Every Mother's Son (26 page)

Beatrice and Charles bought large straw hats and Daniel a peaked cap like the ones some of the local men were wearing. ‘You look even more Italian now, Daniel.’ Beatrice adjusted it on his long dark curls at a jaunty angle and took the silk scarf from her neck and knotted it around his. ‘There, most definitely
italiano
,’ she laughed.

‘I might never take it off,’ he murmured, glancing at her, and she smiled as if suddenly shy and looked away.

They estimated that a week’s travelling should put them in Genoa. It didn’t seem so far on the map, but previous experience now told them that travelling on the smaller cross-country roads added extra miles, and they wanted to have the pleasure of riding at a leisurely pace through Italy to get to know the landscape and the people. They decided that early morning departures would be sensible as the heat during the day would be intense now they were into June; they and the animals would rest over midday and continue on at about four o’clock, when it became cooler, until almost dark.

‘I was thinking about home,’ Charles said, as they rode down a steep valley, ‘and wondering what everyone was doing. Stephen and George will be away at school, of course. Father will be doing paperwork, I expect, or occasionally accompanying the bailiff round the estate, and Mama will be entertaining friends or being entertained by them, and life will be progressing as normal.’ He sighed. ‘After this adventure I can’t think that I’ll ever be able to settle down to such a mundane existence where nothing much happens. What about you, Daniel?’

‘Well, I know that everybody’ll be busy as usual. We’ve a different kind of life from you, Charles,’ Daniel said. ‘We’ve all got a job to do and somebody, probably Fletcher, will be looking after ’hosses while I’m away. Ma will be cooking and baking and looking after ’hens and milking ’cows, as well as doing housework and ’laundry, and Maria will be helping her wi’ those jobs now that she’s back home again.’

‘You and your family are so industrious,’ Beatrice broke in. ‘We have someone else to do those things for us, and I feel – I feel that we have empty lives in comparison with yours. I wish that I could do something worthwhile, something important.’

‘Do you, Bea? Really?’ Charles seemed surprised. ‘It wouldn’t be expected of you. It’s up to the men of the family to earn a living in business or running an estate such as ours.’

‘No, it’s not,’ Beatrice said rather sharply. ‘Daniel has just said that his mother and sister work in the house and on the farm, and isn’t Dolly in service too? So she’s earning her keep. We – you and I – are simply people of leisure and it doesn’t seem right. We’re not contributing anything.’

‘You’re giving work to people,’ Daniel interjected. ‘To ’farm labourers and servants in your house and—’

‘Yes, I know,’ she answered. ‘But sometimes it doesn’t seem enough.’

After a few miles when they hadn’t spoken much, Charles suddenly continued with the conversation. ‘I still think what I’d really like to do, if Father will agree, is go to university after all and study art; after visiting the Louvre as Daniel and I did, I think I could make a career of being an art critic, or maybe writing papers on the culture of art by studying, say, Michelangelo, or the new young artists like Pissarro or Monet or Renoir. They’re only just beginning to make a name for themselves and the old school don’t care for their style, but I do.’

‘You’d need to read English too,’ Beatrice told him, ‘if you’re going to write articles for publication.’

‘You wouldn’t mek much money either,’ Daniel said practically. ‘Not at first. You’d still have to depend on your father’s support.’

‘I would, wouldn’t I,’ Charles agreed thoughtfully, ‘and as I’m the eldest son it would be up to me to safeguard the family fortunes.’

Beatrice butted in. ‘It might be better to let Stephen do that if your heart isn’t in it.’

Daniel stroked his pony’s neck. He and Charles had taken it in turns to ride the mare and the larger stallion, whilst Beatrice had ridden the smaller one, whom she had named White Socks; the mare was Mama, the other stallion Blaze. ‘I know what I’d like to do if money was plentiful,’ Daniel said. ‘I’d like to breed hosses. I love these Haflingers. Do you realize that they were bred not far from here? But although they wouldn’t be suitable for our flat countryside back home, there are hilly areas where they might be.’

‘They’re lovely animals, I agree,’ Beatrice said. ‘But we already have mountain ponies in England: the Welsh cob, the ponies in the New Forest and on Dartmoor and Exmoor.’

‘I know,’ he sighed. ‘It’s onny a dream.’

