Roman Summer (9 page)

‘
Siena
?
’
Ruth echoed. ‘Why Siena?’

‘Several reasons. Because he has to go there next week to hold some auditions. Because he says it
’
s the best-preserved mediaeval town in Italy and I ought to see it. And because we should be there when they run some crazy horse-race all around the main square of the place. Quite something,
Erle
says.’

‘Oh yes, the Corso del Palio. It’s famous.’

‘What’s a
palio
?’

‘The banner that all the wards in the town compete for in the horse-race. It’s ridden by jockeys in mediaeval costumes, I believe. But when next week, and how long for? I have lessons to give,’ Ruth said.

‘Leaving on Tuesday, staying three nights. Now you aren’t going to make difficulties, are you?
’
Cicely
begged. ‘You can duck lessons for once, can’t you?’

‘No, but I may be able to switch them.’ Ruth found her diary, took over the telephone, and set to work. She found her pupils very co-operative and when she replaced the receiver after her last call, she felt a
little
thrill of anticipation. Except for one visit to Malta to see her parents, she hadn’t been out of Rome since Alec died. And if
Erle
proved difficult over the Roscuro
dress she had refused, she had Cicely as a kind of buffer state between him and herself. Yes, she was looking forward to Tuesday.

Erle
drove fast along the motorway; they stopped for lunch on the lake of Bolsano and reached Siena in time for dinner. The narrow streets of the hilltop town were already putting themselves
en fete
for the carnival two days hence; on the day itself every window would be flying flags and tapestries, and virtually the whole population would be on the streets. To Ruth’s relief,
Erle
was his usual urbane self. If her rebuff had said anything to him, he must have forgotten it.

The next day he was occupied, holding his auditions at one of the two music academies, and Ruth and Cicely went sightseeing in the town. In the evening after dinner
Erle
was taking them to a classical concert at the Chigi-Saracini Palace, an occasion which Cicely was prepared to tolerate for the sake of being able to dress up for it.

It had been a tiring day and Ruth was resting before dressing for dinner when a knock at her door heralded a pageboy with a large dress-box.

Ruth frowned at it. ‘I haven’t ordered anything
—
’

‘With the compliments of Signore Nash,’ said the boy stolidly.

‘For me from the
signore
? You are sure?’

‘Quite sure,
signora.
For Signora Sargent. Room 152.’

‘Very well, I’ll take it.’ Mystified, Ruth gave
him
a tip and shut the door on him. She put the box on the bed and stared at it unopened, an intuition which owed nothing to reason now telling her what it contained.

She broke the seals and threw back the lid. Yes, there it was, beneath the folds of tissue—the sea green model dinner dress she had coveted from the Roscuro collection.

Her first thought was instinctively feminine—
It’s lovely!
Her second—How had
Erle
contrived to send it to her? Her third
—How dared he
—when he knew from
Cicely
that she had already refused to accept it? She could not resist taking it out, shaking out its folds and holding it against her. Even that cursory trial showed it had been made to her measurements, and as to how that had been achieved
Cicely
might know the answer.

Cicely
was at her dressing-table in her room when she called ‘
Co
me in’ to Ruth’s knock. Ruth went in and backed against the door. Without preliminaries she demanded, ‘When you told
Erle
I refused to take a Roscuro model from him, you said you couldn’t remember what he replied. What did he really say?’

Cicely
hedged, ‘Oh dear, has he given it to you?’

‘He sent it by a bellboy.
Co
me along, what did he say?’

‘I didn’t like to tell you. You were in a state. He said, “We’ll see about that.” ’

‘Meaning? All right, I can guess. What then?’

‘He asked if I knew your measurements, and I did pretty well, so I gave them to him.’

‘Knowing, or at least guessing, what he meant to do?’

‘I didn’t have to guess. He told me.’

‘But you didn’t see fit to tell me?’

Cicely
said, ‘Well, I wasn’t altogether on your side, you see. I’m still not.’

‘Well, thanks,’ said Ruth coldly. ‘Now we know. Where is
Erle
, by the way? Have you seen him since we came in?’

‘When you came up before I did, he was reading the paper in the residents’ lounge.’

‘Good. Let’s hope he’s still there.’ Ruth heard
Cicely
say ‘Oh dear’ again as she went out, closing the door.

Erle
was alone in the lounge. At sight of her he put aside the paper and stood. ‘Time for a drink before you dress?’ he asked easily.

‘Time enough, I daresay. Except that I’d rather not.’

‘No?’ Hands in trouser pockets, shoulders thrown back, rocking s
lightly
on the balls of his feet, he was virile, assured, very much his own man. Against her will Ruth acknowledged it as she snapped, ‘No, and I’ve no doubt you know why
!’

He laughed then. ‘Though I don’t understand why, I can guess. You disapprove of my gesture, I take it?’

‘You should have known I would.
Cicely
told you, and if you were in doubt you could have come to me.’

‘And have been turned down? I make
Cicely
a present which she has the grace to accept. In the same spirit I try to make you one, and anyone would think I was bribing your virtue with the Koh-i-noor diamond! As a matter of interest, would you spurn flowers or a box of chocolates with the same dudgeon?’

‘Of course not. But there’s a very definite fine between flowers and
haute couture
models offered to a—mere employee.’

‘This line being drawn with flowers or a dinner-date on this side, and mink on the other, I suppose?’

