The Malaspiga Exit (26 page)

Italy and her heritage had claimed her. The New World had not been proof against the power of the Old. The respectable, conventional Dexters, with their sensible values, were a blur. Her whole life before she came to Florence was indistinct, as if it had been lived by someone else. She was a Malaspiga, in love with one of her own kin, and she knew by instinct the course that must be taken.

She could never destroy that love, but she had to destroy him. Not because of what had happened to her brother, still less for any moral reasons, but because she felt they were predestined to destroy each other. It was a decision based on a sense of fatalism, the same instinctive knowledge that had overcome her when she first came to the Castle. No human being could escape their destiny. Theirs was to find each other and to be destroyed. She was going back to the storeroom that night, to see that picture and to mark it. Through her, justice would overtake her cousin and, whatever part of her survived, it would be purged.

She changed into a plain black dress, painted her pale lips and went downstairs.

Francesca di Malaspiga was getting dressed when the door to her bedroom opened. She ran to meet him and flung her arms round his neck.

‘
Carissimo
—hold me!' John kissed her, stroking the smooth black hair which was hanging down her back.

‘Make love to me …' she whispered. ‘Make me forget this afternoon!'

‘There's nothing to forget,' he comforted. ‘And anyway we have each other. What do you care what he does with her—I love you!' He moved her to the bed and began stripping off her dress. For a moment she stood naked in front of him, her white body shrouded by the long black hair.

He reached out for her. ‘One day I'm going to sculpt you like this. That will be my masterpiece.'

Later he dressed her; she took his hand and kissed it. ‘You're so good with me,' she said. ‘I can't believe what's happened to me. I never thought it would be possible for me—'

‘He didn't know how to love you,' John Driver said. ‘You only needed patience … you're wonderful, don't you know that?'

‘God, if only we could be together all the time! I've waited so long!'

‘You won't have to wait much longer,' he said. ‘I have a feeling that pretty soon we're going to have our life together. I promised you that a long time ago. Remember that I love you.' He kissed her lips and then her forehead. She bowed her head submissively. ‘Do up your hair, my darling,' he said. ‘And hurry down. I'd better go now.'

Alessandro was walking in the garden. He had changed his clothes and come down early; his mood was exultantly happy, and yet he wanted solitude.

From the top terrace, the view stretched out over the Tuscan plain, turned golden by the setting sun. As he walked in the gardens, a lizard streaked for safety along the grey stone wall and vanished down a crevice. He climbed a flight of rough stone steps, their borders crowded with the graceful blue plumbago that grew everywhere like a weed, and at the top he lit a cigarette. It was a perfect evening, warm and peaceful; the scent of flowers and shrubs was strong. There was a step behind him and he turned. John Driver stood there.

‘I've been looking for you,' he said. ‘They told me you'd gone for a walk.'

‘It's a beautiful evening,' the Duke said. ‘I wanted to be alone for a few minutes.'

John didn't respond to the hint. He sat on the edge of the wall.

‘Sandro, I've got to talk to you. This is crazy!'

‘Wanting to walk in my garden before I spend the evening with my family?' The expression on the Duke's face and the tone of his voice should have silenced the younger man. Driver scowled at the ground, crushing the feathery plumbago flowers in his hands.

‘Bringing that girl here,' he said. ‘You know exactly what I mean. It's crazy. You've never brought anyone here before. I don't understand why you're taking the risk.'

‘There is no risk,' Alessandro said impatiently. ‘You're talking nonsense. Katharine is my cousin; naturally she comes to the Castle. I brought her here because she wanted to come and because I wanted to invite her.'

‘All right,' Driver spread both his hands. ‘All right. You bring your cousin here and show her the family home. Okay, fine. But you took her to the gallery and down to the storeroom. For Christ's sake, why did you do it? She's not a fool—she could notice something …'

‘I didn't know you were so nervous,' the Duke said, and his smile was momentarily cruel. Then it became friendly, and suddenly he put his hand on Driver's shoulder.

‘Don't worry,' he said. ‘I'm not a fool either. Just because we know what we are doing, we imagine it must suggest itself to everybody else. This is nonsense. Why should Katharine suspect anything? Haven't you heard it said that love is blind?' Driver moved and the Duke's hand slid off his shoulder.

