The Visconti House (23 page)

“Why?” burst out Laura. “Why did her father stand in their way for so long? Couldn’t he see how much she loved him — and how much he loved her? Couldn’t he see that he was breaking their hearts?”

“Mr. Visconti was Italian,” said Leon. “He was probably Catholic, and I guess her family was Protestant. Like I said, he was different. Different from Veronica’s family. Maybe that was why. But her father must have understood a little, at the end. When it was too late.”

“When she was dying,” said Laura bitterly.

“Maybe then all those other things did not seem so bad anymore. Maybe they didn’t matter. Death does that.” Leon sounded as though he was speaking about something he understood.

Laura looked at him uncertainly. “What do you think we should do with the letters?”

“I’m not sure.”

“I wouldn’t want just anyone to read them. Someone who didn’t care or who might laugh at them.” Laura thought of people like Kylie, Maddy, and Janie.

Leon placed the letters back in the secret drawer. “Maybe one day you should write the story of Mr. Visconti and Veronica,” he said. “You could make people understand.”

“People made fun of me when I wrote about the garden,” replied Laura. “I wouldn’t be able to make them understand. I’m not good enough.”

Leon shook his head. “That’s nonsense. I saw the way people looked at you when you were reading your paragraph. They thought it was great. Of course you can do it.”

No one, thought Laura, had ever paid her a greater compliment.

“For the moment, though, I think you should keep
them and look after them. Until you’re ready.” Leon paused, then added, “I would like to show them to my dad and grandma, if that would be all right.”

“Of course,” said Laura. “They are yours, too. We found them together. And I want to show my mom and dad and Isabella and Harry. They will understand.” She slipped her hand shyly into his. “I wish you didn’t have to go. I’m going to miss you so much.”

And then Leon did a very surprising thing. He kissed her.

On the last day of school, two letters arrived in the post. The first was in a small envelope and was addressed to Laura’s parents. Laura passed it to her mother with hardly a glance. Her eyes were fixed on the second envelope. It was large and stiff and had a cluster of Italian stamps, covered in heavy black postmarks. Her name was written on it,
Signorina Laura Horton,
in sweeping, elegant letters. Laura was so mesmerized by the package, it was only when her mother shook her that she realized she was being addressed.

“Look at this. It is from the Barlows.”

Laura took the letter and ran her eyes over the opening paragraph. Then she breathed in sharply and began to read more closely.

“I can’t believe it,” exclaimed Laura. “It’s so wonderful. It will be like Veronica is finally coming home to her house.” She looked up at her mother. “It’s strange; I thought they didn’t understand at all. Just like I thought Miss McInnes didn’t understand. But they did. They all understood in their own way.”

“People understand things differently. And
express how they feel differently, too. It’s one of those things you learn after a while.” Her mother smiled at her. “I must make them something to say thank you. Something suitable,” she added, catching Laura’s eye. “So what is that other package?”

Laura looked back at her large, flat envelope. “It’s from Italy,” she replied, turning it over. “I think it’s from Mr. Visconti’s family.”

“Well, aren’t you going to open it?”

Laura shook her head. “Leon will be here soon. I’ll wait for him.”

She carried the envelope off to her room and sat cross-legged on her bed, staring at it. What could be in it? Could it possibly be the paintings? She held the parcel up to the light but nothing was visible through the thick buff-colored paper. Nothing moved when she shook it. She bit her lip, trying not to get too excited. Maybe somebody was just writing to say that they had not heard of Mr. Visconti. But if so, why would they send such a big envelope?

Laura studied every mark and every crease on the package while she was waiting for Leon. Her imagination was fermenting with ideas about what might be in it. The second she heard his knock, she grabbed the envelope and headed to the door.

“So much has happened, Leon,” she cried. “I thought you were never going to get here. The Barlows want the statue to come back to our garden. They wrote to Mom and Dad about it. The letter arrived today.” She paused for effect. “And so did this.” She thrust the large envelope under his nose. “It has come from Italy!”

Leon’s eyes widened and he took it from her, holding the envelope as though it wasn’t quite real. “They answered our letter.”

“Yes. And they’ve
sent
something. Can you believe it? They’ve
sent
something.” Laura tugged at his arm, shaking him with excitement.

“We should open it in the tree house,” said Leon. “Come on.”

They dashed from the kitchen, across the yard, and out into the orchard, all green now with its summer foliage. Once they had scrambled up the ladder and were settled on the rough floor, Laura began to pry open the flap of the envelope. She drew out a letter and two pieces of cardboard, stuck together with tape.

“Which should we open first?” she asked, looking at Leon. Laura felt as though they were both suddenly very close to Mr. Visconti.

“The letter,” said Leon.

She unfolded it carefully. The paper was thin, and at the top, there was the familiar crest. Leon slid closer, and together they began to read.

They looked at each other and Laura took a deep breath. Leon’s eyes were dancing.

“They
did
send the paintings,” said Laura.

“Yes. It’s unbelievable. Hurry up. Open the package.”

