Roman Summer (7 page)

‘Then you can tell her you’ve been to breakfast with me, without creating a scene?’

‘But of course I can. Why shouldn’t I?’

‘Why not?’ he echoed casually, then looked at his watch. ‘Time I was moving. And you?’

‘Yes, quite.’ Ruth stacked the tray. ‘Do we wash up?’

‘Heavens, no. Maria will do it when she comes. I’ve just got to collect a few things.’

Ruth followed him through to the living room. When she came back from leaving the tray in the kitchen she could hear him in his bedroom. He had left two drawers of a desk wide open, and as she couldn’t pass without closing them, she closed the first and was about to close the second when she froze, staring at something that was half hidden by some papers lying on top of it.

It was a powder compact. She knew it well. Cicely had complained of having lost it—when? More than a week ago. But what was it doing here, in
Erle
’s apartment? Unless?

That ‘unless’ made Ruth a little sick. As far as she knew,
Cicely
, like herself, had been to
Erle
’s office, but never here.
As far as she knew
... But if
Cicely
had lost the thing on some clandestine visit here at
Erle
’s invitation, that would account for her lack of worry about it, after having mentioned casually that she had mislaid it. So when could she have been here? Some time when she claimed to have been sketching with Jeremy Slade? Oh, surely not!

But
Erle
was coming back, and full of doubts without any certainties, Ruth did the craven thing. She closed the drawer, leaving the compact where it was, and with every minute that passed knew that it was already too late to accuse him playfully, (‘Hey, what’s this doing here? How come?’) to which he might have a totally innocent answer. But again, might not, and that she shrank from knowing.

They went down to the car and she supposed she made some articulate conversation on the drive to her flat. She remembered hearing
Erle
say that he was flying to Vienna to finalise some artistes’ contracts with the State Opera, and his sending
Cicely
his love. And when she went in and told
Cicely
of her encounter with
Erle
without mentioning her find in almost the first breath, again it was too late to mention it at all.

Or was she pretending it was too late, when in fact it was that she didn’t want to learn the truth—about either of them? That
Erle
was lying when he claimed to have avoided
Cicely
? That
Cicely
, accused, would lose face and try to prevaricate? Or might they both laugh in her face, call her a frumpish out-of-date and claim that girls went to men’s apartments alone in these days without a second thought? No, she had to give them the benefit of the doubt; act as if nothing had happened to disturb her. That way she would forget it the sooner herself. And the sooner the better for her peace of mind.

But she hadn’t reckoned with her watchfulness of everything
Cicely
said in relation to
Erle
. When
Cicely
grumbled, ‘He didn’t tell
me
he was going to Vienna,’ Ruth’s unspoken question was,
When
could he have told her, if they hadn’t met? Nor did she reckon with a
rankling
inner voice that wanted to know why she cared so much that they shouldn’t be lying to her; why it mattered to her that
Erle
shouldn’t cynically add
Cicely
to the list of his conquests that he didn’t take seriously enough for marriage to any of them. But she didn’t consciously answer the voice. For the answer had something to do with that awareness of
Erle
’s virility which she had exp
eri
e
nced in the Gardens—like an electric current turned momentarily on, lighting a response within her which she thought had died with Alec. It also had something to do with envy of
Cicely
’s open wooing of his favour, and with Stella Parioli’s certainty of it. And the sum of all that was something she would have given a great deal to deny.

Ruth was to find that
Erle
’s advice to dilute the dose of culture for
Cicely
was sound. Also as he advised, she sent
Cicely
exploring on her own, finding she picked up more conversational Italian that way than she would in any formal lessons. Her use of it was neither wholly grammatical nor particularly elegant, but she made herself understood.

Between the ‘musts’ of architecture and art and antiquity that Ruth was firm Cicely must see, they went out once or twice a week to Cesare Fonte’s riding-school and Cicely persuaded Jeremy Slade and his sister Vivien to meet her there often for riding too. They would go off, a gay party of three, leaving Ruth
willing
to rest and relax in the garden or on the terrace of the Casa. Occasionally Cesare or a groom went with the riding-party, but mostly he allowed them to go alone, when, unless he was giving a lesson himself he would join Ruth and they would talk over a glass of wine. Agnese Fonte was not often in evidence, and her grim reserve was something of a dampener when she was.

Cesare and Ruth had enough in common for her sometimes to think that being with him was like being with Alec; to speculate on his age—he was probably younger than he looked—and to wonder why so nice a man shouldn’t have married yet. As far as she was concerned, he lighted no spark of physical attraction in her; she could have enjoyed the company of another friendly woman as much as she enjoyed his. What had
Erle
said of the marriage that he meant to forgo for his own ends? That it should be a ‘heady, distracting adventure’, and yes, it should be that and more. She remembered too his warning, right or wrong, that in a second marriage it would be disastrous to make comparisons between two men much of a kind.

She had little clue as to how Cesare thought of her. She knew he liked her, looked forward to their talks
and often deferred to her opinion on all sorts of things. It was Agnese who enlightened her, making opportunity of a morning when Cesare had been called away.

