Angels of the Flood (27 page)

She had shown him a poem Francesca had written when she was fifteen, a poem full of thoughts of death and despair. Why couldn’t she have brought it to their meeting at the restaurant? He grew nervous and made some joking reference to the ridiculousness of the gossip that they were lovers.

It had been a mistake, he realized as soon as he said it. ‘Ridiculous?’ she asked, the question husky and plaintive. ‘Do you really find me so unattractive?’

Of course not, on the contrary, she was extremely attractive. Mario struggled to repair the damage. She was the most attractive of women… and it was true. He’d never been alone in the company of anyone so sophisticated and elegant. But still she was not reassured. He’d been thrown off balance by her sudden shift to vulnerability. He put his arms round her to comfort her. To demonstrate just how attractive she was, he’d kissed her. And somewhere between the kissing and the reassurance the moment when he could have drawn back passed without him noticing it, and was gone for ever.

Three times, she said. He’d said two. He didn’t count the final time, after he’d happened to notice a letter from the clinic where Francesca’d been sent and memorized its address. He’d been appalled to learn Francesca had been sent to a private clinic, not the college he’d been told about. Why? He didn’t believe Annette’s account of Francesca’s violence against her uncle, that she’d poured boiling water on his leg. He thought they were making it up, horrified that even now it was possible for parents to incarcerate their inconvenient children. His final encounter with Annette had been brief, without any pretence of tenderness. He’d been intending to tell her it was the last time, but perhaps she’d sensed what he was about to say and she’d got there first. Saving face. From then on there’d been no more lunches, but he was careful to remain courteous and friendly: he’d known it would be a mistake to make an enemy of Annette Bertoni. But he’d never imagined the lengths to which she was prepared to go.

Well, now he knew. He was furious with himself for having been so gullible. Had she seduced him because she was attracted to him, simply, or had she set the trap so she could use it against him one day if she wanted to? He wondered how he dared to call himself a psychiatrist when he was so easily fooled by human nature, but his schizophrenics and depressives were plain sailing compared to the Bertonis.

He had lost Francesca. After that hideous meeting with Annette just now there was no going back to the illusion that one day he and Francesca could make a life together away from her family. Her mother’s threats, the blackmail, his terrible sense of powerlessness, would always come between him and Francesca. He’d waited three years while she was in America and would have waited another three if necessary, but it was only now, when he knew he was condemned to walk away for ever, that he recognized how strongly he had loved her.

Desperately, he tried to work out how to get round Annette’s threats. He thought that if she ever dared to tell Francesca about their liaison he would simply deny it, brazen it out and say the woman was fantasizing. It would be his word against her mother’s—if Francesca cared for him, which deep down he still believed she did, then surely she would believe him rather than the mother she detested? But… but… a life together founded on a lie? What kind of a life would that be? Sooner or later the truth was sure to come out, as it always did, and then what? A marriage with poison at its heart was a lingering death. He’d never be able to endure such a thing.

But supposing he were to take back the initiative and tell Francesca about the affair himself? If he confessed, she’d be horrified and angry for a while, and desperately hurt, but if she cared for him—again, that
if—
she would be reconciled in time. Perhaps. Alternatively, she might hate and despise him for ever; his pride could not endure the thought of that. Better by far to sever all links while she still thought well of him, perhaps even loved him the same way as he loved her. There was no guarantee that Annette would act on her threat, so why divulge a secret that was better left a secret for ever?

He knew his only real option was to walk away, hard though that was. So long as he remained within reach of the Bertonis, he was doomed to remain a pawn in whatever game Annette chose to play. And the worst part was knowing that he had brought this misery on himself.

It didn’t stop there. He had always thought Francesca exaggerated her need to escape from her family; now he saw clearly that her only chance of finding happiness was away from their embrace. He was the one person who could have taken her away from them and he was powerless to help her.

One last task Annette had set him and it could not have been closer to his heart. He was to see that Kate returned to Florence that afternoon, which meant he was to leave also. Leave, and, if he had his way, never come back. There was an ache in his heart at the prospect of never seeing Francesca again. She had been his first and truest love. He could not believe he’d ever care for anyone as he cared for her, but she came at too high a price.

