Season of Storms (15 page)

xiv

I
had no guarantee, of course, that Alex would even still be there. He’d said to come at morning break, and not at noon, but even so I thought it worth a try.

For once I had no trouble finding my way—the rooms, as before, led neatly one into the other, the thickly laid carpets hushing my steps as I moved through the dust-scented shadows. Only this time, as I was approaching the closed door of the room that I assumed was Alex’s office or study, I saw someone else coming, too, from the other direction. A man, middle-aged, wearing working clothes.

He didn’t see me. I was still a good room-length away, and at any rate he wasn’t looking up. His head was bent as though in thought, his walk purposeful. Reaching Alex’s door he knocked and then, not waiting for an answer, opened the door and looked in. In profile his face had a fierce, hawk-like quality, helped by the hooked nose and hard, thin-lipped mouth.

He said something urgent and sharp, Alex answered, and then with a slight frown the hawk-faced man went in and shut the door behind him.

Probably one of the workmen, I thought, with a problem. Not wanting to interrupt their business for something as frivolous as my e-mail to Bryan, I turned again, retreating quietly through the semidarkened rooms, and let my stomach lead me through the twisting corridors to where the others had already gathered in the dining room for lunch.

xv

THE
afternoon flew.

Six o’clock came quickly, and before I knew it everyone was packing up their scripts and getting to their feet with yawns and stretches, and the Italians were shaking our hands again and saying their goodbyes, and that was that. The first day over.

I debated whether I should try one more time to reach Alex in his study, but in the end I reasoned that he probably wouldn’t be there anymore, so I went upstairs instead to bathe and change, telling myself I could talk to him later, at dinner.

But he wasn’t at dinner. His chair at the head of the table stayed empty while our starters were served, and when Rupert asked Teresa if we shouldn’t wait she shook her head and answered something back to the effect that Signor D’Ascanio had been called out on business and wouldn’t be joining us.

Teresa seemed more sociable today. She had a young woman helping her with the serving tonight—a quietly nervous young woman whose tentative movements reminded me of the time I’d been in training myself as a waitress. The new maid, I assumed, and her presence explained why Teresa looked less strained.

Looking at the two empty chairs near the head of the table, I found myself wondering what sort of business had called Alex away this evening, and whether he was alone, but my wondering stopped when Daniela Forlani arrived, coming late to the table with the nonchalance of someone who was used to having others adapt to her schedule.

Again, as before, her appearance distracted the men. All except Rupert, of course, and even he seemed to find her of interest, eyeing her the way he might admire a classic sculpture. And that didn’t make me like her any better.

She sat—I thought deliberately—between Nicholas and Madeleine, and shaking out her napkin asked for wine. “This rain makes me cold, and I have spent much time outdoors today with my men, to see how they progress with their work.”

Rupert, always first to get a conversation started, asked her if her men lived in the town.

“No, here,” she corrected him. “Here in the grounds. If you take the path down towards my villa, you will pass the outhouses where they stay.”

Den glanced up from his plate, eyebrow lifting. “Your men stay in outhouses?”

Rupert was smiling. “Not American outhouses, Dennis. They’re not outdoor lavs, they’re just outbuildings on the estate.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” Den grinned.

Daniela, unconcerned with the differences between British and American English, took a look around. “Where is Alessandro?”

Rupert said, “Teresa told us he’d been called away.”

“Oh, yes? I hope he is not late,” she said. “He promised to come down and light my fires tonight.” I thought that a remarkably racy statement for her to make in the company of strangers, until I looked at her face and realized she wasn’t aware of the English double meaning of the phrase. To our raised eyebrows, she explained, “The fires in my house are so old, I cannot make them light. And it is still so cold for spring.”

Den leaned forwards, all charm. “I could come and take a look at them, if you like. I’m not too bad at lighting fires.” The double meaning came across more plainly in his words, but once again Daniela missed it, acknowledging his offer with a wave of one manicured hand.

“Oh, no, it is all right. It will be easier for Alessandro, he has done it many times.”

