Every Mother's Son (37 page)

Daniel raised the brass knocker and gave two sharp raps; the door was opened almost immediately by a young maid, and he put his hand to his chest and said, ‘Daniel Orsini, signorina.’

She indicated that they should enter and they followed her through a lavishly decorated hall also with a mosaic floor and with walls dressed with tapestry hangings; a marble table with a large display of scented lilies was placed in the centre. The maid tapped on another door before ushering them into a wide withdrawing room set with sofas and side tables and large oil paintings where an elderly man, white-haired and bearded and probably Marco’s age, was standing by the window with a violin in his hand.

Daniel gave a short bow. ‘Signor Rosso, my name is Daniel Orsini. My grandfather, Marco Orsini—’

‘Ah! Come in. Come in, welcome.’ He embraced them all with wide arms and Daniel bowed again, as did Charles, whilst Beatrice gave a graceful dip of her knee.

‘I have a letter from Marco to expect you. Come, meet my wife.’ He led them into a smaller sitting room where a tiny woman dressed in black was sitting on a velvet chair. She rose to meet them and again they were welcomed. Her name was Isabella and they were told she didn’t speak any English. She gave Daniel a small white hand that looked too fragile to hold, but he bent over it in what he thought an appropriate gesture, and Charles did the same. Beatrice dipped her knee again and Signora Rosso came towards her as if to examine her more closely.

‘
Inglese
,’ she murmured, ‘
bella bella
,’ patting each of her own cheeks as if to demonstrate Beatrice’s fair skin. ‘
Flavia
,’ she added, indicating Beatrice’s blonde hair.

The three of them were invited to be seated and in halting Italian Beatrice asked if Signor Rosso was a musician. Instantly he denied it, exclaiming that he played only for himself, for his own and his wife’s entertainment.

The maid brought in coffee and biscotti and after a moment’s silence Signor Rosso said, ‘I did not know that Marco had an English grandson. He and I, our fathers were cousins, perhaps you know that? My father, he was from the Bracciano line, and Marco and I were good friends when we were young men, but have not met in over twenty years. He went to England and had a son, yes? Or a daughter?’

‘A son, sir,’ Daniel told him. ‘My father. He died when I was young. I don’t remember him.’

‘Ah!’ Rosso nodded. ‘Marco, he came back to Italy and his father had chosen a wife for him; she was a good woman but she no give him sons, only daughters.’

‘Erm, yes. My grandmother was an Englishwoman.’ Daniel didn’t quite know how to continue the conversation, but Signor Rosso had no such reservations and with a quick glance at Beatrice he said, ‘My wife she no understand English so you need not worry on her account, and signorina,’ again a glance at Beatrice, ‘I think you understand ze situation?’

‘I do, signor,’ Beatrice assured him. ‘I have known our good friend Daniel since childhood. We’ve grown up together; there are no secrets.’

‘Well then, I tell you.’ He leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘Marco, he tell me when he come back to Italy that he ’ad fallen in love wiz a beautiful English
signorina
.’ He glanced at Daniel. ‘That ees your grandmother, yes?’

‘Yes, so I understand, sir.’

‘And so you come to claim your heritage, yes? You ’ave found your family.’

‘Oh!’ Daniel was shocked. ‘No, signor, I haven’t come to claim anything, only to find ’truth of my blood. My father was adopted; he didn’t know his birth mother or father.’

‘Ah, I understand.’ Rosso nodded wisely. ‘You wish to know how you, wiz your Italian blood, came to be born in England, yes?’

‘Yes,’ Daniel said reluctantly. ‘Something like that.’

‘It’s so very interesting, isn’t it?’ Beatrice put in. ‘And important to know who we are.’

‘Indeed.’ Rosso smiled at her. ‘But anyone can tell who you and your brother are. You are pure bred
Inglesi
.’ He shrugged, shaking his head from side to side and his mouth making a little moue. ‘Or perhaps Swiss or Scandinavian, who knows? We will never be sure of who our forefathers are.’ His eyes gave a merry twinkle. ‘Perhaps we should not ask, eh?’

Signor Rosso went to fetch his coat and hat and said he would take them out for lunch and show them some of the important sites of Rome. His wife would not be joining them as she didn’t go out in the heat of the day, and she warned Beatrice in sign language that she should be careful. Then she lifted a finger and scurried away, returning a moment later with a parasol and a fan which she gave to Beatrice, indicating that she should keep them.

