Jorja admired the elegant sofas upholstered in figured silk, rose-coloured with hints of pale green. And most of all above the rose-marble fireplace she liked a lovely painting of a little girl with ringlets seated on a big silk cushion. Going closer she studied the signature in the corner and saw that the child had been painted by George Romney.
A discreet cough attracted her attention and when she turned round, Torrence the butler was standing in the doorway giving her a slightly old-fashioned look. 'Would you like coffee and biscuits served in the garden room, madam?' he asked, and as he spoke the Dresden clock on the mantelpiece began to chime and she saw that it was eleven o'clock.
'This is the drawing-room, isn't it, Torrence?'
'It is indeed, madam.'
'It's quite splendid—do those doors lead into the dining-room?'
'They do, madam.'
Jorja was aware that Torrence wasn't in the least fooled by her. He knew that she came from a shabby genteel background and had never lived in a house like this before. Its mellow richness was far removed from the stone-walled rectory at Duncton, where much of the furniture had been used by a succession of rectors.
'I would like a cup of coffee in the garden room,' she said. 'If you'll show me the way.'
'By all means, madam.'
Jorja followed him to where a pair of floral ironwork gates led into an hexagonal-shaped room which appeared to be part of the garden because it was completely glazed, overlooking the lawn and the trees from every angle. There was a suite of bamboo furniture, including a chaise-longue cushioned in leaf-green and oyster-white, great tubs of geraniums, and a pagan figure of Pan piping water into a stone pool.
It was a delightful, rather unexpected place, where Jorja felt more at home than in the beautiful indoor rooms of the house. She turned with a smile to Torrence, who gave her a rather solemn look in return. 'Are there fish in the pool?' she asked.
'Beneath the lily pads, madam. An assortment of them in gold, silver and black. When they are fed around noon they soon make an appearance; their food is kept in that container.'
He indicated what looked like a valuable Chinese vase with a dragon lid. 'I will have your coffee brought to you, madam.' And with a slight bow Torrence left Jorja to explore the delights of the garden room.
There was even a bamboo bookcase with an assortment of volumes on its shelves, and a cassette player on a cabinet filled with cassettes, and Jorja had visions of Renzo sitting here in the dusk, smoking a cigar and listening to music as the scents of the garden stole in through the windows.
A little later she sat on one of the deep sills drinking her coffee and watching a song thrush with a speckled breast go hopping across the velvety green lawn. There were banks of ornamental shrubs along with trees that Jorja as a country girl instantly recognised. A magnificent beech tree whose branches swept the ground, a pair of weeping birches, some lovely willow oaks, and cherry and plum trees that in the springtime would be laden with blossom.
How strange that this was a town garden when everything looked so peaceful. The chirping birds were undisturbed and for a little while Jorja could pretend that time had stood still, and that nothing beyond this garden could disturb the tranquillity which she felt right now.
She could almost forget that by now Renzo had greeted his mother at the airport and was at this precise moment driving her to Hanson Square. For a while she felt secure, for all her life she had loved the things that were nature's. They weren't only lovely, they were unpretentious and unaffected by the horde of emotions which could assail human beings. They followed age-old laws and clung to habits which were never despoiled by the march of so-called progress created by men and women.
Long ago in this garden, whose high, mellow brick walls shielded its privacy, women in crinoline skirts had wandered among the beds of flowers, or played croquet on the lawn. Whether true or false it had seemed an age of quality rather than quantity. The architecture had been superb, the paintings had been full of living detail, and craftsmen had fashioned lovely things in wood and silver.
Jorja didn't doubt that Renzo felt akin to days past rather than these modern times. The very look of him, and the way he behaved with a woman, indicated a man who would have been ideally suited to a Georgian way of life.
Jorja watched the sunlight flicker and burn in her wedding ring. It would have been better for their marriage had they been able to adjust to each other without the strain of pretending to the Contessa that Angelica was out of his life for good. But his brother was the man involved with Angelica and it would be traumatic if the truth came out.
