The Visconti House (14 page)

Laura opened her mouth and then closed it again. Taking a deep breath, she began dully, reading as fast as she could to finish as quickly as possible. “The air in the night garden was heavy with perfume. It drifted over the stone walls and leaked through the iron gates. The flowers, so vivid and colorful in the afternoon sun, were black now, soft shapes sprouting among black leaves. A black fountain sprayed black water
over black figures. And, somewhere in this blackness, a voice was singing an aria, a sad and plaintive song. A song of lost hope. The music rose and fell like the breeze that rustled the black leaves. Then, suddenly, it stopped.”

“That was very good, Laura,” said Miss Grisham. “You might like to use some other adjectives instead of
black
to avoid repetition.”

Laura groaned inwardly and sat down. If she had wanted to use other adjectives, she thought, she would have. But she had wanted to use black to emphasize the lack of color, the darkness, the secret nature of the sorrow — the sorrow she felt sure had been in the garden, her garden, along with the beauty and . . . something else that she sensed, like a perfume hanging over it.

When Miss Grisham asked Sally Jenkin to read her paragraph, Laura darted a glance at Leon. He was drawing something on the edge of his page, his hair falling over his eyes. Laura thought sadly how much he looked like his father.

At recess she took a long time gathering up her books, wondering if Leon would come up to her, but he didn’t, so in the end, she went outside and stood near the door to the math room, waiting for the next
class. She watched the other kids lounging around and joking with one another. They all seemed to find it so easy — why was it always so hard for her? Standing alone, she felt conspicuous, so she opened her book and began to read. She did not see Kylie, Maddy, and Janie approaching.

“That was a funny piece you wrote,” sniggered Janie, stopping in front of her.

Laura jumped. Maddy rolled her eyes at Janie. “Yes, very . . . black.”

“You could almost say
haunted.
” Kylie leaned in close. Laura looked back at her book. Would they never leave her alone?

“Sophie Matheson said she saw you in the library with Leon Murphy,” continued Kylie, giggling. “Are you hanging out with him now?”

Laura said nothing. Surely they would stop soon if she just ignored them. She tried to focus on the words in front of her.

“You should, you know,” Kylie pushed, the tone in her voice turning darker. “You suit each other. You’re both weird.”

“Perhaps he’s her boyfriend,” scoffed Janie.

“He’s not!” burst out Laura, tears filling her eyes as the girls all started laughing. She swallowed; if she
began to cry, she would never live it down. Never.

Then, unexpectedly, she heard someone say, “I liked your piece in class, Laura.”

She swiveled around to see Jenny Peters standing behind her. In the whole time Laura had been in high school, Jenny had never spoken to her. Girls like Jenny Peters did not speak to girls like Laura Horton. Jenny was the coolest girl in Year Eight. She had long blond hair and perfect skin, and her blue eyes sparkled. She was always picked first for sports teams. She never had to worry about wearing the right clothes or saying the right things. And she never had to stand on her own at recess, hoping someone would speak to her.

Laura mumbled, “Thanks.” She didn’t know what else to say. But as they all moved into class, out of the corner of her eye, she could see Kylie and Maddy staring at each other in astonishment.

Laura avoided Leon for the rest of the day. If people were talking about them like that, she was glad that
he had not come up to speak to her. As she came out of their last class, she almost bumped into him but glanced away hastily and continued walking.

She had decided to open the box herself when she got home — she figured it would not matter, given that Leon was no longer interested. She tried to block out of her mind how much fun it had been searching for the cellar with him. After all, he hadn’t even asked her what they had found. She collected her bag and headed for the gate.

The road ahead of her was empty except for a straggling quartet of Year Twelve students, who ignored her. She hurried along, her gaze on the ground, deliberately looking away from Mrs. Murphy’s house as she passed it. If Leon wasn’t interested, she didn’t care. She was halfway up the hill when she heard someone running behind her. She turned sharply. It was Leon.

