Almost the first thing that any newly-arrived English traveller to Florence discovered was that the well-established British colony in the city fell into two distinct and utterly inimical parts. Into the first – the society that revolved about the residence of Lord Burghersh, reputed to be the most popular ambassador in Italy – the young FitzBoltons had easy entry, their way already prepared by judicious letters to various family and business contacts. The Romseys as well had brought letters of introduction – indeed, since Annabel’s second cousin’s husband was cousin only once removed from Lady Burghersh herself they were even better connected than were Robert and Jessica, and all four young people were assured of that immediate and unqualified acceptance that, oddly and to the favoured few, only such a closed society can offer.
The second group of British exiles, however, proved in their own way to be more exclusive, for doors here were not so easily opened by money or by social connections; on the contrary such things could prove a positive disadvantage when approaching the artists, writers, musicians and their acolytes who were centred upon a house on the via del Corso not far from the splendid Cathedral Square of the piazza del Duomo. Between these two groups there was no love lost, their common language and heritage serving rather more to divide than to unite them. To the established society of monied and influential expatriates who dined regularly at the Embassy with the ambassador and his Lady, who frequented the boxes of the theatre and the opera with the Grand Duke and his family, who drove in fine carriages or rode imported English hunters with imported English hounds at their heels along the leafy avenues of the Cascine, their less conventional compatriots who frequented the elegant Palazzo owned by Sir Theodolphus Carradine on the via del Corso were a frank embarrassment, to be ignored if possible and dismissed with confident scorn if not. A bunch of penniless and scruffy artists with a known collective addiction to cheap wine and radical politics contributed no great service, in the eyes of the Establishment, to the name or reputation of their country. That the apostate king – or, as sly tongues would have it, queen – of this alternative society should be a renegade from their own ranks did nothing whatsoever to encourage friendly relations between the two groups. And that Sir Theodolphus, last, elderly, utterly amoral sprig of a well-founded Buckinghamshire family, cared not a fig for any opinion but his own did not greatly help matters. Bravado in the face of censure might have been understood – even possibly secretly admired – but total and honest indifference to the disapproval of a righteous world was not to be endured; and so Theo Carradine, wicked old libertine that he quite truly was, was persona non grata with his own kind. To the struggling and sometimes literally starving young artists that he gathered around him, however, he was food and drink and a roof above their heads. For the price of a little entertaining conversation there was good company, good food and good wine to be had, the loan of a few paoli for next week’s rent and pretty young things of either sex ready and eager to please the good friends of their good friend Theo. There was always a meal and a bed for anyone, on one condition – convention was Theo Carradine’s sworn first enemy, his second boredom and his third self-righteousness. Anyone suspected of being tainted with one or all of these deadly sins was politely shown the door and invited not to return. For the rest, there were, quite simply, no rules. Small wonder that almost the first words that were spoken to Jessica over the dinner table at the Embassy a few days after their arrival concerned Theo Carradine and were words of warning.
‘—it’s always just as well to be forewarned, my dear. For – is Mr FitzBolton about to take up the study of music? Very creditable, of course, and I’m sure he must be enormously talented but – one must always be careful. This is not London. One never can tell with whom one might come into contact—’
Jessica found herself reflecting, with fleeting amusement, that the speaker, a florid-faced matron whose enormous bosom rested upon the table like a pudding upon a shelf, might have been speaking of the possibility of contracting some awful contagious disease. ‘—Not that such personable and – normal – young people as yourselves are likely to hold much interest for Theo—’ The red lips pursed sanctimoniously. ‘How such a man, born to such privilege, can have fallen so low is beyond me. Utterly beyond me.’
Jessica had her own reasons for being interested in what she had heard of Theo Carradine and his coterie of penniless British artists. ‘You know him?’ Something about the easy use of the Christian name had alerted her.
Her informant flipped a pudgy, scandalized hand. ‘Knew, my dear, knew. No one – no one who is anyone, you understand – knows Theo Carradine these days.’
‘But – you did know him?’
‘Oh, yes. Quite well, in fact, in our younger days. His people were friends of my parents. Lived not far from us in the country, so the two families used to spend quite a lot of time together. His father mastered the most wonderful pack of hounds, I remember. Many a happy day I’ve spent following them. Not Theo, though. The man never could keep his seat. Simply could not stay on a horse—’ She spoke with a kind of smug satisfaction, as if nothing she could say of the man after that could possibly be as bad. ‘Even then he was a bad lot. Always has been. How the Carradines came to whelp such a runt I’ll never understand.’
Jessica was intrigued. ‘Is he really that bad?’
‘Worse, my dear. Much, much worse! The man is pernicious!’ Liking the word she repeated it fiercely, rolling it on her tongue, her chins wobbling fiercesomely. ‘Pernicious! And is really not a fit subject for civilized table talk.’ She dismissed Jessica’s obvious interest out of hand. ‘Now, tell me – the Suffolk Hawthornes, you say? It seems to me that I may have met your parents – and your sister – don’t you have a very pretty sister—?’
A week or so later the Romseys left the city to continue on their tour, with tears from emotional Annabel and on Jessica’s part a guilty trace of well-concealed relief. Much as she liked them, their blissful relationship had sharpened her nerves intolerably, as had the need for pretence in their company. Even a little removed, as they had been these past two weeks, she found their constant, happy presence a strain. What that revealed about her relationship with Robert she did not care to think too deeply about.
Robert, meanwhile, had begun his attendance at the teaching studies of Maestro Pietro Donatti, studying the pianoforte and – more importantly to him – composition. He was delighted to discover in the Maestro a kindly and intelligent man, patient with his pupils and unhurried in his ways. Robert was no musical genius, and he knew it, but that did not prevent him from feeling passionately about his music. For all of his younger years it had been his life. Desperately now he needed to discover and nurture some talent that might replace the glory of the one of which he had been so cruelly deprived. His voice had been his treasure, and it was lost. Without it he was nothing. His dream was that in creating music for other voices the treasure would be his again, this time to keep for ever and to pass on to others. Maestro Donatti, a pleasant, easy-going man, semi-retired and finding endless pleasure in discussing his own passion for the works of William Shakespeare with an intelligent and well-educated young man, did not see the necessity to destroy that dream. And so, at least for now, Robert was happy and occupied and his heart was hopeful.
Not so Jessica’s.
