Only in the Night (23 page)

‘Have you any idea the treasures you have here or their value?’ asked a concerned Philip.

‘Vaguely, but not really. What does it matter? The family never sells anything anyway. It’s all just part of our lives. Do you sell off bits and pieces of your lives or your ancestors’? Some do but my family never does.’

‘But if you sold off only a few things, you could restore the house and all the other objects here.’

‘We do restore but on a limited scale because of money. We never seem to have enough to do major things, but we soldier on.’

‘Would you like to see more of the house?’ asked Vittorio. They did want to, very much. The last stop they made was the long dining table in the kitchen where they found about eight people sitting drinking wine and waiting for dinner. When Eliza bade everyone to have a happy meal, Amanda realised they were not dining with them.

Eliza, seeing the confused look on Philip’s face, told him, ‘No, no. Vittorio suggested we dine alone, just the four of us, in the small dining room. It has all the pomp and circumstance of a proper English dinner to make you feel at home.’

‘Do you always follow his directives?’ asked Amanda.

‘Well, I hadn’t thought about it, but I guess for the
most part I do. You see, they always seem to benefit me in some way. Come, we can go through the library.’

The small dining room was enchanting in spite of the eighteenth-century silver Chinese wallpaper of slim blossoming cherry trees and exotic birds that was in places blistering off the walls, stained by water damage and damp. They dined on a round Queen Anne table with one leg wrapped in white wadding and tied with a soft leather belt, and sitting on Chippendale chairs, one with a back patched with Scotch tape. The rock crystal chandelier dribbling clusters of carved fruits in miniature and holding cream-coloured candles cast the perfect light over the Meissen dinnerware and French crystal goblets.

Vittorio, all the time he had been with them, had hardly said a word to either Amanda or Philip – not that he wasn’t pleasant or hospitable, because he was both of those things, merely that he was quiet, enjoying himself, watching Eliza’s every move, listening to her every word with the same pride he had shown when he first introduced her to Amanda.

For Philip and Amanda he was hard work, yet to be admired for the way he supported Eliza, loved her openly. Even the way they called each other ‘Bunny’, as cutesy as it was, seemed acceptable. It was clear that Vittorio was not really there for them but for his wife, that she should have the best of visits, a lovely day with her English friends. His adoration of Eliza, though held in bounds, expressed itself in his every gesture. Amanda was profoundly affected by them as a couple, and the eccentric manner in which they lived in the Villa Montecatini: a house of infinite beauty filled with heritage and family
treasures yet treated as if it were no more than a farmer’s cottage.

They were at table for three hours, dining on an outstanding meal of eight courses served by Giacomo and Amiata, who doubled in the house as cleaner and waitress. That evening Amanda was confronted not by the simple, charming friend she had made so casually but by Eliza: a beautiful, erudite woman who had elevated herself through the professional classes, acquiring education and culture far beyond her husband or his friends. She had never tossed those things away to settle for lust and love with a farmer, as Amanda had assumed. She had instead retained them, to give as part of herself to her farmer, in exchange for unconditional love on both sides.

Dining in this eccentric, shabby house that seemed to stand still in time, enjoying a perfect meal of pigeon pâté; poached quail’s eggs covered with a light hollandaise sauce on a bed of mushroom purée, which sat in a pastry boat that melted in the mouth; a cold creamed-crab soup decorated with snippets of fresh chives; pan-fried trout in butter with crunchy almonds; a lemon sorbet; rib of beef, served rare, with horseradish sauce, miniature roast potatoes and a scooped-out artichoke basket of miniature green vegetables; a platter of soft cheeses served with paper-thin biscuits; and for pudding, the finest crême brulée either of the guests had ever eaten, was an occasion that neither Amanda nor Philip would ever forget.

Vittorio Carducci’s table manners were as rough and ready as the rest of his personality, but though he clanged his plates and cutlery and shovelled his food, and spoke with his mouth full the rare times that he
did speak, it seemed no more bizarre than the entire social event already was.

The meal over, demitasse cups of coffee having been served with home-made chocolate truffles, and port having been drunk, the evening was at an end. Eliza and Vittorio, holding hands, walked their guests to their Range Rover. If there had been any awkward moment during Amanda and Philip’s entire visit it was when they were thanking their hosts profusely for a most lovely afternoon and extraordinary meal and saying goodnight.

The men shook hands, Philip kissed Eliza on the cheek, Eliza and Amanda clasped hands for a moment. The yellow light cast from massive iron lanterns to either side of the entrance was sufficient for the two women to read what was going on in the gaze passing between them. Just as Eliza had guessed, this was not goodnight but goodbye. The boundaries of their friendship had been breached, the two had lost the casual tie that had bound them together. Eliza had forfeited her English friend, but she was no longer a woman who fretted over loss. She had lost and found so much in her life she had come to terms with it as part of the grander pattern.

LONDON

Epilogue

One very grey and cold rainy November afternoon, umbrella up and carried low and tilted over her face to keep the gusting wind from drenching her, while rushing down Bond Street Amanda Dix crashed into Eliza Carducci. The two women were delighted to see each other again after so long a time.

Several days after the dinner party Eliza had given for them at the Villa Montecatini, she had received a letter of thanks from Amanda in which she said that she and Philip were returning to London. For years the women exchanged Christmas cards and Vittorio twice a year cut their meadows but Amanda and Philip’s villa remained empty, locked and shuttered.

The two women decided they would have tea and rushed through the wet streets to the Ritz. The years had been good to both of them and they praised each other for how well they looked, spoke about life in Tuscany and in London, asked after each other’s friends.

Finally, just as they were about to leave, Eliza asked why Amanda and Philip had not returned to the villa. Amanda told her they had realised that the Tuscany years were over for them. Most of their friends were now in the South of France and the lifestyle there suited them better.

While standing behind the doorman who was calling separate taxis for them, Amanda told Eliza that the dinner party at her house was an evening she and Philip never talked about but would always remember. ‘One day,’ she declared, ‘when we have given up the insincerity of the life we thrive on, we’ll go back to the villa and have you and Vittorio to dinner.’ Then, sad-faced, she dashed away without her taxi, tears trickling down her cheeks because both of them knew that would never happen.

Eliza took the taxi to the British Museum and there, standing on the steps under a large black silk umbrella, waiting for her, was Vittorio. They kissed and he presented her with a bunch of violets.