Belladonna Page 4

  “It is from the mechanic’s wife in the village,” he says. “She tells me it is good for the teething.”

  Ariel looks at him in surprise, and I reach out to take it so she doesn’t have to worry about touching his fingers. I’d left a note telling the count not to make any sudden gestures. Then she nods her thanks.

  “It is nothing,” he says. “Once your child is born you never escape the weight of love on your heart, even when they keep you up all night screaming with their teething.”

  She clears her throat, but is unable to say anything.

  “Tell us about your daughter. If you don’t mind,” I quickly say. I know that’s what Ariel would have said, had she been able.

  “Only if it would give you pleasure,” he replies, glancing at Ariel.

  She looks very small and lost, and my heart flops with compassion. Leandro leans back and closes his eyes.

  “Her hair was very nearly the same color as yours, but her eyes were such a dark brown, they were nearly black,” he says. “She liked to take the waters, too. Her favorite spa was at Stabiane, because it is closest to Pompeii. She was entranced by the ruins there; she was convinced we are descended from the house of Menander, because of the gold coins and small statues my father had given me when I came of age. Things that his father had given him. She was a historian, my Beatrice, always telling stories. She loved the Greek stories about the oracles, for that was how she met Laura, even though she was five years older. They were both at boarding school in Switzerland, and my Beatrice took pity on this girl who was shy and lonely and crying for her mother. Every evening, she went to this girl’s bed, little blond Laura, and told her stories and gave her courage. She was a wonderful child.”

  Ariel gets up suddenly and walks over to Leandro, holding Bryony out to him without a word. I am astonished. She’s never let anyone hold her baby but Matteo and myself.

  He looks up at her, speechless, and takes Bryony in his arms, kissing the soft whorl of strawberry blond hair on her head as she settles easily in his arms. If he were not such a self-contained gentleman, I know I would have seen tears in his eyes.

  Ariel is wrong. She can still take pity on a man.

  Matteo and Bryony are on their daily search for butterflies in the gardens, and we sit talking in our usual spot. “The oracles never explained,” Leandro is telling Ariel. “They spoke in riddles. It was the responsibility of the listener to interpret the words, and then act.”

  My hunches never explain, either. If I trust them, they never lead me wrong. I must be the reincarnation of an ancient, wise priestess. Just my luck to land a vestal virgin.

  “I have a sculpted marble panel in my hallway, of Achilles on his way to Troy. There was a battle, and Achilles wounded the local king with his spear. This wound refused to heal, so Achilles consulted an oracle for advice. She told him he would reach Troy only if the king he’d tried to kill would consent to guide him.” He fingers his cane. “The king also consulted an oracle, you see, and was told that he, the wounded, could cure what had wounded him. That is the essence of the story. The wounded could cure the enemy who’d wounded him.”

  “I think I understand,” Ariel says slowly. I notice that she has grown pale in the sunshine. “Are there still oracles anywhere on this wretched earth?” she adds, as much to herself as to Leandro.

  “I can’t answer that,” he replies. “But my housekeeper, Caterina, is a Strega, what you in America might call a witch. I bow to her advice on all matters of the spirit.”

  Now I imagine most people would have been flummoxed by this conversation, but to us it is somehow perfectly of this place, with the tinkling of the fountain and the wind in the cypress trees and the bizarre nature of our lives. In fact, I decide it is exactly what Ariel is needing to hear.

  It is, at least, until Laura suddenly appears, flushed and panting under the broad brim of her straw sun hat, pulling up a chaise and plopping down with a melodramatic sigh. She has that classic creamy English rose complexion, white and unfreckled: her cheeks pink from the heat, her large blue eyes fraught with coy disingenuousness, her wavy blond hair swept back in a simple ponytail. There are perfect pearl drops, edged in diamonds, dangling from her ears. She kicks off her espadrilles, unbuttons the top of her blouse, and smooths the wide sweep of her skirt with a flourish. Botheration. Its red and white polka dots give me an instant headache, and so does she. She catches a glimpse of my face and frowns.