They walked in the shade of the buildings but even so the heat seemed to bounce off the walls. Daniel and Charles, following Rosso who had taken Beatrice’s arm to escort her, quietly discussed their preference for staying in the lodging house rather than with the Rossos.

‘I agree, Daniel,’ Charles murmured. ‘It might seem rather an intrusion for the three of us to stay even if for courtesy’s sake we were asked.’

‘Just what I was thinking,’ Daniel said. ‘He doesn’t know us, after all. I’m a relation of a relation and nothing to do with him.’

They hadn’t gone far before Rosso turned into a building that housed a restaurant. He was obviously well known as he was greeted profusely by the waiters and the owner, and he seemed to be explaining who the three English people were.

He pointed out Daniel and they heard the name Orsini; the owner came and shook Daniel by the hand and then Charles, and put his hand to his chest and gave a bow as he greeted Beatrice.

Rosso ordered food and wine for them, and whilst they waited he began a long explanation of the Orsini family that completely lost them except for the fact that it was an ancient
famiglia
going back to Roman times. He lifted his shoulders and hands as he told them, ‘There were popes and cardinals and many noblemen and many broken lines wiz intermarriage and so on. I show you ze Teatro di Marcello, it is a ruined place, very old, two thousand years old, even more old than ze Colosseum, it become a ruin and then noblemen, they begin to build a beautiful ’ouse on top, which then ze Orsinis live in and make it their palace,’ again came the shrug of his shoulders, ‘I don’t know, maybe two hundred years ago.’

Daniel was beginning to feel dizzy with information and knew he wouldn’t remember half of it; he gave a slight smile as he recalled George Hart saying solemnly that he should go to Rome. And here I am, he thought, and completely, incredibly, overwhelmed.

‘And also,’ Rosso was still talking, ‘you might like to go to Nerola and see ze Castello Orsini, it ees a ruin, or even Lazio and Taranto, but I don’t know them, there are too many to visit and I am old. Older even than Marco who ’as such great spirit.’

They shared a platter of
antipasti misti
with many thinly sliced meats including prosciutto, baby artichokes and slices of tomato and garlic drizzled with olive oil and served with freshly baked bruschetta; then came dishes of pasta, a speciality of the house, followed by a platter of roasted lamb flavoured with spices and herbs. A bottle of Frascati was ordered to drink with the lamb, and just as they were beginning to think they might not want to eat again for a week, Signor Rosso signalled to a waiter and said to Beatrice, ‘You musta try ze
crostata di ricotta
, how you say, cake with cheese and eggs and
limone
, and for drink you must have Marsala.’

‘Cheesecake?’ Beatrice suggested, and said she would like to try it.

Daniel gazed at it when the dish was brought. It looked delicious, a thin slice of pastry holding the light concoction. ‘It looks good,’ he said. ‘And nothing like my ma’s Yorkshire cheesecake.’

By the time they had finished eating and talking in the cool restaurant it was three thirty and the heat outside had abated slightly as the sky clouded over.

‘But you must still be careful,’ Signor Rosso told them. ‘Keep under cover. Now,’ he said, ‘I will tell you where to find ze Orsini palace, because you must excuse me, I go now home to rest.’

Of course they quite understood, and they thanked him sincerely for the meal and his company and hospitality. Rosso shook hands with Daniel and welcomed him into the Orsini family, shook hands with Charles, bowed and kissed Beatrice’s hand.

‘
Arrivederci
. Come back to Roma again,’ he said. ‘It ees your ancestral home, Daniel. Always you are welcome.’

‘
Arrivederci
. Thank you,’ Daniel said fervently. ‘
Mille grazie
.’

None of them felt like going very far after the meal they had eaten, so they walked slowly, Beatrice holding the parasol to shield her face. Within fifteen minutes they came to the rear of the Colosseum, where they saw ancient statuary, ruins of antiquity and vestiges of old walls with orange trees growing between them, and what looked like another smaller Colosseum with open ruined walls and arches and stone columns, except that another occupied floor had been built on the very top. They could see the windows dressed with curtains and flower pots on the sills.

‘This is like an ancient arena,’ Charles said, looking round the vast area surrounding them.

‘Or an auditorium,’ Beatrice added. ‘Perhaps it was used for music and entertainment.’

‘Or gladiatorial battles,’ Charles said, his eyes gleaming.

But Daniel had his eyes glued on the edifice before him. ‘And this,’ he said quietly, ‘is the Orsini Palace, home of the Roman Orsinis.’ He took a huge breath and exhaled. ‘I’ve seen enough,’ he said. ‘Now I want to go home.’