Clutching his side and gasping for air, he stammered, “So did . . . you find . . . anything?”

Laura opened her mouth, ready to tell him she never wanted to see him again, but as her eyes met his, her anger vanished. He was looking at her with the same mute appeal that had been on his face the previous day. Whatever reason he had for not coming
over yesterday or meeting her this morning, it was not because he wasn’t interested. Before she realized it, the words were out.

“We found the cellar.”

“Oh.”

Laura could hear the disappointment in the flatness of his voice. He really
had
wanted to be there. “There were bottles of wine in it. Very old bottles of wine.”

For a moment she thought Leon was not going to respond. He kicked a tuft of grass, looking away from her. “Was that all?” he asked.

“No.” Laura paused. “There was a box.”

Leon scuffed the grass again. “What was in it?”

“I don’t know.”

Leon looked up. “You don’t know?” he said incredulously.

“I was waiting for you,” replied Laura. Then she smiled at him. “I haven’t told anyone about it. It’s hidden under the bottom shelf.”

“Is it locked?”

“I don’t know. It’s a metal box. Come and see.” She seized his arm and started pulling him up the hill. Leon laughed, and when she looked back at him, she saw that his eyes were bright with excitement.
She forgot what Kylie and Janie had been saying; she forgot about school completely. She was just glad to have Leon back again.

The heavy iron gates were pushed open, and Harry’s car was still parked in the driveway. Leon glanced at it, then his gaze shifted to the garden and he grinned at Laura.

“I liked your paragraph,” he said. “Miss Grisham doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

Laura flushed. “I was thinking of Mr. Visconti.”

“I know.”

Everyone was sitting around the table when they entered the kitchen. Hugo’s voice boomed out over the general laughter, and Laura’s father was holding a coffeepot in the air. Laura dumped her bag in the corner and waved hello.

“We’re still here,” Isabella called to Leon. “Has Laura told you about our discovery?”

Leon nodded.

“I’ve made a cake,” said Harry. “It’s a special, only-to-be-eaten-after-school cake.”

“We’ll be back,” Laura assured him, and headed for the door to the hall, Leon close behind.

The gaping hole under the stairs was dark. Laura picked up the flashlight and led Leon down the
uneven steps. At the bottom, she shone the beam into the corner where she had glimpsed the box. It glinted in the light. Leon whistled and squatted down to look at it more carefully.

“Well?” asked Laura, trying to keep her excitement contained. “What do you think?”

“Interesting,” replied Leon. “Shine the light at an angle, and I’ll try to get it out.”

The box was wedged under the shelf, and at first they could not move it. Finally, with Laura pushing the shelf up and Leon pulling, they managed to drag it out. In the light, they could see that the lid had a design etched upon it. Laura brushed the dirt off and, running her finger over the pattern, said, “I think it’s silver.”

“It doesn’t look like silver,” objected Leon. “It’s not shiny.”

“That’s because it’s tarnished.”

Leon shook it. “There’s something inside. Listen.”

Laura could hear it, too: the soft thud of something falling when Leon turned the box over.

“Open it,” she urged.

“I can’t. It’s locked.”

“Are you sure?”

“You try.”

Laura grasped the lid and tried to maneuver it up. It would not budge. She dug her fingernails into the join, but still the lid would not lift.

Then she stopped, her eyes meeting Leon’s. “The key!” she exclaimed. “Let’s try the key!”

When they returned to the kitchen after retrieving the key from Laura’s room, Harry was spreading whipped cream over the first layer of his cake. “It’s a hazelnut torte,” he said. “A work of art, don’t you think?” He added another huge scoop of whipped cream and started sprinkling raspberries on it.

“It looks fabulous, Harry, but we can’t stop now,” replied Laura. “We’ll be back, though.”

He looked curiously at the box in Laura’s hand. “What’s that you’ve found?”

“Just a box.” Laura glanced at Leon and saw the corner of his mouth twist up.