The road to Genoa took them through steep alpine valleys into mossy tree-lined glens where they rested and camped, for the weather was good, and five days later they were approaching the outskirts of the great port. They rode in on busy roads packed with post-buses and carriages and carts bearing commercial goods and private passengers, and found accommodation with stabling in a lodging house; after a night’s sleep and a hearty breakfast they set off on foot to explore the city.

They were thrilled and overawed by it, although Daniel wondered how he would ever find any information about the Orsini family, even if it was here to be found. The old town was built around the port and was a conglomeration of ancient buildings dating back many centuries, narrow twisting lanes leading into wide piazzas with market stalls, and one that took them into the larger medieval piazza dei Banchi, which was still a commercial and banking centre where men stood in doorways exchanging information.

They judged that Genoa was a great trading centre as the port itself was crowded with shipping; they noticed also the many races, not only Italian but dark-eyed and dark-skinned North African and fair-haired Swiss and German. They heard French spoken too, though they didn’t hear any English voices.

By midday they were flagging as the heat became intense; they looked for a place to eat and found somewhere suitable with tables outside overlooking the quay. They ordered food, Beatrice speaking in Swiss-German as she knew only a little Italian, and they were brought a dish of olives and bread and a jug of local wine.

Daniel leaned against the back of his chair and gazed out at the ships. He put his face up to the sun. ‘This is the life, isn’t it? I was just thinking that Fletcher and Tom will be attending to ’lambing and calving and Lenny will be farrowing ’pigs, and here am I living a life o’ leisure.’

He leaned forward again, putting his elbows on the table, then took a sip of wine, drawing in his cheeks at the rough dry taste. ‘How am I going to find out about ’Orsini family?’

Charles folded his arms. ‘Well, do you recall when we were in Paris?’ He grinned. ‘Doesn’t that sound very cosmopolitan?’ he said, and Daniel and Beatrice agreed that it did. ‘Well, we wanted somewhere to stay and we asked in the café and – what was his name …’

‘François,’ Daniel said, ‘and he spoke English. Are you suggesting that we ask this waiter?’

‘Well, why not? If he speaks English.’

‘Yes, we could,’ Beatrice said. ‘I’ll ask him when he comes back with our meal.’ She took off her hat and put her face to the sun for a moment, enjoying the warmth.

Another waiter brought the food she had ordered, a course of pasta with pesto sauce followed by a fish dish with prawns and fat ripe tomatoes. Presumably his colleague had told him that Beatrice was German; he spoke to her in that language, warning her against getting burned.

‘
Danke schön
,’ she replied. ‘
Bitte – sprechen Sie englisch?
’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘A leetle,’ he said in a strong Italian accent. ‘I ’ave not much chance to speak wiz ze English.’

Beatrice smiled and Daniel could see that the waiter was charmed by her. ‘We were wondering if you know whether any of the Orsini family live in this district?’

The waiter looked astonished, then laughed. ‘You know they were ze most noble family in Italy? They lived in Roma. Popes, cardinals, noblemen. I learn ’istory in school. Not all were good men. They like ze power.’

‘Oh!’ Beatrice looked at Daniel.

He sighed. ‘Young George was right. He said we should go to Rome.’

‘I think ze family is gone long long time ago.’ The waiter shrugged expressively. ‘But, I ’ear the name sometimes.’ He broke off to shout ‘Federico!’ to a colleague, an older man, maybe the owner, and called out a question to him. Federico came over and the waiter asked him something they couldn’t understand.

Their waiter looked them over. ‘
Inglese?
’ His eyes lit on Daniel. ‘
Italiano?
’

Daniel shook his head. ‘English.’

Federico spoke rapidly to their waiter, who said, ‘Federico say that sometimes an Inglese he come ’ere. He may know.’

‘Long odds, I’d say,’ Charles murmured. Beatrice agreed. ‘Bare improbability, but,’ she added, ‘a chance.’

‘Why would an Englishman know about an Italian family?’ Daniel frowned.

Federico spoke again to the waiter, who told them, ‘Federico, ’e say this Englishman ’as lived in Genoa a long time. He may know who to ask. If ’e come, ’e come on a Friday.’

‘We could ask, I suppose,’ Daniel said gloomily. ‘If he doesn’t know, then it’s a dead end. Rome’s too far for us to go.’

They finished their meal, paid the bill and left the table to walk back to the lodging house. Beatrice paused and said, ‘So what day is it today?’

They had lost track of the days, but Charles said, ‘I think it might be Friday.’