The day was overcast, threatening rain. Cicely, prepared in waterproof cape aid hood, had ridden off with a groom, and Agnese invited Ruth into the house for coffee, just as the rain came down. Under the darkened skies the high salon seemed more austere than ever and cold with a chill which, to Ruth’s imagination, had no relation to the physical atmosphere.

Agnese was not a woman for finesse. She came straight to her point with, ‘May I ask you,
signora,
what is your view of your obvious attraction for my brother?’

Ruth stared. ‘My attraction for him? I don’t think I understand you,
signora
?’

‘Ah, come! You must know what he feels for you by now!’

‘I know that he is friendly, that he likes me, I think. No more than that.’

‘Well, it is no secret from
me
that it goes further than that; that he is in love with you, whether you claim to know it or not.’

Ruth said patiently,
‘
How can I know it, when he has given me no sign?’

‘Bah! A woman always knows these things. She does not need another woman to tell her.’

‘Then why are you telling me,
signora
?’ asked Ruth.

‘As I have said, I thought you would not need telling, and I wanted to know how you would answer him, should he propose marriage to you.’

‘I should be honoured, but I should refuse him.’

Agnese bridled. ‘Why? We are poor, but Cesare is a Count of the Holy Roman Empire! His wife would bear the title of Contessa.’

‘Yes, I understand that, but
—’

‘Then he
has
spoken to you of marriage?’

‘No, he mentioned his title in passing, at our first meeting. But now you know I should refuse him, is that all you want of me,
signora
?’

Agnese folded her hands in her lap and sat very upright. She had the air of a judge about to pass sentence. ‘No, it is not all,
’
she said. ‘I have to request that if you mean to refuse him, you should not see as much of Cesare as you have done hitherto.’

Ruth smiled placatingly. ‘Oh, really,
signora
! We have contracted for a s
eri
e
s of riding lessons for Cicely, and while they continue, I have to drive her over here. She cannot drive herself. And why should I avoid your brother, when I have come to value
him
as a friend? And he to value me, I hope.’

Agnese shook her head. ‘In Italy we do not understand such friendships between a man and a woman. If she encourages him as you encourage Cesare, she is not blind to what he has in mind. Cesare understands this very well, and you are giving him hope which you say you do not mean to fulfil. This is cruel of you, and is a state of affairs which, I warn you, I do not intend to tolerate.’

‘But when he has said nothing to me, what reason could I give him for avoiding him, even were I able to? What do you want me to do?’ Ruth asked bewilderedly.

‘That I must leave to you,’ said Agnese with a shrug. ‘You are an adult woman,
signora.
You have been married. You must know many ways of discouraging a man.’

‘Before he has done or said anything that calls for discouragement?’ Ruth set aside her coffee cup and stood up. ‘No, I’m sorry. While matters are as they are between your brother and me, they remain so. I can’t do as you ask, and for instance, you could hardly wish me to tell Cesare that I was avoiding him because you had demanded it of me?’

‘I should have to hope that you would have more charity than to make trouble between a devoted brother and his sister,’ said Agnese calmly. ‘But if you have not, then you must do as you please. Even that would be a small price to pay for Cesare’s freedom from a woman who wants him as a lapdog, grateful for her favours, though from whom she means to withhold the ultimate one.’

That was too much! Ruth retorted ho
tl
y, ‘If I did as you ask, of course I should not implicate you. But as I am not doing as you ask until Cesare himself gives me cause
.
’

‘And
when
he gives you cause? After that, what then?’ Agnese insinuated.

‘That I must decide
if
he ever gives me cause, and what he wishes himself that I should do,
after
I have refused him.’

‘I see. Then there is nothing more to be said?’ ‘Nothing, I’m afraid,’ agreed Ruth.

‘And it does not matter to you that on my side I shall do everything in my power to discourage his attentions to you? Even to the point of an open hostility which he can hardly mistake?’

Ruth shook her head a little hopelessly. ‘That I must leave to you,
signora
,’ she said. She went towards the door, and reaching it, turned.
‘
Addio, signora
,’
she added distantly.

Agnese merely looked through the window. ‘It is still raining,’ she said.

‘It doesn’t matter. We English are used to
rain.’

Plunging out into it, but forced at last to seek the shelter of the belvedere’s portico, Ruth felt stifled by her own impotent indignation. It was not until later— much later—that she saw a parallel which was distasteful to face. Just so—as Agnese Fonti had appealed to her—had she appealed to
Erle
not to encourage Cicely, and had met with about as frosty a reception. Were they both then meddling do-gooders, Ruth wondered, believing their own case good and thrusting it down the throats of other people? The thought made her feel a little kindlier towards Agnese, who obviously cared for Cesare. But she writhed to picture how
Erle
must despise her for seeing mischief where—probably—none existed. Then she gave herself a mental shake. She had meant well by Cicely, hadn’t she? And if he couldn’t see that, why should she care what he thought of her for it?

He was still away in Vienna when, one morning, there was a surprise in Ruth’s mail. An expensive-looking envelope contained a large gilt-edged card of invitation to herself and
Cicely
to a private showing of the
haute couture
collection of Roscuro, one of the best known names in Italian fashion. Smiling, Ruth passed the card to
Cicely
. ‘Do you want to go?’ she asked.