The Visconti House (17 page)

“We found these in the cellar at Laura’s house,” Leon said when Laura remained silent. “They are photos of Mr. Visconti and someone named Veronica. Grandma said that you are distantly related to her.”

Miss McInnes did not confirm this, but her eyes were watchful as Leon took the photos out of the bag. When she saw how many there were, she said ungraciously, “You had better pull up some chairs.”

Laura and Leon sat on the edges of the cold vinyl seats and Leon handed Miss McInnes the photos while Laura smoldered about Miss McInnes’s lack of warmth. Her house seemed to magnify sounds, and Laura became intensely aware of the ticking of the clock on the wall and the humming of the fridge in the corner. She glanced sideways at Leon and rolled her eyes; Leon grinned back at her. Miss McInnes studied the photos closely, then put down her glasses without saying a word.

After an awkward silence, Leon spoke. “We wondered if you might have any other photos of Veronica or Mr. Visconti. Or know anything else
about the story or where we could look for more information.”

Miss McInnes shook her head. “No, I told Rosie all I knew. Veronica’s mother was my father’s cousin. I never met her, and the whole story was only talked about in whispers. Mr. Visconti was a foreigner, after all — a most unsuitable suitor.”

A most unsuitable suitor! Laura glared at the marblelike swirls in the tabletop and ground her teeth as the clock continued to tick in the background. She stole another glance at Leon. He was watching Miss McInnes calmly with his considering expression.

“I don’t know any more about it,” continued Miss McInnes after a pause, “but I did hear that Veronica died and that her father was a broken man after that. He had no other children, so I suppose he had nothing else to live for. The house and land just went to rack and ruin.”

“What was her last name?” asked Leon.

“Mackenzie. Her father was Lachlan Mackenzie.”

“And what happened to the property?”

“It was sold and subdivided into smaller farms The house is still there. It has been turned into a bed-and-breakfast, I believe. It still has the old name — Kirriemuir.”

Laura saw Leon stiffen. “Was there a family graveyard?” he asked.

“I wouldn’t know. There may have been. I don’t think I can tell you any more.”

Laura started gathering up the photographs. She couldn’t wait to get out of there. A sense that she had somehow betrayed Mr. Visconti engulfed her; they should never have come. It was all she could do to mutter good-bye politely as they left.

Once they were out of earshot, she exploded. “She didn’t even say thank you, Leon. You would think that she would have been interested in the photos of Veronica. It’s her family history, after all.”

“I think she was,” replied Leon. “She just didn’t know what to say. And you saw her house. She wouldn’t know what to think about someone like Mr. Visconti.”

Laura glared at the sidewalk. Deep down, she knew he was right.

“And she did give us some more information,” he added. “You have to admit that. Do you think your mom or dad would drive us over to see that bed-and-breakfast place?”

Laura stopped abruptly. Her frown disappeared, and she gave a little skip of excitement. “I’m sure
they would. We should see if Harry and Isabella can come too, and Hugo, if he is still in Melbourne. And your dad. We can all go on a picnic. Everyone who has been part of the discovery. What do you think?”

“I think it’s a great idea,” said Leon. He hesitated, then added, “Thanks for thinking of Dad. He really liked it with your parents.” He paused again, looking away from Laura. “He still finds it hard to go out and meet people. I mean it’s much better now but . . .” He thrust his hands in his pockets. “Anyway, thanks.”

He looked suddenly very vulnerable. Laura was about to say that her parents liked his father too, hoping that it would not sound too trite, when Leon took his hands out of his pockets and said, “Come on. I’ll race you to that tree.”

Maybe she didn’t need to say anything, she thought as she ran. He probably already knew.

Harry, Isabella, and Hugo drove up on Friday evening. The next morning Harry and Laura rose early to prepare the picnic. It was still dark outside, and even Samson looked sleepy as he sauntered in to demand breakfast. Laura was wearing three sweaters over her pajamas, and Harry had his parka zipped all the way up to his chin.

