‘It really is like a picture postcard, isn’t it?’ Georgie commented happily as he beamed at Olga.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Georgie, do stop seeing everything in watercolour,’ Olga yelled above the noise of the paddle wheels. ‘Don’t just observe life – live it.’
‘Now you sound like Quaint Irene,’ he said rather grumpily, ‘but no, I can’t possibly be peeved with anyone on such a glorious day, Olga, so it’s no good trying.’
Olga laughed and took his arm, making him feel ridiculously proud. The trim, elegant steamer continued to chug its way resolutely up the southern leg of Lake Como, looking for all the world like a floating summer house.
‘Have you told her yet?’
‘About Francesco? No, I haven’t quite found the right moment somehow.’
‘Well, hadn’t you better get a move on? We’ll be at the hotel in an hour or so and you don’t want her just to find about it for herself, do you?’
‘I suppose not,’ Georgie said distractedly, ‘but it seems such a shame to take oneself away from such a wonderful view.’
‘You’ll have the view all day every day from now on,’ Olga chided him gently. ‘Why don’t you just take the bull by the horns and tell her? It’s nothing that she’s likely to object to, anyway. It’s nothing to do with her, really.’
Georgie grimaced.
‘You don’t know Lucia,’ he countered. ‘She has a wonderful capacity to get upset about anything. Why, only the other week she rebuked the Padre for speaking Scottish because it might show support for Ramsay MacDonald; she still doesn’t believe that he’s not a Russian spy, you know... Anyway, she’s still jolly sore about us leaving her alone in Venice.’
‘Oh, all right then, I’ll come with you. There! She can’t throw both of us overboard, can she?’
Reluctantly, Georgie turned and walked slowly forward (or, rather for’ard, as he knew they said at sea). Lucia had retired from deck to sit in the lounge, worried that her hat might be at threat from the wind, though to Georgie’s mind it was nothing more than a light breeze. Having gazed briefly around her on departing the landing stage at Como, she had said cryptically, ‘Manzoni, Georgie,’ and departed in search of somewhere to read her guidebook.
‘By the way,’ said Olga, ‘I was meaning to ask you, but this is the first chance I’ve had. Surely Gibbon was Byzantium wasn’t he?’
‘Well, of course he was,’ Georgie said crossly, ‘or mostly, anyway. That’s so like her. She reads the first chapter of something and then gets tired of it and starts something else, but leaves it lying around ostentatiously like Susan Wyse’s OBE so that she can convincingly claim to have read it.’
Olga laughed. ‘Dear Lucia,’ she said, ‘she really is priceless. No wonder we all love her so much.’
‘Well, I’m really not sure why sometimes,’ Georgie replied. ‘She can be so very difficult, you know.’
‘Yes, but magnificent with it,’ cried Olga. ‘Hello, Lucia. Enjoying the view? Isn’t it marvellous?’
‘Most dramatic,’ averred Lucia. ‘One can see why Shelley was so impressed. Divine Shelley! I feel we have been neglecting him, Georgie. Something else to put on our reading list when we get home.’
So saying she produced a slim notebook from her handbag and proceeded to make a small, painstaking note, presumably about Shelley.
‘Oh, yes, well, look here, Lucia, I just wanted to tell you something, actually.’
Lucia looked up quizzically from her still open notebook.
‘You see, you know we had to leave Foljambe and Grosvenor and everyone behind? Well, Olga’s found me a valet for the holiday. There now, isn’t she clever?’
Lucia gave one of her tight little noises that were intended to convey that if she could deign to consider so trivial a matter she would surely disapprove.
‘Yes, he’s called Francesco, and he’s waiting for me at the hotel,’ Georgie said quickly. ‘Oh look, a kingfisher, I think. No, it’s gone. Oh, what a shame. Perhaps we’ll see another one in a minute.’
‘Well, if you think it’s necessary, of course, Georgie,’ Lucia said, treating this transparent change of subject with the contempt it deserved. ‘It does seem rather extravagant somehow.’
‘Yes, but we are on holiday, you know,’ Georgie responded, while still scanning the horizon intently for further avicular treats, ‘and you know how lost I am without Foljambe.’
Lucia was silent for a few moments, and then turned to Olga with an expression of studied casualness.
‘Olga, dear,’ she enquired, ‘I don’t suppose you were similarly thoughtful as to the provision of a lady’s maid, by any chance?’
‘Indeed I was,’ Olga assured her, ‘the hotel said they would be happy to arrange it for you. I’m afraid I don’t know her name, but she should be awaiting your arrival as we speak.’
‘Probably dusting your chest of drawers with pot pourri, or something,’ Georgie ventured unnecessarily.
‘Yes, thank you, Georgie,’ Lucia said sharply, ‘I am sure the woman is perfectly competent.’
‘I wonder what Francesco will be doing?’ mused Georgie. ‘I say, you know this is all rather exciting. I’ve never had a valet before.’