He stood up and began walking down the mountainside to look for Kate.

The moment he was gone from the room, Annette’s composure vanished. She leaned her head back against the chair and closed her eyes. She was quivering like a leaf, shaking so much that when she tried to put the cigarette to her lips, ash tumbled down the front of her blouse. My God, what must he think of her? No need to ask the question, you only had to look in his eyes to see the depths of his contempt. And she had so craved his good opinion. Time was, they had been allies as well as lovers. Oh, she wasn’t under any illusions. She had always known he didn’t care for her the way he cared for Francesca, but even so… he had admired her and desired her and she’d revelled in that.

All gone. Irrevocably gone. But it was a small price to pay. What kind of mother would resort to blackmail and threaten to destroy her own child? Simple: a desperate mother. A mother who’d teetered on the edge of the abyss for so long she’d forgotten what it was like not to wake every night in the small hours in a cold sweat of terror at what the future might bring. A mother who’d lied and cheated and schemed for years to keep her family afloat. And anyway, she knew Mario would never dare to call her bluff.

He believed her threat, just as she’d known he would. He was innocent and idealistic, so he believed people less scrupulous than himself to be capable of anything, even the destruction of their own child. Because surely Francesca’s fragile equilibrium would be utterly destroyed if she knew of their affair. Mario wasn’t to know how much she cherished her wayward daughter, in spite of everything. She’d learned to play the part of unfeeling termagant with consummate skill. Sometimes she even came close to deceiving herself.

This was not how her life had meant to turn out. When the good-looking and easy-going young Filippo Bertoni came into the cocktail lounge with his handmade suits and his wallet bulging with dollars she’d thought she’d found the wealthy husband of her dreams. It was only later, after the wedding and the trip back to Italy, that she’d discovered it had all been a facade, a sham, a six-month spree on his father’s inheritance and it was all used up. Not that lack of money stopped him spending. The first words of Italian she learned were about interest rates and deferred payments and credit. If it hadn’t been for Zio Toni…

He’d always had a soft spot for Francesca, and no wonder: she’d been a child like a little angel. He’d paid for her to be educated at home because they thought she was too sensitive for school. Annette had learned to plump up the expenses for Francesca and get by on the surplus. And he’d dropped hints about his money: he’d always said it would be a shame to break the estate up, that the pictures and the land should stay together. Hints, but nothing definite. Annette had grown mean-spirited as a starving dog, disaster only kept at bay with casual scraps of hope.

And now the old crook was dying. The doctors said it was a matter of weeks, not months. No one knew how much he was worth, but the estate and the art collection alone were worth a fortune. Several fortunes. Annette had already borrowed vast sums at extortionate rates of interest on the expectation of inheriting his money. But recently, Zio Toni had let her know he was displeased with the way Francesca was turning out, and no wonder. In his odd way, the old man had forgiven her that incident with the boiling water—had even said that she was a girl after his own heart and knew about inflicting pain. It was the way she turned her back on them, disappeared to God knows where, which had caused the problems. And all the time she’d been in Florence with those deadbeats. But she always had been wayward and hard to handle. Not like Simona. Thank God her younger daughter had always been pliable. All her hopes now were pinned on Simona. She had to replace Francesca in her uncle’s affections and inherit the fortune for her family.

Otherwise they had no future. No future at all.

B
Y EARLY EVENING, THE
Villa Beatrice had been transformed. Angelica had swept away every last trace of the party. Where there had been empty wine bottles and damp rings on the marble surfaces, now there were jugs of spring flowers. Rugs that had been rolled up were back on the floors, shutters were flung wide to let in the light, fires blazed a welcome in all the main rooms, even in the hallway. The stink of cigarette smoke and socks, and the winter-long smells of damp and neglect, had been chased away by polish and fresh air. Kate was so amazed by the change that she was prepared to credit Angelica with magical housekeeping abilities until Francesca informed her that two women from the nearby farm were always on hand to help out at short notice. Angelica herself was busy in the kitchen, and if the pungent aromas drifting into the hallway were any indication, they were in for a treat that evening.