‘So, shall we go back and wait?’ Beatrice asked. ‘We’ve come all this way, Daniel.’ She looked at him anxiously, as if she guessed that he was feeling downcast. ‘We can’t give up at the first hurdle.’

‘Mebbe later then,’ he said. ‘Mebbe tonight when it’s cooler.’

They had gone only a few yards and were standing by the waterfront looking at the ships when they heard someone whistle. They ignored it, but then someone shouted ‘
Inglese!
’ and they looked back towards the café. Their waiter stood with his arm held up, beckoning to them.

‘We did pay, didn’t we?’ Daniel asked.

‘We did,’ Beatrice was watching the waiter. ‘But he wants us to go back.’

‘The Inglese, he come now, we see ’im,’ the waiter called, and pointed down the waterfront.

Federico stood inside the café doorway with his arms folded across his chest, looking in the same direction. A man of medium build wearing a straw Panama and a cream jacket and trousers was walking towards the café talking to another man, who by his clothing of wide trousers, blue shirt and a dark navy cap looked as if he might be off a ship. They shook hands, saying ‘
Grazie
’ and ‘
Arrivederci
’ before separating.

‘Milo!’ Federico called out. ‘
Potete aiutarmi, per favore?
’

‘Can you help, please,’ Beatrice translated and Daniel glanced at her admiringly.

The man threaded his way between the tables outside to the café door. He and the owner shook hands and greeted one another.

Then followed a short conversation too fast for Beatrice to understand, but they all heard the words ‘
la famiglia Orsini
’. Both men looked towards them.

‘I think Federico’s saying that we’re asking about the Orsini family,’ Beatrice explained. Daniel and Charles nodded, as that’s what they had gathered too. ‘He’s coming over,’ she said softly. ‘He doesn’t look English, does he?’

‘Neither does Daniel,’ Charles commented.

Milo lifted his hat, showing hair more grey than dark, and gave a short bow to Beatrice, murmuring, ‘
Signorina
.’ He turned to Daniel and Charles. ‘
Buongiorno
.’ Then, in English with a trace of an Italian accent, he said, ‘Good day to you. How may I assist you?’

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Anger had been eating away at Fletcher since the day he’d argued with his mother and he barely slept at night, tossing about in bed and keeping Harriet awake too. He had told her what had happened and she understood his feelings, but after three sleepless nights she had had enough.

‘This is no good, Fletcher,’ she told him on the morning of the fourth day. ‘You’ll have to go back and have it out with her. Tell her that even if you believed what she’s saying about Christopher Hart, you wouldn’t do anything about it. You’re never going to settle if you don’t.’

‘I know,’ he sighed. ‘But I could do without this. We’re in ’middle o’ lambing and we’re a man short wi’ Daniel away—’

‘If Daniel had been here, you’d still find a reason not to go,’ she said gently. ‘But you must, once and for all; I’d offer to come with you but she wouldn’t have me in ’house.’

‘And that’s another thing!’ His voice rose and she hushed him in case the family should hear; she’d heard Maria and then Lenny go down and that meant Joseph and Elizabeth would be awake too. ‘I won’t have her saying things about you. If it came to choosing—’

‘Hush,’ she said. ‘It won’t come to that. But you must go and see her, Fletcher. Do your morning jobs and then go.’

*

Harriet was preparing vegetables for the midday meal. Fletcher had gone again to see his mother, Elizabeth and Joseph were at school and Maria and Lenny were busy elsewhere so she had the house to herself. Like Fletcher, she had his mother on her mind and was trying to think of a solution. How pleased I am to have someone like Rosie in my life, she thought. She’s the way my mother was, no grudges or ill-will towards anybody, unlike Ellen, who if she did but know it is ’onny one who can be blamed for her own unhappiness.

There was a timid knock on the door and she took a cloth to dry her hands before opening it.

‘I’m sorry, Harriet,’ Melissa Hart faltered, looking distressed.

‘Please come in, ma’am,’ Harriet said. ‘I’m on my own; there’s no one else here.’ Automatically she swung the kettle over the fire. She saw that Melissa was trembling as if she were cold, although it was a beautiful sunny day. ‘Come and sit by ’fire.’

‘You know why I’ve come?’ Melissa said.

‘I can guess. Tea or coffee, ma’am?’

‘Oh, erm, tea please. Weak, no milk. I’m so sorry,’ she said again, sitting down. ‘Your husband must be very angry, and shocked by the news?’