A Woman of Influence (30 page)

"Yes, most certainly, the very next morning, and I must thank you for it, I am very grateful. I would have called at the house today, but my aunt required me to escort her when she went to call on an artist in Chelsea. She wishes to buy a picture and asked for my opinion. So I had decided to call on you tomorrow, but when Jonathan informed me you were here, I had to see you. You do not object?"

"Of course not; I am very happy to see you," she replied lightly, and he smiled as though her answer had given him very special pleasure.

They had walked a fair way along the corridor, making light conversation, mostly about the opera and its complicated plot. When it was time to return to their seats, he walked back with her to their box, and as they entered, Jonathan rose, greeted his friend, and for the rest of the performance stood with Aldo Contini at the back of the box. Though she heard nothing of their whispered conversation, it became clear to Becky that the two men were firm friends. The intimacy and general ease of their association was unmistakable; she was quite certain they would have exchanged confidences.

Afterwards, when the audience had applauded until their ears were ringing with the sound and the final curtain call had been taken, they rose to leave, and Anna Bingley invited Mr Contini to join them at supper.

He would be delighted, he said, and thanked her, but he must first escort his aunt home. He was assured that would present no problem, whereupon he beamed with pleasure, kissed the hands of all the ladies, and left.

On the journey back to Grosvenor Street, neither Jonathan nor Anna made any comment on the unheralded appearance of Mr Contini at the opera.

However, Becky was certain they must have had some discussion of the matter; it was simply not credible that Anna knew nothing of it.

On reaching the house, Becky went directly to her room, attempting to avoid questions and trying to rest her feet and eyes as she lay on the couch. Nelly, ever anxious for her mistress, keen to ensure she had everything she needed, brought her a drink of water and, when she was ready to go downstairs, fussed around her, making certain her gown and hair were just as they should be.

Aldo Contini arrived at the house some half an hour later, apologising for his lateness, and was assured by his host and hostess that all would be forgiven, if he would promise to entertain them with a song after supper.

As he entered the room, Becky, sitting to one side of the doorway, saw him look around the company, his eyes searching until he found her. He then walked directly across to her, bowed over her hand, and seated himself beside her. Thereafter, there was so much to talk about, that it seemed to Becky they had hardly stopped speaking except to partake of supper, and even then, the food, though excellent, did not appear in any way to diminish their desire for conversation.

They had not met in more than two years, not since the year of Josie's death, when Becky, left to her own devices in London while her husband plunged deep into his business interests, had met Mr Contini again and found in him a companion who had offered her something more than the poor consolation of mourning her child while keeping a stiff upper lip.

With him, she had been able to express some of the deeply felt emotions she had hidden from most of her family and friends. He had been neither embarrassed nor uneasy when she, while speaking of Josie, had wept. Explaining gently that he too had known the heart-wrenching loss of a young sister some years ago, he had comforted her. At the time, it had made for a bond between them more intimate and precious, Becky felt, than if they had been lovers.

In his company, she had enjoyed also a level of intelligent discourse that had almost disappeared from her social life. Mr Contini's knowledge of matters artistic and his genuine interest in her views had combined to enhance her appreciation of the time they had spent together. She had looked back upon it as a period when every aspect of her existence had been enriched by his friendship.

She recalled their many conversations on subjects as arcane as Mr Darwin's theory of the origin of species and as ordinary as the closure of Hyde Park on account of public rioting in London. On every topic, they had debated, discussed, and resolved their respective views to their mutual satisfaction, all in the course of the Summer of 1866.

Becky remembered some conversations as though they had occurred a day or two ago. They had been chiefly about Josie and Becky's own feelings of guilt at having persuaded her daughter into what was to become an unhappy union, and he had understood and acknowledged them, like no one in her family would.

Since then, Mr Contini had returned to Italy, and back in Derbyshire, Becky had made a determined effort to put that exceptional Summer out of her mind, but without much success.

Meeting him again had resurrected every precious memory.

Clearly, he remembered too, she thought, but was being discreet, probably believing that she would not wish to be reminded of a time that, for all its passing pleasures, had been filled mostly with her grief at her daughter's death.

After a few moments silence, she, feeling the need to make conversation, said casually, "You have not changed much, Mr Contini."

His reply surprised her, "No? But you
have
, Becky, remarkably," and when she looked somewhat disconcerted, he added, "You look much younger today," and to her disbelief, continued, "You are a little happier now, yes? Or just a little less melancholy, perhaps?"

Becky found it difficult to respond to this suggestion; she had no swift answer to his question. Instead, seizing upon his earlier reference to the opera, she asked, "You said you were familiar with
Figaro
?"

"Indeed I am, very familiar. You see, I spent much time in Paris trying to study art, and
Figaro
was a great favourite with the French at the time."

"But it is a German opera!" she said.

"Ah, but the original story of Figaro, the play by Beaumarchais, was French and performed soon after the French Revolution," he countered. "It was used to ridicule the stupidity and pretensions of the old aristocrats--those they had sent to the guillotine! I think the French like to remind themselves of that period from time to time. As a student in Paris some fifty years after the revolution, I confess I enjoyed it too."

Becky was astonished that he knew so much, yet behaved with so little presumption or arrogance. He told it as though it were common or garden information, available to all and sundry.

Her own knowledge of music was slight, and while she had known he had an interest in art and music--indeed it had attracted her to him when they first met--he had never given any hint that he had been a student of art.

"And was your study of art successful?" she asked, and he laughed.

"Alas, not to the extent I might have wished, but it was fun, and I did learn to sketch quite well, so it was not a complete waste of my time."