Den lifted his wineglass and murmured, “I’m sure he has, the lucky bastard.” Then more clearly, he asked, “Do you always stay down in the villa? Why not in the main house?”

She shrugged. “I am used to much space. To have only one room to myself, that I would not like.”

She must, I thought, be used to quite a lot of space, to judge the rooms of Il Piacere as being too small, too confining. My own suite was larger by half than my flat. I said aloud, “Your work must keep you busy.”

“Yes, I am always travelling. This past week alone I have been to Sardinia, Rome.” Still no mention of Venice, I thought. She went on, “The Trust has many properties. But that is good. It was the wish of my late husband that the most beautiful homes of our country be kept for all Italians to enjoy. He would be very happy that we have Il Piacere. He was a great admirer of Alessandro’s grandfather.”

They’d both had a lech for young women, I thought. Although in Daniela’s late husband’s case, it had probably been the other way around. I might be willing to believe that Celia the First had stayed with Galeazzo out of love, but from my short acquaintance with Daniela I somehow doubted love had been the motive for her marriage to an old and wealthy man. I doubted, too, that love had any role to play in her relationship with Alex. He was wealthy, too.

Madeleine was asking, “Where will Alex live, when the Trust takes possession of Il Piacere? Do you know?”

“He has other homes, of course,” Daniela said, her tone implying that everyone had a few homes scattered round. “And he will have the use of this one for his lifetime.” Switching subjects out of boredom, she asked Madeleine in turn, “I am told your daughter comes this weekend, this is true?”

Madeleine confirmed it with a smile. “Alex has been very kind in making the arrangements.”

“And this will not interfere with your work, having a child to look after?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t think so. I expect she’ll be sleeping for most of the time. She’s got glandular fever.”

Den looked over. “What’s glandular fever?”

Rupert, again translating British to American, said, “Mononucleosis.”

“Oh. Yeah, mono knocks you flat on your back, poor kid.”

“If she actually has it,” said Nicholas. “I wouldn’t put it past Poppy to fake being ill just to get what she wants.”

Madeleine sighed. “Nicky . . .”

“I’m only saying.”

“Poppy?” Daniela arched her eyebrows. “This is your daughter’s name? It is peculiar.”

Madeleine only smiled politely and went on with her dinner, but I couldn’t help cutting in, “I think it’s a lovely name, actually.”

“Celia,” said Rupert, “could you pass the carrots, please?”

“I’d have loved to have had a name like Poppy, something distinctive, instead of having to share the name Celia with three other girls in my class.”

“But then,” Daniela said, “you would not have been given a role in this play, yes?”

“Celia love, the carrots.” Rupert tried again, and this time, biting my tongue with an effort, I gave in and passed him the serving dish as Daniela, oblivious, turned her attention to Nicholas.

“So, you have started rehearsals today, I hear?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“I must come one day and watch you. I have wanted many times to see the way a play develops in the days before it is performed.”

Madeleine’s gaze lifted briefly, so subtle a movement that I would have missed it if I hadn’t been looking right at her. But Rupert saw. Sending her a silent glance of reassurance, he said to Daniela, “I’m afraid we don’t have visitors at this stage of rehearsal. It’s a little too distracting.”

“I see.” In spite of her light tone I sensed that she, like Nicholas, was not at all accustomed to being told what she could and couldn’t do. And if she truly wanted something, I suspected that she wouldn’t be put off.

xvi

I
had just settled in with
The Season of Storms
on my sitting-room sofa when somebody knocked at my door.

It was Teresa.

“Signorina Sands, Signor D’Ascanio says would you like to come now. He waits in the Veranda della Diana.”

“I’m sorry . . . where?”

“The Veranda della Diana. Is the room where he works. I will take you.”

I would have liked some time to tidy up, to brush my hair at least, but already she was moving off and I didn’t trust myself to find the room without her help. It was much easier, admittedly, to follow someone else through the corridors, though Teresa’s straight back and formal efficiency made me feel rather as though I’d been summoned to an audience with royalty. Descending the main sweep of stairs to the ground floor entrance hall, I felt the watching eyes of disembodied statuary heads set into niches in the wall, and fancied they were living courtiers looking on as I was being ushered to the presence of the king.