It was a month after their arrival in the city and two weeks after the departure of Annabel and David that she first honestly admitted to herself both the magnet that had drawn her to Florence and the utter idiocy of believing she might find what she at last forced herself to acknowledge she had come to seek. She stood one day upon the busy thoroughfare of the Ponte Vecchio and stared disconsolately at the broad, muddy waters of the Arno. The bridge’s fourteenth-century creators had, even so long ago, left a gap in the buildings so that passers-by might gaze on the lovely view of the river and its valley. The first time she had stood here she had been enchanted, and every word that Danny had spoken about it had rung in her ears. Now she hardly noticed it. The weather was very hot, the sun blazed from a brazen sky. The river smelled appallingly. The gold and silversmith’s shops of the Ponte Vecchio were thronged with customers. Crowds pushed and jostled on the bridge. The lungarnos too – the built-up banks of the ever-flooding Arno – were alive with people. She must have been mad ever to think of finding Danny here! To think for a moment that it might be possible to find one person, one individual, in this teeming city of tens of thousands of souls! And someone moreover who might anyway never have returned here in the first place. She had nothing but instinct to suggest that he had, not one shred of evidence beyond a private conviction that with war-torn Europe at peace at last Danny O’Donnel would have made for his personal Mecca with all speed. – ‘One day, Mouse,’ he had said in the cool darkness of St Agatha’s, ‘when Europe is free again I shall go back. And I shall be the greatest living sculptor in Florence—’
Since she and Robert had arrived they had explored Florence street by street, building by building. They had marvelled at Ghiberti’s Gate of Paradise, been captivated by the beauty of the Pieta, and dazzled by Botticelli’s lovely Spring. They had visited the Duomo and the Baptistry, and climbed Giotto’s famous campanile. They had been to so many churches and basilicas, so many galleries, palaces and museums that Jessica found it difficult to remember names and geographical placings. They had strolled in the Boboli Gardens with their great walks and fountains, had ridden the shady avenues of the Cascine, that ran by the broad slow waters of the Arno, passing the time of day with other riders and carriage parties for all the world as if they had been in Rotten Row. And yes, as Danny had said, as she had known it must be, Florence was the most wonderful of cities.
But in the teeming streets, the long, cool galleries, the sunlit parks, the shadowed churches not once had she seen the face for which she had constantly looked. Of course not. Foolish even to have harboured the hope.
What had she expected? That she might one day have been strolling the via Calzaioli and Danny would step, smiling, from the crowds? That she might stand gazing at the Pieta and he would appear at her elbow, her dark saint, the dark angel come whole to life?
The dreams of a child – embarrassing in a grown woman.
And if he did – she asked herself with ruthless common sense – then what? What could she possibly expect from him? She was a married woman, and he – who knew what he might have become? Who knew what he had been to start with? The Danny O’Donnel she remembered so well was probably more a product of her childish imagination than of real life. Stupid to hope. Stupid to carry with her that memory, like a talisman—
Blindly she turned from the river and all but bumped into a smiling young man sho stood just behind her. Slick black hair, shining black eyes, teeth gleaming pearl-bright against an olive skin.
‘Oh – I’m sorry—’ Instinctively she side-stepped, trying to pass him.
Smoothly he moved with her, blocking her way, talking rapidly.
She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t understand.’
His smile widened. His hand was on her elbow, very firmly. His eyes discomfited her. Hot already she flushed uncomfortably, trying to shake herself free.
He spoke again, very fast and low. The intimacy of his voice frightened her suddenly.
‘Please! You’ve made a mistake! Let me go—!’ Temper rising with her fear she wrenched her arm from his grip so fiercely that he let her go. She turned and began to hurry through the crowds. To her horror he followed, still talking, pushing through the stream of people by her side, keeping pace with her until he could catch at her arm again.
Anger and fright came to her aid. She spun on him savagely. ‘Let me go!’
A few passers-by turned. One of them smiled. No one stopped. Most ignored the scene, intent upon their own business.
‘Get away from me!’ She pushed him, hard.
He staggered a little. The smile had gone. Dark, furious colour lifted in the handsome face. He snapped something, his voice vicious.
She shook her head. ‘Go! Go away! Or I’ll – I’ll call the police. Police! You understand? Policia!’ she shouted, helplessly italianizing the word and hoping she’d got it right.
He sneered unpleasantly but at least made no move towards her. She turned and hurried from him. Her heart was pounding horribly. Sweat slicked her skin and soaked her clothes. At the corner she had to glance back. He stood where she had left him, a look of Latin disdain on his face. Seeing her backward glance he made a brief, graphically obscene gesture. Scarlet with shame and fury she all but ran to the via Condotta. She let herself in through the great, peeling outer doors and ran up the sweeping staircase to the doors of their apartment. At least it was cool here, cool and shadowed, the marble floors striking cold through the thin soles of her slippers.
She let herself in to the apartment.
Bars of sunshine, unnaturally bright to northern eyes, striped the walls and ceilings, reflected blindingly from the mirrors. Despite the closed shutters it was hot and stuffy. She opened the shutters. Heat and dust lifted from the street, seeping into the room like smoke. Even the smells were foreign; alien.
She was trembling violently.
She went into her bedroom – in the privacy of the apartment she and Robert made no pretence of sharing a room – and threw herself onto the bed, fully clothed, staring up at the dirty, peeling, ornately plastered ceiling. As she did so a sudden vision of New Hall’s cool and lofty ceilings blurred her eyes. The view of the parkland that could be had from every window, green and graceful, spread with the shade of its magnificent trees, the silvered lake glimmering through distant woodland – all at once she could see it so clearly that she might have been there. In her mind she whistled to Bran, set off, ankle deep in cool grass, richly green, towards the lake path and Old Hall—
But no. New Hall was no longer her home. Bran wasn’t even any longer her dog. She was no longer a child. And Robert was no longer her friend. He was her husband.
And she was in Florence, that seemed suddenly a strange, outlandish and hostile city, looking for a man who in all probability no longer existed either. If he ever had, that dark angel to whom a lonely little girl had so totally and passionately given her heart.
Wearily she turned her hot face into the pillow, and let the miserable tears come.
When Robert came home she was still lying in the darkened room, dressed in a loose robe, one arm flung across her face.
‘Jess?’
‘I’m here.’
He came to the doorway. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I had a bad headache this afternoon.’
‘Should I get you something? A cold drink? A cup of tea?’
‘Tea would be nice.’ She was listless.
He went into the kitchen calling as he went. ‘I’ve some news that will cheer you up.’
‘Oh?’
‘I mentioned to the Maestro this afternoon the trouble we’ve been having with the maid—’
Pietra, the girl who they had virtually rented with the apartment was the equally surly niece of the surly caretaker. She was slovenly, and affected stupidity. Jessica was also certain that she stole, but lacking the language did not know what to do about it. She sat up, plumping the pillows and leaning on one elbow. ‘And?’