Before marrying Lucia, Georgie had lived very simply with just the trusty Foljambe to cook and clean for him. ‘Trusty’ in the sense that she was the only person allowed to handle his bibelots, though ‘trusty’ only to a limited degree, since she had callously decided to leave him to his own devices by marrying Cadman, Lucia’s chauffeur. Since Lucia had just decided to stay on in Tilling rather than go back to Riseholme, this had left Georgie distraught at the prospect of having to return to Riseholme to live there alone.
Georgie had sprung into decisive action, writing to his solicitors to cut Foljambe out of his will. This did something to relieve his feelings, but nothing to resolve his situation. He had then attempted to bribe Cadman away from Lucia’s employment, an attempt which failed and left him in danger of exposure to Lucia. He had then announced that he was selling his house in Riseholme and was off to lead a cavalier bachelor existence in London, a brilliant stratagem marred only by the fact that Lucia refused to believe him. Bowing to the inevitable, he had agreed to stay on in Tilling too, and in due course, once proper arrangements had been made for the safekeeping of his bibelots, he and Lucia had finally got married, thus resolving the servant problem to everyone’s satisfaction. Georgie often wondered if servants really appreciated just what sacrifices their employers made for their benefit.
Georgie had only ever had one other member of staff: a chauffeur in Riseholme, whose name nobody could remember and who, both Georgie and Foljambe were at pains to stress, ‘slept out’. Lucia had surmised early on in their friendship that Georgie was not good with servants, since he was unduly devoted to Foljambe and was careful never to cross her, while he engaged in light-hearted banter with his chauffeur, calling him a naughty boy when he went the wrong way (which seemed to happen remarkably often). Georgie had given up both car and chauffeur before leaving Riseholme, and Lucia had been careful to train Georgie in behaving properly towards Cadman, whose reaction should he be called a naughty boy and have the back of his hand slapped could be all too easily imagined.
The steamer chugged and splashed its way through a long curve to the right (‘starboard’, Georgie thought to himself) and suddenly Bellagio came into view, with its pink and yellow buildings climbing up the hill, and its landing stage for the various lake steamers, whose routes radiated outwards in all directions, across to Argento, which was now astern of them, or right up to the northern end of the lake beyond Dongo and Gravedona.
‘Look!’ said Olga, pointing to a large building on the extreme left. ‘There’s our hotel. See – there’s their luggage cart waiting for us on the jetty.’
‘Giuseppe!’ she shouted, as the ferry docked, waving to a man in morning dress, who bowed gravely in reply, but was unable to refrain from bursting out in a smile at the same time.
As they alighted, Giuseppe’s minions were already seeking out their bags and loading them on to the trolley. Georgie rather daringly stepped across a gap of at least three or four inches just to show what an accomplished naval voyager he was, but was disappointed that nobody seemed to notice. He thought briefly about going back on board on the pretext of having dropped his handkerchief just so that he could disembark again to a more appreciative audience, but decided against it. He remembered an occasion in Le Touquet when his leather soles had slipped on some wet planking with very tiresome consequences for his pink Oxford bags. So he contented himself with settling his lavender cape about his shoulders and smiling benignly as he looked around.
Olga had come up trumps, not that he had ever doubted her. Bellagio was simply enchanting, he thought, as they walked along the front, between hotels on the right and open-air restaurants by the lake on the left. Whereas the sunlight in Venice had been reflected by the water, as if flashing on the jewellery of an ageing courtesan, here it seemed to be soaked up by the soft stone, and then gently exuded along with a general air of welcome. To the right, flights of steps rose up between the hotels flanked by little shops and cafes. To the left was the stunning spectacle of Lake Como, the more distant steamers seeming like dabs of white gouache applied to cobalt water, with the terre verte and burnt sienna of the hills rising in the background. Bellagio, he decided at once, was by far the nicest place he had ever been. He sighed contentedly as he followed Lucia’s parasol towards the hotel.
As they entered the gate and started walking up the driveway, Lucia suddenly halted her stately progress and Georgie nearly bumped into her. Olga, too, stopped in her tracks and gave a very vulgar whistle.
‘Brother!’ she said. ‘What gives, Giuseppe?’
‘Yes,’ Lucia followed up, in a tone that could be disapproving but one couldn’t quite be sure, ‘what is that monster of a car?’
Georgie knew full well she was hedging her bets. If it turned out to belong to royalty or nobility she would affect to admire it, while should the owner be revealed as a common-or-garden millionaire she could simply sniff sadly and walk off.
‘That, signora,’ said Giuseppe proudly, ‘is a Bugatti Royale. Built only for royalty, you understand. It is an honour for us to have it here.’
Lucia perked up at the prospect of being able to add a princess or two to her collection of duchesses.
‘Do I understand,’ she purred, ‘that you have royalty staying with you at present?’
