Roman Summer (4 page)

‘And she didn’t, and now is “not amused”?’

‘Distinc
tl
y not. I’m in the doghouse for “dragging” her there.’

Erle
said unsympathetically, ‘It could be you’ve only yourself to blame. I wouldn’t put it past you to have made out an ironclad itinerary and a rigid timetable, and woe betide anyone who dares to upset it
!’

Hurt, Ruth protested,
‘
Why
wouldn’t you put it past me?’

‘Because, at a guess, you’re of the Boy-stood-on-the- bu
rn
ing-deck mentality. Give you a trust to fulfil and you’ll fulfil it to its last letter—right?’

Knowing it about herself, Ruth said, ‘And what’s so wrong with that?’

‘Nothing—so long as it’s only yourself you’re caging inside a set of rules. Doesn’t
Cicely
ever play?’

‘Play?’

‘
At parties, for instance. You should give one for her.’

‘I don’t know enough people of her age to invite.’

‘Then I’d better give one. And you could do worse by her than taking her to, say, the Piazza Venezia, where she’s got half a dozen streets raying out, giving her a city map and telling her to explore by herself.’

‘I’m supposed to chaperon her.’

‘Tcha! The letter of the law again. I’m not suggesting you abandon her at midnight, and the only way to learn any city is to walk about it on your own two feet. Which reminds me—can you drive a car in Italy?’

‘I used to, and I’ve kept my driving licence renewed. Why?’

‘Because it’s what I came to tell you—that I’ve had another telephone talk with
Mrs.
Mordaunt and she’d
like me to hire a car for you to take Cicely about. So I’m laying on a little 500 for you; they’re easy to park and you can keep it at the garage round the
corner
.’

‘Thank you,’ said Ruth. ‘That will mean I can take her further afield.’

‘Exactly. Show her the Appian Way, for instance, and dare her to be
blasé
about driving along the oldest road in the world that’s still in use; on the original paving-stones too,’
Erle
advised.

He did not wait to see Cicely, which added to her sense of grievance when she came in. But on hearing of the pro
j
ected party and the car, her black mood passed.

Erle
invited them to the party by telephone. It was to be a restaurant affair. Cicely spent the afternoon at the hairdresser’s and emerged with her hair piled high, adding at least three years to her age; Ruth always shampooed her own short hair, but treated herself to an expensive cut. Cicely wore a sunray-pleated lam
e
dress; Ruth went in one of her two evening gowns, a peacock-green batwing-sleeved
blouson
over a narrow matching skirt.

Erle
calle
d
for them
,
making
Cicely
, for whom the party was given, his partner for the evening. At the restaurant they and his other guests foregathered in a big private ante-room; introductions were made, drinks were proffered, and the usual party jabber was in a Babel of different languages. Watched at a distance by Ruth, Cicely was quaintly possessive of
Erle
, tucking her arm into his, laughing up at him, making the most of her evening as his particular choice, possibly seeing herself, Ruth thought with a
little
stab of compassion, as a serious rival of all the exotic, demanding women who were part of his
every day
.

‘
I’ve been in love with him since I don’t know when
.’
Had
Cicely
meant that to be taken at its face value? Or was that mere teenage extravagance? Ruth hoped so. There was no future in laying your all at the feet of a man who
claimed
that the adventure of marriage was not for him...

The guests did not know their dinner partners until they found their own place-c
ards at the tables for six in th
e restaurant. Ruth’s partner removed his card and tucked it into a pocket as he announced his name as Cesare Fonte, adding, when Ruth told him hers, ‘I do not speak English very well,
signora.
You must forgive me my mistakes.’

Ruth smiled, ‘On the contrary, if we speak Italian instead,
you
must forgive
me
my mistakes
!
’ and saw his dark, grave face light up with relief.

The other people at their table were two strangers and Stella Parioli and her partner, whom she addressed as ‘Luigi’—possibly the Luigi Be
rn
anos whom she had claimed to have turned down in favour of lunching with
Erle
, Ruth remembered.

The conversation was all in Italian, with Ruth taking less part in it than anyone, though her own partner was attentive enough. At one point Stella Parioli glanced across to
Erle
’s table, where he sat with
Cicely
and four other young people, and said, ‘So eccentric of
Erle
, to put himself out to see that mere children enjoy themselves.’ Then, narrowing her glance on
Cicely
in particular, ‘The young blonde—I don’t recognise her. Does anyone know who she is?’

Ruth said, ‘Yes, I do. She is English—a
protégée
of Signore Nash. Her name is Cicely Mordaunt, and I am her chaperon for the
summer
she is in Rome.
’

Stella Parioli turned her exquisitely dressed head, looking beneath her lids at Ruth, with an air of using a lorgnette in order to bring her into focus.

‘Indeed? Her chaperon?’

‘Her hostess too,’ Ruth supplied.

The other woman’s face cleared. ‘Ah, yes, I remember you now. A week or two ago, wasn’t Signore Nash interviewing you for the post of hostess—paid hostess —to that child?’

The intended slight did not escape Ruth. ‘Yes, I am being paid,’ she said.

‘As I thought.’ The reply seemed to give Stella Parioli some satisfaction. She turned to Ruth’s partner. ‘Is your sister here this evening, Count Fonte? I have not seen her yet, if she is.’

At Ruth’s sharp-drawn breath and glance his way, Cesare Fonte turned a dull red, as if in embarrassment.

