Belladonna Page 3

She absolutely starts. “What?” she asks, her voice rising in panic. “What? Why did you say that?” She rises so quickly that her chaise tips over with a loud thunk. “Why did you say that? What do you want? Who sent you?”

  Both Mr. Nutley and I leap up to help her, but she steps back from us, her skin deathly pale.

  “Get away!” she screams at him. “Get away from me!”

  He stares at her, taken aback by the desperation in her voice. The fountain tinkles on, oblivious.

  “I do beg your pardon,” he says, and slopes off, replacing his hat and tucking his hankie in his pocket with a flourish.

  Of all the stupid phrases in the world, he had to pick those words. I’d like to clobber his fussy fat ass. Now she is going to want to leave this place, just as I thought it was having a truly calming effect. Botheration. How could she not be teetering on the edge? Tomasino, you are a fool to think otherwise.

  Who are you? Why are you here?

  Ariel has sat back down on another chaise, her skin ashen, shivering uncontrollably in the warm air. I kneel down, careful not to touch her.

  “Let’s find Matteo,” I say.

  “Make him go away. Make him go away,” she is whispering over and over, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, rocking back and forth.

  “He’s gone. Don’t worry, he’s gone.”

  A shadow falls over my shoulder, and I look up, to see the Count of the Sorrows. His fingers, I notice, are as slim and finely shaped as his cane, and his eyes are a peculiar hazel, dotted with flecks of gold. “Might I be of assistance?” he asks, his accent unmistakably Italian.

  “She’s had a shock,” I tell him. “I can’t explain now.” I don’t know why I feel I can say anything to him, but I do. I have one of my famous hunches. He seems trustable. Perhaps it is the expression in his eyes, with no hint of any ulterior motive save compassion. “Would you find my brother? He should be in the gardens with the baby.”

  He bows, then quickly walks away. I start talking to Ariel, about nothing, really, just words to calm her down. Thankfully, Matteo hurries over within a few minutes to put Bryony in her arms. Ariel is still deathly pale. “You can go up to the rooms now,” I tell her gently. “Matteo will take you upstairs and you’ll be safe.”

  As they start to walk away the Count of the Sorrows hands me his card, engraved with his name and an elaborate family crest. Leandro della Robbia, it reads. “He is an odious little man, that inglese,” he says. “It is a pity. One comes to the waters to be undisturbed. The war has changed everything, you see. Now there are so few clients, only the vulgar foreigners, it seems.”

  “I suppose we’re vulgar foreigners, too.”

  “Foreigners, yes. Vulgar, no,” he says. “The young lady who has arrived to join me is also inglese, but I am hoping to keep her from the attentions of Signor Adlington. Perhaps you might care to join us tonight for dinner.”

  “It would be a pleasure,” I tell him. “But I’ll have see. We’re not very sociable at the moment. I’ll leave a message at the front desk.”

  “I quite understand,” he says.

  Once I made sure they were safely ensconced upstairs"Ariel will be sitting on the balcony with Bryony in her lap for hours, Matteo standing guard, I know, staring out at the bright wide vista of the Adige Valley stretching out into the mist, perfumed with the scent of apricot blossoms and unencumbered by walls and darkness"I went in search of Signor Goldini, inviting him to tell me over a glass of grappa what he knew about Leandro. I had a feeling my dear signor would relish the opportunity to gossip, and he did not let me down.

  “Il conte? Ah, he is such a gentleman. So kind of him to come here,” Signor Goldini says. “The word will spread that il Conte della Robbia was here, and they will flock back like before.” He beams. “So many of the rich, they left my country during the war, but not il conte. The contadini he protected, the property he saved in his estates"a miracle! And such a fortune he has still"more than the Medici. Shipping, you know. The Greeks have bathtubs compared with il conte. Ah, he must be one of the richest men in Italy. Because he never trusted anyone. Those who were trusting with their money"poof! Arrivederci! Of course il Duce tired to"how do you say"confiscate what he could find, but il conte was too clever for that baboon. He sailed the ships away. They destroyed two of his houses, but not the biggest one, in Tuscany. It is called Ca’ d’Oro.”