‘Not at present, no,’ Giuseppe conceded reluctantly. ‘The lady who came with the car is somehow connected with royalty, although the precise nature of the relationship is obscure. Normally, of course, one would assume ...’
He broke off, unsure how to express so delicate a sentiment to so refined a nature as Lucia’s.
‘But not in this case?’ Olga proffered, eager to help him out of his difficulty.
‘Definitely not in this case,’ Giuseppe said with feeling.
‘So, what’s she like?’ asked Olga, consumed with curiosity.
‘She is an English lady, Miss Bracely, travelling with her husband and a young man. The young man is allegedly royalty, though he refuses to confirm this.’
‘Yes, but what’s she like?’ wailed Olga.
Giuseppe pondered how best to respond.
‘She is a lady of very decided views,’ he said, after due consideration. ‘Very decided. She decided, for example, that she wanted the Royal Suite which, as you know, dear lady,’ with a bow to Lucia, ‘is reserved for you and your husband. So determined, in fact, that she left one of our receptionists in tears for quite some time. She then offered the manager a very large amount of money to shift you into another room. She claimed that you would not know the difference, signora, and so there would be no harm done, as she put it.’
‘No!’ said Georgie, reverting to Tilling ‘Any news?’ mode in the shock of the moment.
‘Obviously the woman must be taught a lesson,’ Lucia said dismissively. ‘I look forward to meeting her.’
Georgie and Olga looked at each other with a mixture of anticipation and foreboding.
‘Well,’ Olga murmured to him as they followed Lucia into the hotel, ‘at least it will give her something to do.’
At this point an extremely handsome man with dark hair and a moustache emerged from behind the grand staircase and bowed to Georgie.
‘Mr Pillson, sir? My name is Francesco. I must tender my apologies for not meeting you at the landing stage, but I was preparing your room.’
‘Oh,’ said Georgie rather uncertainly, not having rehearsed the correct form for greeting a new valet, ‘yes.’
‘When you are ready sir, I will show you the way.’
‘If you would simply give me your passports, sir and ladies, I will take care of all the formalities for you,’ Giuseppe offered. ‘I am sure you would all like to go up to your rooms.’
‘Thank you,’ Lucia replied, gazing at Francesco with disapprobation. Unabashed, he bowed politely to her and stepped aside to let the three of them pass. Olga peeled off on the first landing with a cheery ‘See you downstairs for lunch’, and they headed to the front of the building. A pair of large gilded doors took them into a generous living room, far larger than that at Mallards. The front of the room dazzled with glass from floor to ceiling, looking out over the terrace restaurant and the swimming pool to the lake beyond.
A door gave off on each side of the room. By one, a maid stood; she curtseyed to Lucia. Francesco opened the other and gave Georgie a welcoming smile.
Georgie’s room was almost as big as the living room had been. He gazed out of the window with delight. Then he turned, smiled at Francesco and said, ‘Oh, this is quite parfect – everything is so nice!’
Francesco was already unpacking Georgie’s things, carefully removing the tissue paper stuffing from the arms of his jackets.
‘It is indeed a beautiful location, sir,’ he agreed.
Georgie sauntered back into the living room and sat down on a couch. There was a large mirror opposite which was really very convenient, for when he crossed his legs he could see that his trouser crease was straight, and that he was showing the right amount of sock. He made a mental note to ask Lucia if the same effect might be arranged at Mallards.
Francesco came back into the room.
‘Excuse me, sir, but it is just midday. May I mix you a cocktail?’
‘Oh, yes, thank you,’ said Georgie delightedly. ‘Perhaps a gin and it?’
‘An excellent choice, sir,’ Francesco said gravely, ‘but as you are in Italy I wonder if I might suggest a Negroni? It is only a slight variation, but one which I venture to suggest you will enjoy.’
‘Oh well, yes, thank you,’ Georgie said weakly. Being in the same room as Francesco was rather like being in the company of a film star. From his warm, dark eyes to his dazzling white teeth he was as near perfectly beautiful as any human being has a right to be. He flashed the dazzling teeth now as he opened one of the full-length windows.
‘There is a balcony, sir, if you care to sit in the open air.’
He settled Georgie into a chair and then left to mix his drink, which on delivery proved quite excellent, though perhaps a trifle large. He was struck by a sudden thought.
‘I wonder, Francesco,’ he ventured, ‘if you might telephone Miss Bracely’s room and ask if she would care to join us here for a drink before lunch?’
Miss Bracely said she’d be jolly well delighted, and ordered a sidecar in advance. Before long, she and Georgie were happily ensconced on the balcony, waiting for Lucia to join them.
‘Oh, Olga,’ he said contentedly, ‘thank you so much for suggesting all of this. I just know everything is going to be wonderful.’
He took a large mouthful of his Negroni, rolled it appreciatively around with his tongue, and then added, ‘And I do like Francesco.’
‘Mm,’ Olga concurred enthusiastically, ‘so do I.’