Seasons of Love (15 page)

‘I shall make the sacrifice and stay. For il Conte’s sake.’

No one had ever called the new owner ‘il Conte’ in the same tone of voice, or ever would. They said ‘il conte Alessandro’, as if speaking politely of a stranger, for that was what he was to them now, though most of them had known him as a boy.

To Helen's surprise, the new conte came to call on her before he returned to Rome. She found him a cold, punctilious man, most unlike his father. She offered him refreshments and introduced her son to him. He refused the refreshments, nodded briefly to Harry and thereafter ignored the boy completely.

‘I have come, signora, to acquaint you with the terms of my father's will. He has left you a small bequest, and there were instructions that I was to give you this letter personally.’ He flourished at her a crackling piece of paper, with a great red blob of a seal on one side.

She took it reluctantly. ‘I didn't expect anything. I have no right!’

He looked bored. ‘It is, signora, a very small bequest.’ He waved his arms to encompass the room where they sat.
‘Effettivamente,
it is this house. With the condition that if you ever wish to sell it, you must first offer it to me. However, I can tell you now that this will not be necessary. I have no desire to acquire more property in Serugia.’

‘I - I don't know what to say. I’m grateful, of course, but - ’

He held up one hand. ‘I must ask you to read the letter and tell me that you will accept the bequest.’ He pulled out a large gold watch and frowned at it. ‘And I should be obliged, signora, if you would do so quickly, as I am pressed for time.’

The letter brought tears to her eyes, for il Conte had written it himself in badly-spelled English and it sounded just like him speaking. He begged her to accept this so-small bequest for the sake of their friendship, which had given him much pleasure in the loneliness of his declining years, and also for the sake of her beautiful son. He would have left her something more valuable, but he knew how foolishly proud she was. This, however, she could not deny him.

No, she couldn’t refuse a gift made with such loving kindness. She looked across at her visitor.

‘I shall accept the bequest. And know that I shall always be grateful to your father.’

Il conte Alessandro bowed, not in the slightest interested in her feelings. ‘Then, signora, I have done as my father wished, and we may now leave it to the lawyers to settle the details.’

He studied her in puzzlement. A strange woman, this last mistress of his father's, not beautiful exactly, but with a face of character. Too thin for his taste and very soberly dressed. Who did she think she was fooling with her prim governessy clothes and the English lessons she gave?

He paused again as a shaft of sunlight caught the glory of her hair. She might not look bad, though, with that magnificent hair let loose around her shoulders, but it did nothing for her appearance so tightly coiled in a chignon. Still, she had made his father happy in his last years, had cost him very little (she must be a fool not to have feathered her nest) and she had made no scandal. What more could one ask of your father’s mistress? He thought the bequest very fair payment for her services.

At the door he bowed again. ‘I have to thank you, signora, on behalf of the family, for your many - er - kindnesses to my father, and, above all, for your discretion.’

He was gone before she had realised what he meant by that and there was no one in whom she could confide her indignation, deeply though it burned. Almost she wrote to him to reject the bequest, but in the end, common sense prevailed, and the thought of Harry made her swallow her pride and sign the papers the lawyer presented to her a few days later.

She was filled with quiet joy afterwards as she wandered round her house, touching a window frame, a door, a pot of flowers. With no rent to pay, she might be able to save more from now on.

But sadness crept in behind the joy. She would miss il Conte dreadfully. Her life would be very lonely without an intelligent, educated friend to talk to.

The following year brought more summer visitors to Serugia than ever before. The region was becoming popular with the gentry and nobility of Europe, especially those with artistic pretensions. The palazzo was rented first by a family from Rome, then by one from Milan.

Maria complained about all the visitors. They smelled of new money, she said scornfully, elevating her button of a nose and shaking her plump jowls. Not like il Conte, who had been a true aristocrat. His son was a poor substitute, for he cared naught for the land or for his dependants. He no doubt took after his mother's side of the family!

Helen, however, couldn’t afford to turn up her nose at the Gracchioli, who hired her to keep their three young daughters company and to teach them some English while they were in Serugia.

