined effort to sound friendly and relaxed, all the time wishing that Eleanora would at least look at her. In a way she felt that raging anger would be preferable and easier to cope with. It would certainly be more normal. She could not deal with this enigma, this tightly controlled and cold young woman pacing so restlessly up and down with all the latent aggression of a caged lioness. What Liana was quite incapable of seeing was the fact that it was an exact reflection of herself; blind to her own instinctive characteristics, she could not see that Eleanora was reacting in exactly the same way as she always had in times of crisis – pulling up the emotional drawbridge, compensating the void by immediate action, meticulous planning and making certain that life was full and busy.
Eleanora would not have admitted that she was running away. The truth was she had not even thought about it. Not stopping to analyse her impulses, she was acting instinctively in leaving Broadacres, not consciously realizing that her planning had one single aim, and that was to fill all day every day, so that not even a few spare seconds in which to think were left free. So close in temperament and spirit, but unable to acknowledge it, mother and daughter now faced each other as strangers.
Eleanora looked at her mother with profound irritation. Why was she wasting time pretending to be interested in opera? She doesn’t give a damn about the opera or me, she thought angrily. But careful, good-mannered civilities had to be observed, and she answered her mother’s question.
‘It’s not performed often, so can hardly be called popular. Actually it’s claimed to be the first full stage opera ever performed. Jacopo Peri wrote it to celebrate the marriage of Maria de Medici and the French Dauphin in sixteen hundred. The Boboli Gardens are the gardens of the original Medici Palace, so it’s very logical to perform it there.’ She rattled off the facts like a schoolteacher lecturing a backward student.
Liana swallowed hard but took the snub without comment. Although she wished with all her heart it were otherwise, there was no alternative but to recognize that the chasm now yawning between them was as wide as the universe. Eleanora was making that perfectly plain.
‘Does Peter know what you are intending to do?’
Liana did not want to ask about Peter, did not want to be reminded of that appalling night two weeks ago when she had been forced to make yet another harsh decision. An unceasing cycle of lies, that is my life. She flinched away from the thought, the guilt absolved by the certainty she was clinging on to that she had had no choice.
Her mind flickered briefly on to Nicholas. Ironic that he, too, had been hiding dark secrets. She hardened her heart. His secret had killed. But mine never will; it haunts me and me alone, and will never harm anyone. She had convinced herself of that over the past two weeks, firmly cementing it into her mind, and now nothing would shake that conviction.
Eleanora was hurt now, but she would survive. Whatever she might think to the contrary in moments of high emotion, she won’t die of a broken heart as a result of my silence. And she is not like me when I lost Raul, poor, friendless and pregnant. And her character is different from mine. She will bounce back and find someone else and fall in love again. What I did was right. There was no other choice, the course of action was crystal clear.
Liana looked now at her daughter as she mentally justified her action yet again. She had not kept silent only for herself, but for Eleanora, too. The reasoning was simple. The truth would deprive Eleanora of all those things which she now possessed by right of birth and which were essential to her well-being – a family, a home, a father, wealth, privilege and almost certainly Peter’s affection as well. Would he, if he knew the truth, still want to marry the illegitimate daughter of an Italian peasant? Liana doubted it.
Eleanora swung round to face her mother. ‘Do you actually care whether or not Peter knows? Or even whether or not he is important to me any longer?’
‘Darling, of course I care. I want what is best for you. Even now when everything seems so hopeless. You must believe that.’ It was true, she did. But telling the truth will not achieve that, she reminded herself. Eleanora’s dark eyes bored into her as if searching the darkest corners of her mind. Liana tried to smile reassuringly but failed miserably. How was it possible to find talking to one’s own daughter so difficult?
‘Really!’ Eleanora’s tone was disbelieving and disparaging, and Liana knew she was still hugging the pain of their quarrel. Another relic of that dreadful night. How Liana wished she could take back those hurtful words, words spoken in haste and without measured thought. But like everything else, it was too late. Why was it nothing could ever be undone as easily as it was done? Richard Chapman had been right. Dear, sensible Richard. Why hadn’t she listened to him, instead of lashing out blindly in her pain? Why had she actually admitted the fact that she had always loved James more than Eleanora? It was the truth, but had served no purpose. Words could not bring James back. All she had succeeded in doing was to hurt Eleanora deeply. Liana understood why her daughter looked at her so coldly now and could not forgive her. Even so, she looked for a glimmer of hope but then turned away, unable to face the rejection in Eleanora’s eyes. Perhaps in time, Liana thought forlornly, perhaps in time I’ll find some way of making it up to her. It was only a tiny speck of light on the horizon, but Liana clung to it.