Robert came back into the room. Not for the first time Jessica marvelled at the fact that not even the heat and dust of Florence in high summer could apparently ruffle his neat, cool good looks. ‘And – it seems he knows just the girl for us. The daughter of one of his own servants. Her name is Angelina. She cooks, is utterly trustworthy, clever with money – and she speaks English!’
That galvanized her. ‘What?’
‘Apparently she worked as a nursemaid for several years for an English family who have now returned home. She comes with excellent references.’
‘Will she be able to control Pietra, do you think?’ Jessica was doubtful.
‘Of course she will. The girl sounds like a paragon. Exactly what we’re looking for. Doesn’t that make you feel better?’
She nodded, a little sheepishly, the depression of the afternoon lifting a little. ‘It will certainly help to have someone who speaks English.’
‘That’s not all my news. Wait. I’ll get the tea.’ He went back into the kitchen to reappear a few moments later with two steaming cups. He handed one to her then sat on the bed. ‘We’ve been invited to supper at the via del Corso!’
She shook her head, puzzled. ‘The via—?’ she stopped, ‘You mean – the Carradine man? That they’re always talking about at the Embassy?’
He laughed. ‘Sir Theodolphus Carradine. The very same.’
‘But – how? We don’t know him. And – well – should we, do you think—?’
‘Of course we should!’ It came to her suddenly that Robert, uncharacteristically, was very excited. There was a faint flush of colour in his face and his dark eyes sparkled. ‘And as for the how – yes, you’re right, I don’t know him – but there’s a young man who attends the composition classes in the afternoons who’s a good friend of his, and he’s invited us. This evening.’
‘But – can he do that? I mean – it doesn’t seem right? Shouldn’t we wait for a proper invitation—?’ She knew how stupid that sounded as soon as she spoke. Yet something about Robert’s unwonted excitement obscurely disturbed her.
‘Jessica, haven’t you listened to a word that’s been said about the man? Theo Carradine doesn’t issue “proper invitations”. You come, and if you interest him you stay—’
‘And if you don’t?’
He shrugged.
She looked at him in mild astonishment. ‘You really want to go, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
He stood up, moving restlessly. ‘Look – we came all the way to Florence to escape the restraints and conventions of England. And when we get here – then what? The people at the Embassy – the people we dine with – the people we ride with – they might just as well be our parents, our brothers, our sisters, our cousins! The via del Corso is where we’ll find the kind of people we’ve come to find – artists, writers, sculptors—’
She did not for a moment answer. The first thing she had thought when she had heard of Theo Carradine and his coterie of artists was that if she were to find Danny anywhere in Florence it would be most likely to be there—
Robert had walked to the window and thrown open the shutters, stood leaning on the balcony rail looking down into the street. ‘Of course if you don’t want to come I wouldn’t dream of insisting. I’m quite ready to go alone.’ She frowned a little, watching the slight, slim back. It had almost seemed to her that there had been tentative hope in his voice.
‘I’ll come,’ she said.
The façade of 17, via del Corso was imposing. Marble gleamed in the evening light and tall, ranked windows shone in the late sunshine. The massive, iron-studded door stood open and, faintly, from somewhere within the house, came the sound of music and laughter. There was no one to be seen.
Jessica hesitated at the open door. ‘Should we?’
‘Of course.’
Still faintly reluctant she followed him. The grand entrance hall in which they found themselves was deserted. Massive and ornate double doors at the end of the room were closed and fastened. A great white staircase, its balustrade finely carved with fruit and flowers, swept to the landing of the next floor, from where came the sound of music and voices.
‘I do suppose,’ Jessica said, her laughter rather more nervous than she cared to acknowledge, ’that your Arthur has the right to invite us here?’
‘Jessica, for God’s sake!’ It seemed to her that Robert’s sudden snappish tone held even more of nerves than had her own laughter. She looked at him in surprise. He stood poised at the foot of the stairs, looking up, every line of his face and of his body tense with a kind of eager and nervous expectation.
She joined him, and they started up the stairs. ‘What’s he like?’ Jessica kept her voice very casual. ‘Arthur, I mean? Do you know him well?’
‘Not very, no. We met a couple of days ago at the Maestro’s. He’s—’ he hesitated, ‘he’s rather fine actually. One of those people who can turn his hand to anything. Or perhaps I should say his brain. He’s a fine Greek scholar. And a writer too. He’s had poems published.’
‘Oh?’ Rarely did Robert speak with such intensity and enthusiasm. Jessica glanced at him from the corner of her eye.
‘He met Lord Byron last year. Byron praised Arthur’s poems. It was a turning point in his life, he said.’
‘In what way?’
‘He said – he had never believed in heroes before.’
‘And Lord Byron changed his mind for him?’ The words were a little dry.
‘Yes.’
‘Perhaps that had a little something to do with His Lordship liking Arthur’s poems?’
‘No!’ The word was irritated. ‘Arthur isn’t like that! Jessica – just wait till you meet him, and you’ll see—’
She made no comment, but paused to look down on the great chandelier that hung in the stairwell, glittering like a glass waterfall.
‘And when you hear him sing—’
She looked up in surprise. ‘He sings too? Goodness, he is a talented lad, isn’t he?’ she said, lightly. Irrationally, but profoundly, this unstinting admiration for the unknown Arthur was disturbing her.
‘He could sing professionally if he wanted. He’s been approached.’ He was waiting, impatiently, for her to join him.
‘Why doesn’t he?’
‘He wouldn’t prostitute his gift so. Theo Carradine wouldn’t allow it.’ He turned and started up the stairs again.
She hitched up her skirts and scuttled to catch up with him. ‘Singing professionally is prostituting yourself?’ she asked, curiously.
‘For some people, yes.’
They had reached the landing. The music had died but the sound of talk and laughter drifted from behind a pair of tall double doors that stood a little ajar.
‘And Arthur’s one of those people?’ She could not, somehow, let the matter drop.
‘Yes. He is.’ Robert’s tone was utterly uncompromising, and in no way amused.
‘Well,’ she said, not disguising the doubt in her voice, ‘I look forward to meeting him—’
She did not have to wait long. As they stood, hesitant, on the threshold a tall blond young man, languidly handsome and dressed in open-necked silk shirt and beautifully cut trousers that were tucked with casual elegance into soft leather boots advanced on them, a long, white hand held out in greeting. The fair hair was Byronically tousled above a wide brow, enormous grey-blue eyes were fringed with improbably long and dark lashes. ‘Robert! You came! How perfectly splendid! I did so hope you would – I came straight back this afternoon and searched out that reference that we were—’ he stopped, apparently only just at that moment aware of Jessica. He waited, politely.
