From time to time it occurred to Jessica to wonder if Theo monopolized her time as a small revenge upon Robert for apparently supplanting him in Arthur’s affections. She knew certainly that Theo was not altogether happy about the amount of time that Robert and Arthur spent together – not she felt so much that he resented their friendship as that he found intolerable their total absorption in each other and the consequent exclusion of anyone else from their private world, and in this she could not help but sympathize with him. It pleased him to support Arthur in the expensive and privileged lifestyle that the young man considered his due because he liked to have about him attractive and charismatic young people of both sexes who could divert him in his hours of boredom and ornament his life in much the same way as did his books, his exquisite home and his works of art. Arthur’s supreme self-confidence in flouting his wealthy and influential patron astonished Jessica, yet still she had to admit that it appeared to be justified. Theo grumbled waspishly about cocksure ingrates, even occasionally threatened to cut the purse strings, but never actually did anything. It was perfectly evident that not only Robert was under the young man’s spell.
In the meantime Theo’s unexpected and sometimes mischievous attentions were turned to the novelty of an obviously neglected young wife.
Jessica was more than happy to accept his testy friendship. Her feelings for Robert, with the unexpected intrusion of Arthur upon their private lives, were more ambivalent than ever. A fondness that has taken the length of a child’s growing years to develop does not die easily and sometimes, despite Arthur’s demands upon Robert’s time, their friendship still emerged quite surprisingly strongly. They still rode together in the Cascine – both amused to see how many of their former acquaintances now somehow managed to avoid seeing them as they rode by. Florence in some ways was as enclosed a society as the smallest village and gossip travelled fast as flame in dry undergrowth. Their open association with the coterie of the via del Corso had obviously not escaped notice. On those evenings that they were not at Theo’s they always dined together – though very noticeably when at the via del Corso they hardly ever did – and exchanged news and views in the old way, enjoying each other’s company as they always had. But Jessica was coming to realize that this could never be enough; there were indeed times when she found herself seriously doubting if such a relationship could last, and when that happened she often, oddly guiltily, found herself recalling Robert’s words about the possibilities of an annulment. But then the thought of what such a step would mean, for herself and for him, frightened her from even the contemplation of it. There seemed no way out of the coil. She had discovered too late what a terrible mistake she had made and could no longer deny to herself that simple friendship was not, after all, enough. She knew now why David and Annabel’s relationship had so disturbed her – knew that what she had felt was jealousy, pure, simple and destructive. Her young body was maturing. The old terrors were still there – the nightmare of violence that seemed to be the only thing that linked Clara and Giles together still haunted her, as did Caroline’s betrayal of Danny and the naked pain in his face as he had realized it – none of it was forgotten. But the Romseys had shown her another, and she was coming to suspect a more natural, face of love, and she envied them with a depth of feeling that was like a sickness. Sometimes now, alone in her bed, she would deliberately conjure up in her mind those sounds of lovemaking in the room above, and that half-shameful wholly confusing excitement would burn in her body again. She ached to know what they had known, but was afraid; and Robert could not help her. For that, for all their friendship, she was terribly afraid she could grow to hate him.
Theo watched, the age-bleached eyes reflecting a cynical lifetime of experience coupled with an even more cynical understanding of human nature.
They sat one day in the library, coolly shuttered against the afternoon’s heat, in companionable silence, he, wigless, and with one leg propped on a stool in front of him, apparently half-asleep, she absorbed in a book.
Theo snorted unpleasantly and shifted his position.
She looked up quickly. ‘Are you all right?’
‘’Course I’m not all right. Stupid question. Hand me that pillow, gel, will yer?’
She propped him up a little, arranging the extra cushion comfortably behind him. Then she straightened, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, ‘Goodness, it’s hot!’
‘Yer lookin’ pale, gel. You sickenin’ fer somethin’?’ he asked, sharply.
She shook her head. ‘It’s the heat, that’s all. And I’m always pale.’
‘Ain’t breedin’, are yer?’ The blunt words were as much a statement as a question.
‘No.’ Taken aback, she blushed furiously.
‘You sure?’
‘Yes.’ She knew as she said it that the word had come too quickly, too certainly. She turned away to avoid the pale, shrewd eyes and went back to her chair. She picked up the book, opened it, stared at it sightlessly.
There was a small, intent silence. Then, ‘What yer goin’ ter do about it, gel. Eh?’
She kept her head down for a moment, nibbling her lip. Then she straightened her back and lifted her head. ‘About what?’
He watched her, unblinking, until she looked away.
‘“Thy love to me was wonderful—”’ he said, musingly.
She interrupted him, as acidly and lightly as she could contrive. ‘You’ve used that once. I thought you considered repeating one’s self as a social crime so heinous that it should be punished by hanging?’
‘Did I say that?’
‘Yes.’
He nodded. ‘I was right.’
Thoroughly discomposed she tried to settle herself to read again.
“‘What should the cause be? Oh, you live at court—”’ Theo had steepled his hands before him and raised his eyes to the ceiling. From the thoughtful and innocent look on his face he might have been quoting St Augustine, ‘“And there’s both loss of time and loss of sport, In a great belly—”’
‘Theo!’ she said, exasperated.
‘I but quote Jonson—’
‘You but quote Theo Carradine!’
He cackled like a washerwoman and scratched his bald pate.
She gave up her pretence of reading and snapped the book shut, lifting her head.
‘That’s better,’ he said, satisfied. ‘Now – at risk of me neck for repeatin’ meself again – what are you goin’ ter do about it?’
She took a long, patient breath. ‘Theo – this is none of your business. You don’t understand—’
‘Oh, yes, gel. I understand.’ He spoke with that sudden sharpness of tone that could be so very disconcerting. ‘Better than yer think, perhaps, I understand.’
She shook her head, helplessly. ‘You’re impossible.’
He leaned forward, his eyes suddenly bright and gleeful.
