Not long after moving in, her attention was caught by a slight, erect young man. At rest, his face was melancholy, but his eyes danced when they met hers. He seemed to love the garden as much as she did, for he spent a great deal of time in it.
One still morning in June, when the heat lay on the land like a blanket, he greeted her.
‘Since we’re neighbours,’ he said in Italian, ‘I think we should at least introduce ourselves.’ He held out his hand. She took it, noting its slight tremor.
‘Virginia Peirano,’ she replied, with a smile. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘Paulo Spinola.’ Still holding her hand, he gave a slight bow. ‘The pleasure is mine. Do you have time to sit and talk?’
They found a secluded bench near to the garden, where the air was heady with the smell of mint, myrtle and orange blossom. They spoke about their families; he told her that he had an older brother, Franco, who was in the Navy and had just been decorated for valour in the Turkish conflict. Paulo hadn’t wanted to follow in his brother’s footsteps; he had read chemistry at the University of Genoa.
‘I tried to take my own road.’
She was impressed. ‘Do you work as a scientist?’
‘No, my parents felt that science wasn’t an appropriate career for a Spinola.’ His mouth twisted slightly. ‘But I’d much rather talk about you – are you happy here?’
‘Oh yes, I love it,’ she replied warmly. ‘It’s a thousand times better than boarding school in England.’
‘You didn’t like school?’
She smiled ruefully. ‘It was run by nuns and the rules were suffocating – I couldn’t see why they should teach me how to live. I put white mice up their habits. I broke out of windows and ran away so many times that eventually, Mama gave up sending me back and let me stay at home.’
There was an amused look in his eyes as they met hers. They were deep brown, with tiny golden lights in the irises. She felt an answering pulse deep within her belly, like electricity.
Romance blossomed quickly. Ginie was encouraged by Rosa, who couldn’t conceal her delight at the prospect of joining an ancient, aristocratic family. Ginie was in love with Paulo – and with his title and property. It was impossible to separate the man from the enchanting world he inhabited, but she felt a real kinship with him, a surge of recognition and understanding. They were both struggling against family restrictions, looking for ways to escape.
They spent their days wandering dreamily in the garden, their nights in the fashionable restaurants and clubs of Rapallo. Paulo took her for jaunts in his new Alfa Torpedo – they had a shared passion for cars. He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other tightly entwined with Ginie’s as the car sped around heart-stopping bends, its engine scarcely a murmur.
When Paulo proposed on bended knee, Ginie accepted at once. He pulled a small box from his pocket; inside was an egg-shaped sapphire with tiny diamonds clustered around it. She wound her arms around his neck and kissed him ardently.
The families met at dinner in the Villa Spinola. Ugo, Paulo’s father, was large and imposing, with a spade-shaped beard and piercing blue eyes. Paulo’s mother, Solferina, had a stiff smile and thick, grey-streaked hair drawn into a chignon. Her face still held traces of past beauty: her skin, though lined, was the colour of milk; and she had fine dark brown eyes. Her clothes were cut in the latest fashion and she carried herself with grace.
Ginie went forward to kiss her, blushing and murmuring, ‘I’m so very happy to meet you.’ Solferina drew back before Ginie’s lips could touch her cheek and offered the tips of her fingers instead. Embarrassment stung Ginie like a whip, but as she watched the parents greet each other, she thought she understood; Solferina was a Marchesa, Ginie had been too hasty, too informal. She resolved to try again when they knew one another better.
They were swiftly directed to the dining room. Ginie was immediately struck by its grandeur. It was decorated in the rococo style, with gold leaf smoothed onto cornicing and doorframes and dove-grey silk walls, from which huge gilt-framed portraits of past Spinolas gazed down. The silver was huge and solid, the Murano glasses were shaped like tulips and the china had royal-blue borders engraved with the family crest. They were waited on by servants in blue and gold livery.
Rosa was overawed by the ambience and said very little. Her face was filled with an avid expectancy that made Ginie’s heart ache. They ate foie gras smothered in glossy gelatine, followed by roast guinea fowl, occasionally making inconsequential small talk about the weather, the beauty of Liguria and a threatened rise in the price of meat. The Spinolas seemed strangely reluctant to discuss the wedding.