Robert’s normally pale face was flushed with faint colour as he made the introductions. ‘Jessica – this is Arthur Leyland. Arthur, I’d like you to meet—’ the hesitation was tiny and telling, ‘—Jessica.’
‘Robert’s wife,’ she said, sweetly, and was herself surprised at the mild malice that had undoubtedly prompted the words. She offered her hand.
Arthur took it and bowed a little, gracefully. Unreasonably but with certainty, she knew she would never like the man.
‘Why Robert, you dark horse,’ he was saying, beautifully arched brows lifted, ‘you didn’t tell me—’
Robert said nothing.
There was a small, unaccountably difficult silence. Then Arthur stood back, smiling, for Jessica to pass into the room. ‘Do come along – I’ll introduce you—’
He led the way into the most exquisite room that Jessica, New Hall notwithstanding, had ever seen. Obviously one of the original state rooms of the palace, it was huge and cool, marble-floored, the high ceiling restrainedly ornate, the frescos on the walls delicately beautiful. The windows were tall and perfectly proportioned, curtained with a material so fine it floated on the evening air like a cool mist. Gilded mirrors reflected from all angles a dozen or so perfect pieces of marble sculpture, all of the young male human form, and – most surprisingly to Jessica, who had never seen growing things used so indoors – a perfect jungle of plants and shrubs. Planted in tubs they had been used to create small, pretty arbours of privacy. Somewhere at the end of the room a fountain played. Everywhere there were couches, tables and chairs, most at this moment occupied, each piece of furniture gracefully in keeping with its setting. Another enormous glittering chandelier ornamented in the Venetian style with delicate coloured glass flowers hung in the centre of the room, and candles that were being lit upon the tables and about the walls were in candlesticks and sconces of the same style. Silver was everywhere – silver plate, tiny silver figures, silver urns and vases, even a collection of little silver thimbles adorned a small glass shelf. Jessica had grown up with opulence tempered by her mother’s good taste at New Hall; but never had she come across anything so breathtakingly and imaginatively beautiful as this.
Arthur had led them to a table where sat three young men.
‘Here we are – Richard, Georgie – and the one with the scowl’s Stuart. This is Robert and – ah—’ he hesitated, seeming quite genuinely to have forgotten Jessica’s name.
‘Jessica,’ Robert put in quietly.
Arthur smiled a charming smile. ‘Of course. Jessica.’
Jessica smiled shyly and hastily prevented the three young men from scrambling to their feet. They all looked, if a little Bohemian, reassuringly normal bearing in mind the stories she had heard of this establishment. Richard was small, dark and intense-looking and had paint stains in his hair and on his clothes that looked as if they had been there for some considerable time. Georgie was a large and friendly-looking young man with hands like hams and an engaging smile, while Stuart was scruffy, thin-faced and rather sombre-looking. Unlike the picturesque Arthur their clothes were of the cheap workaday type. All three held glasses in their hands and there was a large jug of wine and more glasses upon the table.
Georgie gestured. ‘You’ll join us?’
‘Thank you—’ Jessica began, but Arthur was quicker.
‘What a perfectly splendid idea. Jessica – you don’t mind if I steal Robert from you for just a moment? There’s something I particularly want to show him—’
She hesitated, looking at Robert, not happy to be abandoned quite so soon.
‘Only for a moment,’ he said.
She nodded. ‘Of course.’ She watched them walk away, already deep in animated conversation, Arthur’s artfully tousled blond head bent to Robert’s dark one.
‘A glass of wine?’ Georgie asked, and it seemed to Jessica that she caught a galling spark of sympathy in the friendly eyes.
‘Yes,’ she said, composedly. ‘Thank you.’ And had to prevent herself from drinking it in one gulp.
She spent a remarkably pleasant half hour in their company. Richard and Stuart, she learned, were artists, Georgie was studying sculpture. None of them, upon her casual questioning, had ever heard of Danilo O’Donnel. And between them, they assured her, they knew everyone there was to know in Florence. They were not backward in assuaging Jessica’s curiosity regarding her unknown host.
‘Old as Methuselah, rich as Croesus, wicked as the devil, and as partial to the lads as any old dame I’ve ever come across—’ Stuart eyed her a little slyly.
She did not bat an eyelash. ‘He seems very generous?’
‘Oh, yes. If he feels like it he’ll give you the top brick off the chimney.’
‘And if he doesn’t?’
Richard laughed a little ruefully. ‘Steer very clear. He can be absolutely vicious.’
The other two nodded sage agreement.
‘He sounds charming, I must say.’ She laughed, a little nervously.
‘He’s all right.’ Georgie tossed back his wine and planted the glass firmly upon the table. People had started to drift past the table towards the far end of the room. Georgie tapped the side of his nose with a huge, dirty finger. ‘If I’m not mistaken I smell food. Coming?’
Jessica shook her head, unwilling to forsake the safety of her secluded seat. ‘Not yet, thank you.’
Richard stood. ‘You don’t mind if we do?’
‘Of course not.’
He smiled an engaging smile. ‘It’s the first square meal in days!’
She smiled back. ‘Please. Don’t let me stop you. I expect Robert will be back soon.’
She remained in her seat, sipping her wine, watching people as they strolled past the table in twos and threes. For all the notice anyone took of her she might have been entirely invisible.
Where was Robert?
The crowd seemed to be at least three-quarters male, predominantly down-at-heels working artists or students. A few wantonly beautiful youngsters of both sexes drifted like rapacious butterflies about the room. The women in the main were very young, very pretty and very Italian-looking. She felt entirely out of place.
The room emptied. She sat for a while alone. Then, with a quick, overdetermined movement she tossed back the last of her wine and stood up. If Robert were not going to take her to dine, she would take herself.
At the door of the equally exquisite dining room, however, her nerve failed her. About the room were dotted small tables at which groups of people sat, talking and laughing. A long table, all snow-white linen, crystal and silver, held platters of delicacies of all kinds and a vast regiment of wine bottles. At a large table in the centre of the room sat an elderly man, his face rouged to a terrible parody of youth, skinny as a waif but with the paunch of Bacchus, a huge grotesquely curled and powdered wig framing the equally grotesquely painted face. He was presiding over a slavishly laughing group of young men and women. This, no doubt was her host. There was no sign of Robert.