‘A lover, gel. That’s what yer need. Can’t hold on to it fer ever, yer know!’ He laughed, his face crinkling like a satanic child’s. ‘Let me sort yer one out. Be happy to—’
She managed not to throw the book at him. ‘No, thank you, Theo.’ She held doggedly to her composure. Just last night the large and friendly Georgie had made a suggestion that might, a year ago, have scandalized her. A small part of her still regretted her firm rejection of his advances. He was a nice young man, not unhandsome, and he had been flatteringly eager. She was not sure herself why she had been so swift and certain in her refusal. He had been disappointed. Perhaps he would ask again? Was that what she had wanted—?
Theo was speaking, but she had missed the first part of his sentence. ‘—Italian lessons,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry – I beg your pardon?’
‘I said – you need some lessons—’ he paused for a wicked moment ‘—in Italian. And I know just the lad.’
She was exasperatedly confused at the apparently wayward change of subject. ‘I thought you said that you’d teach me?’
The grin widened, the devil’s own mischief glimmering in his wrinkled, berouged face. ‘Not as well as Guido Palca can.’
‘Theo—!’
He held up an autocratic hand, preventing the explosion. ‘An excellent young man of good family. Handsome. Charming. Not too intelligent. Fortunate that. A servente cavaliere that any right-minded young matron would sacrifice her – right hand for.’ The heavily assumed innocence of the words brought answering laughter, which Jessica could not suppress.
‘Theo – truly – you don’t understand! I’m not – I can’t—’ Even in laughter, to her own surprise her composure suddenly all but broke. She looked down at her hands that were clenched fiercely in her lap, and saw the sheen of sweat on the smooth skin of her arms. ‘It’s late,’ she said, after a moment’s pause, her voice neutral but at least steady. ‘I should go home.’
‘Home?’
The single word, and the blunt question laid bare her life. She swallowed. ‘Theo, you are undoubtedly the most abominable person I have ever met, do you know that?’
He nodded. The pale, ancient eyes pierced to her soul, stripping her of pretence and of defence. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘you should persuade your Robert to stay at home more often?’
‘And perhaps,’ she found herself snapping back without thought, lashing out in self-defence, ‘you should persuade your Arthur to do whatever it is you pay him to do instead of letting him take you for an absolute fool—!’ She stopped. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘That was unforgivable.’
‘And absolutely true.’ The dome of a head with its wild and wispy fringe of hair wagged a little, but the small, light eyes still regarded her steadily.
She frowned, genuinely puzzled. ‘Theo – tell me – why do you let him do it? Why let him take your money, live on your bounty, take advantage of your kindness – when he offers so little in return?’
He said nothing.
She shook her head. ‘It’s hateful. He simply takes everything you’re ready to offer as if – as if it were his right, and gives nothing whatever in return for it. Why do you put up with it?’
He shrugged.
‘It’s not my business,’ she said, contrite.
‘No. It’s not.’ The voice from the doorway was cool.
Shaken, she turned. Arthur stood, elegant as ever, his eyes very unfriendly indeed as they flicked across hers. He moved gracefully into the room towards them. ‘Honestly, Jessica, if you’re going to talk behind a man’s back at least have the sense not to do it in his own home and with the door open!’
‘I wasn’t—!’ She stopped.
‘Of course you were.’ The dismissive contempt in the words made her cheeks burn with mortification. Arthur turned his back on her and addressed Theo, who had been watching them, lively interest in the gaze that moved from one young face to the other. It crossed Jessica’s mind to wonder if he had known that Arthur had been there by the door listening to her idiotic indiscretions. She would not put such mischief beyond him.
‘Theo, my dear,’ Arthur said crisply, ‘that wretched little man Bonetto absolutely refuses to extend my credit any further. Would you see to it for me?’
Theo nodded. ‘Of course.’
‘And – bad judgement again I fear – my trip to the tables last night left me quite penniless—’ He smiled brilliantly, and tossed the tangled curls from his forehead with a small flick of his head.
Theo chuckled and dug into his pocket. Gold glimmered in the shadowed light as he tossed a coin into the air, and was extinguished as Arthur’s long fingers expertly flicked it into the palm of his hand. ‘Thank you.’ Without another glance at Jessica he strode lightly from the room.
‘Oh dear,’ Jessica said, sighing.
Theo’s explosive cackle of laughter must certainly have been heard by Arthur, wherever in the house he was.
The small incident did little to improve her relationship with Arthur, poor as it had been in the first place, and in the long run too it damaged her relationship with Robert since Arthur now made no bones of his dislike for Jessica and avoided her as much as possible. Whether he had told Robert of what he had overheard she did not know, but certainly she saw less and less of her husband and the time she did not spend with Theo she spent alone.
Until the day that, with a benign innocence that Jessica found deeply suspicious, Theo introduced her to the young man he had, without her knowledge, engaged to teach her Italian.
Guido Palca was tall, slim, and dark as a shadow, with the most open and handsome smile she had ever seen. It was perfectly evident that his qualifications, if he had any, were certainly not in teaching language, though his English, charmingly accented, was excellent.
‘Guido, my dear – this is Jessica—’ It was dauntingly obvious from the emphasis of the words that the young man had been told all – and she knew that meant all – about her.
Theo’s often expressed determination that she should form a liaison with an impeccable charmer chosen for her by him had become a source of amused exasperation to her over the past days. She put on a thunderous look. ‘Theo—’ she began, warningly.
He lifted disarming hands. ‘“Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,”’ he quoted entirely unrepentant, ‘“Old time is still a- flying.”’
‘My rosebuds are perfectly happy where they are, thank you,’ she said tartly and offered her hand to Guido, who carried it to his lips with a simple grace that was totally and dangerously disarming.
Theo chuckled, delightedly. ‘I’ll leave you two young things together.’
Guido was, she had to admit, utterly charming. He was attentive and entertaining. He attached himself to her with a tenacity that could only be admired, declaring himself immediately and irrevocably enslaved. And – most beguiling thing of all – he could make her laugh. With Theo’s active approval and encouragement he joined them on their expeditions into the city and what had on the whole been relatively serious exercises became hilarious outings. He was stylish on horseback, cut a fine figure on the dance floor and was, he assured Jessica in one of his few earnest moments, even more skilled in bed. It spoke volumes for the change that had overtaken Jessica in the past few months that she did not bat an eyelid. ‘I’m sure you are, Guido dear,’ she said, kindly. ‘Would you mind passing the tomatoes?’
