An Unsuitable Attachment (19 page)

***

It was dark by the time the party arrived at the Trevi fountain after dinner. The evening sky was a bright electric blue and against it the fountain reared itself monumentally like scenery in an opera. Yet nothing dramatic was to be expected of this cast, Sophia thought, and there was no sign of Father Branche.

'Perhaps we shouldn't wait for him to throw in our coins,' said Mark, rather as if he were organizing the children on a parish outing, it's rather cold standing about.'

'I know what I'm going to wish for,' said Sister Dew, advancing dangerously near to the water, as if about to fling herself in among the straining, rearing horses.

Mark explained that strictly speaking the legend was that if you threw a coin into the fountain you would ensure your return to Rome.

'I feel that should be enough without any other wish,' said Sophia; but privately she added a kind of prayer that Faustina might be safe and happy.

Mark also threw a coin because he did not want to seem superior by refusing to make a fool of himself, and Edwin did the same, to humour the women. Daisy frowned as she threw hers, as if she hardly wished to return to a country where animals were not treated as they should be.

'Now you mustn't tell anyone what you wish,' said Sister Dew to Ianthe and Penelope, for obviously the two younger unmarried women would have the most interesting and secret wishes. She herself wanted nothing in the romantic line, just that one of her numbers should come up on Ernie—Premium Bonds, that is, she added in case the spirit of the fountain didn't know what she meant.

'You go next,' said Penelope to Ianthe, for she had a childish feeling that it would be lucky to be last.

'Oh, all right.' Ianthe laughed but inwardly she felt quite serious. That I may return to Rome with the man I love, she said to herself, and quickly threw her coin into the water.

Penelope barely had time to frame her wish when there was a commotion among the rest of the party and she realized that Father Branche had arrived.

'Perhaps we might go to a café,' he suggested, 'if you've all thrown your coins in. Would you find that agreeable?'

'
Agreeable
,' Sister Dew giggled. 'It would be nice to sit down.'

'What a typically English reaction,' said Penelope scornfully. 'And does he really mean
everybody
to tag along?' She had decided that if possible she would go off by herself with him. It was a rather desperate plan and she did not know what was likely to come of it, or indeed what she wished to come of it, but anything would be better than the parish party.

'I don't know really,' said Sophia vaguely. 'Some of us walk rather slowly, you know, and it's quite easy to get lost in Rome.' Her sister would be quite safe with a clergyman, she thought.

They were walking rather a long way, it seemed, and in a direction Sophia did not know. At one point they had to cross the road by a subway. As they walked down the steps eyes glowed at them in the dark and grey shapes slunk past them, so that Sister Dew let out a cry and clung on to Sophia.

'Look, so many of them,' said Daisy, 'and I've brought nothing with me. Still, we can find this place again. I shall come back in the morning.'

'Somebody seems to be feeding them,' said Ianthe.

A kind-hearted Italian lady with a basket was crouching down by the cats, encouraging them with gentle murmurings, and setting out food in little dishes.

'Left-overs, I suppose,' said Sister Dew thoughtfully, for what would
Roman
left-overs be? A bit of that osso buco, perhaps, or spaghetti—fancy a cat eating spaghetti. 'I shouldn't think
your
pussy would fancy that,' she said to Mark.

'Would Faustina like spaghetti, do you think?' he asked Sophia.

'I don't know, we must try her with some when we get back. She might like the sauce.' Basil, she thought, that was what gave it the Italian flavour.

'We seem to have lost Basil and Penelope,' said Ianthe, linking their names cosily together. 'Did anyone see which way they went?'

Apparently nobody had, but as there was a convenient café where they had stopped it seemed sensible not to go on any further.

'I'm sure Basil will look after Penelope,' Ianthe reassured Sophia. 'After all he
is
a clergyman.'

'Yes, of course,' said Sophia, for had she not been thinking that herself?

'We seem to have lost the others,' said Basil, 'but this was the café I meant. If we sit near the window they'll see us when they arrive.'

'Yes, they will,' said Penelope. She was beginning to realize that she had meant to throw Ianthe and Basil together so that when Rupert came—as he surely would—Ianthe might seem to be involved with him.

'What would you like?' asked Basil. 'Coffee and brandy?'

