by Angela Arney
*
In Milan, Eleanora let herself into the apartment on the Via Sforza. It was small, just one bedroom, a tiny kitchen and bathroom and a living room with a balcony which looked out on to the busy street. Even with the windows closed the noise of the traffic filled the apartment. But it would do. It could be her Milan bolt hole when there was not enough time to fly down to the castello near Naples.
She thought of the row with Raul. Why hadn’t she told him where she had been? It was quite simple and innocent. Filled with a sudden longing to be alone she had gone to the castello. After buying coffee, bread, wine, oil and tomatoes on the way down, she had not moved from the enclosing confines of the old walls. The weekend had been spent just idling away the time, sitting in the sun, relaxing and letting her mind empty of all thoughts. Raul, of course, thought she had been with another man. But she did not want any other man.
Not unless it is Peter, said an inner voice. A vision of Peter came into her mind, sudden and unprompted, his fair hair burnished by the sun, his clear grey eyes honest and tender. She closed her eyes in pain for a moment, then resolutely made herself stop thinking of him. Anyway, Peter had not been the reason for not telling Raul of the partially restored castello which was her hideaway. No-one knew, and Eleanora hugged the secret to herself. All her life, she had loved the excitement of keeping a secret, but the castello was more than just a secret. It was somewhere of her own, but it was more than merely a place to hide. Eleanora searched and failed to find the words which could convey what she felt. It was almost as if the castello itself had a role of its own to play, a role which would be revealed when the time came. But for now, it was important that it should remain a secret.
She had made it up with Raul, of course. She needed him and she knew he needed her. There was a tie between them which was difficult to explain. Something was holding them together and it was more than just sex, although it was not a tender love or affection. What she felt when with Raul could not be compared to the way she had felt with Peter. With Raul, it was a flawed, obsessional attraction, something which neither of them had the power to end. Raul had not said so, not in actual words, but Eleanora knew that she was the first woman to stand up to him and get away with it. Just as she knew that whenever they might part in anger, he would come back to her, as she would go to him, albeit unwillingly. Eleanora felt depressed; she felt imprisoned, stifled. It would take a thunderbolt from heaven to cleave them apart.
Opening the window which led on to the balcony, she wandered out and sat down in the decrepit cane chair which obviously stood outside winter and summer. Paper crackled in the deep pocket of her dress as she sat, and suddenly Eleanora remembered the letter. In the rush of leaving Florence, she had picked it up, stuffed it in her pocket and then forgotten it.
Now she took it out, recognizing her mother’s neat handwriting on the envelope. It was faint but she could just make out the circular stamp of Longford Post Office on the envelope. Miss Martin of the thick grey cardigan, winter or summer, and the half-moon spectacles, would have stamped that, banging it down as if her life depended on it and holding the letter up to the light to see if she could glean anything of the contents. The rattle and roar of the trams and cars of Milan faded, and Eleanora smiled. She could hear the sound of a tractor chugging slowly up the incline past the long flintstone wall leading to the lych-gate of the church near the post office. Many, many times she had sat in the shade of the lych-gate, eating an ice cream purchased from the post office, watching Wally driving the tractor slowly through the village trailing a load of sweet-smelling hay. Yes, that would be about the only sound in the late afternoon of Longford. She sighed wistfully and slit open the letter.
My dearest Eleanora
I hardly know how to begin this letter when I remember the last words you spoke to me. And I remember them very well because I should never have let you think them, let alone say them. ‘I’m sorry that I lived and James died.’ I am the one who should be sorry. My thoughtless words caused you to think this, and they can never be unsaid. But I ask you now to forgive me, and I tell you that I do love you, have always loved you, and always will.
But I must be honest, too. My love for you was different from the love I had for James, and I will tell you some of the reasons why. You were born during the war, not long after I had left Italy for England. When you were a baby I was still haunted by bad memories of the war (memories I can’t talk about even now) and I realize, looking back, that it affected the way I treated you more than I ever imagined at the time. I was never carefree in those first few years, the years when you were growing up. I know that you sensed it and turned to Margaret for the kind of comfort I should have been able to give but couldn’t. I can’t tell you how glad I am that you had Margaret for a grandmother. She is my best friend and something like a mother to me as well, and I am thankful she gave you so much love. I loved you, too, but always held back.