‘Well, since you ask, Mummy. Yes, he does know. I’ve written and told him, and I’ve also told him that I don’t want to see him again, at least not for a while. There’s no point in prolonging the agony. Besides, I’ve decided that perhaps we were too hasty in thinking we were in love, really in love with a capital L. It was a first girlfriend-boyfriend affair for both of us and probably wouldn’t have lasted. I’ve advised him to see other girls. For my part, I certainly intend to see other men. Of course, I hope that we shall remain friends. I made that plain in my letter. We are cousins after all, and it’s inevitable that our paths will cross at various family gatherings.’
‘That is very wise. Your father will be pleased you have been so sensible,’ Liana heard herself replying but it was a stranger’s voice, stiff and stilted. The right words, but without any real meaning.
‘Oh, you are communicating with him, then! I thought you had sent him permanently to Coventry this time. That’s your usual reaction, isn’t it, whenever things go wrong? Don’t speak to Daddy, the poor sod!’
‘Eleanora!’ The word rapped out in anger, then Liana bit her lip. It was no good, she and Eleanora were bringing out the worst in each other. If they were not careful they would end up having another row, and then God only knew what either of them might end up saying. The sooner this conversation was over the better. She reached for a file and pulled it towards her. ‘I’ll pu
t five thousand pounds in your bank account today. I will also have a bank draft for another five thousand made out for a bank in Italy. You will have access to plenty of money in either country. Thereafter, a regular amount will be paid into both accounts on a monthly basis. If you find it is not enough, please let me know and it will be increased.’
‘Thank you.’ Eleanora turned to go, then paused at the door and looked back at her mother. In a small quiet voice she said. ‘I’m sorry that I lived and James died. But that’s the way it turned out. There’s no justice in this world, is there?’
‘Oh, Eleanora, I didn’t mean . . .’
‘I’ll be writing to Daddy. If you want to know where I am, you can ask him.’ Eleanora closed the door and was gone.
The silence of the library, which normally Liana found so comforting, now seemed alien. It rustled and whispered, full of lonely echoes of what might have been. Elbows on the desk, her fingers in a steeple, she rested her chin on her hands and closed her eyes. So this was what it had finally come to. The child she had sacrificed so much for had now, in womanhood, turned away from her. How did it all go so wrong? ‘I’ll be writing to Daddy,’ those were her words, but they meant I want nothing from you. Nothing except my money, thought Liana with sudden bitterness, the money I’ve mortgaged my soul to the devil to get. Yet I did it all for you, Eleanora, because I wanted the best for you, my daughter. Only the best that money could buy. And you’ve always had that, and will go on having it, just as I promised so many years ago before you were even born.
Before Eleanora was born. Her mind went back to those days. Next month would be March 1966. On 19 March it would be exactly twenty-two years since she had last seen Raul. Yet his memory was still agonizingly vivid, his presence still close. It seemed nothing could eradicate the past. Although at times fading, becoming less important, always in times of unhappiness Raul came back and Liana drew comfort from the only truly unsullied memories she possessed, the memory of the first love of her life.
And now I’m in limbo yet again, Liana thought. I can’t stop loving a man who has been dead for more than twenty years. I gave birth to his daughter, but because I can’t acknowledge him as her father I’ve lost her. I am married to a man who I know loves me, and yet we cannot communicate. Or more to the point – the acknowledgement was reluctant – I don’t want to communicate. But why should he expect it when he was instrumental in the murder of my son? Our son, her conscience prodded her. But, stubborn as ever, she ignored the inner voice, not wishing to concede Nicholas’s pain. Nicholas would have to survive alone as best he could. She could not cope with any more emotion. This was the end of the road, the final convoluted twist to the lie told so many years before.
God, what a mess! Even work provided no distraction; her mind kept wandering. Would I have gone on, she wondered miserably, if I could have foreseen it would end like this? There was no answer. There never was any answer. Neither was there any respite because lies, once started, were like life, a steam engine at full throttle just forging on and on and on.
Outside it started to rain, the drops pattering loudly against the window panes. She looked out. Grey, drizzling rain was sweeping across the bleak February landscape. She decided to go out; the melancholy weather suited her mood. A raincoat and wellington boots were always kept in the cupboard by the door. She put them on and let herself out into the cold February day. February was the one month she disliked, a miserable month, everything dead.
Alone in the Arcadian Room Nicholas watched the solitary figure battling against the wind and rain, and his heart bled. Bent almost double in the effort of pushing against the howling wind, the figure walked quickly up the sloping hillside. Now in winter the grassy slopes were bereft of sheep and cattle, the landscape depressingly empty. He watched until Liana disappeared into the beech wood. The bare, skeletal arms of the ancient trees seemed to reach out and wrap around her, then she was gone. He longed to run after her, sweep her up in his arms and carry her back to the warmth and safety of the house, but he did not. There was no point. These days she hardly looked at him, let alone spoke. And when their eyes did meet, he found himself looking away. The stark accusation he saw was more than he could bear. Nicholas poured himself a stiff Scotch and tossed it back in one gulp. He felt utterly helpless. Where the hell did they go from here?