Laura peeled off the tape and there, between the two pieces of cardboard, were five small watercolor paintings. The first was of the house, as seen from the gates, grand and gray, with storm clouds behind it. The second was of the garden, full of sunshine and flowers, with the monkey puzzle tree and the palm still quite small. Then there was a painting of the conservatory, shady with ferns.

“Imagine how exotic all these plants must have been,” said Leon. “How different from Italy.”

“And how hopeful Mr. Visconti must have felt, planting it all for Veronica.”

They turned to the next sheet, and there was the ballroom in all its grandeur, waiting to come alive. A huge chandelier hung from the ceiling, and the windows were thrown open to show the roses growing outside. There were elegant chairs lined along one wall.

The ballroom was magnificent, but it was the last painting that really took Laura’s breath away. This was of the room with the murals. The trees and the steps and the statuary were all there, fresh and bright under soft skies. It was an exquisite place. A tiny piece of Italy transplanted to Australia. And there on one side was a grand piano, waiting for Veronica, and
on the other by the window, a painted chair, waiting for Mr. Visconti.

“He must have loved her so very, very much,” whispered Laura, her voice quavering. “Can’t you imagine him, sitting there alone in his garden with his heart breaking?”

Leon put his arm around her. “Maybe he didn’t feel alone. Maybe he sat in the room because he felt close to her there.”

Laura leaned back against him, studying the picture. “And he
did
know that she loved him. That’s important, isn’t it?”

Leon nodded. They sat for a while, silently, thinking about it all.

“Do you remember that first day when Grandma told us about Mr. Visconti?” said Leon at last. “It seems like such a long time ago, doesn’t it? Mr. Visconti was just a name then, a strange, mysterious name. Now I feel like I really know him.”

Laura nodded. “So do I. And I really like him.”

Leon grinned at her. “You were so uncomfortable that day.”

“I wasn’t!”

“Yes, you were. You hadn’t wanted me to walk with you at all. You couldn’t wait to get away. And I
was angry. Angry with everyone and everything.” His grin changed to a reminiscent smile. “So much has changed, hasn’t it?”

“And it feels as though somehow it has all happened because of Mr. Visconti,” replied Laura, gazing out though the curtain of leaves. “We would never have come to this town if it hadn’t been for his house. And I would never have gotten to know you if your grandma hadn’t told us about him.”

Leon ran his hand over a knot in the floorboard. “And I would have gone on being angry and lonely. I would have refused the scholarship and hurt Dad even more.” He looked at Laura. “We had such an awful argument just before I came to stay with her. He said I had to go, and I didn’t want to leave him. We shouted and said terrible things and then we stopped talking. I hated that the most. But Mr. Visconti gave us something to talk about again. Mr. Visconti and you and your family. It was a beginning, and now things are getting better. Dad’s job is going well and he has found an apartment.” Leon smiled again. “He said we should make a painted garden in it, like Mr. Visconti, because the apartment is small and has no garden outside.”

Laura looked up at him. “You know, Mr. Visconti
gave me something else, too. He made me feel it was OK to be different.”

“All interesting people are different.” Leon twisted one of her curls back behind her ear. “It’s one of the things that makes them interesting.”

Laura blushed. “You won’t forget me, will you, when you move to your big new school?”

Leon raised one eyebrow. “What do you think?”

“Well, there’ll be lots of students there. Girls . . .”

“But they won’t be you. Like you said, you’re different.” He put his arm back around her. “I’ll be counting the days until the holidays.”

Laura snuggled against him. “So will I.”

When they took the paintings inside, Laura’s father was standing in the kitchen, holding the phone. He had a strange look on his face.

“That was Hugo,” he said before they could say anything. “Come into the studio. I have something amazing to tell you all.”

They trooped across the hall, and Laura’s father made them all sit down before he made his announcement.

“Hugo was right,” he said. “I didn’t really believe it but the wine
is
valuable. Much more valuable than
we realized. We should have enough money now to fix up the house and do a little traveling besides!”

“No!” exclaimed Laura’s mother, leaping up. Laura’s father swept her into his arms, and they started waltzing around the ballroom together, twirling in and out between the blocks of stone. Laura and Leon burst out laughing, and when her parents finally collapsed onto the sofa, Laura showed them the letter and the paintings.

“He was a man of many talents, your Mr. Visconti,” said Laura’s mother, examining the watercolors. “And he must have moved in a very creative world, with his friends all singing and painting and making things. Look at how grand this ballroom used to be.” She turned to Laura. “It was very generous of Gabriella Visconti to send these to you. We must send her a very special letter to thank her.”

Laura, who had been kneeling on the floor beside the sofa, suddenly bounced up. She caught her father by the lapel of his old jacket. “You said we might be able to do a little traveling. Maybe we could visit Gabriella Visconti. Maybe we could show her the letters and photos and all that we have found.” She turned to her mother. “You know how I said that
when the statue comes back here, it will be like Veronica coming home. Well, taking the letters to show Gabriella would be a little like Mr. Visconti going home, wouldn’t it? Like everything going full circle.”

Laura’s father looked across at her mother. “You know that might be a possibility, Lesley. You always said you wanted to see Italy.”