With James it was different. I cannot pretend that everything was a bed of roses before he was born. It wasn’t. Your father and I have had some very bad patches in our marriage, but somehow we emerged in one piece, and after James was born was one of the happiest times of my life. That is why my love for him was different. It was carefree. And it wasn’t only me. We all loved him, and I know it was our happiest time together as a family. But tragedy struck and we lost him. And then, I’m afraid, I thought only of myself. I didn’t comfort you or Daddy or Margaret. I only thought of me, of my loss, when all the time it was our loss. I must have a very selfish streak in me because whenever things go wrong I only ever think of myself and shut everyone else out. I’m not trying to excuse my behaviour, only to explain it.
I know now I should not have let you go rushing off alone when you were so unhappy. I should have made you stay and talk about yourself and Peter. But I was being selfish again. I couldn’t see then, that you, my living daughter, were more important than my dead son. But I know now. Just as I know that I cannot blame your father for hiding the secret of the family illness. I know, too, that happiness is always fleeting. It is not a gift given to us to hold in perpetuity. We have it for a short while, and then it is gone. It is always possible that the happiness you and Peter had may not have lasted, even without your father’s unhappy revelations.
Liana had thought long and hard about this sentence. And put it in partly as a sop to her own badly strained conscience. But in spite of her conscience she was still sure her silence was right. The opportunity for truth had come and gone; all she would achieve by speaking out now, would be to inflict even more sorrow on the whole family.
Eleanora read slowly and turned to the final page. For the first time in her life she felt she had progressed a little. She was beginning to understand some part of her mother’s character.
I wish you would come home. Not for ever. I know that if you wish to continue with singing you will always be travelling. But come home sometimes and see us all. We want to keep in touch with you, and your friends in opera, so why don’t you come for a long weekend? I suggest that, because I know you will soon be starting rehearsals in Milan. But surely you must have a weekend free? Come home, and bring the new man in your life and introduce him to us. If you are fond of him, then we have all got to get to know him so that we can like him, too. Do persuade him to come, and both come home for a weekend. Please say yes.
Your loving Mother.
PS Your grandmother is waiting with bated breath for your reply.
When Raul arrived in Milan, Eleanora read him the last page of her mother’s letter. ‘Well, what do you think?’ she asked. ‘Would you like to come to England with me?’
Raul put his arms around her and looked down into her face. He smiled into the dark eyes looking up into his. Her face seemed as familiar to him as his own. I am besotted by her! It was an admission he had never thought to make where any woman was concerned. But Eleanora was different. She stirred a multitude of feelings within him, emotions he had never experienced be
fore.
‘I’ll come,’ he said. ‘Let’s make it the middle of September.’
*
Peter flew into Heathrow the first week of September. The manuscript of The Two Girls was in his briefcase. One thing after another had conspired to prevent him from returning to England earlier; even now Milton Hyam was unhappy.
‘Gee, Pete, I thought you were staying here for six months or however long it took. That was the agreement.’
‘This is essential family business,’ was all Peter would give as an explanation. ‘As far as the agreement is concerned, you’ll have your scripts on time. I’ll take them with me and work on them while I’m away.’
Milton accepted with ill grace. ‘How long will you be?’
‘Not long.’ Peter crossed his fingers as he spoke. The truth was he did not have the faintest idea.
In fact, as he collected his luggage from the carousel in the teeming airport he wondered how on earth he was going to approach Liana without offending her. How could one ask questions about such a mysterious coincidence of names?
But he did make a plan of sorts as he drove himself down from London past the fields and villages of Sussex and into Hampshire. He decided that it would be best if Liana remained ignorant of the author’s identity. That way there would be no obvious slant to the story. He would present it to her as a tale purporting to be the truth, ask her to read it, and await her reaction. There must be a better way of doing it, he thought irritably, but for the life of him he could not think of it.