Jessica fled. She slipped back through the statues and the jungle of plants to the table where she had sat with Georgie and the others, and which had taken on the aura of a haven. With a small sigh of relief she sank onto a sofa. As if by magic a flunkey appeared, costumed in ivory silk, a powdered wig only a little less ornate than his master’s on his head. ‘Wine for Madam?’
She hesitated. He took her silence for assent and handed her a glass. She took it.
‘Thank you.’ She sipped the cool liquid. The hum of laughter and conversation from the dining room rose and fell.
Where was Robert?
Perilously quickly she finished the glass, and in a moment the servant, hovering behind a palm, had refilled it. She stifled a small, hysterical giggle. At this rate Robert would have to carry her home—
Robert! Where was he, damn him? It really was too bad of him to abandon her so. He had not been, so far as she could see, in the intimidating dining room. Slightly unsteadily she set her wine glass on the table and stood up. He must be somewhere.
She found him at last in an arbour by the fountain, screened from the room by a curtain of greenery, seated beside Arthur at a small table. An almost untouched bottle of wine stood before them. They were talking animatedly and did not notice Jessica’s approach.
‘It’s there, oh yes, it’s there—’ Arthur was saying, his fair face intense, the grey-blue eyes glowing ‘—and someday someone will find it—’
‘But how?’ Robert was totally absorbed, his eyes riveted to the passionate face.
‘By using the Iliad of course! It can be done, Robert! It will be! Troy will be found, I know it! Oh, God! I’d give an arm to be the one! Imagine – just imagine being the one to prove that Troy did exist! That the Iliad is more than just a poet’s fantasy!’ The two young men were as unaware of Jessica’s presence as they were of the handsome marble centaur that pranced through the crystal screen of the fountain’s dancing water. She stood for a long moment, watching them, incapable of breaking in on that magic circle of intimacy that surrounded them. They did not want her. Nobody wanted her. She turned and walked away, fighting a sudden surge of self-pity and loneliness that tightened her chest and brought the ridiculous sting of tears to her eyes. People were beginning to wander back in from the dining room. No one took any notice of her. At the far end of the room a heated argument had broken out. The candlelit air was heavy and hot, laden with the stink of perspiration, perfume and wine. A group of rowdy young men were coming towards her, pushing and buffeting each other like a pack of unruly and ill-trained young puppies. She backed away, flattening herself against an enormous carved door, which gave a little as she leaned against it. She turned her head. Through the narrow opening she sensed rather than saw a cool dark room, blessedly empty. Giving herself no time for thought she slipped through the gap and pulled the door closed with a sharp click behind her.
She stood still for a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the dimmer light. She was in a library, as different from the room she had just left as it was possible to be. No ostentation here, no glamour, no glittering chandeliers or artfully arranged effects. Tall windows, open, led out onto a cool and shadowed balcony. The room was large but comfortably proportioned and its walls were lined with books. Books too lay upon the beautifully carved desks and lecterns that were placed in convenient positions about the room; books open, books closed, piles of books, books in boxes, books on shelves. On the floor were soft rugs of oriental design glowing with jewel-like colour in the illumination of the few lamps that threw their patches of golden light across the rich, gold-tooled leather of the volumes’ covers. Large comfortable armchairs and two enormous sofas completed the furnishings. At the far end of the room a great marble fireplace, empty now, a gilded mirror gleaming above its mantle, spoke of warmth and comfort on a winter’s day. The room was utterly quiet, utterly peaceful. Even the sounds of talk and laughter that percolated faintly through the wall from the gathering next door failed to disturb it.
She walked quietly across the room and out onto the balcony. It overlooked not the street but an inner courtyard of the house, two floors below. Elegant and vine-grown, its seating and statuary was of marble, as were the two small fountains that sent their cool music rising to her on the warm air.
She wandered back into the room, moving about the shelves, stopping now and again at random, picking out a book or sometimes simply touching, wonderingly, an expensive tooled leather spine with a gentle fingertip. She had never in her life seen such a treasure-trove of learning. Even her small experience told her that this room held a small fortune in books – books of every description, every age and what looked to be every language in the world. Lying open on a table, lit by a heavily shaded lamp, was a huge and wonderfully illustrated tome with Arabic script as decorative and beguiling as the birds, beasts and flowers that embellished it. Absorbed she studied it, enchanted by its colourful beauty, though afraid to touch it or to turn a page. On another table she found upon a small shelf a collection of books which caught her eye with their faint familiarity. A little more confidently she picked one out and carefully opened it; and was transported with soul-shaking suddenness to the ancient library of Old Hall with its smoky fire and its great mullioned windows, its dark oak panelling and the sound of winter’s wind buffeting the walls. She moved closer to the lamp, studying her find. So entirely rapt was she that she did not hear the soft opening of the door; only the sharp click of its closing started her guiltily from her dream and almost made her drop the precious thing she held.
‘Well, well – what have we here?’ The voice was light and sharp, dry as the parchment of the ancient books about them. The old man’s skinny legs, encased in old-fashioned breeches of pale pearl grey, were bowed, the satyr’s paunch even more noticeable on his skinny frame as he stood, leaning heavily upon a gold-topped cane, peering at her, frowning.
She regained some small part of the breath that had deserted her in her fright. ‘I’m – sorry,’ she managed, and put the book down as if it had suddenly become red hot. ‘The – the door was open – I – I came in here – to—’ Idiotically her voice slid to nothing.
He stumped to the table and with a mildly testy movement pulled the quite ridiculously ornate wig from his head and flung it down. His own hair was wispy and wild about a vast bald pate. ‘—to get away from that?’ He jerked his head at the commotion beyond the door. ‘Don’t blame yer, child. Not altogether. My young friends can get very tiresome at times. What’re yer readin’?’
The abrupt question, the words slurred affectedly in the fashion that had died with the beaux of a generation before, caught her off guard. She blinked.
‘Well? Cat got yer tongue? Or can’t yer read? Eh?’
‘Of course I can!’ Indignation came to her aid. ‘It’s a book of medieval poetry, I think. Troubadour’s poems I would guess, though I can’t be sure. It’s strange—’
‘What is?’
‘I can’t make out the language. It doesn’t seem to be French—’ Her interest for the moment overcame her embarrassment. ‘Robert’s – my husband’s – family have some like it at home in Suffolk. Robert’s father told me that the courtly romances were all written in France – in Provence, I think – in the thirteenth century. But this—’ she hesitated, unwilling to show ignorance to the man who owned this treasure-house of books, ‘—this looks different somehow,’ she finished, lamely.