'Thank you.'

When the waiter had brought their drinks they sat in a rather awkward silence.

'Do you know Ianthe well?' Penelope asked.

'Not really—I was a curate in her father's parish for a short time.'

'Before he was a canon?'

'Yes, before that.'

'She's a charming person,' said Penelope, feeling that this was expected of her.

'Yes, charming, I suppose, but a little inhuman, don't you think? Just a little too good to be true?'

Penelope looked at him suspiciously. It did not seem quite natural that he should feel as she did about Ianthe.

He fitted a cigarette into a rather too long holder.

'I suppose I ought not to say this, but she was a bit keen on me at one time.'

Penelope smiled to herself at the old-fashioned phrase 'a bit keen on me'. It seemed to make him rather 'caddish' in a way that men weren't nowadays. She took a sip of brandy, wondering what he expected her to say. Then she realized that he was smiling at her indulgently and it suddenly occurred to her that he was one of those men who imagine that all women are running after them. So she had got herself into another of her ludicrous situations. What she would have said or done was still uncertain, when there was a commotion in the doorway of the café, and a stout handsome elderly woman, in a tight silk dress printed with tiger lilies, rushed past the waiters to the table where Penelope and Basil were sitting.

'
There
you are!' she called out in a ringing tone. 'I've been looking for you
everywhere.
You went out without your scarf and you know how treacherous these Italian nights are.' She was brandishing in her hand what looked like a hand-knitted muffler in two shades of ecclesiastical purple.

She sat down heavily in a vacant chair at the table and summoned the waiter with a gesture.

'Coffee is
not
good,' she said, 'it will keep you awake. You know you must have your nine hours sleep. My sister is a great believer in a little brandy—not more than a teaspoonful—in cases of biliousness,' she added to Penelope.

'Milk,' she said to the waiter, '
latte
—hot,' she hesitated for the Italian word,
'bolente,''
she brought out at last.

'But I don't want boiling milk,' protested Father Branche unhappily. 'One never knows what milk will be like abroad. It might be goat's milk, or even sheep's milk—imagine that!'

'It would probably be very nourishing,' said Penelope.

'Oh, Miss Bede, let me introduce . . .' Basil began, then realized that he had forgotten Penelope's name, if he had ever known it.

'How do you do,' murmured Penelope. 'I'm Penelope Grandison.'

'She is a vicar's wife's sister,' Basil went on.

'A vicar—
what
vicar?' asked Miss Bede suspiciously.

'The vicar of a north London parish.'

'Oh, I see.' Miss Bede nodded, obviously not quite satisfied.

'My brother-in-law is the Reverend Mark Ainger,' said Penelope.

'Ainger,' Miss Bede repeated, is he in
Crockford's Clerical Directoiy?'

'Yes, I'm sure he is,' said Penelope, rather taken aback. 'I haven't actually looked, but he must be.'

'I always believe in checking up,' said Miss Bede firmly. 'There are so many impostors nowadays. Not, I'm sure,' she said, smiling graciously at Penelope, 'that your brother-in-law is an impostor.'

'No, he isn't, I assure you . . .'

'Still, it will be interesting to look him up.'

'Well, you can hardly do that here,' said Basil smugly.

'There must be a
Crockford
somewhere in Rome—in the Vatican Library, no doubt.
They
like to check up, of course. Do you know,' Miss Bede turned to Penelope, 'the Jesuits have a list of every Church of England clergyman who is visiting Italy and know exactly what he is doing at every minute of the day
or night?'

'Goodness, I didn't know that,' said Penelope weakly. Surely they couldn't know about every
minute,
she thought, but decided not to pursue the subject. She wondered if Mark knew about it.

Fortunately, perhaps because of some confusion in the order, the hot milk did not appear and soon Miss Bede seemed to want to lead Basil away. As they were staying quite near to each other the three of them walked back together, rather slowly, for Miss Bede was wearing very high-heeled shoes—most unsuitable for an elderly lady, Penelope thought.

'The night air is so treacherous—in more ways than one!' Miss Bede said, suddenly roguish. 'My sister will wonder where I've been. She decided to have an early night with
Adonaïs
—a poem by Shelley, you know. If one must read in Rome that seems very suitable, don't you think.'