The Umbertini came next, from Milan. They had no children, and signor Umbertini was often away on business. His young wife grew bored and hired Helen as a companion. She made a pretence of learning some English, but she was a rather indolent young woman and spent most of the time in idle gossip, only happy when recounting the social triumphs that her husband's money had purchased for her, or when experimenting with her clothes and hair.

Helen, bored by this constant iteration of her employer's social successes, gritted her teeth and reminded herself of the good money she was earning simply by listening.

In the autumn the town became much quieter, though a few visitors still lingered. Helen was able to devote more time to her son and his education, and to spend an occasional hour with her friend Francesca, but she was thinking of returning to England the following year. It would need careful planning, but perhaps she could manage to work something out. It would be best to sell this house, because she didn’t think she would ever return. But if not, she could perhaps rent it out and let Francesca collect the rent money for her. No tenants would get the better of her friend, she was sure.

One evening, as she was returning home from giving a French lesson, Helen found her way barred by a group of young men, visitors. One of them swept her into his arms and demanded the forfeit of a kiss before he would let her pass. Alarmed, she cried out in English and another of the revellers stiffened.

‘Smettila, Tonio!’
He laid his hand on her captor's shoulder. ‘Excuse me, signora, but are you English?’

‘Yes, sir! And I would be obliged if you would tell your friend to let me go!’ She spoke angrily, but her voice trembled, for the street was dark and there was no one from the town in sight.

‘Tonio! Non insistere! Lasciala!’

Tonio tightened his grip on Helen's arm and the other hand came up to fumble at her face, making her squeak in alarm. He then declared in a slurred, stubborn voice that he had seen her first and he would have his kiss.

Helen kicked him in the shins at the same time as her would-be rescuer pulled him away from her. Yelping, Tonio spun round, wobbled mightily and sat down with a bump. Helen too would have fallen had not an arm supported her. As soon as she had regained her balance, the arm was withdrawn and the gentleman bowed to her. The bow was a trifle unsteady, but the gentleman was in no way abashed by that.

‘I fear the streets are not safe, ma'am. I shall, with your permission, escort you home.’

‘There is no need to trouble yourself, sir. But I thank you for your assistance.’

Her voice was cool, her tone dismissive. Definitely respectable, he thought to himself. Pity.

The two other men did nothing, but neither did they move out of the way. The one called Tonio, having risen to his feet, brushed down his clothes, then lurched towards Helen again, complaining that it was unfair of Carlo to poach on a friend's preserves.

As he and his companions were blocking her way, Helen couldn’t get past, and she began to feel alarmed again. Why had she not left immediately the man let go of her arm?

Tonio came close to her, arms outstretched, and of necessity, she drew back towards her rescuer, who offered her one arm and shoved his friend away with the other. He was tall and well-built, and it took little effort to push Tonio over again.

‘I think, ma'am, you must accept my protection. Permit me to introduce myself. Charles Carnforth at your service.’

She took his arm, but she could not like being seen in company with a stranger at this hour of the night. She hoped she wouldn’t meet anyone she knew. ‘I’m Mrs Perriman,’ she responded curtly. ‘And I thank you for your help. Fortunately, I don't have far to go.’ She set a brisk pace along the street.

‘You're English.’ It was not a question and was followed by a sigh.

‘Yes.’

‘On holiday here?’

‘No. We live here.’

He eyed her black clothes in the light of a lantern at the corner of a street. She looked like a widow. Though it could be mourning for another relative. She had a lovely voice, soft and low. He was getting homesick for English voices, he realised suddenly. But this lady was obviously not inviting any familiarities.

‘It's good to hear an English voice again,’ he ventured. ‘It's been a while.’

‘You will find that there are still one or two English families staying in the district. I'm sure they’ll be happy to talk to you.’ She stopped in front of her door.

As you are not, he thought ruefully. But he knew when not to push his luck, so he simply bowed to her.

‘Again, I'm very grateful for your help. I wish you goodnight, sir.’ She whisked inside and had turned the key in the lock before he could think of anything else to say.