He straightened, leaning still upon the cane, eyeing her intently with pale, old eyes. ‘How?’ he barked. ‘How – different?’ The words were fired like bullets.
She jumped.‘The – the language I think. It isn’t the same. And, also – the pictures. There’s something about them—’
He nodded. ‘Very perceptive, child. Right on both counts. The book you’ve got there isn’t thirteenth-century. It’s fourteenth. And it isn’t French. It’s Italian. Tuscan, in fact, written not so many miles from where you’re standing. But, oh yes—’ he held up a hand as he saw the protest in her face, ‘you were absolutely right in your judgement of what it might have been – of what, in fact, it was trying to be. There’s many that should know better’s been fooled. Your estimable father-in-law was right – the originals were written at the Courts of Love in Provence. But Innocent the Third – what a rogue’s name for the devil! – and his hellish Crusade put paid to the troubadours of the Lange d’Oc, and a lot of them, running for their lives, came here. Very sensible of them if you ask me. Damned Frogs.’ He pointed to the book she had been studying. ‘That was written by an Italian as the fashion grew here. Good, mind you, it’s good. But – if you want to compare it with an original—’ he stumped to her side, ran a gnarled, practised finger along the row of ancient leather-bound books and extracted one. ‘Try that. Arnaut Daniel. Greatest of them all. Know what the word “troubadour” means?’
Bemused, she shook her head, taking the book. Close up the painted face beneath the balding pate was even more grotesque.
‘Derives from the word “trobar” – “trouver”, d’ye see? To find. To discover. A troubadour was a seeker, and a creator – Look at the book, then gel – look at it!’
She turned the pages. The script was lovely, the illustrations intricate and beautiful, their colours clear as sunshine. ‘It’s marvellous.’
‘Certainly it is. Haven’t seen you before. Who the devil are you?’
The autocratically abrupt change of subject made her jump again, but at least it seemed her nervous system was getting a little more used to it. ‘Jessica FitzBolton,’ she managed, remarkably calmly. ‘I’m here with my husband Robert. We were invited by a young man called Arthur. Arthur Leyland, I think. And you must be—?’
‘Carradine. Theo Carradine.’ An odd shadow of expression that she could not identify had flickered across the painted face at the name of Arthur Leyland. ‘So – your husband – he’d be the dark young feller who’s bin all evenin’ with Arthur?’
She nodded. ‘Yes.’
He pursed his lips, watching her. ‘I see. Finished with the book?’
Bemused by yet another grasshopper leap of subject she reluctantly handed him the book.
‘Don’t fret. Don’t fret. Look at them any time you want. Not many appreciate them. Tell you somethin’ about them one day, if ye’d care to hear?’
‘I would. I really would.’ To her own mild surprise the words were a matter of honesty rather than good manners.
‘Hmm.’ He replaced the book. ‘Used ter chain ’em to the desk, yer know.’
‘Yes.’
He grinned a stained smile. ‘Somethin’ else yer father-in-law told yer?’
‘No. I read it somewhere.’
‘Good. Good. Come an’ talk to me.’
She followed him to the open windows. On the balcony above the pretty courtyard stood a table and two chairs. He waved her to one, then lowered himself evidently painfully into the other, waving away irritably her half-hearted offer to help. ‘How long yer bin in Florence?’
She thought. ‘Just over a month.’
‘Like it?’
Perversely she was suddenly irritated. She did not care to be cross-examined like a prisoner at the bar. ‘Not altogether,’ she said, shortly.
He lifted his head, frowning. ‘You astonish me, gel. Yer struck me as a gel of sense.’
‘I’m a girl who likes to walk alone without being accosted.’
He chuckled at that, his seamed face creasing like crumpled paper.
‘I really don’t see why you should find that funny?’ She was on her dignity.
‘Tell me about it.’
She told him of that afternoon on the Ponte Vecchio. ‘—and that isn’t the only time such things have happened. And yet – I don’t understand it – I’ve seen Italian girls – girls of my own age – walking alone, apparently safely.’
He grinned, the yellow teeth evil. ‘Think about it, gel. Work it out for yerself.’
She thought. Shook her head. ‘I don’t understand.’
He tutted testily. ‘What were yer wearin’?’
She shrugged. ‘I was perfectly respectable. I’ve more sense than to go out like this—’ She indicated the low neckline of her filmy gown.
‘Ah, but what colour? Colour! What colour d’ye wear?’ he added, speaking as though she might have been a backward child when she was slow in answering.
Some small bell was ringing in Jessica’s head. ‘All sorts,’ she said, thoughtfully. ‘Today I was wearing yellow.’
He snorted.
‘They wear black, don’t they? Married Italian girls?’
‘Now yer’ve got it.’
‘And you mean – honestly – that if I wear black I’ll be all right?’
‘No question, gel. Look – unmarried girls here don’t go out on their own. Not ever. Not unless – they’re lookin’ fer somethin’ or someone—’ he winked balefully. ‘You see what I mean? Young married women on the other hand have as much if not more freedom that yer do yerself. And they’re safe as houses.’ He leaned forward, ‘Use yer head, gel. Study the local customs. You’ll find life a lot easier. You ain’t in London now. Don’t try to live like that daft bunch of know-nothings that cluck together and lay eggs at the Embassy. Buy yerself somethin’ neat an’ fancy in black an’ you’ll be safe as in yer own parlour. Safer. I promise you.’
She nodded. ‘I see. Thank you. I will.’ She was genuinely grateful for the advice. The thought of being a prisoner in the apartment until such times as Robert saw fit to squire her had been appalling.
‘Good gel.’ The awful smile wrinkled again ‘’Course – if yer really want ter go native -’ he winked again, salaciously, ’you could always get yourself a servente cavaliere—’
She shook her head, puzzled.
The evil smile broadened. ‘Yer must have noticed? Yer surely don’t think these handsome, attentive young men that escort some of the pretty ladies in black are their husbands?’
Jessica had indeed noticed how many handsome young couples graced the streets of Florence. She flushed a little, suspecting derision. ‘Well yes. I suppose I did.’
He snickered. ‘No, no, no! Civilized people the Tuscans. Look – it goes like this. Old man marries pretty little piece. Pretty piece – being Tuscan – is quite ready to put up with it for his money. Pretty piece is good as gold and butter-wouldn’t-melt until she presents old money-bags with a copper-bottomed, no-question legitimate heir. Then – as a reward for hard labour, so to speak – she gets her handsome little helper. Her servente cavaliere. He helps her run the house, manages the servants, buys the wine, escorts her to anywhere she wants to go. He is, you understand, the personification of elegance and good manners, to say nothing of excruciating good looks. In England our second sons go into the church or the army. In Florence they very much more sensibly go into the service of a mistress. Some doting fathers have even been known to demand provision for a servente cavaliere in the marriage contract!’