Robert appeared delighted with the arrangement; philosophically she endured that, telling herself she could hardly expect jealousy.
Time passed pleasantly now, its passing eased by Theo’s friendship and charming Guido’s company. With Theo’s help she was refurnishing the apartment, which had been stylishly decorated by two of the young artists who frequented the via del Corso. Firmly she had refused Theo’s offer of money to help purchase the exquisite things he would have her buy. ‘No.’ The word brooked no argument. ‘Once and for all, Theo, I want nothing from you but the things you are already giving me – your friendship, your help. I don’t want – I won’t take – your money. Don’t class me with those that do.’
He smiled a rare, genuinely warm smile. ‘There’s a second-hand shop on the via de’Panzani. You want ter start there, gel?’
High summer was upon them. Several times they picnicked in the hills beyond the city. They visited Fiesole, with its Roman theatre and its spectacular views. On Theo’s whim a group of them visited the fine city of Siena, two days’ drive away, travelling in a couple of Theo’s opulent and comfortable carriages, some of the men on horseback. Guido rode beside Jessica’s carriage making charming conversation with her and equally charming eyes at her fellow passenger, an artist’s model of stunning beauty and known easy ways. Jessica was fairly sure from the girl’s coy looks the following morning that a bed had been shared that night, and suppressed firmly the faint and absurdly proprietary twinge of envy that the knowledge brought.
Siena enchanted her. The medieval city brooded still within its great walls, the narrow, shadowed streets apparently unchanged by the centuries. The spectacularly lovely square known as the Piazza del Campo, where the famous – and sometimes murderous – horserace, the Palio, was run each year she thought the most beautiful she had ever seen. The bizarrely flamboyant cathedral fascinated her.
Driving back to Florence they stopped to picnic in the hills, beneath a sky of flawless, infinite blue. Jessica perched upon a rock, her skirt tucked about her knees. The vivid sky and brilliant sunshine capped a world of browns and golds so in contrast to the soft greens of England that she still on occasions could hardly believe in it. On a nearby rock a lizard basked, glimmering, a living jewel. She stirred and it was gone in a glinting emerald flash of movement, too fast for the eye to follow. In the near distance Robert sat upon the ground, Arthur beside him, the blond boy’s long arm thrown with casual affection across Robert’s slim shoulders.
She turned at a footstep beside her. ‘What are you thinking so solemnly?’
She smiled at Guido. ‘Just how very different this is from home.’
‘And is that good? Or bad?’
‘Good, I think.’ Then she laughed, softly and a little ruefully, ‘And a little bad.’
He nodded, understanding. ‘Will you go back?’
‘Home? Why yes, of course. We shall have to.’
‘Why?’
She looked at him in astonishment. ‘Because – because that’s where we belong. We have obligations. Robert will inherit a house, and land—’
‘These things mean much to you?’
She pondered a moment. ‘Yes. Old Hall has been in the FitzBolton family for generations. We couldn’t just walk awaythat. There are the people to consider. They’ll need us. We can’t stay here for ever.’ Faintly and uneasily at the back of her mind came the thought that Robert, his dark head bent close to Arthur’s fair one, might not agree with her.
Guido took her hand, brought it, palm up, to his lips. ‘Then we must make certain that the time you can spend with us is as memorable as it can be.’ His eyes were warm, his soft voice with its attractive accent intimate. His lips on her palm sent pleasant pulses of excitement through her body. For a moment, and not for the first time, she felt herself weaken.
A small whistle shrilled. Theo clapped his hands, sharply and a little irritably, ‘Come along, dearies, time to leave. Or we’ll not make the city by nightfall.’
Two days after their return from Siena, out of the blue, she had news of Danny.
It was Guido who introduced her to a young man whose name she did not catch, but whose first words all but riveted her to the ground where she stood. ‘Theo sent me over. Said you were asking about Danny O’Donnel?’
‘Yes. Yes, I was. You know him?’
‘Known him for years, on and off. We’ve worked together—’ the young man grinned lopsidedly ‘—drunk together—’ he glanced around ‘—which reminds me – any wine to be had? I’m as dry as the Sahara.’
‘Please. Have mine. I haven’t touched it.’ She thrust her glass into his hand. ‘Do you know where he is now?’
His attention had wandered. He cocked his head. ‘Sorry?’
She contained herself. ‘Danny. Do you have any idea where he is now?’
‘Generally yes. Specifically no. Last I heard they were headed for France.’
It was a blow, but not a mortal one. ‘France,’ she repeated.
‘That’s right.’
‘Where from? I mean – where did you meet him?’
‘Why, here. In Florence.’
‘When?’ Her voice was weak.
He shrugged. His eyes had wandered to where a very pretty girl was sitting alone, playing with an empty wine glass with long, thin fingers. ‘Er – oh six months or so ago. Perhaps a little less.’
Six months. He had left the city as she had married Robert.
His attention was wandering again. He smiled vaguely at her, his eyes still on the girl, who was pointedly ignoring him. ‘Would you excuse me—?’
‘Oh, please – wait! First – do you know if he’s coming back?’
‘Danny?’ He grinned broadly. ‘Who knows? These days it all depends on that wife of his, doesn’t it? Have you met Serafina?’ He rolled his eyes, ‘What a barrel of gunpowder that one is! Half gypsy, they say. And looks it. Danny always was a lucky devil with the ladies, wasn’t he? But he’s got his comeuppance now – Serafina goes, Danny follows – seems to be the rule. Can’t say I blame him, either. Now – please – you’ll excuse me for a moment?’ He sidled away towards the seated girl before she could reply.
That night, in the bedroom above the salon, with the windows open to the muggy August night and the best part of two bottles of Theo’s best champagne inside her, Jessica, wife of six months, lost her virginity. Guido was everything he had promised: gentle, practised, exciting. And, she thought, a little fuzzily, he seemed to enjoy it, which was a bonus for them both. Three parts drunk and very sleepy she was first surprised, then amused and finally moderately satisfied with the rather odd exercise. No doubt things would improve with practice.