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Stephen sat silently, not asking any questions as his mother explained the connection between his father and Fletcher Tuke. She concluded by saying, ‘Ellen Tuke died not long ago. Her funeral was last week.’

‘So was that when it all came out?’ Stephen asked. ‘Did no one know about it before?’ He wrinkled his heavy eyebrows. ‘I can’t believe that no one knew, not in such a small community as this.’

‘Fletcher and Harriet Tuke have known for over twenty years, and I – I guessed that … yes, I did harbour suspicions that … that …’ How to say to your son that you suspected your husband had had a liaison with a servant girl who had given birth to an illegitimate child? ‘… that Fletcher Tuke looked very much like your father when he was a young man.’

‘So did my father support her and the child?’ Stephen’s voice was brisk and quite grown up. ‘And why didn’t he confide in you before you were married? Or perhaps he thought you wouldn’t marry him if you knew.’

‘He didn’t support her because he didn’t know,’ she replied softly. ‘And she never asked for anything, or accused him. It seems that your father was probably the last person to know. She – Ellen Tuke – passed off the child as her husband’s until she decided to tell.’ When it suited her, Melissa thought bitterly. She bided her time for greater effect and in the hope that Fletcher would inherit the estate; for I am certain that is why she did it.

‘I don’t believe it,’ Stephen said with the wisdom of youth. ‘How could he not know?’

But then he became silent again as he remembered he was speaking to his mother, and then the implication seemed to hit home and he muttered, ‘So Fletcher Tuke is my half-brother, is that what you’re saying?’ He looked down at his feet. ‘And does that mean … as the eldest son …’

‘No,’ his mother said. ‘Let’s be quite clear on that. He will
not
inherit, and more to the point, Stephen, he doesn’t want to. He’s quite determined about that. He’s a self-made man, a farmer who has succeeded without the help of anyone else. I’ve had conversations with him and Harriet, and I have asked him if he will assist us on the estate, show you the ropes so to speak, until such time as your father recovers and we can employ another bailiff, which is proving difficult at the moment. I’m assuming that you are still intent on attending farming college? And if you are,’ she said, as Stephen nodded in assent, ‘then we need to have a discussion with Charles when he comes home.’

Stephen mulled it over. ‘I’ve always liked Fletcher Tuke, but now, well, I don’t know if I can see him in the same light.’

‘It’s not his fault.’

‘I know,’ Stephen acknowledged. ‘But there’s something else to be considered.’

Melissa shook her head. She had known the subject would be mentioned. Stephen was a straight-talking boy – no, young man, she thought. But he was young, young enough to recover.

‘You know what I’m going to say?’ His voice faltered and cracked a little.

‘Yes,’ she said sadly, ‘and I’m sorry, Stephen, but you must now consider the Tuke sons and daughters as your nephews and nieces.’

*

He was shocked when he went up to see his father. A fire had been lit in the bedroom and he was sitting in an armchair with a blanket over his knees. His face was grey, as if the colour had leached out of it. He seemed to have aged by years.

‘Stephen!’ he said croakily. ‘Are you home already? Has term finished early?’

‘Mama sent for me, Father. She seemed to think you needed some company and help on the estate. It’s only another week to the end of the term in any case.’

‘Oh, nonsense.’ Christopher made a stab at being positive. ‘I’m just a bit down at the moment. Things don’t always go well when you’re running a place this size.’

Stephen sat on the edge of the bed. ‘It’s all right, Father. Mama has explained everything.’

‘Has she?’ Christopher answered quietly. ‘No, I don’t think she has. She can’t explain why a young man such as I was, shy and reserved, could get into a situation like this. Or how an incident nearly fifty years ago could cause such a reverberation.’

‘An incident!’ Stephen said incredulously. ‘Surely it was more than just an incident?’ I might be young, he thought, but I’m not totally naive. I know how these things can happen.

Christopher sighed. ‘I wish I could explain it,’ he said, ‘but I can’t. I remember Ellen Tuke very well. We were about the same age and I was often in the kitchen chatting to Cook and the other servants, and I admit I was at fault in making a friend of her. I was lonely, I suppose,’ he said softly. ‘But I’m as much a victim of circumstance as everyone else, and I’ll speak frankly, Stephen, man to man, when I say that although it should have been a momentous and profound experience for me as well as for her, I can’t recall a damned thing about it!’