They hurried on, down to the tree house in the old orchard. It was the first time that Leon had seen it.

“This is fantastic,” he said as they scrambled up through the spreading branches. Laura realized that he was the first person she had taken up there since it had been finished.

“It’s my aerie. It’s where I come to write.” She took a deep breath and reached into her pocket for the little box with the tiny key in it. “Do you think it’s going to fit?”

“It’s worth a try.”

Her fingers fumbled a little, but she managed to slide the key into the lock. Then it stuck. She could not turn it, and she could not pull it out. Frustrated, she shook it a little.

“Careful, Laura. It might break. Let me have a try.” Leon closed his eyes and began to jiggle it. After a moment they heard a tiny click.

“It’s open,” he gasped. “It
was
the right key!” They stared at each other. “Of course the box may not have anything to do with Mr. Visconti,” he added.

“It will probably just be full of boring papers,” agreed Laura. “Like receipts for the wine.”

“Or bills.”

They both looked at each other again.

“Just hurry up and open it,” implored Laura.

Leon lifted the lid. Inside there was a small package wrapped in brown paper with a faded blue ribbon tied around it. “Here,” he said, handing the parcel to Laura. “You should be the one to open it.”

Laura tried to untie the ribbon, but it fell to pieces
in her hands. Gently, she folded back the brittle paper and there, gazing up at her from a faded photograph, was the face of a young woman. Her eyes were bright and intelligent. They seemed to be laughing, although her lips were demure and her stance — hand on a chair against a backdrop of velvet and ferns — was very sedate. Dark curls escaped from their combs and fell over her high forehead. Looking at her, Laura thought that she would like to have known her. She turned the photograph over and written in elegant copperplate across the back were the words:
With my love, Veronica.

“Veronica,” she whispered. “Her name was Veronica.”

There were other photographs underneath, all of the same woman. Veronica sidesaddle on a horse, her back straight, her dress falling in soft folds over the horse’s flank. Veronica standing beside a flight of steps in a garden. Veronica looking out over a lake. And then, at the bottom of the pile, Veronica with an exquisitely dressed young man, who was leaning on a stick. Leon picked up the photograph and turned it over. The photographer’s details were on the back but there was no writing.

“Firenze,” he read. “That looks a bit like Florence. I think the photograph was taken in Florence.”

Laura gazed at the two figures. She tried to imagine Mr. Visconti and Veronica walking through Florence, arm in arm, laughing. Or maybe strolling through a museum or gallery. They looked so young and so happy. As though everything was in front of them. What could have happened? She started turning over the other photographs, reading the photographers’ details, but they were all written in Italian. There were no other messages.

“I wish there was more,” Laura said. “I wish there had been more in the box.”

“At least it wasn’t full of old bills.” Leon grinned at her. “And now we know what Veronica looked like.”

Laura bit her lip. “I wonder how the box ended up in the cellar.”

Leon frowned. “There’s something funny about it. It’s too shallow.” He lifted it up and shook it carefully, but nothing moved.

“It probably just has a thick base,” replied Laura, turning back to the photographs.

“No.” Leon was still frowning. He turned the box upside down and examined the joints. Then he tapped on the sides and felt the edges, but nothing happened.

Laura grew impatient. “There’s nothing there.
Let’s go and show the photos to the others and have some cake.”

Leon gave the box one last shake, then put the pictures back in it and followed Laura down the rickety ladder. Everyone was still in the kitchen when they returned, laughing, arguing, and drinking coffee. Harry immediately cut large slices of the cake and passed them to Laura and Leon.

“For our discoverers,” he said. “Try this. It’s my best cake yet. I am giving up sculpture. Cooking is my art from now on!”

“Bravo,” called out Isabella, brandishing a fork.

“We’ve discovered something else,” said Laura, taking the plate. She looked around at everyone proudly. “We’ve discovered some pictures of the person Mr. Visconti was in love with. The person he built this house for. Her name was Veronica.”