“We’ll bake rolls,” he said, rubbing his hands together to warm them. “I have a special Swiss recipe that you’ll love. I’ll show you how to make little echidnas with the dough.”

Laura laughed. “Don’t be silly. You can’t make echidnas with dough.”

“Yes, you can. Just wait and see.”

While the dough was rising, they made cheese puffs and washed all the fruit and the vegetables. Laura found some baskets and started packing tablecloths, napkins, plates, and glasses. Then they
rolled out the dough and made it into balls.

“Watch this,” said Harry. With the air of a magician, he whipped a pair of scissors from his pocket and started cutting little nicks in the tops of the balls. Small triangles of dough stood up on end, just like prickles. “Now, bring me some raisins,” he said. “And I need an egg, too.”

As Laura looked on, he squeezed the end of the dough balls to make snouts and pressed the raisins in for eyes.

“There,” said Harry. “Whip an egg yolk, and we will coat them with it to make them shiny. They have to look their very best for the picnic.”

By the time everyone else got up, the kitchen was warm and smelling deliciously of freshly baked bread. On the table were lines of shiny little echidnas with bright black eyes.

“The only problem is — we will never be able to eat them,” said Laura, dancing up and down with excitement.

“Don’t you believe it,” replied her father, and Laura had to hang on to his arm to stop him from biting into one right away.

As soon as Leon and his father arrived (Colin had caught the train up that morning), they piled
into two cars and set off, just as the mist was clearing and the warmth of the sun was seeping through. Laura and Leon rode in the back of Harry’s car, and Laura enjoyed watching Leon’s surprise when Harry switched on the ignition and they began to rise. As they turned onto the main street, busy with Saturday morning shoppers, Laura caught sight of Maddy coming out of the café. Maddy’s mouth dropped open as she watched them drive past. Laura looked away quickly, but to her astonishment, she realized that she was not particularly worried. That old feeling of terror about what everyone was thinking had gone.

“What shall we listen to?” asked Isabella, rolling down the window.

“Something Italian,” said Laura.

Isabella found a tape of Vivaldi, and they drove with the music streaming out into the sunshine. The house was only fifteen miles from town, so it did not take them long to reach the turnoff to Kirriemuir Bed-and-Breakfast. They drove through cast-iron gates hinged to weathered stone pillars and down a long, dusty driveway lined with tall pines. The trees hid the house from view until they came over a rise. Then ahead of them they saw a cream rendered-brick homestead surrounded by a wide veranda. Laura
and Leon both leaned forward in their seats, Laura trying to imagine what it must have looked like when Veronica lived there.

Laura was disappointed. “I thought it would have been bigger.”

“I’m sure it was considered big when it was built,” said Harry. “And impressive. Look at the stained-glass panels in the door and the pillars with the urns beside the steps. Let’s get out and investigate.”

Laura’s mother had telephoned in advance to ask if they could visit, so the owners, Mr. and Mrs. Barlow, were expecting them. Mrs. Barlow came out to say hello, and while the grown-ups stood talking, Laura and Leon climbed the three low steps to the veranda.

“I don’t think we are going to find anything here,” whispered Laura. “It feels like everything has been swept away.”

“You’re always such a pessimist.” Leon grinned at her. “You didn’t think we would find the cellar either. Anyway, it’s interesting just to see the house where Veronica lived.”

The inside had been renovated many times. Mrs. Barlow said that they had bought the house three years ago. She knew nothing of the history, other than
that it had been built by the Mackenzie family and that it had been sold when old Mr. Mackenzie had died in 1901. She had never heard of Mr. Visconti.

They all lingered in the narrow hall while she proudly showed them the newly furnished guest bedrooms, and then they went out to the airy sitting room for morning tea. Laura asked if it would be all right if she and Leon explored the garden while the adults were talking, and Mrs. Barlow smiled and nodded. They escaped through the back door and out onto the terrace. It was then that Laura saw it.

