Read The Visconti House Online
Authors: Elsbeth Edgar
The Visconti House (22 page)
Blushing, she said almost accusingly to Leon, “Where did you learn to do that?”
Leon raised his eyebrows but the music began again, and he did not reply.
“That was awesome,” gushed Kylie, pushing her way through to them. “You were great. I wish I could dance like that.” Kylie dragged her eyes away from Leon and glared at Laura. “I thought you said you didn’t like dancing.”
“Perhaps she didn’t know she did,” said Leon.
Laura wondered what was happening. Everything was changing. First Leon had appeared in his new clothes, then he turned out to be a good dancer, and now he was speaking to Kylie. Almost.
“I do like dancing after all,” she said to Kylie. “Leon was right. I just didn’t know it. Come on, Leon, let’s go back.”
After that Laura let herself enjoy everything — the transformed gymnasium, the music, the dancing. She wanted it to go on forever, but when the last song finally ended and they all spilled out into the warm night air, that was wonderful, too.
Jenny Peters and several of her friends walked part of the way home with Laura and Leon, laughing and joking. Laura liked that, but she liked it even more when it was just Leon and her, under the starry sky with the night sounds all around them.
“So how did you learn to dance like that?” she asked again after they had been silent for a while.
“My mother taught me. She used to dance around the kitchen to the music on the radio. If my father or I came in, she would grab us and make us dance with her.” Leon’s voice was warm with affection. “She knew all the steps. When she was dancing, it was like she became part of the music.”
“She must have been lovely,” whispered Laura.
“She was.”
When they arrived at Laura’s house, they didn’t go straight inside. They sat on the front steps, looking out over the moonlit garden, and Laura thought she had never been so happy. She looked at Leon and wondered why she had ever worried about him and about school and about being different. She realized now that there was no one she wanted to be except Laura Horton who lived in the Visconti house and was friends with Leon Murphy.
She breathed in deeply. “You can still smell Mr. Visconti’s roses.”
“It’s like in your paragraph,” replied Leon. “The one Miss Grisham didn’t understand. The air is heavy with perfume.”
“Yes, it is, and the leaves and the flowers are velvety black.” She brushed her hand over the camellia bush beside the steps. “Mr. Visconti seems very close here,
doesn’t he? As though he’s still somewhere in the garden.”
“Yes. As though he might suddenly appear, walking up the path or across the lawn. What would you do if he did?”
Laura thought for a while, then replied, “I would ask him what happened. What happened when he came out to Australia.” They were both silent, imagining Mr. Visconti solemnly considering her question.
“You know . . .” Leon looked at her thoughtfully before continuing: “There’s something about that box that has been bugging me. I’ve been thinking and thinking about it. It’s way too shallow. I’m sure there’s something in it we haven’t found yet. Something else.”
“What?”
“I don’t know, but something.”
“I’ll go and get it,” said Laura, jumping up. She felt certain that if they were going to find anything else, it would be tonight — tonight when everything was so wonderful.
Leon was talking to Samson when she came back. The cat had settled on the bottom step and was fastidiously licking his fur, his bell tinkling softly.
“Dad said I can have another dog once he gets settled,” said Leon, scratching Samson. “I thought I would never be able to have another one, not after I had to give up Nero, but now, maybe . . .” He looked up at Laura. “Let’s see the box.”
Laura handed it to him. “I’ve brought a flashlight,” she said, shining it onto the lid. “Maybe there’s a secret keyhole.”
Leon grinned at her. “It would hardly be secret if you could see it,” he teased, and began examining all the joints and the intricate pattern on the top. Then he opened the box and inspected the inside. “Nothing,” he said. “I must be imagining things.”
“Let me look.” Laura took the box and ran her hands over the outside. It was true. The base did seem very thick. She opened the lid and began to press against the fine silk lining. Unexpectedly, her fingers struck something hard beneath the fabric. Before she realized what had happened, one side of the box shot up, revealing a small drawer with a delicate clasp set into it.