It was late by the time he turned in through the majestic iron gates that led to the Chapmans’ residence. His mother had hardly changed the garden since Clara Maltravers’s day. Roses still dominated the formal garden, and Peter sniffed appreciatively at their perfume. It always seemed to him that the last flurry of blooms in September smelled the sweetest, as if they were demanding to be appreciated before they retired into winter hibernation. The dark purple of the late lavender flared in the light of his headlights. All was silent now but in the morning the garden would be dominated by the busy hum of bees feverishly gathering nectar before the onset of winter.
His mother came out on to the porch to greet him. She kissed him. ‘This visit is unexpected,’ she said, noting how tired he looked, as if he had not slept properly for a week. ‘But all the more appreciated because of it.’
Peter kissed her back. He had not given any reason for coming, and could not think of one plausible enough to satisfy his mother. But at least he was here, and now he must be patient. And hope Liana would supply all the answers. Everything depended on Liana; only she could expose Raul Levi’s story for the fraud it must surely be.
He had a late supper, then sat with his parents in the drawing room. On the other side of the valley, towards Broadacres, a field flared orange in the darkness. They were stubble-burning. His father put a glass of malt whisky in his hand.
‘You haven’t adopted the American habit, ice with everything, I hope?’
Peter let the soft tang of the ten-year-old whisky soak into his palate. ‘I wouldn’t insult the whisky,’ he said.
Richard Chapman looked at his wife and raised his eyebrows. She nodded, understanding the unspoken question. Peter would have to be told sooner or later. Better to be told now, before he came face to face with Eleanora and her Italian lover.
‘Eleanora’s coming to Broadacres at the end of the week. Just for the weekend.’ Peter sat up, his expression suddenly showing signs of animation. Richard hated saying what had to be said but forced himself to carry on. ‘I don’t know whether you are aware of the latest developments, but she is living with an Italian man, apparently old enough to be her father, and he is coming with her.’
Peter sank back down in his chair, his grey eyes sad. ‘Oh,’ he said. Then. ‘What is his name?’ He asked more out of the need to say something to fill the awkward silence than any particular desire to actually know.
‘His name is Levi. Apparently he is the director of the operas she is involved with.’
‘Levi!’ The name hit Peter like a thunderbolt. ‘Oh, my God.’
Richard and Anne looked at their son helplessly. What was wrong with him? Ashen-faced, whisky glass trembling in his hand, he looked as if he had seen a ghost. In truth Peter was buffeted by a mass of conflicting emotions. Liana and Eleanora, the two girls in the story by Levi; Eleanora living with Levi. What a ghastly coincidence. But the overwhelming emotion was a sense of premonition. When he wrote a play he always felt as if he were gathering together tangible threads as the characters he had created were eventually linked together for good or evil. He had the same feeling now but with one frightening difference. He was one of the threads, they all were, and an unseen hand was linking them together.
‘You know this man, Peter?’ Anne asked quietly.
Peter looked at his mother. Beyond her through the window he could see the uneven flickers of yellow and orange as the last of the stubble burned out. I must be going mad. What is the matter with me? Sternly he reined in his thoughts. Premonition; threads being gathered together: what rot! How could Levi have anything to do with life in this peaceful Hampshire valley? He was an unprincipled man with women; it stood to reason he would be equally unprincipled with the truth. It was obvious – he had gone to San Angelo for some reason, heard gossip from the villagers about the marchesa and the peasant girl disappearing, then made up a totally fictional story, never dreaming that the marchesa in question had married an Englishman and gone to live in England. Almost certainly that was it. Liana would sort it all out tomorrow; there was nothing to worry about. Nothing to worry about! Except that his beloved Eleanora was living with Levi. How could she? But even as he asked himself he knew exactly how. Impulsive as always she had jumped in at the deep end, without asking herself questions. He had always told her that one day that impulsiveness would be her downfall. But surely she didn’t really love him?