‘You should keep that kind of thing for Florence,' he said. ‘Maybe I'm just a middle-class Canadian, but I wouldn't bring it home to my family.'

‘Be careful,' Alessandro said quietly. ‘We work together and we are friends. But there are certain limits. I don't want to remind you of them unless I have to do so. If you have come out here to complain that I am putting our operation at risk, then I can assure you there is nothing to fear. But any personal matter concerning my cousin is nothing to do with you. I hope you understand?'

‘You know how to express yourself,' Driver said slowly. There was a red patch on the middle of his forehead, like a blush. ‘But we're in this thing together. I'm a partner, not a bloody lackey. I say you should send her back to Florence. Take her back yourself and let me get on with sending the consignment out.'

Alessandro trod out his cigarette. He looked at Driver calmly, with disinterest. ‘You're not a partner, my dear John. You share in the profits but there's no partnership. I shall do exactly what I like regarding my cousin and you will keep quiet. Otherwise it is you who will go back to Florence.' He turned and walked away towards the Castle. Driver watched him; the patch was deeper on his forehead. It looked like a skin allergy. Alessandro had turned a corner out of sight.

‘You bastard,' Driver said.

The Duke and Uncle Alfredo were drinking champagne in the saloon. The old Duchess came in, making an entrance out of lifelong habit, and both men came towards her.

Alessandro took her hand and kissed her on the cheek. ‘You look beautiful, Mama,' he said. The Duchess smiled.

‘Lovely, lovely,' declared Alfredo. ‘
Bella Isabella!'
He swept a low bow, at the same time removing an embroidered velvet smoking cap. The Duchess took a glass of champagne. She would have preferred a cocktail, but since her son was apparently celebrating something, she decided it would be tactless not to join him. She looked at him and wondered whether she should ask him what had happened at the water gardens that afternoon.

He was teasing the old Prince, evidently in a gay, relaxed mood. The trip must have been a success. The gardens at Romani were a family joke, a trick which had been played upon their guests since she had come to Malaspiga as a bride. One of the Count Romani's brothers had been an admirer of hers. She remembered that isolated grotto with its effective screen of water. He had been very gallant, although a little stout and short, with a wife who was always pregnant. The Duchess drifted for a moment; it was becoming a habit, to slip away into the past, where one could choose one's memories. Her son was not himself that night. She had always thought him as cold and controlled as his father; devoid of deep feelings except pride and ambition. As a child he had occupied a minor place in her life; reared by a nurse, educated by a tutor; she had been aware that he admired her and enjoyed dazzling the child in the nursery by displaying herself in evening dress. When he became a man and the head of the family he was a stranger, and she treated him with the same respect as she had given to his father. But she had never really known him at all. She had never seen him so happy, and she knew with a sad, jealous pang that the cause was love for someone else. When Katharine came into the room he hurried to her; taking her hand, he kissed it.

‘I've opened champagne for tonight,' he said. ‘I want to celebrate. I'm very happy—you look a little pale. Drink that, it's a fine vintage. I chose it specially for you.' Over the glass he toasted her silently. There might have been no one else in the room. She saw John Driver come into the room; he glanced across at her and then away. He took a glass from the butler and wandered across to the old Duchess. Some moments later Francesca came through the door. She must have seen them standing together from outside because she didn't look, she moved quickly to a chair near the fireplace. When the champagne was offered she shook her head and turned away.

‘Katharine,' the old Duchess said, ‘how pretty you look tonight.' She had never called another woman beautiful in her life. It was a word she reserved for herself. She gazed at Katharine for a moment, her head slightly on one side. ‘You know, you look quite different from when you first came. Don't you think so, Sandro? Doesn't Katharine look different? You look more Italian than American. Perhaps it's the way you've done your hair.'

They were all looking at her; Driver with disapproval, Francesca with blatant hatred, but she was aware of no one but the Duke. The magnificent black eyes, blazing their message of love and pride, the chiselled lips curved in a tender smile. For a second her hand crept to her breast and touched it. She had never believed that love could be a physical pain.

‘My mother is right,' he said. ‘Your Italian blood is coming out. You must always wear your hair brushed back like that. It makes you even more beautiful.' At that moment the telephone began to ring. John Driver moved across to answer it.