By the time dessert came, the conversation had meandered into a number of dead ends. Ginie filled a particularly long pause by saying how pleased she was that hers wasn’t the only marriage taking place on the estate.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Ugo, puzzled.
Ginie told them she had heard about their head footman’s daughter, who had fallen pregnant by accident. Her wedding had been hastily arranged for the following month.
‘How on earth would you know?’ demanded Solferina. The small pleat between her eyebrows had deepened. Ginie bit into a velvety, succulent-looking peach.
‘Oh, your servants tell me all sorts of things,’ she said, wiping juice from her lips. ‘They know I’m a sympathetic listener.’
A heavy silence fell. Ugo, smiling imperturbably, turned to Riccardo.
‘I am sure that Ginie will enhance the House of Spinola with her beauty and her, uh, liveliness.’ He cleared his throat, the smile fading. ‘But as you know, we are an old family, and we keep to certain traditions and codes of behaviour. Reserve with the servants is one of them.’
‘It might be better if you gave Ginie less freedom.’ Solferina spoke softly, but with steel in her voice. Rosa’s eyes opened wide.
‘What do you mean?’
Solferina covered her eyes with her right hand. Then she said that she had seen Ginie and Paulo embracing at the bottom of the garden, by the statue of Ugo’s grandfather.
‘It’s a less secluded spot than you think,’ she added, with a slight shudder.
Ginie’s cheeks burned with humiliation. Revulsion, too, that this haughty, dried-out woman had witnessed their intimacy. Riccardo broke the silence.
‘I’m happy Ginie has found love with a fine young man. Quite frankly, I don’t see the harm in letting them express it.’
Solferina’s eyes went glassy with distaste. The candles burned low, casting leaping shadows on the faces around the table.
Ugo and Solferina made no secret of the fact that they would have preferred Paulo to marry a girl from his own class, but they were also pragmatic enough to recognise that they no longer had sufficient funds to maintain their lifestyle. An ancient title with no money meant nothing. They made the best of the situation, agreeing to the marriage, but ensuring that they had as little contact with Ginie and her family as possible.
While Ginie waited for a chance to rectify the poor first impression she had made, Paulo gave gentle advice about how to please his parents.
‘Now, my love, never raise your voice above a murmur. Don’t wave your hands around so much when you talk, admire beauty – but with restraint. You can be lively and outspoken, but only with me.’ He punctuated the end of each phrase with a kiss.
‘Don’t worry, it’s only until the wedding, then we can do as we please.’ He kissed her deeply, running his fingertips lightly up and down the back of her neck until they were both tingling and breathless.
The marriage negotiations and all arrangements for the church service and reception took place between Riccardo and the manager of Villa Spinola, Signor Malerba, a slight, balding man with pale grey eyes behind wire-framed glasses. Through Malerba, the Spinolas stipulated a small wedding and a large dowry. The dowry was far in excess of what Riccardo had expected to pay, but he put a good face on it, declaring ‘No price is too high for my sweet girl.’
&nb
sp; Whenever the Peiranos ran into the Spinolas, the coolness with which they were treated showed exactly what the Spinolas thought of them – a family in commerce who flaunted their wealth. A new-money man and a Romanian woman of obscure origin who hadn’t bothered to marry until after their children were born, and a daughter utterly lacking modesty or decorum.
9
Ginie, London, 1920s
Stephen bought a house on Grosvenor Square and had the interior luxuriously remodelled. He and Ginie discovered a shared love of beautiful things, and had a wonderful time shopping for them. Some of the decoration was done in a spirit of fantasy by society interior designer, the Marchese Malacrida, including an eighteenth century Venetian-style bedroom for Ginie, complete with crystal chandeliers and gilded panelling. There was also a columned courtyard behind the house that looked like a Roman atrium.