  The house of gold.

  “Never try to separate an Italian from his money, or his pasta, sì?” he goes on. “Or from l’amore. Ah, it is such a shame. Such a tragedy. First his wife died just after the Great War, and they had only one daughter, Beatrice.”

  I love the way Italians say that name: Bay-a-tree-chay. Like some exotic flower.

  “But no son to carry on the family name.” He sighs deeply, offended no doubt by this insult to Italian manhood. I’d hate to tell him what happened to me and my brother.

  “His Beatrice died during the war, when she was giving birth to a bambino.” He sighs volubly again. “The bambino was"how do you say"not breathing when he was born. Che tragèdia! The young lady here with him was a friend of the young Beatrice.”

  I thank him for the illuminating conversation, and he smiles proudly, thrilled to be of service. I scrawl a note asking Leandro to meet for a drink after dinner. I’m curious. All right, I confess: I love to snoop. Snooping is ever useful, when done properly. And a bit of snooping will help me deal with the peculiar questions of one Jasper James Adlington, our precious Mr. Nutley.

  When Leandro joins me by the fountain a few hours later, I notice his ring, set with a large stone of a strange greenish yellow hue, the color of thick raw honey. I wonder how I could have missed it earlier. Well, I suppose I was a little agitated.

  “This is a chrysoberyl,” he explains when I ask him what it is. “Most usually called a cat’s-eye. The finest have a perfectly centered eye"you see"and when the light hits a certain angle it resembles the iris of a cat in bright sunlight, widening and narrowing as if it were alive. They are mined in Ceylon, where they are considered a formidable charm against evil spirits, as well as a preserver of fortune and good health. In this respect, it should very well protect me against the likes of Jasper Adlington.”

  “We’ve nicknamed him Mr. Nutley,” I say. “We’ve not yet found an animal to describe him.”

  “How appropriate.”

  “I’ve decided he likes sparkly things. Have you noticed? You’d better watch your back. I’m sure a stone of this size and translucence is very rare.”

  “Yes, it is. But I am quite certain I can take care of myself.” He jabs his cane, topped with the lion’s head, into the tiles of the terrace, and a thin, sharp blade slices out He jabs it again, and the blade slides swiftly back in. It couldn’t have taken more than a second. I decide I like this man more and more. Yes, my dear Tomasino, you can always trust your hunches. The stiffly erect Leandro has an unmistakable aura of hypervigilance. And those lips are just a little too thin: they’re the giveaway. I’m certain he could be ruthless when need be, bless his conniving little heart, yet he is an impeccable gentleman with us. I don’t suppose a man can run a shipping empire without developing the instincts of a barracuda.

  “How useful,” I tell him.

  “One never knows,” he says, “when one is safe.”

  “One never is.”

  “No,” he says simply, gazing out at the fountain. “There is no protection from fate. Or from age. Few people know how to grow old. Because our hair is white and our faces lined, does that mean we are enfeebled or no longer able to be ourselves? I am not yet tired, although my heart is weary.” He looks at me and sighs. “Please do forgive me. I have not felt the need for speech since my arrival, I fear. Much like your brother.”

  “You are very observant.”

  “One cannot help but watch when one is silent.”

  We sit in companionable calm for a while, listening to the water and the laughter of the other guests as the wine continues to
flow. The water may be healthy for the body, but a little vino is even better.

  Oh ho, things are about to shift for us. I feel it. My knee is throbbing pleasantly.

  “You may have noticed the young lady who has joined me,” Leandro says. “Her name is Laura Garnett, and she was the closest friend of my daughter, Beatrice, who died several years ago. School friends, from Switzerland. Now, it is not a happy time for her. She asks for advice yet does not want to hear it. She is so young. Around her, I feel my age.”

  “You are not so very old.”

  “Well, my legs are good. This much I can say. I sleep well, and I still have my legs. The secret of perpetual youth is perpetual motion.”

  I laugh. “I hope you’re right.”

  “I doubt it, but one can only hope. I’m afraid that since the death of my Beatrice I no longer care. For a man to lose his power and his expectations, take away that which he most loves. All I can be deprived of now is the present, and one cannot lose what one does not own.”