‘Well?’ Richard Chapman grew tired of waiting for an answer. ‘Do you know this Levi chap?’
‘I only know of him,’ Peter answered slowly. ‘He is a womanizer of the first order. It would have been easy for him to seduce someone like Eleanora.’
‘I thought as much,’ Anne said unhappily.
‘You never know. Perhaps this affair will die a natural death,’ said his father, feeling that someone had to say something faintly hopeful.
‘Perhaps.’ Peter did not want to talk about it. He felt shattered, unable to think straight. ‘I’m going to bed,’ he announced abruptly and disappeared up to his room.
But sleep was fitful, punctuated by Liana and Eleanora drifting in and out of his dreams like ghosts. Sometimes they were as now, dressed in present-day clothes; sometimes much younger, ragged and thin, two starving waifs caring for each other. And always in the background was the tall, dark figure of the man Levi.
Chapter Thirty
Liana was in the home-farm orchard with Meg. The mellow warmth of an Indian summer sun filtered between branches laden with fruit. Bees buzzed busily around a huge clump of self-seeded Michaelmas daisies glowing mauve and yellow by the lopsided wooden gate. All was peaceful, the fruit harvested at leisure. This was not the commercial orchard: the fruit here was for the consumption of the inmates of Broadacres and the rest of the estate workers.
Peter walked towards the two women, disturbing hordes of Red Admiral butterflies feeding on the fallen, over-ripe pears. Living jewels, they fluttered up before him, heralding his presence.
‘Peter! What a lovely surprise.’ Liana came over and kissed him. ‘Meg and I are trying to decide how much fruit to freeze before we throw the orchard open to all comers. Buying those big freezers has proved to be a boon. No more bottling these days. You really ought to persuade Anne to buy one.’
‘Liana,’ Peter interrupted her. ‘May I speak to you? It is important.’
Meg caught the troubled look on Peter’s face. Poor boy – she still thought of him as a boy – something is troubling him. ‘T
here’s no need to stay, Your Ladyship,’ she told Liana. ‘Alice is coming to help me as soon as she’s finished exercising her pony and mother will probably come down as well. We’ll pick and store all the fruit necessary.’
Liana was reluctant to leave. She loved the orchard in September. Although she had nothing to do with the actual growing of the fruit, she always felt proud and satisfied when surveying the red, shiny apples, the plums smudgy with bloom and the pears, luscious green and gold teardrops hanging from the branches. She smiled at Meg’s tactfulness. ‘I know you don’t really need me, Meg. But picking fruit is one of the few manual tasks I really do enjoy. Never mind,’ she linked her arm through Peter’s, ‘there is always tomorrow. Come, Peter. We’ll go to the library.’
Once in the library Peter thrust the package containing the manuscript into Liana’s hands. On the way over to Broadacres he had rehearsed half a dozen different speeches, all perfectly lucid and sensible, telling her roughly what was in the story and asking her to read it for herself and then give him her reaction. Of course, he had also planned a carefully worded form of reassurance; Liana was not to worry. All she had to do was to rubbish the story, preferably with some concrete form of evidence to back up her word, and that would be the end of that.
But now there was an added urgency, and one which Peter had not foreseen when he had left America to return to Britain, the imminent arrival of Eleanora with Raul Levi, the author of the damned story! He dithered, should he tell Liana the name of the author? No! He decided against it. Better that she did not know.
If Liana were able to prove the story a fabrication, Peter reasoned, it would provide him with a good opportunity for him to confront Levi and threaten him with legal action if he attempted publication. That in itself could prove a very effective wedge between Eleanora and Raul Levi, and one which, if given the opportunity, Peter intended to hammer home as hard as he could. It would be better if he could do it alone without the knowledge of others. The last thing he wanted was Eleanora flying impulsively to Raul’s defence. All is fair in love and war, Peter thought grimly, and one way or another I must defeat Raul Levi.