From an infant Jorja had known all about the ten commandments. To her way of thinking there was a certain grandeur about them, these laws written by Moses upon tablets of stone. It seemed to her that the truth was so much stronger than deception that in the end it blasted its way out of a tunnel of lies and let in the white-hot, searing light in which the deceivers twisted and turned like trapped moths.
Though she felt the sun on her skin, Jorja felt a shiver of apprehension. The garden looked so serene, while inside the house a warm welcome was being arranged for Renzo's mother. Her own anxiety would be at a normal level, if only her marriage was normal, so that when the Contessa arrived she could greet her in the happy knowledge that she was at the heart of Renzo like his blood beat; that no one, no circumstances on earth could disrupt their lives.
Instead she had to pretend that nothing could glide like a serpent into their Eden. She had to look as if Renzo worshipped the ground she walked on. He would expect it of her in front of his mother, for it would combat her natural curiosity as to why he had switched his affections from one sister to the other.
Jorja glanced at her watch and saw that it was a few minutes after noon. Aware of the tension in her body she went across to the fish pool and took tiny pellets of food from the Chinese vase; the moment she started to drop in the food the fish appeared from beneath the heart-shaped lily leaves, waggling their graceful tails as they went for the pellets, a mill of glistening bodies which Jorja watched with fascination.
She was sitting there on the stone rim of the pool when a maid came to inform her that the flowers from Gudrun's had just arrived.
'Good.' Jorja rose to her feet. 'I'll come and arrange them for the Contessa.'
The hall was full of their scent, and for the next half-hour Jorja was occupied in the Contessa's suite of rooms. The walls of the bedroom and sitting-room were hung with Chinese silk paper, and most of the furniture was Chippendale. Never in her life had Jorja seen a more elegant bed, with its damask canopy and its mound of satin baby pillows. The deep soft rug almost covered the floor, and the drapes at the windows were also of rose damask.
Jorja nodded to herself, satisfied that the baskets of white flowers looked and smelled heavenly. In the sitting-room an ivory-coloured television set had been installed, and on a bow-legged little table beside the daybed there was a radio and a bowl of fruit.
A haven had been provided for Renzo's mother, and Jorja prayed that nothing would happen during her visit to cause her to be upset. Her health was obviously on the decline, and Renzo had spoken of his brother as being their mother's golden boy, so often the case with a younger son, as if a mother felt that all the father's strength of character or personality had gone into the first born, her second child being more akin to herself.
Jorja returned to the bedroom for a final inspection, and once again she admired the perfection of it. A bedroom of charm, comfort and escapism, with embroidered sheets and pillowcases on the bed, a Queen Anne chair with a matching foot-rest, and lamps with Derby figurines as their base, the tiny bare feet amid leaves and crushed pink roses.
A memory of her own mother stole into Jorja's mind, and the way she had died quietly and bravely in the shabby front bedroom of the rectory. It had been the saddest day of Jorja's life, and she very much hoped that Renzo's mother would respond to the treatment she hoped to find in London. The Talmontes could afford
the very best of doctors, but it wasn't always the case that money could stave off the hand of death. It reached out for rich and poor alike, but at least the Contessa would have every comfort, and the firm shoulder of her eldest son to lean upon.
As Jorja closed the door on the fragrance of the many white flowers, she had a mental vision of Renzo's shoulders and the way the muscles moved beneath his skin. Oh yes, he was so good to lean on, his warm skin blending with hers, his arrant maleness seducing the very breath out of her. She felt sure his mother would soon realise that she was totally infatuated with the look and touch of him.
And with this thought in mind Jorja was smiling to herself as she made her way down the graceful curve of the staircase, trailing her fingers along the mahogany handrail. She had almost reached the foot of the stairs when there was a sound of car wheels on the driveway. Jorja hesitated, then impulsively she crossed the hall to the front door and opened it.
Yes, it was the Rolls, and Renzo was opening the passenger door and extending a helping hand to the Contessa. The woman who emerged from the big car was surprisingly petite, especially so beside the tall figure of her son.