  We are interrupted by a burst of raucous laughter from Madame Twenty Carats’s table. I am surprised to see Laura sitting there with Mr. Nutley, both of them downing martinis. Leandro sees them, and the only sign of his unease is a slight shifting.

  “How unfortunate Merano has been appropriated by imbeciles,” he says, his eyes on Mr. Nutley. “It was once more luxurious. My wife, Alessandra, and I used to come here in the summer, for the breezes. But that was in another lifetime, before the Great War, before she died. What, I wonder, shall historians call this war?”

  “A masterpiece of ruined civilization,” I smile. “At least that’s what Ariel calls me.”

  “She is very afraid, your Ariel, is she not?”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “No, I am sure it is not. As you have said, I have been observant, simply because I am here and you are here, and she is as lovely as she is afraid. La bella donna, pazzo di terrore.”

  There is a faint barking of dogs in the hills.

  “She is a bella donna, isn’t she?” I say. “And to tell you the truth, I am also afraid. For her. It is a horrible story, one I fear I am not at liberty to discuss.”

  “May I ask why you decided that Merano might help you?”

  “We never thought he’d find us here,” I say, before realizing even a hint of His Lordship is not wise. “Now I’m not so sure. I think we must be going.”

  “I see.”

  “The only thing is, I don’t know where we might go that will make Ariel feel safe. Maybe you could advise me.”

  There is another burst of laughter, and we see Laura getting up with Mr. Nutley, linking her arm in his. Leandro lights a Montecristo with a slim gold lighter encrusted, I note, with another chrysoberyl. His eyes narrow, not from smoke but from following Laura’s disappearing backside. He offers me a Monte, but I decline. I used to enjoy a good puff now and then, but a cigar is simply too phallic for me to hold in my dumpling fingers.

  Oh ho, another pastime extinguished.

  “She does not want to go back to her husband, you see,” Leandro explains. “There are two children … it is most unfortunate. She thinks she is punishing me because I warned her not to marry him, but in truth she hurts only herself.”

  “The martinis, you mean,” I say, “and Mr. Nutley.”

  “One could not endure the latter without the former.”

  “Most men are exceptional bastards.”

  “Yes. Even I. And I have been called worse.” He exhales in perfect rings. “Not lately, of course. My age, you see, and the end of the war. I have delegated much of the business, and so I have been at liberty to wander from one spa to another. Stabiane, Agnano, Sibarite, Montecatini, Saturnia, Recoaro. The water heals the body, yes, and my presence stirs up a bit of gossip. It can’t be helped, but it is good for the locals. And now I am weary. I want to go home. Perhaps …”

  I sit, waiting. My heart starts thumping along with my knee, confirming my hunch. This could be just what we need. I will have to assess the situation, many more details about him, the site of his house, the accessibility, the privacy, but it may be the perfect place for Ariel’s shattered nerves to bake themselves clean and hot as she sits in the sun, away from the Mr. Nutleys of the world.

  “Perhaps I may be so bold as to extend my hospitality,” Leandro goes on. “Despite her unhappiness, Laura will return to her family in England, and I have none. My palazzo in Tuscany is too large, and the rooms echo with quiet. There are several guest houses, and my staff has been with me for many years. To hear the laughter of a baby would do their hearts good. And mine also. Yes,” he says to himself, “it would do my heart good. You would be doing me a great kindness.”

  “It is you who offer us kindness.”

  He waves his cigar in dismissal and rises. “I must see to Laura,” he says.

  “Thank you,” I say. “I will talk to Matteo and Ariel tomorrow.”

  He bows and walks away, leaving a faint trail of smoke in his wake.

  I broach the subject as we’re eating melon for breakfast the next morning.

  “Are you mad?” Ariel says to me. Her eyes are hard, flashing emeralds. “What are you trying to do to me? Stay in the house of a strange man? Never.”

  “He’s not a strange man. Everyone in Italy knows who he is. He’s one of the richest men in the country. Ask anyone in the village and they’ll tell you stories about him.”

