The Witch in the Lake (14 page)

Leo closed his eyes. He could see everything better that way. Each object in the room was alive for him. Every chair and cupboard had a silent memory wrapped inside it.

‘That's good, you rest now,' said Francesca as she came in with a tray. Sitting down near him she poured white wine into his glass, adding water from the jug. ‘Try these sugared oranges, they used to be your favourites.'

When Leo had drunk some wine and eaten, Francesca asked him about his father.

‘He still has the fever,' Leo replied. ‘But he doesn't bring up his food any more and today he seems better. Calmer.'

‘I've wanted to visit,' Francesca told him, ‘I know how hard it must be for you. All alone.' She looked away for a moment, reddening.

Leo cleared his throat. ‘I don't know what to do. How to help him properly, I mean. And I miss Merilee.' His throat closed over.

Maybe he really only had a little mouse inside him, he thought miserably—just a scared baby mouse wanting its mother. Maybe that's what his father had seen, and would never tell him.

Francesca leaned near and took hold of his hands. She smelled of rosewater.

‘It's just, why do we all have to be so alone?' he mumbled into her shoulder. ‘As if we were enemies, or strangers. Why does it have to be like this?'

‘Beatrice—'

Leo flung up his head. ‘I'm so sick of thinking about her. Everyone doing what she wants, obeying her as if she were a queen or something!'

Francesca sighed. ‘Some people are stronger than others, Leo. They have more vital spirit in them—'

‘I can tell you what Beatrice has inside her,' Leo said in a new voice. It was harsh and knowing. ‘On the day she took Merilee away, I
saw
her.'

Francesca waited, looking at him.

‘I saw the snake coiled inside her.'

Francesca drew in her breath. But Leo, still holding her hand, told her everything he'd seen. He chose his words carefully, picking them as if he were cutting out something very precious with the fine point of a knife. He had to make her see. He told her of the lonely little girl, so empty and sad, and how the girl's face had changed when a shadow dropped over her.

Francesca withdrew her hand. ‘I am the shadow,' she said dully.

Leo stared at her. ‘You! How? You're warm and sweet, like the sun!'

Francesca shook her head. ‘For you, perhaps. But for Beatrice—well, I think I stole her light. When we were young, just girls in our father's house, I was pretty and people were fond of me. I had lots of friends. It came easily to me. I liked to dance and sing, I played the recorder well—' Francesca looked down at her feet. ‘I played so well that our father used to hold concerts in the sitting room, and all our friends would come to listen. I remember how Beatrice would glower over there,' Francesca pointed to a chair near the sideboard, ‘her face dark as a storm. Sometimes she'd put her fingers in her ears for the entire concert.'

‘So,' said Leo slowly, ‘she was jealous of you.'

‘Yes,' said Francesca. ‘She was always heavy and awkward with people, didn't know how to converse, how to make the best of herself. She always seemed to say too much, or nothing at all. It's strange, she never learned how to listen to other people, you know, show an interest in them. And then, when I, the younger sister got married before she'd even had an offer, well, you can imagine. She told me she hated me, wished me dead.' Francesca took a sip of wine. ‘I remember her face at my wedding, it was frightening.'

Leo was silent a moment, picturing it all.

‘So now she's enjoying herself,' he said finally, ‘lording it over you and your family.'

‘Well,' Francesca lowered her voice, ‘this
is
her house. Papà was worried for her, you know, seeing she never married. He wanted to make sure she'd always have a roof over her head.'

‘But your husband—'

‘Oh, Franco,' Francesca motioned with her head towards her husband's room, ‘you know what he's like. He lost all his family's money gambling. We had nothing. And now, since we lost Laura, the wine has become his only comfort.'

Francesca and Leo sat in silence together.

Leo finished the sweetmeats and looked at the portraits on the wall. Merilee and Laura were sharing a smile, a secret perhaps, their eyes crinkling at each other in recognition. It was a very fine portrait.

Francesca followed his gaze. ‘
My
girls were always close, thank heaven.' She smoothed her skirt over her lap.

Leo sat rigid in his chair. He felt confused and angry and overwhelmingly disappointed. Francesca's situation was difficult, desperate even, he understood that, but why—Leo felt guilty even thinking it. But in God's name, why couldn't she be
stronger?