  “It’s rude to stare,” she says.

  Ariel and Matteo exchange glances. Sometimes they are telepathic, those two, and I must confess a twinge of jealousy. I do all the talking, and he gets all the credit for understanding her every need. But what are siblings for if not to set your teeth on edge!

  They both stand up, Bryony in Ariel’s arms, bow a thank-you to Leandro, and walk away without saying a word. Serves the stuckup Laura right.

  “Well, I see I’ve interrupted,” she says to Leandro, “but I need to talk to you. Now. I’m afraid it’s quite awfully urgent.”

  “You have interrupted,” he says calmly, “And I should think you owe my friend an apology.”

  “Sorry.” She shrugs. “Now if you will excuse us …”

  I get the hint, but for some reason I don’t feel like budging. No one has bossed me around since we left the house in Belgium, and no snot-nose Brit bitch is going to tell me what to do.

  Leandro has better manners than I do. “We shall discuss this upstairs,” he tells her, and walks off into the gardens.

  Laura sulks as she slips her shoes back on. She’d be awfully pretty if she wiped that pout off her face.

  “I suppose he told you the sob story about Beatrice,” she says. “Why don’t you ask him who the father of her baby was? Not such a paragon of virtue after all, was the lady Beatrice. No, no. Not so very nice as her darling papa would like to believe.”

  “I thought she was your best friend.”

  “She was.”

  “I’d hate to be your enemy,” I tell her.

  “Drop dead,” she says, and sashays off.

  “I do believe I owe you an apology,” Leandro says to me later when we meet for a nightcap.

  “I do believe you don’t,” I retort. “Hardly your fault that she’s such a mess.”

  “Yes, she is. I think the simplest explanation is that so many whom she’s loved have left her. It’s much easier for her to remain angry than to confront her grief.”

  “You’re still here.”

  “Yes, but it is hard to listen to a surrogate father, especially now that Beatrice is gone. Laura married the first man who said he loved her, even though she knew in her heart that he was after her money. Andrew’s become even more arrogant and domineering since he had an heir. The children are quite young, and I assume she feels trapped.”

  “How old are her children?”

  “Rupert is three, and Cassandra is two.”

  “Why aren’t they with her here?”

  “Oh, they’re quite safe at home with the nannies. The English way, is it not?” He calmly unwraps a Montecristo and lights it, and we glance over to the table where Laura is sitting with Mr. Nutley. When they notice our attention they raise their martini glasses in a mock salute.

  “Men like that are entirely predictable,” Leandro says. “Clinging to their rituals, making themselves into a breed apart, and creating what they think is a manner of behaving that is a law unto itself. One would think that men who have been properly educated and have every advantage might possess some notion of proper conduct, but they’re never quite strong enough alone. There always must be people around, if only to echo the paltriness of their opinions.”

  “Their secret little groups, you mean.”

  “I have not had much experience with them nel gruppo, fortunately. I prefer to take them on one at a time.”

  I heave a huge inward sigh of relief. Ariel will be pleased to hear this, his last comment especially. No, he cannot be one of them, the members of the Club
. It’s not possible. He is too self-contained. He cares too much about the women he’s loved. He may be a shark at sea, but there’s too much compassion in him to have been one of them.

  I knew it all along. Ariel is going to have to believe me.

  “But the worst is that they play dirty, and they know nothing about women,” he goes on.

  Naturally, Laura and Mr. Nutley choose that moment to join us.

  “Lovely evening,” Mr. Nutley says, snapping his fingers at the waiter for another drink.

  This blubberball really gets on my nerves. Before we leave Merano I’m going to test my hunch about his slick fingers and watch him squirm.

  “Yes,” I say, “the sky is the color of a milky sapphire.”

  Mr. Nutley smiles to himself.