‘When can I come to you?' Alessandro said quietly. ‘Will you let me come tonight?'

‘Sandro,' John called across to him. ‘The call's for you.'

‘When?' the Duke whispered. ‘How long must I wait for you?'

‘Tomorrow,' Katharine said. ‘Not tonight. Tomorrow.' His lips formed a word she couldn't understand and then he went to take the call. She could hear Driver murmuring on the telephone in the background.

‘He's right here.' He turned to Alessandro. ‘It's Lars Svenson. He's in Rome.'

The old Duchess went to bed soon after ten-thirty; they had been listening to Vivaldi on a stereo built into the room used as a general sitting room, and she had begun to doze in her chair. Katharine watched her gradually drifting away, her head on one side, cushioned into the enormous wing-backed chair, with her little feet crossed over on a foot-stool. She felt envious of the peaceful withdrawal from life which was the solace of old age. No pain, no desire, no convulsions of the spirit could trouble Isabella di Malaspiga. If she felt, it was on a scale of trivia; comfort, admiration, the cocktails which she loved, the choice of her dresses. Her vanity was her only vulnerable point. She had to be beautiful and to be told so. In the semi-shadow there was a ravishing quality about her face in repose which fascinated Katharine. Looking at the miracle of bone structure and the graceful sweep of hair against the old woman's cheek, she thought how well the image fitted with Vivaldi's gracious music from a different age. Fear and death and the pain of loving were held at bay for a brief moment. Then suddenly the Duchess slipped into a deeper sleep and her jaw fell open. It was like looking at a corpse. ‘Mama.' Alessandro had seen it too and he was beside his mother, gently waking her. She opened her eyes, looked startled for a second, and then smiled up at him.

‘I think you should go upstairs,' he said. ‘Francesca will take you.' He bent and kissed her cheek, helping her to stand. ‘Good night.'

John Driver got up; he yawned slightly and excused himself. ‘You know, I'm tired too. I'll take Mama up to her room.'

Immediately Katharine was on her feet ‘I'm going with you,' she said. She looked at her cousin. ‘It must be the air here,' she said. ‘I can't keep awake.'

The disappointment in his eyes was quickly hidden; he gave his lazy smile and said lightly, ‘Stay for five minutes. Till the record's finished.'

‘Why don't you? The finale's the best part,' the old Duchess encouraged. ‘John and Francesca can look after me.'

‘I'm afraid I'd fall asleep,' Katharine said. She didn't look at the Duke. She knew what had to be done and she had made her decision to do it. She couldn't trust herself if he made love to her a second time. Betrayal. The word came into her mind and shocked her. She loved him and she was going to betray him, but being what he was, there was no other course. She turned back and came to him. He caught her hand. ‘I won't stay,' she said quietly. ‘But it's been a lovely evening. Thank you.' She reached up and kissed him on the cheek. A Judas kiss, with the same mixture of love and hatred that condemns to death.…

When she got to her own room she took off the plain black dress and changed into a skirt and sweater, with slip-on shoes. She put the marker in the skirt pocket, pulled the window curtains back so that there was light in the room and sat on the bed to wait. It was a brilliant clear night, with a full moon. It turned the marble mountains into snow, showing the clouds floating past on what must be a keen wind. Below, the lights in the town of Malaspiga were going out, until the houses and the church were eyeless in the silver light. She lit a cigarette, watching the tip glow in the semi-darkness from the curtained bed. Her room and everything in it were brilliantly illumined by the moonlight.

It was her good luck that it should be such a perfect night; finding her way to the Banqueting Hall in the dark would have been very difficult. She had gone over the plan many times during the evening, looking round her to memorize the way. It was eleven-thirty by her watch. The old Duchess was down the corridor; she didn't know where Alessandro slept, or where the servants were, but she suspected that it was on a higher level. Eleven forty-eight. It was superstitious to wait for midnight. There was no magic in the hour, no guarantee that he would be asleep and that she wouldn't meet him on her way downstairs. She got up, pulled her bed curtain close and went to the door. It seemed to creak when she opened it; she waited, feeling her pulse rate leaping, and very carefully looked out into the corridor. There was a light at the end, near the Duchess's door; the rest was shadowy and silent. The stairs to the main hall, which had to be crossed first, were at the opposite end and very dark.