Guido kissed her, and handed her another glass of champagne. She knocked it back at one gulp. ‘Guido?’
‘Yes, my love?’ As latin a lover as anyone could wish he pressed her gently back onto the pillows, took the empty glass from her hand, looked yearningly into her eyes.
‘Did you ev-ever know—’ she giggled a little at the small belch that had impeded her words ‘—a lady called Ser-a-fin-a?’ She pronounced the name very carefully.
A little puzzled he shook his head.
‘She’s very beautiful,’ she said, soberly. ‘Ver-ry beautiful indeed.’
‘So are you, my love,’ said her dutiful lover, smiling.
Jessica blinked sleepily. ‘Never get married, Guido,’ she advised him, very solemnly. ‘It’s a – very – silly – thing to do!’
Guido smiled his charming smile and said nothing.
‘Take a lover,’ she said, smiling happily at being the source of such a very intelligent thought. ‘That’s a much – much more sensible arrangement—’
In the weeks that followed, perfectly reasonably, Jessica imagined herself truly in love. This, surely was what she had been waiting for? As his practised lovemaking awakened her body her young, love-starved imagination saw in him the personification of both courtly and physical love. She lived for their meetings. Her infatuation for Danny, as a child, had had no physical outlet; in Guido she found, perhaps because she so desperately wanted to, a satisfying passion that she did not recognize until later as a counterfeit of love. Guido was the ideal object of such fantasy – handsome, attentive, apparently devoted, he played the part that Theo Carradine had assigned to him to perfection, even occasionally, Jessica with some affection thought later, convincing himself. Theo watched the puppet show with the sly enjoyment of one who has manipulated the puppets, biding his time. He perceived in Jessica a stylish potential and an intelligence that pleased him. Given, he thought, a little more worldly polish she would make an interesting addition to the small court he had chosen to gather about him. Guido was, in his opinion, essential to her education.
Jessica and Guido met only in the Palazzo on the via del Corso – for, strangely perhaps, Jessica could not bring herself to take her lover to the apartment that she shared with Robert, and he never suggested that she should visit him – indeed it did sometimes strike her as a little odd that she did not even know in which part of the city he lived. There was no doubt that Robert knew what was going on, but he never mentioned it, and Jessica received the distinct impression that his main emotion concerning the affair was relief. He had convinced himself that she was happy at last, and that was enough for him. That she had done the same thing herself it took Theo to show her.
Georgie, his pursuit of Jessica come to nothing, had returned to the girl, an artist’s model, with whom he had lived, on and off, for three years and whom he regularly left in pursuit of new game only to return when circumstances, in the form of boredom or an irate husband dictated it.
‘I don’t understand her,’ Jessica said to Theo one day, frowning. ‘Why on earth does she put up with it? He treats her so badly—!’
‘What would you do? If it were Guido?’
She thought about that. ‘I – don’t know.’
‘Yes you do.’
She eyed him. ‘I wouldn’t like it.’
He grinned.
‘I wouldn’t like it at all.’
‘You’d throw him out on his handsome ear.’
‘I wouldn’t!’
He said nothing. Raised his eyebrows.
‘Well I might.’
‘You would. Of course you would. Stands to reason.’ He paused. ‘Wouldn’t you?’
She thought about it. Thought of the look on the girl’s face when Georgie arrived at the via del Corso with another woman. ‘Yes,’ she said, thoughtfully. ‘Yes. I think I might.’
‘And what does that tell you?’
‘About what?’
He was unusually patient. ‘About yer relationship with Guido, gel.’
‘I—’ she stopped.
‘It tells you yer don’t love him,’ he supplied, mildly.
She turned on him, horrified. ‘That isn’t true!’
He lifted a wickedly sardonic brow. She flushed to the roots of her hair, and turned from him. ‘I do love him! I do!’
‘You want him. You enjoy him. That’s a different thing.’
She said nothing, knowing how uncomfortably close to the truth he had come, and obscurely ashamed of it.
‘Yer know, of course, that he’s got a charmin’ wife an’ children?’ His voice was conversational, the affected drawl exaggerated.
She turned, her unschooled face thunderstruck.
‘Ah – yer didn’t? How very remiss of him.’ He was watching her with sharp, expectant eyes. ‘But then – what difference? You’ve got a husband, haven’t you? Fer what he’s worth.’
She glared at him, her colour rising. Opened her mouth. He grinned and held up his hand. ‘Never speak in temper, gel. There’s no tellin’ what yer might come out with.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘About what?’
‘About Guido!’
He was all innocence. ‘I just did, didn’t I?’
She was almost speechless with anger. ‘You – you planned this, didn’t you? Guido and me?’
‘’Course I did.’ He was entirely unrepentant, openly amused. ‘Don’t tell me yer weren’t ready for it, gel.’
Her mouth tightened.
He chuckled, enjoying himself.
‘Truly Theo, you are hateful sometimes!’ she snapped.
‘I know.’ She might have complimented him. He beamed, pleased. ‘But good God, gel, you couldn’t go round a vestal virgin fer the rest of yer life, now could yer? Someone had ter show yer what it was all about. Now – come on – admit it. Yer don’t love him.’
He was right, and she knew it, had been aware of it in her heart from the first, but had stubbornly refused to face it. Guido had touched her heart not at all – even this unexpected news of his wife and children hurt her pride rather than her feelings. She had wanted to love him. He was handsome, and charming. He had taught her the joys of her body in love. She ought to love him—
‘Well?’ The word was sharp.
She sighed, shook her head.
He put his hand behind his ear in an exaggerated gesture. ‘Try again,’ he said, encouragingly. ‘A bit louder.’
Exasperated, she almost laughed. ‘All right! Perhaps I don’t actually love him.’ She shook her head again, a little ruefully, ‘Oh, Theo – perhaps I can’t? Supposing I can’t? I did want to. You’re cruel to—’
‘No.’ The cracked voice interrupted her. ‘Not cruel, gel. Kind. You think about it. Think of what you know. Think of the lessons you’ve learned. Don’t twaddle on about love, gel.’ He pointed a crooked finger. ‘You’re best off without it. Muddles the mind and spoils the temper. What will you do about Guido now?’ The question was sharp, the drawl gone.