They bought their first puppy: a Great Dane with blue eyes, oversized ears and fur like satin. They named him Caesar and he followed Ginie everywhere. But life wasn’t all sweetness. Stephen was prone to black, deeply introspective moods, in which nothing she could say was any use. All she could do was give him space and wait for it to pass. He slept badly, flailing around and uttering disjointed words to ghosts of the war. Some mornings, he woke up screaming. Ginie would hold him until he was himself again.
‘It’s alright, darling,’ she always said. ‘I’m here.’
He was breathless and sweating. At first, he could only stare at her, as though he didn’t know where he was. After a few minutes, recognition would creep back into his eyes.
‘It’s you,’ he would say, tears running down his cheeks. ‘It’s you. It’s you. I’m so glad you’re here.’ He never told her what his dreams were about, despite her appeals. What could he have seen that was so terrible that he couldn’t share it with anyone, not even her?
Ginie and Stephen received a small number of invitations, but London’s best-known hostesses – women like Lady Colefax, Margot Asquith and Lady Diana Cooper – would not open their doors to them. Ginie couldn’t be presented at court because she was a divorcee. What she saw as the brilliance and sophistication of London society eluded her. It hurt bitterly, but there was little she could do. She was up against a closed system of moral judgement that rendered her, a divorced foreigner, an ‘undesirable’.
It didn’t help that Stephen hated staying out late at night. His idea of a perfect evening was dinner at home as a couple, listening to records or reading. He was a voracious reader; sometimes poetry, sometimes fiction, sometimes the Greek and Latin classics. For the most part, he read history: Gibbon, Macaulay, Froude, Prescott, Johnson, Boswell, Pepys, and Carlyle. His grasp of the subject made Ginie conscious of the gaps in her own education. He enjoyed the theatre, the opera and the ballet. They often went to performances, stopping at the Savoy or Wheeler’s afterwards for supper.
In the end, it was Stephen’s love of the arts that gave Ginie a social entrée of sorts. He was passionate about classical music, it was a passion combined with an impressive intellectual understanding. The difficult late Beethoven string quartets were his particular favourites. He collected composers’ autographs and had managed to hunt down both Mozart and Beethoven. Ginie didn’t share Stephen’s appreciation for serious music, but she liked new composers that broke the mould. She favoured contemporary artists and writers for the same reason – she was mad about all things new. Stephen and his brother, Sam, had just given a sizeable donation to Covent Garden opera and Ginie invited people who were involved in the arts to Grosvenor Square, particularly those just starting out.
One evening, Stravinsky came. It was something of a coup to get him to accept an invitation; Ginie was thrilled and nervous. She couldn’t wait to write to her mother about it. The dinner would be her return to the high society that was rightfully hers.
The weather the night of the dinner was terrible as a dense fog descended on London. It seeped into the house, under the doors and though the cracks in the window-frames, slowly filling the spaces between the furniture with a deep chill.
Ginie was ready an hour before the guests were due to arrive. She lay on a chaise-longue by the window with Caesar curled at her feet, her head wreathed in cigarette smoke. A magnificent star ruby, a gift from Stephen, glowed on her finger, the snake tattoo peeping out from beneath the hem of her silver lamé shift. She was watching the mist twine around the houses. The butler, Westaby, came in, soft-footed as ever. Ginie sat up. Caesar pricked his ears as she laid a hand on his head.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Madam,’ Westaby cleared his throat. ‘I just received telephone calls from Mrs Bedford and Mrs Alexander. They can’t get here because of the bad weather. They were most apologetic. . . We’ve taken away their places at table.’
Ginie thanked him and clenched her fists, inadvertently squeezing one of Caesar’s ears so hard that he yelped. The Alexanders and the Bedfords were her best guests. Without them the evening would lose its lustre and Stravinsky would be bored. She stroked Caesar’s head in apology, wondering if the fog was just an excuse and she was being snubbed again.
The bell rang and she hurried downstairs. Westaby opened the front door and Stravinsky walked in, the heavy fog in the street pouring around him, like water through a cracked vessel.
‘Good evening, Maestro,’ Ginie greeted him, holding out both hands. The star ruby glittered in the light. ‘Terrible weather, isn’t it? We are so honoured you came.’