She did recall that he seemed to like scratching at a drawing pad with a stick of charcoal, but she had not thought it a serious pastime.

"And do you continue your interest in art?" she asked.

"I do, I sketch and draw for my own pleasure, mostly slight pieces; I am unlikely to be invited to hang my work at the Uffizzi or the Louvre."

There it was again, that sardonic self-deprecation that he was wont to engage in and that she had found so diverting after the company of persons who took themselves so seriously.

She smiled. "Perhaps not, but may I see some of it?" she persisted.

"Certainly, if you wish it. I do not have any of my work here in London, but if you will let me, I shall demonstrate my efforts for you. I shall make a drawing of you, and then you can be the judge of my talent."

Becky laughed and said she didn't think there'd be enough time for that, but added that she would very much like to see his work one day.

They talked for a while about family matters until supper was over and the room was rearranged for the entertainment that was to follow.

Anna Bingley approached them.

"Now, Mr Contini, I must hold you to your promise," she said, and he, without fuss, begged that Becky would excuse him and went to join Anna at the pianoforte. And, with the kind of unaffected ease that was so typically Italian, he sang, taking Becky back to the time many years ago, when she and Mr Tate had visited Italy and heard the young boatmen sing at dusk, songs that seemed to come from the heart. She had not heard such spontaneous singing ever before. The song brought back memories, which she had thought were buried in the past.

Now, it was all returning, confronting her, demanding her attention.

There was a burst of applause and calls for more, but he bowed and smiled to acknowledge the gathered audience, graciously kissed the hand of his accompanist, then returned to Becky's side.

"That was very good indeed, Mr Contini; if your drawing is as acceptable as your singing, you are being far too modest about it," she said, and he looked genuinely pleased but said no more.

Coffee, tea, and chocolate were being served in the adjoining room, and Becky suggested that they go in and help themselves, but Mr Contini offered to go himself. He recalled that she took tea and brought her a cup of tea with no milk and two lumps of sugar, before helping himself to black coffee. Becky smiled and thanked him; it seemed there was not a lot he had forgotten.

As they moved to sit in an alcove overlooking a small, enclosed courtyard hung with pretty Chinese lanterns, he said, "I am very happy to see you looking so well, Becky. It seems your new life in Kent must suit you; there is contentment there for you I think, yes?"

When she didn't answer immediately and looked down at her cup, he stopped abruptly and apologised.

"I am sorry; I should not have said that. I know there have been some very difficult times for you; forgive me, please."

This time she smiled and reassured him. "There is nothing to forgive. I was miserable when we last met, but that was just a few months after Josie's death, and I was alone in London. I was so very grateful that you were..."

But he would not let her continue. "Please do not speak of it; it must hurt you deeply; I am sorry to have been so insensitive as to have upset you by mentioning these things..."

She had to tell him then, that he had not been insensitive at all; indeed she insisted, "Please do not apologise. You were not insensitive, and I am not upset; believe me, it is good to be able to speak again of those times. They were not all sad days--I have very good memories of those days."

They were alone in the room; most of the others had returned to the drawing room where Anna Bingley had persuaded two other guests to sing a duet. The music could be heard through the closed doors as they slipped out into the cool courtyard.

He placed a hand on Becky's arm, and as she turned to look at him, he said rather earnestly, "Becky, I should like very much to meet you again and talk as we used to do; please tell me, would you consider it an impertinence on my part if I invited you to join me for a drive into the country?"

Though his suggestion surprised her, she was not willing to admit it and, having considered it for a moment, said, "Of course not, I should like that. Thank you."

He was clearly pleased with her reply and was eager to set a time and date for their excursion.

"When shall it be? Are you very busy this week?" he asked.

"No, I do not have any fixed engagements except with the Bingleys, and I am not very fond of London," she replied. "A drive into the country would be very pleasant. Perhaps on Monday, if that is convenient."

She had recalled that on Monday, the Bingleys and Darcys were to attend the ceremony at which Dr Richard Gardiner was to receive his award. It was a day on which she could go out wherever and whenever she wished, and no one would miss her.

When she explained, he asked, "And you are not attending this ceremony for Dr Gardiner?"

She shook her head, pointing out that only the immediate family were invited. It was to be a very distinguished gathering, she told him.

He smiled and said, "Well, that is fortuitous, is it not?"

Becky agreed that it was, and they laughed together almost like they used to do those years ago, and so it was arranged.

When they returned to the drawing room, Emma Wilson was at the pianoforte, and they stood quietly at the back of the room until she had finished. Her performance, exquisite as always, brought applause and praise around the room.

As Emma left the instrument and joined her husband, James, his pride in her and the warmth of their affection was plain to see. Watching from a little distance, Becky could not hold back the deep sigh that escaped her lips.

Mr Contini looked quickly at her but this time tactfully said nothing.

It did seem to him, however, that despite appearances to the contrary, Becky Tate was not really as contented as he had thought.

As the entertainment drew to a close, several of the guests prepared to leave. Mr and Mrs Darcy were among the first to make their departure; Lizzie was tired, and she disliked long journeys.

Becky made a point of approaching her and asking after the health of her brother-in-law Mr Bingley. "I understand from Emma that he is unwell. Jane must be anxious; please be so kind as to convey my best wishes for his speedy recovery," she said.

Elizabeth smiled and thanked her.

"Thank you, Becky, I shall. It is kind of you to ask, and yes, Jane is very concerned, but I am assured by Cassy that Richard saw Mr Bingley shortly before leaving for London, and he is confident that the condition, while it is uncomfortable, is not serious."