“Look.” She grabbed Leon’s arm and pointed. “The statue.”

At the back of the neat knot garden, with its small box hedges and lacy cast-iron chairs, was a white, latticed arch. Standing beneath the arch was the figure of a woman holding a book. Leon looked perplexed. “What about it?”

“That statue was in
our
garden. Don’t you remember? It was in one of the photos at the library.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Of course I’m sure.” Laura started running toward it. “How on earth do you think it got here?”

“Maybe Mr. Visconti gave it to Veronica,” Leon suggested.

They stood in front of it, looking up at the graceful figure, then Laura clapped her hands to her mouth. “Look at the face,” she said. “It
is
Veronica.”

“I think you’re right,” agreed Leon, moving so that he could study the face more carefully.

“I’m sure I’m right. And look at the book she’s holding. It’s a music book. Perhaps she was a singer. Maybe Isabella was right when she said that the house was made to be full of music. Mr. Visconti made the garden room for her to sing in”— Laura looked at Leon, her eyes wide —“and she never came.”

Leon brushed away a cobweb clinging to the folds of Veronica’s dress. “Perhaps she wasn’t able to come,” he said quietly.

They looked back up at the stone face gazing blindly across the neat garden to the blue sky beyond.

“Do you think one of Mr. Visconti’s friends made the statue for him?” asked Laura.

“Possibly. Maybe Mrs. Barlow will know something about it.”

“I doubt it. She doesn’t seem to know much.” Laura pursed her lips.

“It’s worth asking, anyway.”

Mrs. Barlow looked a little embarrassed when
they returned, bursting with the excitement of their discovery. “It was in the cemetery,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. “It wasn’t on a grave or anything like that, so we didn’t think that it would be a problem to move it. It was so pretty. It seemed to be wasted among the graves.”

“Where is the cemetery?” asked Laura and Leon together. “Can we see it?” Laura held her breath, watching Mrs. Barlow. Her thoughts were flying in all directions. Why was the statue in the cemetery? It must have something to do with Mr. Visconti and Veronica. She felt a little shiver of fear — what would they find there? She wanted to know, and yet . . .

“It’s in an enclosure by the back road.” Mrs. Barlow began stacking the teacups. “It’s just a small, private cemetery. There are only a few graves. I’ll get Stan to take you down.”

“You
were
clever to recognize the statue, Laura,” said Isabella as they walked over the dry grass to the border of the property. “Don’t you think so, Leon?”

Leon looked across at Laura. “I’ve always thought she was clever,” he said.

Laura blushed. She wished Isabella wouldn’t say things like that, but she was glad that Leon thought she was clever. Eventually, they reached the dam, which was almost empty, and the adults stopped to discuss the drought. Laura fidgeted in frustration. How could they be distracted at a time like this?

Leon nudged her and jerked his head toward the remains of a cast-iron fence. “Let’s go,” he whispered, and they set off, running down the slope.

Most of the fence had collapsed and lay rusting on the ground, grass sprouting through it. There were about thirty graves, all overgrown and weathered, some with broken headstones. Laura and Leon scrambled over the remains of the fence and began brushing aside the dry grass to see what was left of the inscriptions. There were a number of children’s graves, and tears pricked Laura’s eyes as she read them. Life seemed so fragile here in this forgotten corner. She looked up, dazzled by the sun, to find Leon standing on the other side of the enclosure. He was looking down at a curved headstone partly covered in yellow lichen.

“Here it is,” he said in a low, unfamiliar voice. “Veronica’s grave.”

Laura’s heart started pounding and her throat constricted. For a moment she couldn’t move. Then, swallowing hard, she began walking toward him. Leon had squatted down and was clearing the grass around the headstone. It was weathered but the letters had been deeply carved and were still legible.
Veronica May Mackenzie. Born 1873. Died 1896. Always remembered.

Laura’s eyes blurred, and her heart felt as though it had turned over inside her. In a very small voice she whispered, “She was only twenty-three.”