‘Agnese? She has not come. She does not enjoy such affairs very much,’ he replied.

‘But you enjoy being invited to dine out on occasion?’ Somehow the implication was that he was grateful for a bowl of free soup and a charity crust. What a subtly poisonous person the woman was, thought Ruth as Cesare Fonte said quie
tl
y, ‘More than Agnese does, yes.’

After dinner there was a concerted move to a nightclub for a floor show and dancing. Cars were shared and Ruth went with her dinner partner.
Erle
signed in his big party; the youngsters took at once to the crowded dance-floor, while other people found tables, watching and chatting over their drinks.

At their table for two Cesare Fonte said suddenly, ‘You must forgive me,
signora
,
for failing to give you my whole name.’ He took out the place-card he had put in his pocket and showed its wording—‘Count Cesare Fonte’. ‘The truth is that my circumstances are such that I prefer not to use my title in my everyday affairs, and my friends, if not my acquaintances, understand this.’

Not knowing quite what to reply, Ruth made a noncommittal murmur, and he went on, ‘You see, our hereditary titles are more common than are yours in England, and for a working man to bear one is no help to him. And so, for most purposes, I have dropped it. If I were to marry and my wife should wish to be known as Contessa, that would be different. I should agree, to please her. As it is, my sister and I live in a Casa to the east of the city, on the road to Tivoli. It is too big for us, but we need the grounds and the stables for my riding- school. That’s my work, you understand?’

‘I
see,’ said Ruth. ‘Is your sister not married either?’

‘No. She keeps house for us both. She has some help in the house, and we both work in the gardens.’ He paused. ‘I should be very happy,
signora
,
if you and your young guest would visit us one day?’

Liking
him
for his frankness, Ruth said, ‘We’ll do that, if we may. I want my charge to see the Roman countryside as well as the city. I have the use of a little car, and we could drive out.’

‘Or if you know our host well enough, he might bring you when he comes himself. He keeps his own mount at
my stables. That is how I know him. Do you ride yourself,
signora
?’

But before Ruth could tell him she didn’t,
Erle
was at their table, doing a host’s tour of his guests. ‘Neither of you is dancing?’ he asked, sharing the question between them.

Cesare Fonte shook his head. ‘I am so bad that I haven’t dared to ask the
signora
,’ he said.

‘Then may I borrow her?’
Erle
turned to Ruth. ‘I’ve asked the band to play something that my generation understands, a waltz for preference. So will you join me?’

To the strains of a waltz medley they went out on to the floor. Ruth, who hadn’t danced for a long time, moved hesitantly at first. But
Erle
’s hand, hard upon her back, guided her expertly and he was patient with her until her feet and body took the rhythm confidently.

She looked about her at the other dancers. ‘Where is
Cicely
?’ she asked.

‘Probably star-gazing on the terrace thoughtfully provided by the management. With scarcely a word or two of Italian to her name, she has made some conquests, notably with one Zeppe Sforza, to whom I’ve given permission to see her home.’

‘Oh. Was that wise?’

‘Don’t worry. Zeppe’s father is a Royal Opera artiste, under contract to me, and I know the lad. I’ve given them a curfew of one a.m. which, with your permission, I’ll see that they keep. How do you like Cesare Fonte?’
Erle
asked.

“Very much.’

‘You found his lack of English no handicap?’

‘He understood my Italian. He tells me you ride, out at his riding-school, and suggested you might take
Cicely
and me over there one day.’

‘Good idea. I’ve been snowed under lately, and I’m in need of a work-out. We’ll make a date for, say, next week. You’ll be impressed with his place, the Casa Rienzi. It’s genuine Palladian, come down in the world. But as with a classically beautiful woman, with the bone-structure still there, who’ll be lovely at eighty, it keeps its grace.’

Ruth thought of the perfection of Stella Parioli’s features and understood the comparison. No doubt he was remembering it too. Aloud she said, ‘Does the Casa Rienzi belong to Signore Fonte?’

‘To Cesare? No. He rents it for the sake of the stable accommodation. Their own place—he has an older sister, Agnese—is deep in the South, in Calabria, where they have a small vineyard property, growing grapes and maize, but where people and tourists are too thin on the ground to merit a riding-school. So they let that in turn to a local farmer, and came north to Rome, though they’re both still homesick for their “ain folk”, I think.’

As
Erle
stopped speaking the music slowed to its end, and he halted, holding Ruth off from him. ‘Thank you. Why don’t we do this more often?’ he said, his tone making the kind of question to which she knew he didn’t expect her either to reply or to take literally at all. Probably his favourite closing gambit to everyone he partnered.

He delivered her back to Cesare Fonte, but after the floor-show when people were leaving, he came for her
again to drive her back to the flat. He parked the car on the empty street and came with her to the door, at which she understood what he had meant by asking her permission to see the young people’s curfew kept. He expected to be asked in.

Using her door key she fumbled, and he took it from her. Using it himself, opening the door and following her in, ‘You boasted that your reputation would stand up,’ he reminded her. ‘But I can wait in the car, if you’d rather?’

‘No, come up, please.’ What else could she say? Besides, it was a quarter to one already and, like him, she didn’t think the other two would be late.

Nor were they. At a few minutes after one a car came noisily up the stone-paved street and stopped outside. After that there was silence—‘Saying their goodnights,’
Erle
suggested. Then there was the sound of Cicely’s key in the street door; the car drove away and the other two went down to meet Cicely in the tiny hall.