She shrugged. ‘I – don’t know. Nothing, I suppose.’
‘Exactly. Not half dead with jealousy, are yer? Not dyin’ of a broken heart? Love’s for fools, gel. Remember that. Remember the lesson old Theo taught yer.’
She watched him for a moment, soberly. ‘You are the most devious and cynical man I’ve ever met,’ she said at last.
The grotesque bewigged head nodded, jerkily. ‘More than likely, gel. More than likely.’
She picked up the bright head of a flower that had fallen from an arrangement onto the polished surface of the table. The brilliant scarlet of the petals lay upon her fingers like blood. She studied it for a moment, a faraway look on her face. Then, ‘I don’t care what you say, Theo,’ she said, suddenly. ‘I want to know. I want to know what it’s like. I want to know why that girl lets Georgie treat her so. I want to know what it is that poets write of and singers sing about.’ She lifted her head, oddly fiercely. ‘I want to know!’
He shook his head, testily, tutting.
‘I remember once—’ she stopped.
‘What?’
She shook her head. ‘Nothing.’
He struggled to his feet, painfully, stood looking down at her. ‘So – yer want ter fall in love, eh?’
She smiled at the absurdity of the conversation. ‘Yes.’
He turned and hobbled towards the door. ‘More fool you, gel,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘More fool you.’ He stopped by the door, looking back. ‘But – well, who knows? Perhaps old Theo can even arrange that?’
‘Theo!’
His laughter echoed back from behind the closing door.
Communication between Florence and Suffolk was not easy, and the exchange of letters between the young FitzBoltons and their families was desultory. Robert’s mother was the only one who wrote with any regularity – the weather was good, or bad, old Bess had whelped again, the roof of the Great Hall was leaking, an Oxford don had taken a flattering interest in Sir Thomas’ collection of butterflies – Jessica loved her letters, they brought with them in their kindly, gossiping, narrow way a glimpse of home that she treasured. Robert hardly read them at all. Maria, too, wrote occasionally, but her letters were stilted and rather formal and contained very little information and no warmth at all. Jessica remembered that her mother had always detested writing letters. For herself she tried to make sure that each month she wrote: short, cheerful notes packed with much general information – the wonderful weather, the beauty of the city and its treasures – and carefully avoiding the slightest mention of anything personal. The only other person who, surprisingly, kept up a devoted and cheering if sporadic correspondence, was Patrick. He was happy and settling in to his new life. He had a new pony. Next term he was to go away to Harrow. Bran was well, and Lucy sent her love. The childish yet somehow flamboyant scrawl brought a smile to Jessica’s lips. Almost she could see the bright head, the merry, mischievous eyes.
No one mentioned Giles or Clara, and Jessica did not ask.
The Florentine autumn was glorious. Jessica’s Italian lessons went well and she was delighted to find that in a very short while she could make herself understood in the city. She also discovered to her own surprise a certain facility for drawing. Encouraged both by Theo and by Robert she attended drawing classes twice a week and was guardedly pleased with the results she achieved. She would never, she admitted readily, be any rival for Michelangelo, but she could produce a pleasing picture, and she enjoyed it. She still spent a good deal of time with Theo and his books. All in all life was full, and very enjoyable.
Winter came as something of a surprise. She had certainly not expected a spell of damp and cold to rival anything she had experienced in England, but as Christmas approached the clouds rolled down from the mountains and a curtain of drizzle drifted in the narrow streets. For the first time she saw the women of Florence with their scaldini – earthen pots filled with the ashes of charcoal that women of all ranks carried hooked on their arms for warmth, or on occasion, when sitting, very sensibly tucked beneath the spread of their petticoats. Within doors the fires were lit in the great hearths, shutters were closed against the cold and candles glowed warm and bright about the walls. Masques and balls were held, and the invitations for Jessica and Robert came not just from the via del Corso. As the months had gone by and one five-minute scandal had been replaced by another some of the younger members of the established English colony had renewed acquaintanceship – indeed Jessica sensed in some cases some small trace of envy at the FitzBoltons’ acceptance into Theo Carradine’s wicked charmed circle. She and Robert themselves repaid hospitality and entertained their friends to dinners and to card parties. The apartment, redecorated and completely refurnished, had fulfilled all its promise. Angelina, the new maid, competent and cheerful, ran it to perfection with very little help from her young mistress. Life ran smoothly and pleasurably; and if Jessica found herself suffering a few pangs of homesickness as she prepared for the coming of Christmas she suppressed them sternly. Instead of the simple holly boughs that would deck the village church at Melbury she had the gleam of gold and silver in the magnificent churches of Florence. Instead of a morning ride across parkland crisp with frost she sat abed, propped up with pillows, drinking precious coffee in a bedroom that had once heard the laughter of princes. Instead of the balls at New Hall attended by the country gentry – most of whom had known little Jessica Hawthorne from the day she was born – who arrived at seven and were yawning at eleven, she had the entertaining gatherings at the via del Corso and elsewhere, where the wine still flowed, the cards still fell, the arguments still raged at three in the morning, and in the kaleidoscope of that constantly changing circle it was perfectly possible to remain all evening in the company of a familiar face without ever actually remembering the name that was attached to it.
She attended Midnight Mass at the Duomo on Christmas Eve with Theo, Robert having chosen to go to Santa Croce with Arthur, whom Jessica still avoided as much as possible. Theo watched her with delight. It had been a very long time since he had had such innocent material to work upon; and already the results of his efforts could be seen. Small and rather slight she still was, but now, under his influence and after several visits to the Mercato Nuovo she dressed with style and held her head high, aware, if subconsciously, of her own attraction. She was no beauty in the true sense of the word – a stroll down any Florentine street would produce a dozen more obvious charmers – but the bright, mobile face with its intelligent eyes and determined mouth was an attraction and a challenge in one. Even the cloud of mousy hair, gleaming now with the golden touch of a summer in the Italian sun, though unfashionable was as individual as was Jessica herself. Sometimes, within the bright halo of that hair she still looked the child of innocence. But laughing, or angry, or lit with some enthusiasm she was like a small flame, brilliant and warm. Her education complete and her dreams of true love shown for the nonsense they were she would make a handsome addition to his eccentric court. It was a measure of the old man’s egotism that it did not occur to him that Jessica might question his plans for her.