She found herself giggling. ‘Not really?’
‘On my oath. Now—’ He twinkled wickedly, an ancient imp of mischief. ‘Should you decide to become a true young Florentine matron I insist – I insist! – that you come to me. I know some very promising young men—’
She bit her lip, her cheeks scarlet, and shook her head.
His smile died. The mischief remained, tinged with sudden and unexpected malice. ‘You sure about that? I ain’t seen you spendin’ much time with that husband o’ yours tonight. An’ he, sure as damn’it, ain’t come chasin’ after you, has he?’
She felt as if he had slapped her. Deep colour flooded her cheeks. She looked down at her hands that had clenched to small white fists upon the table. There was a long silence. She lifted her head at last, her face composed. He was watching her, pale eyes alight and thoughtful. ‘Thank you for your very good advice,’ she said, pleasantly, pushing her chair back and rising, chin up. ‘And for letting me look at your lovely books. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.’ She was proud of herself. Somewhere within her his words had released a surging rage, that screamed for release like an evil genie from a bottle. Her guts twisted with it, painfully. It was almost all she could do not to show it.
‘Don’t be daft, gel.’ His voice was suddenly mild, even conciliatory, ‘It was me disturbed you as I remember it. Sit down fer God’s sake – I get a crick in me neck if I look up, even at a slip of a thing like you.’
The unexpectedness of it took her off guard, as he undoubtedly had known it would. For a moment the obscure commiseration in the words brought a painful lump to her throat. After a moment’s hesitation she sat down again, with an ungainly thump.
“‘Thy love to me was wonderful—”’ the old voice was very quiet, ‘“—passing the love of women—’
She was stunned by his perception. ‘That’s David and Jonathan, isn’t it?’
He nodded. ‘Book of Samuel.’ He chuckled suddenly and wickedly, ‘Now you can truly say you’ve heard the devil quote Holy Scriptures with your own ears!’ He seemed to find the idea inordinately funny, quaking with laughter.
She had to laugh with him, and the laughter was genuine.
The strange old man regarded her with twinkling, running eyes. ‘I like you, gel,’ he said, briskly. ‘Come again. Come often. We can talk about books. No one else around here’s interested in talkin’ about books. They’re all too busy scribbling pictures. Or choppin’ up inoffensive bits of stone. ’Cept Arthur of course – an’ he doesn’t want to talk about books, he wants ter dissect ’em. Thinks he knows better than them as wrote them what they’re about—’
She smiled. ‘I’d like to.’
‘Promise?’
‘Promise.’
‘’Course. Hand me me cane, would yer, gel?’
She handed it to him, watched as he struggled to his feet, knowing instinctively that he neither wanted nor needed her help. When she stood her eyes were on a level with his, so wizened was he. ‘I don’t suppose—?’ she found herself asking.
‘Hm?’ he eyed her sharply.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever come across a man called Danilo O’Donnel? Danny O’Donnel? Half Irish, half Italian. A sculptor, I think. He’d be – I don’t know – about twenty-eight or twenty-nine now—?’
He did her the courtesy of thinking about it, his painted brow wrinkled. Then he shook his head, positively. ‘No.’
Despite all her efforts a bleak flicker of disappointment showed in her face. This had been her last hope.
He held up a veined and corded hand. ‘But then – I’ve a terrible head for names. Always have had. People remember me. Don’t have to remember them.’ He went off into another wheezing cackle of laughter. ‘You leave it more than a couple of days to come back, an’ I’ll have forgotten yours, I promise you. I’ll ask. About your sculptor. Ask some of the others. Come back tomorrow. Your Robert has undoubtedly already received the invitation—’ the old voice was suddenly waspish, ‘an’ if he’s goin’ ter monopolize Arthur, don’t see why I shouldn’t monopolize you! Danny O’Donnel. I’ll ask. Do what I can.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Now—’ the testiness had not gone, ‘p’raps you’d be good enough to prise your husband from our pretty Arthur’s side and take him home? Or I daresay they’ll be up all night worshipping at the altar of that mountebank Byron. It’s too much to hope, I suppose, that your Robert doesn’t find the man as fascinatingly heroic as soft-headed Arthur does?’
She laughed. ‘As a matter of fact he does. And as a matter of fact so do I.’
He shook his head in unaffected gloom. ‘The youth of today! Bird-witted and led by the nose by a posturing poet! Oh, you’ll have to come back, gel – whether you like it or not. Someone’s got ter teach yer ter tell the dross from the gold—!’
Theo Carradine, undoubtedly the most bizarre candidate for bosom friendship that Jessica had encountered turned out to be, to her surprise and his delighted amusement, a most entertaining, engaging and stimulating companion, and one with whom she thoroughly enjoyed spending her time. An unexpected and warm relationship blossomed from that moment of first meeting, the usual preliminaries of friendship disposed of in typical style by Theo’s testy reminder that such time-wasting tactics were for the young and not for those unfortunates with one foot in the grave.
Jessica laughed. ‘Don’t be silly. You aren’t that old!’
‘You think not?’ The shrewd, almost colourless eyes twinkled. ‘That’s all you know! And – what’s more – that’s all you’re goin’ ter know! Needn’t think yer goin’ ter wheedle me age out of me, so there! Not fer a thousand guineas! My secret. A gel’s entitled to her secrets. An’ if her age ain’t one of them I don’t know what is!’ He chuckled at the expression on her face. One of the delights of this relationship for him, she knew, was the ease with which his sometimes outrageous conversational tricks could take her off guard. Certainly she found disconcerting this occasional habit of his of referring to himself as a member of the female sex. He pointed with his cane. ‘Now – fetch me that book, there’s a good gel – the one we were lookin’ at yesterday – there’s somethin’ I want ter show you—’
The man was a positive fount of knowledge. Grotesque, unprincipled, degenerate, debauched, he was most certainly all of those things. But what his detractors had failed to tell her was that he had a mind like a needle, a questing soul and a memory like an encyclopaedia. A professed creedless, godless, atheist, yet he could, if the mood took him, discuss not only the various and fascinating facets of Christianity but the beliefs and ideals of Islam as well with a quite remarkable depth of perception and understanding. If the mood did not take him he dismissed them all, with his yellowed grin, as mindless hypocrites. His knowledge and appreciation of the arts was, he informed Jessica, the product of a lifetime’s passionate study and a total lack of any kind of talent. In his company the city’s galleries, that she had visited so often, suddenly gave up their secrets and became exciting places of discovery. He discoursed, in his dry, drawling irreverent way, upon technique, perspective, colour and form and she suddenly found herself looking at paintings she had seen a dozen times before with new eyes. The pencil sketches of the Master, Michelangelo, which in her ignorance she had hardly noticed before, were a passion with him; indeed he had in the library a priceless original, a series of sketches of a woman’s head that he was certain was the model for the sculpture of Dawn in the so-called New Sacristy of the Church of Saint Lorenzo. Together they studied Titian and Raphael, Botticelli and da Vinci. They visited the Laurentian Library, which was to Jessica something of a disappointment. ‘Your books are much more interesting.’