'Oh yes,' said Penelope, rather confused.

'Here we are then,' said Miss Bede. 'Good-night, Miss Grandison. Basil, say good-night to Miss Grandison.'

Basil did as he was ordered and followed Miss Bede into the Albergo di Risorgimento. He was like some tame animal being led away, thought Penelope scornfully. She didn't see how anyone could take him seriously, not even a clergyman's daughter, who might be thought to have to make do with her father's curates.

She supposed she would have to explain how she and Basil had gone ahead of the others and lost them, but to her surprise there was nobody to explain to. The others were not yet in, so she got undressed quickly and was lying in bed reading when she heard Ianthe at the door.

'Oh, that's a relief,' said Ianthe. 'I'll just go and tell Sophia you're here.'

'Surely you weren't worried about me?' said Penelope.

'Not
worried
exactly, and of course we both knew you would be all right with Basil. Did you have a jolly time?'

Penelope could not help smiling at Ianthe's choice of adjective, but perhaps 'jolly' was what the 'time' had been. Yet 'ludicrous' would be more accurate, she felt.

'A lady came and fetched him away,' she said. 'A Miss Bede.'

'One of the ladies he is in Rome with, I suppose.'

'Well yes, one does suppose so.'

Ianthe smiled. 'Something of the kind happened when I knew him,' she said. 'The lady was a rich widow and wanted to marry him.'

Penelope remembered what Basil had said about Ianthe being 'a bit keen' on him and wondered if she had been jealous of his attentions to the widow. It was difficult to imagine Ianthe feeling such a strong emotion.

'Did you ever feel anything for him?' she asked boldly.

'
I
—feel anything for Basil Branche?' Ianthe's astonishment seemed genuine. 'Well, I suppose I quite liked him, as one usually did like the curates, but there was no other feeling.'

'I thought you might have been passionately in love with him at one time,' said Penelope, wondering if she was going too far.

But Ianthe laughed good-humouredly.

'Actually,' Penelope went on, 'it's difficult to imagine you falling in love with anybody—if you see what I mean,' she added hastily. 'You're so cool and collected and I'm sure a man would have to be almost perfect to come up to your standards.'

'What a strange idea you must have of me,' said Ianthe. 'I'm just like anybody else in that way. I could fall in love,' she began and then broke off in embarrassment, for now that the opportunity had presented itself she found it was not so easy to tell Penelope about John. There was not much to tell and a girl like Penelope would think very little of a bunch of violets, tea in a café, and a kiss in public.

'You sound as if you
are
in love with somebody,' said Penelope, 'but I suppose I mustn't ask who it is.'

Ianthe's silence confirmed her worst fears. Obviously she must be in love with Rupert Stonebird, but as they both knew him it was awkward to discuss the subject further. If only he would come to Rome and put them out of their misery!

The next few days passed happily and profitably in a whirl of sightseeing. Churches were reverently admired, views exclaimed over, ruins gave rise to solemn or facetious comments. Feet and backs ached in a good cause and Sister Dew's ankles swelled in the unaccustomed heat. Basil Branche was seen frequently in the distance, but always with the ladies he was escorting. Penelope's scorn for him increased.

'A tame donkey—that's what he's like, letting himself be led about like that,' she said to Ianthe, who was contemplating a slab of marble fallen in the grass. They were spending the afternoon at Ostia, and Ianthe and the two sisters had drawn away from the rest of the party for some feminine small talk.

'Some young men seem to be fated to that kind of life,' said Ianthe. 'I suppose it isn't always as easy as it sounds and we know that it has its disadvantages.' She smiled, remembering what Penelope had told her about Miss Bede ordering hot milk for him in the café.

'I think men should be more—well—
manly,'
said Penelope in disgust.

'Oh darling, we know they can't always be that, and why should we expect them to be,' said Sophia. 'I'm sure Father Branche
is
rather delicate, you know. He doesn't look at all strong and it would be a great strain trying to be manly all the time.'

'Miss Bede won't let him out of her sight,' said Penelope. 'I suppose he's like a son to her.'

'We must suppose so,' said Sophia, 'though it's often difficult to guess what a man may be to a woman—age doesn't seem to enter into it.'