Kate relished every detail. She’d stayed in comfortable houses before now, but never one as palatial as the Villa Beatrice. The previous night the bedrooms had been firmly off-limits and she’d made do with a cushion on the floor, but this evening she had a room to herself, crisply laundered white sheets and fleecy towels and a bottle of San Pellegrino on the table beside her bed. When Zio Toni issued his surprise invitation she thought he meant she was to stay with him at La Rocca, but it turned out that accommodation in the converted tower was limited and since his illness took hold he’d insisted on eating his meals alone, so guests were always put up at the Villa Beatrice. She’d been told they’d be returning to La Rocca for a drink before their dinner at Villa Beatrice and she was looking forward to the guided tour of the art collection she’d heard so much about.

But in the meantime, there was plenty to keep her occupied at the Villa Beatrice. Mario, for instance. She couldn’t make him out. The previous evening he’d come on strong and then been gratuitously rude. Then he’d come to her aid when she was being stonewalled by Signora Bertoni. And now here he’d come knocking at the open door of her bedroom. ‘Kate, I must talk with you.’

‘Oh, really?’ She stared at him coldly.

‘Can I come in?’

‘I suppose so.’

He came in and closed the door carefully behind him. Every gesture was bristling with tension. ‘I think maybe I go back to Florence,’ he said.

‘Good,’ said Kate. ‘Goodbye then.’

‘I want for you come with me.’

‘You must be joking!’

‘Is not joke. Is better not to stay here, with this family.’

‘Is Francesca coming too?’

‘No, she must stay with her family.’

‘I’m not leaving Francesca,’ said Kate. ‘And you must be mad if you think I’d go anywhere with you after last night.’

‘I apologize,’ he said. ‘I say bad thing, but is not important.’ He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. ‘But going, going now, that is important. There is much family trouble here. We must go to Florence together.’

‘What kind of family trouble?’ Kate wanted to know.

‘Is their business, not for us. We do not belong with this family.’

Kate stared at him. To her amazement, he seemed perfectly sincere. She was baffled. ‘I don’t understand you, Mario. You were so fired up about Francesca coming here this weekend, I can’t believe you’re just going to abandon her now.’

‘Is not abandon. Is for her own good.’

‘That’s what you say, but unless you tell me why, I’m afraid I don’t believe you. I’m staying right here with Francesca just as long as she wants me to.’

Mario swore in Italian. ‘You are foolish child,’ he said bitterly. ‘You do not understand what you do. Come back to Florence with me—it is best for Francesca.’

‘Sorry, Dr Bassano, but I don’t see it that way. Now, will you get out of my room, please? I’m going to take a shower.’

He moved towards the door, obviously deeply unhappy with her decision. The weirdest part of it, thought Kate, was that he really did seem to be sincere. To her amazement, he said that if she wasn’t leaving the Villa Beatrice, then he intended to stay there too. She started to argue with him, but discovered he could be as stubborn as she was. Unless she left with him, he was going to stay put. If she hadn’t still been so suspicious of his motives, she’d have been flattered. As it was, confusion was her strongest emotion.

Once she’d showered and put on her jeans and her rumpled shirt, she went down to the hall where she found Francesca and Simona arguing in Italian with their father. Or rather Francesca was arguing all on her own while Simona watched miserably and he occasionally spoke in a quiet, conciliatory voice. Mario was nowhere to be seen. It was the first time Kate had had a chance to study Signor Bertoni. Medium height, brown haired and with a kindly, contented face, he looked a lot younger than his wife, more like an older brother to the two girls than a father. She felt embarrassed at gatecrashing what sounded like a full-on family row, and she was about to move silently up the stairs, when Francesca spotted her.

‘Kate,’ she said in English. ‘You’ll never guess, now Pappa is trying to make us wear skirts at dinner—knee-length
skirts!
Can you believe it?’