She found the Catholic Florentine Christmas all but overwhelming. Her very English upbringing had never prepared her for the soul-stirring pageantry, the colourful extremes of a Christian religion born and nurtured amongst the hot-blooded and flamboyant peoples of the south. Sometimes she found herself wondering – was it this that had captured her brother John? Once exposed to this passionate carnival of Christianity, had he found the dour Protestantism of his fathers pale by comparison? Kneeling in the magnificent Duomo amidst the gleam of precious metals and stones and with the triumphant voices lifted about her she thought she glimpsed something of the fervour and conviction that had given John the strength to defy their father. Of all of them, she wondered, might he not end up as being the happiest? She had never forgotten his courageous and passionate rejection of his material heritage. She had applauded him then, and she applauded him now; but even as she did so she knew that for her the way could never be the same. And in knowing that she accepted too that the life now could not last for ever, however much she might wish that it could. Always, somewhere, behind the pleasure and the undeniable enjoyment of the flouting of convention, the living of a life that could only be termed irresponsible, stood an awareness, a need, that would not eventually be denied. When Guido courted her, when Theo charmed her in his grotesque way with his books and his testy erudition, or when the Tuscan sun turned the mountains to gold, or a Catholic cathedral glittered in the light of a thousand candles the feeling was there, and it would not leave her. She remembered the green of the Suffolk countryside. She remembered her father, booted and hardily dressed for a ride about the estates. She remembered, oddly, the bewildered, determined face of the tenant Peter Arkwright as he had faced her mother asking for his wrongs to be righted. She remembered New Hall and its beauty, Old Hall and its warmth. She remembered St Agatha’s – dark, cold, neglected, mysterious. She felt her roots, and for all her efforts could not rid herself of them. She could deny it for now. She could pretend to herself and to others that she did not care for the loss of these things, as she was certain Robert did not; she could pretend, but she knew in her heart that it was not so. She wondered, sometimes – if she and Robert had truly loved, would she have felt differently? If she had experienced that emotion that seemed destined to happen to others and never to her, except as a childish passion, could she be blinded to all other needs, all other memories? The new Jessica, schooled by Theo, though largely unconscious of the fact, doubted it. When it came to love she was beginning to think that the world played a game in which she could not join.
In 1818 the annual carnival, the timing of which was determined by the date upon which Easter fell, was early, beginning on the very first day of the year. There were parades and sideshows in every street and square. Plays and comedies were performed every night in every one of the city’s seven theatres. There were masked balls, public and private, and each evening the streets and the banks of the river were thronged with masked and costumed crowds, laughing and flirting, making the most of the permissive pre-Lent atmosphere. The cafes were full, the squares rang with music; Jessica had never experienced such festivities before, and she enjoyed every moment. Cloaked and masked she roamed the city with a group of revellers drawn from the artists who frequented the via del Corso. The weather was cold and clear, and the distant hills gleamed, crowned with snow. Lights were strung in the Boboli Gardens, and lovers strolled beneath them, shadows in the darkness. She and Robert with Theo, Arthur, Guido and anyone else who cared to join them visited the theatres, the concerts, the cafes. As the austere days of Lent grew closer the celebrations grew wilder. There were costumed parades through the streets, and more than one drunken brawl to follow.
It was during one such brawl that she caught a glimpse of a face that stopped her heart and her breath at a stroke.
Two parades had taken place in rival neighbourhoods, and in their wake two opposing bands of young men, one dressed fairly approximately in the style of fashionable young courtiers of the eighteenth century, the other rather more mundanely in the manner of the rivermen of the Arno, had come together in the Piazzo del Duomo and picturesque insults were flying. Much wine had obviously been consumed and what started as a relatively good-tempered confrontation soon and predictably deteriorated into scuffles and wrestling matches. Theo, knowing from experience that the next step would be the drawing of knives very sensibly urged withdrawal. Jessica side-stepped a sprawling pair of brawny young men locked in battle in the gutter and with Robert’s guiding hand upon her arm followed Theo towards a side street. At the corner she turned to glance back. The free-for-all had started in earnest. Urged on by cheering onlookers the young men were setting about each other like gladiators. On the near side of the square a burly ‘courtier’ swung his stave in a vain attempt to unseat a ‘waterman’ who was clinging astride his back howling like a banshee and beating at his unwilling mount with clenched fists. The crowd loved it. Taking sides they urged on first one and then the other. The bigger man bucked, nearly unseating his tormentor, who clung like a limpet. A roar rose from the onlookers.
And one face stood for Jessica alone in the crowd. A laughing face, lean, dark, strong-boned.
She stopped.
Robert pulled at her arm. ‘Come on. There’ll be real blood spilled in a minute.’
‘Wait—!’
But he was towing her through the crowds, following Theo. Frantically she glanced back. There was no sign of that face, for which she had looked for so long.
Behind them the happy pandemonium grew and a whistle shrieked.
She could not get that face from her mind. Everywhere she went she looked for him. She questioned Theo again about Danny and about the young man who had spoken to her of him.
Theo did not remember him. ‘So – who is this Danny O’Donnel you seek with such urgency?’ The small, shrewd eyes were inquisitive.
‘I told you – I knew him as a child. It was he who first told me of Florence—’
‘And – it’s important to you to find him?’
‘Very,’ she said, simply. ‘But – perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps it wasn’t him. The only person I’ve spoken to who knew him said he left the city a year ago.’
Theo shrugged. ‘Anyone who truly cares for Florence does not stay away for long. Perhaps he has returned?’
She nodded. Perhaps he had. With his beautiful wife. ‘Florence is a very big city,’ she said.