I could have found my way from there—I’d done it twice today already. But Teresa insisted on taking me all the way through to the door of the study, even knocking to announce me and then melting back into the shadowy rooms we had passed through before I could thank her.

A single sharp ‘woof’ replied to the knock, and one of the greyhounds padded to the door and sniffed as Alex’s voice called out, “Come in.”

I pushed the door open with caution, because of the dog, but Max had already stepped back, long tail wagging a gentlemanly welcome. Stretching his head to examine the hand I held out, he permitted me to briefly stroke one ear before he wheeled and trotted back to take his place beside his master.

He had a fair distance to cover; the room was quite long. It was, though, the cosiest room I’d seen yet in the villa, a sort of blend of study and conservatory that jutted out from the house, a true enclosed veranda, with long windows running round the three outer walls and bookshelves with leaded glass fronts lining the fourth. The ubiquitous oriental carpets added warmth here, worn though they were, and the faded striped draperies had been drawn against the night, holding in the glow of floor and desk lamps at the far end of the room. There were several chairs set round haphazardly—a couple in woven cane with cushions in the same striped drapery fabric, and another leather armchair that was clearly meant for reading—but the room had been designed, I thought, for work.

The wide wooden desk at the far end was littered with papers and books that competed for room with a bulky computer. Behind that sat Alex, and behind
him
a bronze statue posed on a pillar, a female figure holding bow and arrow with a hound curled round her feet. The goddess Diana, I thought. Hence the name of the room.

Alex glanced up from his desk. In the light of his computer screen his face looked deathly tired. “Good,” he said, “I’m glad she found you. I felt very bad for missing you this morning.”

“No, that’s my fault,” I rushed to explain. “I couldn’t get away at break, you see, and when I came at lunch you were busy with someone . . .”

He looked up a second time, rather more quickly, and finding his eyes too intense, too distracting, I finished off lamely, “. . . and I didn’t want to bother you, so I thought I’d just leave it till later.”

Again his gaze dropped as he pushed his own chair back and pulled another forwards, making room for me at the computer. “It is later now,” he said. “Come send your e-mail.”

The dogs made room as well, retreating to the corner behind Alex where they lay like coiled springs, their eyes alert. Nero, I thought, was more wary than Max, more aloof, and less likely to want to make friends. But Max kindly perked up his ears when I looked at him, and as Alex guided me through the Italian instructions onscreen Max crept forwards on the carpet till his nose was near my ankle.

“Then the address,” Alex told me, “and you type your message here.”

He turned away politely while I wrote, occupying himself with the contents of a file folder spread open on his desk. He seemed to be checking a column of figures, and that action combined with the companionable silence took me instantly back to the days of my childhood, with me sitting at one end of the old front-room table, the one with its leg held level by the out-of-date atlas, scribbling at my homework while Bryan, beside me, bent over the household accounts.

I felt a twist of something that was mostly missing Bryan, but partly, too, a flash of feelings harder to identify, a sense of familiarity and rightness. Stealing a quick glance at Alex, I had a peculiar sensation of continuity, as though this were a moment that would be repeated many times in years to come. Which was, of course, ridiculous. Smiling at my fancies, I turned my concentration to the letter I was writing.

I didn’t tell Bryan everything—it would have taken pages. But I did ask him, out of curiosity, what he knew about Den. I didn’t like to come right out and say that Rupert had been acting strangely since we’d met Den in Venice, but I thought there was a chance that Bryan might know some small detail of their history that would help me understand what was between them. I asked the question casually, and followed it by telling him about the theatre, and my rooms, and our first day rehearsing.
And Madeleine Hedrick is lovely,
I wrote.
You were right. (Aren’t you always?) With much love, your Angel.

“There,” I said. “I’m finished. Shall I send it now?”

Alex nodded, showed me how. “And I will, of course, let you know when he replies.”