‘’Course they are. But my library wasn’t designed by Michelangelo.’ His stick tapped hard on the floor. ‘Still, you’re right. We’re wasting time. Come. Come. We’ll take another look at the Magi. See if you can remember the faces I pointed out to you in the procession. A glass of champagne for every one you get right—’
Robert was openly amused and, Jessica suspected, even secretly gratified by the favour shown to his wife by the eccentric old man. Certainly he showed not the slightest trace of pique at the amount of time she spent with him, and made no objections to their frequent expeditions into the city; on the contrary, Jessica knew, her absences suited him well since they gave him the opportunity to pursue without guilt his fast-growing friendship with Arthur Leyland. The two young men met every day, either at the via del Corso – where, Jessica deduced, Arthur lived – or in the city where they would spend hours over a jug of wine discussing endlessly whether Homer wrote first the Iliad or the Odyssey, whether the tragedy of the one outweighed the romanticism of the other, whether the Iliad could above all others be considered the most perfect example of the Greek method of constructing a play—
Jessica tried very hard to like Arthur. She wanted to like him – for Robert’s sake if for no other reason. But try as she might she could not. She could readily admit to his good looks and his quick and well-educated mind. His voice, when he deigned to use it for the pleasure of Theo’s assembled guests, was very fine indeed. She could very well see his attraction when he expounded a theory or argued a point, the grey-blue eyes bright within their deep arch of bone, the fair hair tousled across the broad forehead, the narrow, elegant hands gesturing fluently. Yet after very short acquaintance it seemed to her quite apparent that Arthur Leyland’s predominant characteristic was vanity, his predominant concern himself and his predominant belief that gifted and talented people such as himself should never, in view of their noble qualities, be called upon to dirty their hands, figuratively or actually, by earning their own living – nor indeed to do anything that did not sit well with their well-founded opinion of themselves. Aware of the possibility that her antipathy towards her husband’s new friend might well be rooted in the certain feeling that he returned the dubious compliment in full measure, she hoped for Robert’s sake that her judgement was perhaps too harsh, but strongly she doubted it. And Arthur, she guessed, knew it. Consequently they were always meticulously polite to one another, but there was little of enthusiasm and nothing of warmth in their exchanges, and it seemed to her that Arthur spent every effort to keep Robert from her company. Perhaps it was perverse of her to resent that, but resent it she did, and the situation was not eased by her growing suspicion that Robert was giving Arthur money.
‘Tell me – what does Arthur actually do for a living?’ she asked Robert one morning as they breakfasted on the shaded balcony.
‘Mm?’ Robert barely glanced up from the book he was reading.
‘Arthur. What does he do for a living?’
Robert managed not to look too impatient as he laid his book face down on the table. ‘I’m not sure. He’s had some poems published—’
‘So you said. I shouldn’t think that would keep him in those lovely shirts he wears, let alone anything else?’ Jessica put down her cup. ‘I assume he must have money of his own?’
‘I don’t think so. His father was a wastrel. Led poor Arthur a terrible life. Left nothing when he died.’
Jessica smiled at the hovering maid. ‘Thank you, Angelina. You may clear away now. So – what does he live on?’
Robert’s lips tightened. He picked up the book again, closed it very precisely, marking the page with a piece of paper upon which Jessica could see some scribbled notes in Arthur’s flamboyant hand. ‘He’s employed by Theo,’ he said. ‘You of all people know how generous Theo can be.’
She ignored the inference. ‘He doesn’t work for Theo,’ she said gently. ‘He just takes his money.’
‘Jessica—!’
‘Don’t you think it a little odd for a grown man to live in a style that he has no apparent means to support?’ She truly had no wish to provoke an argument, but Arthur’s growing dominion over Robert worried her, as did Robert’s total inability to see fault in the other man.
‘I really don’t think it’s my business what Arthur lives on,’ Robert said, coldly. ‘Nor,’ he added, his eyes level and unsmiling, ‘—yours.’
‘You’re absolutely right, of course,’ she agreed mildly. ‘As long as it isn’t our money that pays for those pretty shirts?’
She knew by the quick rise of colour in his face that her suspicions were justified. She shook her head. ‘Oh, Robert—!’
Defensively he lifted his head. ‘If a man can’t lend a few guineas to a friend who’s strapped for funds—’ he stopped. The money they were living off was Jessica’s, her marriage settlement left to her by her father, and they both knew it.
She could not bear to see his embarrassment. She leaned forward quickly and covered his hand with her own. ‘Robert, I don’t want to quarrel. Least of all about Arthur.’
He looked at their linked hands, then lifted his head, searching her face with his eyes. ‘Don’t try to come between us, Jessica. Please don’t do that.’
She was shaken by the intensity of the words. ‘I wouldn’t. I promise.’ He bowed his head. A small silence fell between them. He turned his hand to grip hers, and the strength of it was painful. Then with an effort he relaxed his grip, and with an unexpected gentleness that almost touched her to tears he lifted her hand to his mouth and brushed it very lightly with his lips. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘Robert, it doesn’t—’
He stopped the words with a sad shake of his head. They sat in silence for a moment. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘I’ve neglected you. You have every right to be annoyed. I’ll make it up to you. In fact—’ he tried a small smile, ‘—if you’d like we could ride in the Cascine this afternoon? I know you enjoy that, and I know you can’t go alone.’
She nodded. ‘I’d like that.’
‘Arthur has a special class with the Maestro, so I’m free all afternoon. I’ll pick you up at two.’
Thus relegated neatly, firmly, – and despite all her resolutions gallingly – to her rightful place in his life she smiled, very brightly. ‘I’ll be ready.’