Four days later, with the end of the month of carnival approaching Theo gave his own masked ball. The great ballroom of the Palazzo was opened for the occasion, and the guests were drawn from all walks of life – for the native aristocrats of the city in no way joined Theo’s own compatriots in their condemnation of him. He was rich and he was, or could be in the right circumstances, generous; against that his eccentricities counted for nothing. The whole cast of a play that Theo had particularly enjoyed joined them after the evening performance still in costume that in many cases was less flamboyant – and certainly less provocative – than that of most of the non-theatrical guests. Jessica had resisted Theo’s more outrageous suggestions and was dressed restrainedly as a dainty shepherdess, prettily masked. She had just joined a group who stood listening to a young man, well into his cups, whom she had not seen before, and who was evidently fresh from England.
‘—and so,’ he was saying, ‘discretion always being the better part of valour, I left. They got my brother, though. Transported him, the bastards. Beggin’ your pardon, Miss,’ he executed a decidedly unsteady bow in Jessica’s direction.
Someone in the crowd laughed, harshly. ‘Good God, man – what did you expect? This is England you’re talking about! England! Where you can steal a man’s wife – or daughter – from under his nose and be thought a great fellow for it. But burn his crops? A capital offence if ever I heard one!’
Amidst the general laughter Jessica asked, ‘Why did you burn his crops?’
The young man fixed her with a drunkenly serious eye. ‘Why?’ He swayed on his feet, marshalling words. ‘They’d cut the wages to the bone an’ put up the price of bread. There’s no work, an’ the village is starving while they feed fat. The parish won’t feed the men back from the wars an’ there’s no way for them to earn a crust—’ He raised a thin finger, wagging it. ‘Happenin’ all over it is.’
‘Jessica?’
Absently Jessica turned.
Guido smiled. ‘From Theo.’ He handed her a note.
She took it, smiling her thanks. Her attention was still on the young man who had been speaking. ‘Where was this?’
‘Cambri – Cambridgeshire—’ He could barely get the word out, ‘village of Uppington. Prett’est little village in the world. Ruined.’
Jessica opened the note. It contained a brief half-dozen words. She turned to question Guido, but he had gone. The conversation about her had changed.
‘—prettiest damned model I’ve ever seen in my life and the bugger stole her clean from under my nose—’
She excused herself and, intrigued by Theo’s message made her way upstairs to the reception rooms and library. In the lovely reception room that had been her first introduction to this house a few people sat, wine glasses in hand, talking. In a corner behind a vast green palm two lovers kissed. From the ballroom below music lifted. She looked at the note again.
‘The library. A present from Theo.’
She walked to the library door and pushed it open.
The room was empty and almost dark. A fire glowed in the vast hearth and a couple of lamps had been lit. The shutters were closed against the January night.
She walked further into the room, glancing around. A present, the note said. She looked at the desks and table, expecting to see something – perhaps a book? – lying there, but she could see nothing unusual.
In an armchair by the fire someone stirred. A long leg stretched, a scuffed boot was lit by the flare of flame. She jumped, startled and embarrassed that she had approached so close and so quietly without the stranger hearing. The man in the chair turned the page of the book he was looking at. His face and most of his upper body was hidden by the large wing of the chair. Beside him on the table a bottle of wine and a glass half-full.
Very quietly she turned to leave.
‘Who’s that?’ The words were sharp.
She stopped. Turned. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you—’
He leaned forward, looking up at her, the light from the lamp illuminating his features.
The library. A present from Theo.
She was totally speechless.
He laughed. ‘Please don’t apologize. I probably shouldn’t be here. I’ve got a strong feeling that the invitation was a mistake in the first place – I don’t seem to know a soul here. Are you the lady of the house? If so then it’s I who should apologize—’ He gestured with the long-fingered hands that she remembered so well at the book that lay on his lap, ‘I couldn’t find anyone to ask—’
‘N-no,’ she said. ‘I’m not the lady of the house. Actually there isn’t one. I’m – a friend.’
He smiled.
There was no doubt now. No doubt in the world. This was Danny. Changed, older, with a harshness about the eyes and a hardness about the mouth that she did not remember, but Danny undoubtedly. Yet still her voice was hesitant as she spoke his name. ‘Danny?’
The smile faded and he frowned a little, peering at her. Unsmiling the changes in his face were more marked. Deep straight lines were scored between nose and a mouth that did not seem to smile as readily as it once had. A relatively fresh scar cleft his right eyebrow and another, smaller and older, marked his cheekbone. The beautifully modelled mouth was straight as a drawn line and as harshly uncompromising. He stood. He was not as tall as she had imagined him, though long of leg and wide shouldered as she had always remembered. He was very thin. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I don’t—?’ His voice trailed off politely as he gestured at the mask she had forgotten she was still wearing.
She raised her head hesitantly, then with a quick movement unclipped the mask and raised her face to him.
He did not recognize her. Nor was there the slightest flicker in his eyes. His puzzlement had deepened. ‘Madam, I’m sorry. I truly don’t know you—?’
She swallowed an absurd disappointment. Of course he did not. How could he? She smiled. ‘You did once.’
He studied her face for a moment, a little warily, then shook his head in self-mocking amusement. She turned her face to the light, watching him steadily, a half-smile on her face.
He laughed at last, bemused. ‘Give me a clue? You have the better of me.’
She thought for a moment. ‘A small furry animal that owned a large furry animal,’ she said.
That confused him more. He shook his head.
Mischievously she held up her hand, counting on her fingers. ‘Your name is Danilo O’Donnel. Your mother was Florentine, your father Irish. You look like your mother and drink like your father. You hate horses. You’re a strong swimmer.’
His eyes had widened. ‘You’re a witch!’
‘You like to sing while you’re working. Your ambition is – certainly was – to be the best damned sculptor in Florence—’
The expression on his face was comical. ‘Please! Stop it!’ He held up his hands in mock surrender.
She took the plunge. ‘You once loved my sister,’ she said, very quietly.
That did it. She almost saw the connecting thoughts, the memories that flickered to life behind his eyes. He reached a strong hand and with his finger on her chin turned her face to the light of the lamp. ‘Good God Almighty!’ he said, softly, ‘Mouse!’
She laughed a little at the silly name, so naturally spoken. ‘That’s right.’
‘Mouse!’ he said again, and now he was truly laughing, his dark face alight with pleasure. He swept her into a bear hug, crushing her to him, swinging her from the ground. ‘I don’t believe it! I just do not believe it! What in God’s name are you doing here—?’