“Oh, I hadn’t thought of that. I mean, I didn’t tell him
not
to reply, so of course . . . but I don’t want to put you to any more trouble.”

He shrugged it off. “We Italians are great romantics, you know. We understand the matters of the heart.”

I was slow on the uptake. “Matters of the . . . ? Oh no, it isn’t that at all,” I set him straight, and smiled. “No, Bryan’s not my boyfriend, he’s my . . . well, he’s like my father. One of them, anyway.” And then, to his questioning eyes, I explained, “He and Rupert practically raised me.”

“Ah,” he said. “He’s Rupert’s partner.”

He said that evenly, but still I thought I caught a change of tone. Not everyone, I reminded myself, had grown up in the theatre, where such things were common. “I’m sorry, does that shock you?”

His sideways glance was dry. “I went to public school.”

I would have let the matter drop, but Alex, with his eyes still on my face, appeared to feel the need to add, “It’s not a way of life I understand. But that doesn’t mean I disapprove. As it happens, I like Rupert very much, and how he lives is not my business.” He turned his chair a fraction more, as though he found me rather interesting. “You say that he raised you?”

“My school was very near their flat. My mother wasn’t home much. So most nights I stayed with Roo and Bryan.”

“Ah.” He accepted this with a nod and looked away, and it was my turn now to study him. He must have felt my scrutiny, because his gaze came back, and held a silent query.

I said, “Sorry,” looking back to the computer screen. “It’s only that most people make comments, you know, about homosexuals bringing up children.”

“Most people are not fit themselves to raise a child.” A hint of a personal bitterness touched his calm voice, and Max, at my feet, raised his head as if to gauge his master’s mood, ears cocked, eyes questioning. Alex dropped an automatic hand to stroke the side of Max’s face. Satisfied, the greyhound subsided again with a soft whuff of breath as Alex flashed the tight brief smile that gave little away. “If it matters, I think you were lucky,” he said, “to be loved.”

Then he looked at his watch. Which was my cue, I thought, to make my exit. “Look, I’d better be going.” I pushed back my chair. “Thanks for letting me do this”—I nodded towards the computer—“it really was . . .”

“I’ll walk you back.” He stood with me. The dogs, like small bodyguards, sprang to their feet, long tails wagging, preparing for action. Nero, being brave, nudged my knee with his nose and I offered my hand to him cautiously.

“He won’t bite,” said Alex.

But Nero had already moved off. Like his master, I noticed, he didn’t like anyone getting too near. As Alex and I made our way through the corridors, the dogs went ahead, circling back now and then to be sure we were following.

Glad as I was of the escort, I found the long silence unnerving. I tried to think of something we could talk about that wasn’t controversial. “We missed you at dinner,” I said. “Teresa told us you’d been called away on business?”

“Yes, I was.”

And that was that. I tried again. “You know Mrs. Forlani’s been trying to find you. She wanted help lighting her fires.”

There, I’d caught his attention. His mouth quirked. “She did, did she?”

“That’s what she told us.”

“Then I must see what I can do.”

We’d reached the ladies’ wing, the softly lighted landing with the stairway leading down, and overhead the stained glass ceiling set against the dark night sky. I could hear quiet music and voices from Madeleine’s room, and I lowered my own voice accordingly. “Thank you again, I—”

“My pleasure.” He turned with the dogs and was walking away when he stopped. Paused. Looked back. “Do you have a day off from rehearsals?”

“Yes, Sundays. Why?”

“There are quite a lot of sights to see, around Mira. Perhaps one Sunday you would like to take a drive.”

Was he actually asking me out on a date, I wondered? Caught completely unprepared, I dodged the question with a nonanswer. “It’s very kind of you to offer.”

“Not at all.” Again he turned and walked off with the greyhounds at his heels.

I watched them out of sight, then closed my door and went through to the bedroom. Collapsing full-length on the bed with my feet on the pillows, I sent an imploring look up at the portrait of Celia the First.

“Well, what would
you
do?” I asked, begging for guidance. But she, with her soft, knowing eyes, only smiled.