O
n the defensive, Ruth muttered, ‘You know very well that the line is there.’

He nodded. ‘And very proper too,’ he mocked. ‘So I’m not to have the pleasure of seeing you wear my gift
tonight?’

Reckless with chagrin at his mockery, Ruth said, ‘I’d
rather wear a sack
!’

‘You wouldn’t, and you know it,’ he retorted. ‘There’s a bit of woman in you that’s itching to try that model on. But if a sack is really your preference, I daresay the management could oblige. Which would you like—co
rn
, coal, or chicken-meal? Or all-purpose polythene?’ As Ruth flinched he laughed again. ‘I declare, one is tempted to bait you—you rise so beautifully, he said. Then he came over to her and took her by the
wrist. ‘Now listen to me
—
’

She tried to twist free, but he held fast, steering her gently but masterfully to a chair. ‘Sit down and listen and see reason if you can,’ he ordered. ‘Think back to our first interview. Supposing I’d found you suitable as a hostess for
Cicely
in every particular, except for your appearance, what might I have done?’

‘Turned me down, I suppose.’

‘I said—“all other things being equal”, didn’t I? As it was, your taste in clothes didn’t need any prompting, I judged. But if it had, I’d probably have suggested you take a cash allowance or r
un
an account in addition to your salary, as your right.’

‘Well?’ said Ruth unhelpfully.

‘Well—this. If we’d arranged things so, I should have been picking up the bills, shouldn’t I?’

‘You wouldn’t have sanctioned
haute couture
models for me.’

‘That’s beside the point. You’d have bought
some
things on my account—or if you want to split hairs, on Mrs
.
Mordaunt’s account. And if I choose to order a model gown for you for a special occasion, what’s so improper about that? And for me tonight happens to be a special occasion. I’m well known in Sienese musical circles, and I’d like my womenfolk to do me proud. And so—will you bury that stiff pride of yours and wear the dress tonight?’

Ru
th saw that she must give in. ‘You make it very difficult to refuse,’ she said.

‘Good. And now the pipe of peace in the shape of a drink?’

But Ruth, who had had a sudden resolve, excused herself. In her room again she rang the hotel hairdresser to get an immediate set and evening styling, and when that had been done to her satisfaction she set about as exotic a toilette as she had ever achieved. If he wanted her to do him credit, she would do just that or die in the attempt!

Eyebrow pencil and mascara; a touch of green shadow to emphasise the green of the eyes which were the complement of her russet hair; colour, no more than the faintest blush for the cheeks; pale lipstick; no jewellery but pendant earrings—and the dress, its corsage caped, its skirt tiered, its graceful fall entirely flattering.

She was giving herself a final appraisal at her mirror when the pageboy knocked again. This
time
he brought a square perspex box containing a spray of orchids tinged with green at the petal-tips. With it was a card —‘This for a peace-offering. If your conscience needs salving in accepting it, note that I am sending one to
Cicely
too.’ The signature was ‘
Erle
’.

Ruth couldn’t remember when she had last had a gift of flowers from a man. Certainly not since she had been widowed, and these were the first orchids she had ever been given. They were the final touch the lovely dress needed. Pinning them on, she went out to meet her Cinderella evening.

It was long past midnight when she was again in her room. First she had gone with
Cicely
to her room to talk over the dinner, the concert, and the party of
Erle
’s friends afterwards. But now she was at her own dressing-table, her reflection looking back at her as her thoughts ranged over all that the evening had done for
her ...
to her.

It had begun with a look in
Erle
’s eyes which, turned upon her, she had never chanced upon before. She had seen them laughing, coolly appraising, mocking, reflective, but never wide with admiration of her, as they had been at his first sight of her tonight.

And in the instant of meeting them with her own and having to look away, she had learned something about herself. She hadn’t gone to all her trouble to create an effect of which he would approve, out of bravado or pique.
She had done it in the hope of earning just that unstinted look, wanting it to say more than she knew it could, wanting him to know how dearly she valued it.

That meant his admiration was important to her— that
he
had become important, too important, to her life. She could remember the glow of first knowing that she was in love with Alec; that he loved her in return and that if he asked her to marry him their life together would have the makings of a happily fitted jigsaw puzzle. Tonight there had been no such confident glow. Instead there had been a heady, nervous excitement to her awareness of
Erle
as another man she could love
(had
once loved in an immature, adoring way?). It was an extension of that woman-to-man response to
him
which she had exp
eri
e
nced in the Gardens. It was a magnetism, working only one way, which for her peace of mind she ought to resist, and could not. For on his own admission, for
Erle
Nash there wasn’t a consummate love for any woman; only the ‘jam’ of a passing pleasure in the company of many of them; that, and the expedience of cultivating them for his professional ends.

And between herself and him there was not even that necessity. What was she to him but a convenient appendage to his sponsorship of Cicely? He had admitted that even his gift to her had had an ulterior motive—that under his escort she should do him credit with his friends.

She had seen the danger of
Cicely
’s falling for
him.
Why hadn’t she seen it for herself? Because, she supposed, she had thought she was immunised against a second love. But she hadn’t reckoned with a capacity to love which hadn’t died with Alec. Nor with her woman’s need to give and to share and to partner which had been starved since Alec’s death. More than once she had doubted that she had it any longer. Only tonight, had she rediscovered it in full measure. It was an ache at the heart; a hunger that had to be endured.