  “Worry about what they don’t say,” Matteo says.

  “I wish you could have heard what he said to me.” I am not going to let this drop without a fight. “I know it’ll be okay. I just know it.”

  “Spare me your hunches.”

  I ignore that. “He’s getting old,” I say. “He’s sad, he’s lonely, and he wants company.”

  “Oh, so now he’s your new best friend, after one conversation,” Ariel says. “I didn’t think you were such a fool.”

  “There are several guest houses and a large staff,” I press on.

  “I despise staff. Especially large staff.”

  “Here’s a photograph Signor Goldini gave me. See. It’s a tourist brochure. Visitors can’t go to the palazzo itself, but they can view part of the gardens. Look"they’re amazing. He’s not hiding anything.”

  “How can you be so naive?”

  “I don’t know. I just trust him. Can’t explain why, but I do. He feels trustable.”

  “So did Hogarth, when I first met him.”

  I am surprised she can bring up his name. Maybe part of her is starting to get better after all.

  “That was a long time ago,” I tell her. “You are no longer naive. You have us now. We have money. We are beholden to no one, and we don’t have to stay. But I don’t like Mr. Nutley, and I think we should be off, away from here. We’ve been in one spot long enough. Should we stay, there’ll undoubtedly be another Mr. Nutley before long. I’d rather go someplace less public, and we can see what happens once we get there.”

  “I won’t go to a house I don’t know. Private houses have locked doors and secret places. I hate them. You know that.”

  “We can check it out thoroughly before we decide to stay. I asked Signor Goldini if he knew about it, and he told me a cousin of his wife’s best friend works in the kitchens and the count is a very kind master. Servants like that are not shy about complaining. I’ll speak to her directly.”

  “And he has no ulterior motive, I am sure.”

  “Listen, he is very rich. He’s connected. He can help us.”

  “Help us? How do you know?” she asks.

  “Well, he must know important people. Other rich people, not just in Italy. He’s in the shipping business, so he must have global contacts. Company men, businessmen, diplomats, even spies"they all communicate. Who knows?”

  “Why would he want to help us?”

  She is starting to waver, just slightly. Let me worm my way in. Keep going, Tomasino, don’t let up now.

  “You can help each other,” I say
. “His wife died more than thirty years ago in the influenza epidemic after the war. He never remarried. His only child died in childbirth a few years ago, and so did her baby.”

  I finally see the hard green glint in her eyes lessen somewhat. It’s only because of the baby.

  “Who’s that woman with him?” she asks.

  “An old school friend of his daughter. She is having a bad time with her husband and came here to get away. She’s leaving soon to go back home, to England and her family. Surely the fact that he cares about his dead daughter’s friend is a good indication of character.”

  “Maybe it’s more than character,” she says.

  “Not every rich man is bad,” Matteo says.

  “We have to start trusting someone if we’re going to get the help we need,” I go on. “As you trusted us. No one will find us there.”

  “Unless he’s one of them.”

  “He’s not one of them. Talk to him. He doesn’t smell like one of them.” I kneel at her feet, humble supplicant that I am. “Listen to me, my darling, if you are going to start to live again you must heal in a place where you feel safe. I know how hard this is to say or think, but there are a few people in the world who are generous and kind and wish one another no harm. Let him try to help you, please. Whatever good you do for him will come back to you in a way you most need.”

  “I wish no forgiveness,” she says simply. “I need no pity. I have none.”

  “Ah, but Leandro does. I know I can learn a lot from him, if he is willing to teach me. Matteo, too. Besides, if we don’t like it at his palazzo, we can leave. Just talk to him. We’ll all be there. See what he says. See if you like him. Then we can decide.”

  She pushes me away with an annoyed swat. “Get up,” she says, “before I change my mind.”

  The next day, we are all sitting near the fountain, drinking the bitter water and soaking the heat into our bones. Laura is nowhere to be found, and when Leandro walks by I’m afraid to ask if she’s still seeing Mr. Nutley. I gesture to him and he bows as usual, then sits down on the chaise next to me. He reaches into his pocket and extends a round yellow ring made of rubber.