*
Raul read the letter slowly. His spoken English was good now, but he still found reading a little difficult and had to concentrate. When he reached the last page his lips curved in a smile. Eleanora Howard, yes, of course he remembered her. How could he forget her? It was a long time since he had met a woman who had so aroused him at first glance. Oh, yes, he remembered her well, very well. There had been something else about her, too, something strange. She was young and English, and yet there was something about her which seemed vaguely familiar. But maybe it was just the latent sensuality he sensed she possessed; perhaps she was a conglomerate of all those things he desired most in a woman – sexy, intelligent and artistic. Of course he remembered inviting her to La Scala, but at the time she had laughed and turned away as if indifferent. It seemed she was not so indifferent after all. Now she did want to come to Italy. Would do anything she wrote. Well, he would wait and see if she meant what she said. Anything was a big word.
His German secretary watched him. Monika Muller’s rather butch appearance was misleading. Everyone who knew him assumed that Raul had engaged her not only because she was ruthlessly efficient when it came to organizing his life, but also because she was without sexual temptation and therefore no competition to the many other women who flitted through his life. In that respect they could not have been further from the truth. Monika Muller was earthily sexy. Her face and figure may not have turned any heads but Raul knew from experience that she was capable of transforming any man into an abject creature of desire once she had him in bed. His affairs with women were numerous but after every one he always returned to Monika, knowing that she would reward his return with some new eroticism. They were both completely and utterly amoral, both dedicated to the sybaritic life, and their on/off relationship suited them very well. While Raul seduced young women, Monika specialized in seducing equally young men. It amused them to compare notes afterwards. No-one, not even Luigi, Raul’s assistant of many years, suspected their carnal relationship.
He tossed her the letter. ‘Write and tell her to come and see me here at my Rome house before Easter. Tell her I’ll give her an audition.’
‘In singing?’ She raised her eyebrows.
Raul grinned, a shimmer of eroticism lighting his eyes. ‘Of course,’ he said reaching for his cigarettes. ‘To begin with.’
*
The moment he received Eleanora’s letter telling him she had decided to go to Italy and accept Levi’s offer of finding her work, Peter sought her out. Knowing her so well, he also knew she would not be thinking straight and would almost certainly hurtle headlong into whatever happened to come into her head first – anything to be occupied, anything to put off rational thought. Finally confronting her in her London flat, he urgently tried to persuade her to wait a while.
‘Rushing off like this is being ridiculous, and you know it,’ he said. ‘Before either of us does anything, we should seek further medical opinion. It’s always possible it might not be as bad as your father thinks.’
‘It is you who is being ridiculous, clutching at straws in the wind. I’m being realistic. I’ve asked Donald Ramsay, and he has confirmed everything Daddy told us. The disease was diagnosed years ago.’
‘Exactly, years ago, and even Donald isn’t entirely convinced by the diagnosis. Plus the fact that he’s an old man now and is the first to admit that he isn’t an expert on psychiatric illness. Things are changing all the time: new drugs, new forms of treatment, new knowledge in the field of genetics.’
Eleanora’s face took on a stubborn expression. ‘Donald Ramsay is a doctor, and that’s good enough for me. What’s more he’s known our
family for years and there’s no disputing the fact that it’s hereditary. Some of our ancestors have been very odd indeed.’
‘Odd maybe. But that doesn’t necessarily mean insane, or even that it’s hereditary. No-one has ever had the courage to find out for certain. It’s something we’ve got to do, Eleanora. We must find out.’
Eleanora shuddered with distaste. ‘I know all I want to know, and believe me, after what I’ve already found out about the Hamilton-Howards I don’t want anything more to do with you. It’s finished between us, Peter. Over and done with.’
‘Eleanora, you can’t just stamp on love.’
‘I can, and I have,’ was her uncompromising reply.
Peter despaired. It was so typical of Eleanora to react in this totally illogical, impetuous way. But surely she must see how cruel she was being? By running away, she was condemning those left behind at Broadacres to even greater unhappiness.
‘Have you thought for one single moment of anyone but yourself? What about your grandmother? Does she deserve to lose you as well as James?’
‘I’m not going to die like James. I shall still be around, but not at Broadacres.’
‘And what about your father? Have you thought how terrible he must feel?’
Eleanora shrugged. ‘As far as I can see he’s reasonably happy so long as he’s got a whisky bottle close by.’
‘Eleanora! How can you be so bloody unfeeling?’ Peter’s frustration boiled over into anger.
Eleanora flared back. ‘Unfeeling! It’s you who are being unfeeling, trying to persuade me to stay. Can’t you see I can’t bear it? It’s an impossible situation.’
Peter gave up. It was hopeless. He knew Eleanora and her stubbornness too well. It was useless trying to persuade her now. He would have to wait and choose the right moment. ‘Well, go if you must,’ he said sadly. ‘Goodbye, Eleanora.’ He turned and let himself out of the flat.