Stravinsky was peeling off his gloves and cape and gave them to Westaby. He took Ginie’s right hand and kissed it, his moustache tickling her skin.
‘Enchanted.’
He was a slight man with a domed forehead, a big nose and bulging eyes that observed the world through thick horn-rimmed spectacles, like a harried headmaster. She led the way to the drawing room where Stephen waited for them.
‘I listened to your ballet, Le Renard, on the radio,’ Stephen said, once the men had been introduced. ‘I found it altogether wonderful and brave.’
Stravinsky waved his words away, protesting that Stephen was too kind, but he looked delighted. They began to talk about Stravinsky’s move to neoclassicism and the challenges of a musical evolution that was unpopular with the public.
‘People go to concerts wanting to be enticed and captivated,’ said Stravinsky. ‘They don’t want to be tested. The ear is offended by dissonance.’
‘You must stick to what you are doing,’ Stephen told him. ‘Your work is a rejection of sentimentality and insipid taste.’
Stravinsky was smiling broadly. ‘It’s not often that I have the pleasure of talking to someone who understands.’
Ginie was awash with relief and a deep gratitude to Stephen. It looked as though the evening might be interesting, after all. Olivia Stuart sailed into the room, arms outstretched, her large dark eyes shining. Her husband, George – a short, compact man with sandy hair and blunt features – was a few paces behind.
‘Horrid old evening, isn’t it?’ Olivia exclaimed, kissing Stephen and then Ginie.
‘I couldn’t see more than a foot in front of my own nose. We missed a bus by inches on Park Lane.’
The Courtaulds introduced Olivia and George to Stravinsky and he bowed stiffly to right and left. Edward and Violet Doyle arrived moments later. Both were slender and graceful, with pale complexions and blue eyes. They looked more like brother and sister than husband and wife. Stephen opened a bottle of champagne and they drank to each other’s health. Stravinsky wouldn’t have any champagne because he was performing at a concert after dinner. The programme included his Concerto for Piano and Wind Instruments, he explained, and he was going to play the piano part himself.
Ginie sat on the sofa with Olivia and Violet, who began to tease each other good-naturedly about Violet’s new hairstyle (a smooth, sculpted bob that accentuated her graceful neck and large eyes) and Olivia’s lateness to a lunch party the previous week. Ginie listened without trying to join in. She understood that their teasin
g was a way of finding out what the other one had been up to without asking directly. Ginie was learning that upper-class English speech was like code – the words used often meant something else. Violet and Olivia established that they were both going to Hugh Henry’s advertisement party. The Courtaulds hadn’t been invited.
The women began to discuss their costumes: Violet was dressing as a bar of soap in a cream oil cloth sheath, with Palmolive in green letters across her chest. Olivia was going to be a jar of Ponds cold cream. George would be a pint of bass ale, and Edward hadn’t yet decided what to wear. Ginie could hear Stravinsky talking to the men on the other side of the room about translations.
‘If one has composed something to a particular language, one should not allow it to be performed in other languages, as the language itself is part of the music.’
She wished she could join them instead.
Ginie had a bad habit of drinking too much champagne when she was nervous. She was tipsy by the time they sat down to dinner, but was immensely proud of her dinner table. Set with Venetian glasses, decanters of wine, and vases of purple and cream lilac, it looked festive and inviting. The menu was chosen to appeal to Stravinsky – caviar and Russian hors d’oeuvres, followed by sole Waleska in a delicate cheese sauce.
She sat with Stravinsky on her right and George on her left. She wanted to speak to Stravinsky, but George had got it into his head to question her about her background.
‘Where are your people from?’ he asked, as she watched him try to place her olive skin and dark eyes. A flash of irritation ran through her, eclipsing the desire for acceptance. Her head was reeling from the champagne. Very well. If George thought she was exotic, she would not disappoint him.
‘We’re originally from Wallachia in Rumania,’ she said.
‘Oh, really? How interesting.’
‘Yes. Vlad the Impaler was my great-great-great-great uncle.’
George gave a short, startled laugh. Sour fumes of whisky spilled from his mouth.
The Dragon Lady Page 5