  “It reminds me of a story I once heard about a famous courtesan,” I go on. “She had a lover, a repulsive masochist and impotent to boot"undoubtedly you know whom I mean; he was an English earl"but whenever she could manage to rouse him he would reward her with her choice of jewels. Well, one day he was feeling exceptionally pleased with her"who knows what she had to do for that"and summoned the jeweler to his home. Instead of showing a simple strand of pearls or a ring or two, the enterprising jeweler emptied what seemed like the entire contents of his safe on her bed. There she sat in her silk negligee, dazzled, running her hands through the treasure"sparkling tiaras, ropes of gems, turquoises and aquamarines as big as goose eggs, rubies and emeralds the size of your eyes, you name it"like a pirate with his booty. ‘Ah, my darling, I cannot possibly decide!’ she said to her loathsome lover. ‘You choose for me.’ So her lover went over to the bed, shoved her down, tied her wrists to it with the two longest diamond chains, and said, ‘It’s all yours. All of it.’ Well, the jeweler didn’t bat an eyelash. He packed up his now-empty cases and quickly departed. What splendid generosity! What a gentleman! Well, perhaps he was a bit of a rogue, but can you imagine! What a bill he had to pay!”

  Mr. Nutley is no longer smiling. “No, I have not heard that story,” he mutters.

  Of course he hadn’t"I just made it up.

  “My dear sir, you needn’t be shy around me,” I say. “Surely a man of your experience would have heard this tale. The splendid lover went bankrupt six months later and threw himself off Big Ben.”

  “Cigar?” Leandro offers. I suspect he knows I’m pulling a fast one.

  “Speaking of jewels,” I say to Laura, “I was greatly admiring your pearl earrings earlier. I hope you didn’t lose them rushing off like you did.”

  She instinctively puts one hand up to her ears, flashing a look of cool disdain. Tonight she is wearing clusters of crystals, nothing terribly valuable. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.

  “Shall we have a stroll in the moonlight?” Mr. Nutley asks her, standing up and proffering his hand to lead her away.

  “When does Laura return home?” I ask Leandro.

  “In two days’ time.”

  “Then I’ll wager there’s going to be a scene tomorrow,” I say. “Just wait and see.”

  Sure enough, Laura comes up to me in a huff as I am sitting in the garden the following afternoon. “All right,” she says, “where are they?”

  I assume my sweetest blank look. “Where are what?”

  “My pearl earrings. You made up that story last night to disguise the fact that you stole them.”

  “Let me see if I understand you,” I say slowly. “We have had the very briefest of encounters, yet you dare accuse me of stealing your ugly little pearls. Back where I come from, namely Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, that is a hanging offense.”

  “I don’t give a toss where you come from"I just want my earrings back.”

  “Then I suggest you have a word with your precious Jasper James. He is a much more likely suspect. Perhaps they fell off during one of your moonlit strolls.”

  “You bastard,” she hisses. “He is a perfect gentleman. I’m calling the authorities.”

  “Please, be my guest. I’d love to discuss your appalling behavior and false accusations with them.”

  “How dare you!” she says, and flounces off.

  Delightfully pleased with myself, I decide it’s time to pay a visit to the lair of Mr. Nutley. Another one of my many talents is the ability to deftly pick my way into any lock, so when I spy the lumpen sod consoling Laura on the terrace, I sneak up the stairs and into his suite. What a surprise to see his valises neatly packed at the foot of the bed. What a surprised look on his face when he enters his room a short while later and finds me sitting in a chair, fanning my face with his train tickets and passport.

  “Leaving us so soon?” I say.

  “Of all the …” he sputters. “Get out before I throw you out.”

  I laugh. If I sat on Mr. Nutley I’d squash him. I may be a bit pudgy, but, frankly, I am still an imposing figure and I still know how to fight. It’s in my body language and glinting in my charcoal black eyes. Don’t let the cherubic cascade of dark curls that Bryony loves to tug lull you into thinking I am remotely cherubic.

  “First we need to have a little chat,” I say.

  “I think not.”

  “I think so,” I retort. I pull Laura’s pearl drops out of one pocket.