‘You made a mess of that, Charles,’ he murmured, staring at the closed door. ‘Nice voice she had, too. A lady's voice. I'm a bit tired of shrieking whores, however generous in nature.’

He turned and walked slowly away. Damn Tonio! Stupid braggart! Could he not recognise a lady when he saw one? Somehow the savour had gone out of the evening. Charles made his way slowly back to the inn and sat in a corner of the main room, wishing he had someone intelligent to talk to. He was getting tired of drunken revels. He always needed a bit of jollity to wipe out the taste of a letter from his lawyer at home, but enough was enough.

To him in the corner came Francesca. The signor was all alone tonight. Had his friends, then, deserted him?

Any companionship was welcome just then, especially that of a respectable woman. In his near-fluent Italian, he told her that, rather, he had deserted them, having no taste for their drunken buffooneries. Doubtless he was growing old.

She nodded sagely and cocked her head, waiting to see if he wanted anything.

‘Perhaps the signora would have time to share a bottle of wine with me?’ he ventured. ‘I would be most grateful to be informed about this charming town. I've been travelling for too long and am thinking of settling down somewhere for the winter. I very much appreciate the excellent comfort you offer here.’ Which was no lie.

Francesca's face brightened at this prospect. Winter was a slow time. A long-term guest would bring a welcome addition to the profits. ‘I will send my husband for some of the good wine.’

He asked a few questions about the town, for form's sake, then slipped in the question he really wanted the answer to. ‘Are there any permanent English residents here, signora? People who would be here in the winter? It's good sometimes to speak one's own language. Not that Italian is not a truly beautiful language. But I'm sure you will understand that one likes to hear the sound of one's own tongue sometimes.’

Very flattered, Francesca explained that they had only one permanent English resident. She went on to tell him exactly who his mystery lady was. He heard about her brute of a husband -

God rest his soul! - and the kindness of il Conte - who had treated la signora Perriman as a daughter, please understand!

‘How could it be otherwise?’

‘La signora Perriman is of the most respectable, as everyone in Serugia will testify.’

Finally, Francesca spoke glowingly of the signora's angel of a son - the apple of his mother's eye - with hair of gold and the manners of a nobleman, young as he was.

Charles listened avidly, drank very little more and afterwards thought much about his mystery lady. He had been very struck by her sweet face, he admitted to himself. He had a great desire to pursue the acquaintance, but she had made it clear that she didn’t share this desire. So he would have to win her round. In fact - he brightened at the thought - he would enjoy the challenge of getting behind her defences.

When he eventually went up to bed, his valet and general factotum, Alfred Briggs, found him unusually quiet and almost sober, for a change. He had been a bit worried about his master lately, who only drank like that when he was unhappy. Not that the Captain was ever nastily drunk. No, Charles Carnforth was a gentleman, whether in his cups or sober. He was considerate of those who served him, and always fair in his demands. He was the best of masters, as he had been the best of officers in the army.

Alfred, who had had the honour of saving the then Captain Carnforth’s life at Waterloo, and who had left the army with him once Old Bony had been defeated, was totally devoted to his master, even to the extent of following him around the world to some very nasty heathen countries.

The next day, Charles called on Mrs Perriman formally, to tender his apologies for his companions’ behaviour. He took a large bunch of flowers with him as a peace offering, and found that he was nervous, as a man of over fifty might very well be, when calling upon a much younger woman who had caught his fancy and given him no encouragement to pursue the acquaintance.

The door opened and she stood there, her hair loose about her shoulders, a chestnut glory in the morning sunshine. ‘Oh! I thought you were the butcher!’

‘No.’ An inauspicious start. She was embarrassed about her hair, which was not quite dry after being washed. No doubt she would screw it up into a knot again as soon as it was dry. Respectable women usually did, for some obscure reason.

‘Ma'am, I've come here to apologise properly for my companions' boorish behaviour last night.’ He sounded stiff and pompous, he knew. Awkwardly he held out the flowers. ‘Would you please accept these?’