As they turned towards the house they saw Jorja standing on the steps in the sunlight. The Contessa caught Renzo by the arm and said something in Italian. Though Jorja didn't understand the language she right away guessed the content of the remark. Renzo's mother had seen her resemblance to Angelica and commented on it, and in so doing had hardened his eyes as they swept Jorja from head to heel.
She felt a shrinking inside her. Would the reaction to her always be the same, making her the mirror in which her sister seemed to be reflected? At Duncton it had rarely happened. Everyone there had grown used to seeing Jorja in her role of housekeeper.
It was in these more exotic surroundings that she reflected facets of Angelica which were to do with costly clothes, and a sheen on her hair and skin which had a lot to do with Renzo. As he and his mother approached the house, Jorja tried to forget that she was as nervous as a cat, just as she had been on her wedding day, a stranger among strangers with no one of her own to support her. She stood straight and slim and shaped her mouth into a smile, reflecting that the best way to fight her nervousness was to let her being flood with her feelings for Renzo.
After all, Angelica was miles away from Hanson Square, and she was the girl who had lain in Renzo's arms last night and known every inch of his body even if his heart remained a mystery to her.
The Contessa Evalina Talmonte was supported by Renzo's arm as she came slowly up the steps to the portico, exquisitely dressed in a pale beige suite and close-fitting hat; a woman who possessed a timeless elegance and breeding. Her luminous dark eyes, shaded beneath by tiny shadows, dwelt on Jorja's face as Renzo introduced them to each other. Her complexion was still very lovely but it was obvious that her journey had tired her.
'So,' she murmured, 'you are the surprise which Renzo had in store for me?'
'Yes, contessa.' Jorja's smile was much less strained, for there was nothing intimidating about her mother-in-law. The relief was immense, for Jorja felt quite certain that she could care for this gracious woman with the beautiful Italian eyes about whom there clung a fragility which had to be intensely worrying for Renzo. It was also a relief that she hadn't travelled to England alone, for a middle-aged woman had emerged from the Rolls, clasping in her hand a leather vanity-case and carrying over her arm a creamy mink wrap.
They entered the house and the Contessa gave a sigh, as of someone deeply glad to have reached her destination. She reached out and took hold of Jorja's left hand, her gaze upon the wedding ring which still looked so very new. 'It all happened quite suddenly, eh? That would seem to be the way of things these days, and I wonder if you young people take seriously any more the attachments and vows that people of my generation thought of as—holy.'
The luminous dark eyes met Jorja's blue ones, searching them with the expected curiosity of a woman only recently informed of her son's broken engagement to Angelica. 'We meet now, and it will be nice, Jorja, the getting to know each other.'
'Oh yes,' Jorja said fervently. 'I lost my own mother a long time ago and it will be lovely, being friends with Renzo's mother.'
The Contessa smiled and glanced at her son, who was regarding the two of them with a certain gravity. 'You said she was young, caro, but you forgot to mention that she is charming.'
'I suppose she is,' he mocked. 'Now, madonnina, I want you to go straight to your own apartment for a short rest before we sit down to lunch.'
'I would like that,' his mother agreed, and then before she could stop him, Renzo had lifted her slight figure into his arms and, as he made his way upstairs with her, Jorja watched anxiously, half-afraid he would stumble even though he took his time because of his leg. She followed with the Contessa's companion, and they in turn were followed by a manservant with several items of luggage.
'The Contessa should not have risked this journey to England.' The companion spoke in an anxious tone of voice to Jorja, her accent and manner those of an educated woman. 'She knows there are doctors of equal quality in Rome but her main wish was to see her son, you comprehend, signora?'
Jorja met the woman's eyes and saw shades of fear in them. 'Has the Contessa been—very unwell?' Jorja spoke in a low tone of voice as they proceeded along the panelled gallery to where her mother-in-law's suite was situated.
'She has been far from well, signora, and on the aircraft she had a bad spell of palpitations. The Contessa is not a woman to complain, and she endures the fact that her sons live many miles from Florence. She has always wanted them to succeed in life and is so proud that both have made their mark.'