  “Where did you find those?” he says, astonished. “So you did steal them after all. You’ve come here to blackmail me. I knew it from the moment"”

  “Oh please. I’ve had quite enough of you.” I pull a small black velvet jewelry roll from another pocket, and his eyes practically bug out of his head. “We have several options. I can go to the authorities and report you for the light-fingered fool that you are,” I say, waving the roll containing a delightful assortment of other ladies’ earrings at him. “I could, on the other hand, turn these over to Leandro and let him deal with you. These options both involve"how shall I put it?"a certain amount of pain and distress. Or I can deliver everything to Signor Goldini and tell him they were found on the gravel path by the fountain. In which case, you will already be on the next train to parts unknown and will, I might add, owe me a rather considerable favor.”

  “I knew it.” He sighs melodramatically but relaxes nonetheless. “Which is …?”

  “The answer to a question.”

  He looks at me, confused. “The answer to a question? That’s all?”

  “That’s all. And a promise never to set foot near Laura Garnett or any of us ever again in your unnatural lifetime, or I shall be the first in line to happily wring your neck. I know where you live, I know who you are, and, should you continue to misbehave, I’d be looking over my shoulder in the dark, if you catch my drift.”

  He barely hesitates. “Oh bloody hell. You have my word.” For what it’s worth. “Now ask me the question and bugger off. I’ve got a train to catch.”

  “Very well,” I say. “Why did you ask Mrs. Hunter, ‘Who are you? Why are you here?’”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The day you first sat down with us, you used those very words. She became upset. I want to know why.”

  “I’ve no idea. They’re perfectly innocuous questions, I should think.”

  “That’s all it was, simple curiosity?”

  “Of course it was.” He looks genuinely perplexed. “What else could it be?”

  My pathetic Mr. Nutley, thank you for your stupidity. I believe you. You’re too dumb to be one of them. What a relief not to have to worry about this pudgepot ever again.

  “Nothing,” I tell him. “Nothing at all.”

  That evening, Laura stayed in her room, and Leandro joined us after consoling her for the untimely exit of her holiday beau.

  “What will she do now?” I ask him.

  “I hope she will visit me with the children in August,” he replies. “With my invitation she will know there is somewhere to go if she is tired of home.”

  I hope the sound of that makes Ariel feel safer.

  “Why doesn’t she ask your witch to make the husband go away?�
� Ariel asks.

  “That is not the way of the strega,” he says.

  “Then what does the strega actually do?” Ariel asks, almost to herself. “Do you think she could help me?”

  “She helps those who are in need, yes, but not everyone who comes to her finds her message to their liking.”

  “Can she find the disappeared?”

  Leandro looks puzzled.

  “I need to find someone,” Ariel says.

  No no no, not this. Not yet.

  “My baby.”

  Leandro looks at Bryony and seems even more puzzled.

  “He stole my baby. Bryony has a twin. A boy baby. His name is Tristan.” Ariel’s hands are clenched together so tightly that her knuckles are dead white. “They told me he died, but I know he’s still alive. I know it. I want my baby back.”

  “I am very sorry"”

  “I can’t explain now,” she says fiercely, with more energy in her voice than I think I’ve ever heard, “but he’s gone. I’ve got to find them. My baby, and the man who stole him. I am going to get my strength back, and I’m not going to stop until I find them.”

  “I see,” Leandro says.

  “I must go.” Ariel stands up with Bryony and hurries off, Matteo following, worried. I am stunned that she confessed this terrible secret to a man whom only a few days before she said she’d never trust.

  “Well,” I say, “she is full of surprises.”

  “Una sorpresa della bella donna. Yes. A grand surprise. I do not know what to say.”

  “Your address might be helpful.”

  Leandro nearly smiles.

  “You have said more to help her than you know,” I tell him. “I hope that we can be there in a week or two. I’ll sort it out. We’ll drive a circuitous route, just to be safe. I’ll tell Signor Goldini we are leaving for America, and then we’ll disappear again.”

  “I shall be waiting.”

  For the last time in Merano, he bows and walks away, and as he leaves I swear I see the cat’s-eye winking.

  2

  The House

  of Gold

  “The fine points must come from within,” Leandro is saying to Ariel.