Laura and Leon looked at each other, their eyes wide. “I told you so,” said Leon. “What did you do?”
“Nothing.” Laura was staring at the drawer in disbelief. “I didn’t do anything.”
“You must have done something. Go on. Open it.”
Laura lifted the clasp and pulled. The drawer slid out easily, as though it was running on tiny tracks. In it lay a thin packet of letters. She gasped. “Do you think it is all right to read them?” she asked, her voice anxious.
She did not need to explain this anxiety to Leon; he, too, was looking at the letters with uncertainty. Carefully, he picked up the packet and turned it over. “I think it would be all right to read them respectfully,” he said at last.
Laura could not imagine any other boy she knew saying that. It was what made Leon different, she realized. Not the clothes or the haircut or the place he came from. It was the fact that he understood that they should read these letters respectfully. It was what, in the end, made her feel comfortable with him.
She watched as his long, capable fingers undid the ribbon around the letters — the same pale-blue ribbon that had been around the photographs — and slid the first one out of the envelope. Then she switched on the flashlight again. In the little circle of light, they began reading. The letter had been mailed in Australia to an address in Italy in 1893.
My dearest Carlo,
We arrived home yesterday. The journey from Melbourne was hot and uncomfortable and Mama suffered greatly. She continues to feel poorly after the long sea journey. Everything is so dry here. So brown. So burned. I miss the green gardens and the soft skies. I miss the music and the Institute. But most of all I miss you. Sometimes I think that the pain is more than I can bear. I take out my locket and look at your face and the rosemary you gave me that evening in the Villa delle Rose, and it is like a knife twisting in my heart. Twisting pain and joy, like the locks of our hair wound around it. I count the weeks, the days, the hours until you come. Papa is still firm in his opposition. He frightens me sometimes with his obstinacy. And Mama is so frail that I do not like to trouble her with our problems. Sometimes I fear that they will never consent to our marriage. I need you close to give me strength.
With all my love,
Veronica
Leon put down the letter and looked at Laura.
“Her father must have remained obstinate,” said Laura. “That would be why she never came to live in the house, why they never got married.”
“Maybe he didn’t understand.”
“Well, he should have. He was breaking her heart.”
Leon opened the next letter. It was dated January, 1894.
My dearest Carlo,
Why do you not write? I wait each day for your letter but it does not come. Have you not received my letters? Have you forgotten me so soon? I cannot believe that. I will not believe it. I am thinking of you now, wondering what you are doing. Are you in the library now at the Villa delle Rose? Is the fire lit against the cold? And is there a bowl of winter roses on the table by the French windows? Is the garden covered with frost? Here the sun continues to burn the landscape, and there have been fires. Not cozy fires in the fireplace. Terrifying fires, raging across the dry, parched earth. I had forgotten the heat. It is like a veil that hangs
over everything, distorting it, stifling it. It is impossible to escape. My throat is dry. I cannot sing. Maybe I will find my voice again when your letter comes.
Your loving,
Veronica
“Why doesn’t he write?” exclaimed Laura, her voice shaking a little.
“Maybe he does but she doesn’t get his letters.”
“That would be so cruel.” Laura pictured Veronica standing in the hall at Kirriemuir, holding a pile of letters, none of them from Mr. Visconti, trying to restrain her tears. She opened the next letter and gently straightened out the crease.
My dearest Carlo,
At last a letter! And such a letter! I have already read it a hundred times; it is wet with my tears. I can scarcely believe that you are really coming. After such a long time! You say that you have written before but I have not received your letters. I have heard nothing until this wonderful letter arrived this afternoon. I was in the hallway when the postman came.
Mary took the mail but I saw immediately that there was a letter from Italy on the top of the pile and asked for it. She seemed reluctant to give it to me, which was strange. She knows how anxiously I have been waiting. When I saw your familiar hand, I could hardly stop shaking. I took the letter to the conservatory and there, among the ferns, I opened it with trembling hands. After not hearing from you for so long, I feared that you were writing to say that you would not follow me. But no! Oh, Carlo, now that I know that you are coming, I can abide anything. Even the heat is not so insupportable. After I had read your letter and kissed the photograph you sent, I went to the piano and started to play. It was the first time I have done so willingly since I arrived home. And my voice has come back. I could sing again!