‘What are you going to do about Merilee?' he blurted. ‘Beatrice might be planning to keep her there, in that fortress at Fiesole forever!'

‘Oh, Leo, it's not a fortress, I'm sure—'

‘Have you ever been there? It might as well be, anyway, if Beatrice is in command.'

Francesca's cheeks grew pink. Her hand went to her lips. ‘Don't ask me to go against Beatrice,
caro
. I've told you all this so you'd understand. I'd be frightened, Leo. And all those Wise Women . . . oh no, it's too much. Let's wait and see—I'm sure she'll be back soon.'

Leo watched as Francesca covered her face in her hands. She began to cry, and the tears seeped out between her fingers. Leo suddenly saw how much things had changed, that it was he, Leo, who had to be the strong one now, and he straightened his back in the chair as he made up his mind.

‘Do something for me, then,' he said, standing up. ‘Come and help me look after my father. He needs a cooling bath, and I can't lift him alone. The sooner he's better, please God, the quicker I can attend to Merilee.'

Francesca leaped up in alarm. ‘Oh, Leo, I can't,' she cried. ‘How would it look? Franco would be furious. Who would get his supper? And Beatrice—what if she found out?'

Leo hardened his gaze. ‘Beatrice is not living here any more. You don't have to do what she says. Just come for today, help me, and go home to Franco tonight. He won't even know.'

Francesca looked towards the door. Then she looked at Leo. Her eyes softened. ‘I'll come,
caro
,' she whispered. ‘I'm sorry I left it so long. Just wait a moment while I change my shoes.' And she hurried out of the room.

As they walked together along the stony path, Leo's spirits began to lift. Even though he was loaded up with more sweetmeats (to tempt Marco), a goose liver, six sausages and a bottle of bergamot and lavender, his steps were lighter and quicker than they'd been for weeks. They didn't talk much as they went. Francesca seemed lost in her own thoughts, but just the feel of her next to him, the soft swish of her skirts, gave him comfort.

He chuckled suddenly, thinking of how Marco's face would look when he saw her.

‘What is it?' asked Francesca.

When Leo told her, she frowned slightly. ‘I hope he'll be pleased. I've always been so fond of your father. But I know he didn't want you near us after—'

Leo kicked the ground. ‘Only because of Beatrice.'

They went on in silence, Francesca stumbling sometimes on a loose stone, Leo glad to give her his arm.

When Leo opened the door to his home and Francesca stepped inside, Marco was sitting up in bed. His mouth dropped open and he pulled up the sheets over his skinny chest. Leo saw him suck in his cheeks with shock.

‘Marco, I didn't mean to give you a fright, it's all right,' Francesca said all in a tumble, coming over to his bed. ‘How are you?'

Marco was still lying there stunned, as if someone had put a freeze spell on him. Francesca laid a hand on his cheek.

‘He's still got the fever, hasn't he?' she called across to Leo. ‘But he's not burning up. Would you like something to eat, Marco?'

Marco managed to nod and his lips unfroze for a second into an almost-smile.

Francesca went over to the pantry where Leo was sorting the food. She looked into the pot where the soup lay in a congealed mess.

‘Burned it,' Leo said in a strangled voice. He could hardly speak either. It was so extraordinary to have Francesca there in the house. To see her and his father talking together like they used to. He felt little and big at the same time.

Francesca sniffed the pot. ‘Peacock? I think we can save it. Too good to throw away. Let's add some water and spices,' and she busied herself at the cistern, ladling and pouring.

When it was ready she put a bowl on a tray for Marco, adding a plate of goose liver and sweetmeats. While she worked Leo thought how happy she looked, her movements sure and swift, the anxiety gone from her face.

Marco sipped the soup slowly. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and every now and then he had to stop, as if he were exhausted. But he'd drunk more than half of it before he put down his spoon.

‘Now just try the goose liver,' Francesca urged him. ‘It'll give you strength.'

Afterwards, when Leo had stripped the bed and changed the sheets and Francesca had washed all the bed linen, Leo went to fetch more water from the well in the courtyard.