Jorja nodded, but her heart sank at the way Stelvio Talmonte had strayed into an affaire with Angelica. No wonder Renzo was so concerned that the facts of the relationship be kept from his mother; none of them had to be medical people in order to see that the Contessa was ailing.
Despite her fatigue she was delighted with her rooms and their air of comfort and welcome. 'Cara,' she again clasped Jorja's hand, 'I love white flowers because their scent is so vivid. My Renzo must have told you how much I like them.'
'Yes, he did mention that you were fond of them.' Jorja gave him a questing look, hoping he approved of the graceful lilies, huge daisies, and tall ivory gladioli which brightened his mother's eyes. He stood tall between the Georgian windows and she saw the edge of his handsome mouth dent into a smile.
'I believe my young wife has been nervous, madre, in case you found her not to your liking. She is unusually modest for a young woman of these days, but certainly not a mouse.'
The Contessa gave him a considering look as she removed her hat and revealed dark hair traced with silver. 'When you decided to be a cosmopolitan, caro, I thought it unlikely that you would marry a girl of simplicity. It seemed that you had set your mind on—' His mother paused, and for Jorja it was a significant pause. 'But people change their minds more rapidly these days, which is but a sign of the restless times in which we live. Ah, but it is so peaceful here, such an oasis after the bustle of the airport and the streams of traffic.'
She sank into the Queen Anne chair and beckoned Jorja to the footrest. 'I live very quietly with my good friend and companion, Cosima,' she indicated the woman who had begun to unpack the suitcases, 'in a villa on the outskirts of Florence. You must visit us, cara, when I have seen my specialist and he gives me treatment which, I hope, will subdue my throbs as I call them.'
'Madre, do you suffer any pain?' Renzo looked at her with serious eyes. 'Come, tell me!'
She leaned back in the cushioned chair, and Jorja studied her lovely Latin bone-structure overlaid by soft olive skin. She could almost feel the worry and concern which had a grip on Renzo.
'No pain,' his mother assured him, 'but I tire too quickly, and Cosima has to bank up my pillows because of the palpitations which affect me when I try to sleep. They are such a nuisance, but when I see Mr Jarmon he will give me some
thing to relieve them. You are not to look so worried, Renzo.'
'Naturally I am worried.' He came to her and taking her slender hands in his, carried them to his lips. 'You must stay with Jorja and myself until you are quite fit. I insist upon it, madonnina.'
She slowly smiled, and Jorja saw the velvety affection in her eyes, and the admiration of the Latin woman for a man who was every inch a man.
'I can see that marriage is agreeable for you, caro mio. I believe your charming English wife is good for your temperament.'
'I have temperament?' he mocked slightly, raising an eyebrow.
'From a small boy you have been very much your own person.' The Contessa gazed from him to Jorja. 'No doubt you find my son something of a handful, eh? But if a woman is going to share her life with a man, then it is better most of the time that he should wear the trousers. Women, after all, have the nicer legs, have they not?'
Jorja glanced at Renzo and something seemed to clutch at her nerve centre when she thought of his hand travelling upwards from her instep, moving slowly along the slim length of her leg, tantalising her with his touch.
'I won't argue with that,' he said drily, and he reached down a hand and drew Jorja to her feet. 'We are going to leave you to take a rest, madre, and I think it might be a good idea for you to take a light lunch here in your bedroom.'
'Si, here among my lovely white flowers.' The Contessa smiled at Jorja. 'I will see you later, cara.'
'I'll look forward to it, contessa,' Jorja said warmly.
'I would much like it if you would call me madre, as Renzo does.'
'May I?' Jorja flushed, and felt Renzo's fingers tighten on hers.
'You are now my daughter by marriage.' The lady studied Jorja as she stood in conjunction with Renzo, her fairness as startling as his darkness. 'I would like to have been at the wedding, you know. Did you wear white, Jorja?'
The Honeymoon Page 13