I live for the day when I will see you.
From your loving,
Veronica
“I told you so,” said Leon, his eyes lighting up. “He did write.”
“And he did come.” Laura wrinkled her forehead. “So why didn’t they get married?” Then she turned to Leon, her heart filled with horror. “And what happened to all Mr. Visconti’s letters? Her father must have taken them.”
She reached for the next envelope, fumbling a little in her impatience to open it.
“This one is addressed to a hotel in Melbourne. The Windsor.”
“What does it say?” Leon bent forward, his shoulder touching hers as they read.
My dearest Carlo,
Papa remains obstinate. He refuses to listen when I try to plead our cause. And Mama grows weaker. Papa says that I must not trouble her and, indeed, I can see that he is right. She is too frail to spend more than two hours a day from her bed. He wants me to accept the hand of our neighbor, James Lambert. He tells me that it will give Mama peace to know that I am comfortably settled. How can he not understand that I could not be comfortably settled with anyone but you? Surely it would not bring peace to her to know that her daughter
is desperately unhappy. I am sending this letter early so that it will be waiting for you when you arrive. I long so much to see you but I am so frightened, too. Oh, what will Papa say when he discovers that you have come? How wonderful that you are coming!
As ever, with all my love,
Veronica
There were only two more letters. Laura picked up the first one, shining the flashlight on the envelope.
“This is addressed to our house,” she said. She looked up at the tall gray facade. “To Mr. Visconti’s house.”
“So is this one.” Leon was fingering the other envelope. “And there is no stamp. It must have been hand-delivered.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.” He put the letter back down. “Go on. Open yours.”
They both huddled over the letter.
It was dated August 1895.
My dearest Carlo,
People tell me of the house. Indeed, it is all the rage. No one speaks of anything else. How grand the ballroom is! How beautiful the murals! How elegant the gardens! My heart breaks with the pain of it. When we drive into town, which is such a rare event now, I crane my neck to glimpse the gray parapet rising above the rooftops. I imagine you there. Oh, my love, if only I could come to you. But Mama is so ill, and Papa is like a bear in a cage, growling at every little thing. It is so hard for me to get away. I live for the brief moments we spend together — but they are so painful, too. Sometimes I cannot bear it. When Mama is better, however, then we can be together forever. I long for that day.
My cough grows worse. I will send a message when I am better.
With my love — all of it,
Your Veronica
Laura and Leon looked at each other, their eyes full of apprehension.
“I don’t want to read the last one,” said Laura, pushing it away. She did not want to know any more; it was too painful.
Silently, Leon slipped it from the envelope and unfolded it.
My dearest Carlo,
It was more wonderful than words can tell to see you today — to see you here, in this house. I had thought that after that terrible, terrible day when you first came, you would never step back across this threshold. How dreadful it was when you stood in the hall, wet from the sudden fall of rain, and Papa shouted at you to leave. How dreadful when you stepped back out into the rain and walked slowly, so slowly, my love, down the long drive. And Papa slammed the door! But I must not think of that. Not now. I must not think of what might have been, only of what we have now. Dr Mitchell said that I was looking better after your visit, and I felt stronger. Perhaps tomorrow I will be able to sit in the drawing room. If only the cough did not leave me so weak. But I will get stronger now. I will get better. I pine already for your
next visit. Papa came to say good night, and he was very sweet. He said that you were a gentleman. As if I had not told him so, many, many times. He looked so sad but he need not be sad anymore. I will get better now that I have you. I will even sing again.
Your loving,
Veronica
Neither of them spoke after they finished reading. They did not look at each other. Laura switched off the flashlight and sat staring at the ground. She was intensely aware of Leon sitting beside her, holding the letter in unsteady hands. At last he folded it carefully and slid it back into the envelope.