‘You'll need a quantity to fill
that
bath,' Francesca marvelled. ‘You'll certainly need help just emptying the thing.'

But when they came to Marco's bed, still discussing the best way to lift him, Marco let out a cry of horror.

‘
Santo dio
,' he trembled. ‘I'll not have a lady carrying me!' And he drew the sheets up to his neck.

‘Well I can't do it by myself and you can wear your undergarments in the bath if you're so shy,' said Leo in a determined tone.

Marco was still muttering, lying straight as a post in bed.

‘Francesca's come all this way to help us, Papà. Don't be so ungrateful. She's brought herbs to put in the bath, to reduce your fever. You know that's good for you.'

Marco rolled his eyes, but he sat up. ‘Thank you very much for coming, Francesca,' he said politely. ‘I promise to be good.'

He lifted himself slightly and tried to stand up. But his legs were so weak that he toppled back into Leo's arms. Leo grasped him under the arms and dragged him a little way across the room, with Francesca supporting his back. Then together they lifted him into the cool bath.

‘Ah!' Marco was fully immersed in the water, with only his knees and head emerging. ‘
Splendido!
'

Leo watched him close his eyes, his shoulders relaxing against the rim of the bath.

Marco had said more in the last hour than he had for five days. He'd actually joked! And it was all because of Francesca. Leo felt so proud and relieved he thought he might do a cartwheel right there on the floor.

After the bath, when Marco was lying on fresh sheets, Francesca brought a cup of wine mixed with water to him. She pulled a chair over and talked to him in a low voice. Leo hovered near, sweeping the floor.

‘Do you forgive me?' he heard Marco whisper.

Leo swept closer.

‘Of course,' Francesca whispered back. ‘I know how hard you tried.'

Marco was becoming agitated. Leo saw him twisting the sheets with his fingers.

‘Rest, now, Marco,' Francesca soothed. ‘Don't think about all that. It's done, finished. You just need to sleep, and get better.'

But Marco strained towards her. Sweat beaded his upper lip.

‘But do you forgive the sins of my forefathers?'

Leo stopped sweeping.
Dio!
Did Marco think he was dying? That Francesca was some kind of messenger of God, the Virgin Mary? He went over to his father and laid a hand on his cheek.

‘What is it, Papà?' he urged. ‘Do you feel bad?'

Marco waved his hand at Leo, impatient. His eyes were still locked onto Francesca's face.

‘Your father's getting himself agitated for no reason,' she said. ‘Perhaps the bath and the talking were too much. His fever's climbing again. Leo, go and fetch my lavender oil and bring it to me, please.'

Leo scurried to the bench where she'd left her things. He looked through the pantry, next to the bath. He heard whispers, voices growing louder. Where was the confounded thing?

When he returned to the bed, Marco was lying back on the sheets. He smiled as Leo dabbed his forehead with a cloth soaked in lavender. The sweat had dried and his face was peaceful. He looked profoundly relaxed.

‘What did you say to him?' Leo asked Francesca.

She just put her finger to her lips and whispered, ‘Let him sleep now. He'll be all right.'

But as Francesca got up to go, Marco grasped her hand and kissed it.

When they had gathered up her things, Leo and Francesca quietly opened the door and tiptoed outside. Dusk was deepening in the corners of the street, blurring outlines, muffling distances. Only the first star shone above them, sharp and brilliant in the tender sky.

‘It's late,' said Francesca. ‘I should be home.' She gazed the length of the street. There was no one. ‘The law.'

‘I'll walk with you. We'll go quickly.'

‘No, no, you stay and see to Marco. I'll be less visible on my own.'

‘Well, I'll just walk you to the piazza. I have to see Signor Eco, anyway.'

They began to hurry along the cobbled street. As they threaded their way past the quiet houses, Leo saw the moon rising over the steeple.

‘You've done my father so much good,' Leo began to say.

‘I enjoyed being useful. He liked the sweetmeats, didn't he? Don't forget about the sausages for tomorrow.'

‘But just you being there, in the house with him, talking to him—it seemed to make such a difference, Francesca,' Leo stopped for a moment. ‘What was he saying, you know, about sins, his family?'