Breathless, she could not answer him. She flung her arms about his neck and hugged him tight, her smooth cheek next to his harsh one, the male smell of him sweet in her nostrils.
At last they stepped back from each other, still holding hands. ‘Mouse!’ he said. ‘Little Jess. Grown up and beautiful—’
She laughed and shook her head, colouring with pleasure.
‘And I didn’t recognize you!’
‘You can hardly be blamed for that! I was – what? – eleven? – twelve? – when last you saw me—’
‘But you recognized me.’
‘I’d recognize you anywhere.’ The words were straightforward, neither coy nor coquettish. They were followed by a breath of silence, and she saw again the faint, wary look in his eyes. He dropped her hand. Then he was laughing again, pulling another chair up to the fire.
‘Tell me everything – absolutely every – single – thing that’s happened to you since I left Melbury in such a hurry.’
She hesitated.
He smiled, grimly. ‘All right. Let’s get it over and done straight away. Caroline?’
‘She’s married.’ She was relieved. ‘To Bunty Standish. She’s Lady Caroline now.’
‘And – the child?’ There was a thread of remembered pain in the words that made her flinch. She shook her head. He turned from her and walked to the fire, stood for a long moment looking into the flames. When he turned he was smiling again. She could not tell in the half-light if the smile were forced. ‘You, little Mouse – what of you? And your family – tell me everything—’
They sat until four in the morning. In the ballroom below the music died. Doors opened and closed, and voices called their goodnights. The house grew quiet though the occasional burst of laughter still rang out. No one came to the library. She told him everything – her unhappiness after he had gone, the death of her father, her discovery about Giles, the astonishing arrival of Patrick and its consequences. She told him too, honestly and with neither excuses nor self-pity, of Robert and of the near-disaster their marriage had proved to be. ‘—You must think me dreadfully stupid. But at the time it seemed the best – the only – thing to do. I didn’t know – didn’t realize what it would involve—’ Not for a moment did it strike her as strange to be confiding so in a near-stranger; sitting here with him it was as if those years had never been, as if no events and no time had ever come between them. This was Danny, and she loved him, as she had loved him from the first moment she had seen him. A different Danny to be sure, and most certainly a different kind of love, but undeniable and overwhelming for all that. The young Jessica had given her heart with no reservations to the young man she had thought of as her dark angel; older and wiser she saw him now with clearer eyes, but was as unhesitatingly ready to love him now as she had been then; she could not have prevented herself if she had tried.
He was shaking his head, his face sombre. ‘Don’t think you’re alone in that kind of mistake, little Mouse. One way or another we all make them. And we all have to pay for them.’
She said nothing, watching him.
He picked up his wine glass and drained it, then smiled a small, bitter smile. ‘You of all people know that my choice of women has not always been the most sensible.’
‘I heard you were married,’ she said, non-committally.
He laughed sharply, reached for the wine bottle. ‘That I am.’
‘I heard she was beautiful.’ She kept her voice even.
He poured the wine very steadily. ‘That she is. Very.’
In the silence a small branch crackled in the fireplace. ‘And wild,’ he added, and shook his head a little, laughing self-mockingly.
‘I heard—’
‘Yes?’
She shrugged. ‘I heard you were devoted to her.’ She looked at him directly, searching his face. ‘Where Serafina goes Danny follows. That’s what I heard.’
He leaned back in his chair, stretching out his long legs. ‘That was the way of it for a while.’
‘What happened?’
He made a small, rather tired gesture. ‘One too many fights. One too many lovers. Enough is enough even for the most besotted of fools.’
‘You still live together?’
He nodded. ‘After a fashion.’
‘You – you have children?’
He shook his head.
She had not realized she had been holding her breath. She let it out, long and slowly.
He held the wine glass in front of him, watching the glimmer of flame through its ruby depths. His eyes moved to Jessica and he smiled, ruefully. ‘No great advertisement for the institution of marriage, are we, you and I?’ he asked.
She had to laugh. ‘Who is?’
He joined her in laughter. ‘No one I know.’ He sat up, raising the glass in mocking toast. ‘Here’s damnation to the whole damned institution!’
As he tossed back the last of the wine the door opened. He looked up, and stilled in the act of putting down his glass. Jessica turned her head. Standing by the door, lit by the soft light of candles, stood the most stunningly lovely girl she had ever seen. Her hair was night black, her skin like cream. The body beneath a brilliant emerald green dress was arrogantly beautiful. She was eyeing Danny with something very close to contempt in her gleaming dark eyes. ‘So. Here you are. Amongst the books.’ Her Italian was oddly accented, her voice surprisingly harsh.
He stood. Though he made no attempt to introduce her, Jessica knew that this was his wife, and her heart contracted at the other girl’s beauty. Behind her, Theo had appeared, like a grotesque gnome, the top of his head, even with its ridiculous wig, barely reaching to Serafina’s shoulder. His yellowed grin gleamed in the candlelight.
Danny turned back to Jessica. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve kept you far too late. I really must go.’
She nodded. ‘I’ll see you again?’ Despite the listeners she could not prevent herself from asking the question, as she could not help the eager note in her voice. A small, entertained smile flickered across Serafina’s face.
‘Of course, if you’d like.’
‘I would.’ She did not care what they heard, what they thought.
He smiled, the wonderful smile she had never forgotten, and with no kiss, no touch of the hand turned and walked through the door, acknowledging Theo with a polite nod of the head, looking at Serafina not at all. The gypsy girl watched Jessica for a moment, the small, amused smile on her lips before turning to follow.
‘Well,’ said Theo, advancing into the room. ‘What did you think of my present? What did I tell you – old Theo can do anything—’ He cackled, watching her with an amusement only a little kinder than that Serafina had shown. ‘What’s the matter, gel? Moonstruck, are yer?’
Quiet and smiling she stood, smoothed her skirt, picked up her mask. Danny, her Danny, had been here with her. She could still hear his voice, still see the sharp lines of his face. As she walked past Theo to the door she paused to drop a light kiss onto the rouged cheek.
‘Yes,’ she said.