Song Above the Clouds (8 page)

“Come and meet my mother,
signorina
.”

She shook her head, and simply because she couldn’t help it, looked up at him with eyes that revealed everything.

“I can’t. John—” Somewhere deep down in her throat her voice was tying itself into knots, and the words wouldn’t come. John Ryland and the Contessa di Lucca were watching them with a merciful detachment, waiting for them to leave the car. John, she could tell, hadn’t yet recognized her.

“I k
no
w.” Michele di Lucca’s voice was so soft it was barely audible. “But some time you must face
him ...
it is better that it should be soon.”

She shook her head, wordlessly, and he straightened and closed the car door upon her. Then she saw him walk across to the couple still standing beside the other car, and a moment or so later the lovely dark-haired woman detached herself from the little group and came hurrying over to Candy.

“You are Miss Wells?” She had one of the most enchanting feminine voices the English girl had ever heard—warm, low-pitched and a little husky, and she spoke English with a kind of mixed Italian-American accent that was surprisingly attractive. “My son has told
me about you
...”
She smiled delightfully. “But he
says that just now you don’t feel very well? If you would like to come inside and lie down, I will call my doctor...
”

“Oh, but—it’s all right, thank you.” She flushed a little under the older woman’s scrutiny. It was good of the Conte, now engaged in occupying John’s attention, to try and think up an excuse for her, but although it might have looked odd it would have been kinder if he had simply driven her away again. “I mean,” fueling extraordinarily foolish, “I’m all right now.”

“You are sure?” The Contessa’s slender eyebrows rose, but she was still smiling. “Then come in and have a drink instead.”

There was, she realized, absolutely no hope of escape, and although her legs felt like lead she forced herself to climb out of the car. And at precisely the same moment John looked straight across at her. She didn’t know whether the Conte had drawn his attention to her presence, or whether he had just suddenly noticed her, but she did know that she wished the ground would open and swallo
w
her, and for a very long time afterwards she wondered just how she managed to get through the next few minutes.

But something that she supposed was a sort of mixture of pride and emotional numbness did get her through those minutes. Feeling like a sleep-walker, she talked to John Ryland as if he really were nothing more to her than her sister’s brother-in-law. She never did know exactly what he looked like during those moments, or what he said to
her ...
for that matter she couldn’t remember what anybody said. But eventually they all moved inside the
house, and she was conscious of being urged to sink into the cloud-like depths of an enormous armchair. The chair was upholstered in green velvet, and on its arms gilded lions sprawled, reminding her ridiculously of Trafalgar Square, She was in an enormous room—a splendid room in which she had the feeling that time might stand still, past and present and future becoming fused together in a healing, soothing harmony with the power to make all life’s problems seem far away and unimportant. Lofty windows lavishly draped with dark green velvet rose almost to the high, ornate ceiling, and everywhere ponderously beautiful carved furniture, heavy with marble and gilt, exuded the spirit and essence of an age that, dead almost everywhere else, in this room seemed alive and breathing.

The Conte was bending over her. “You’ll have a glass of wine? Or perhaps something stronger?”

She looked
u
p, but for a moment didn’t see him. Her mind refused to register. Then his serious eyes penetrated her consciousness, and she coloured faintly.

“Nothing, thank you.”

“Not even a glass of water?” very quietly. “It would steady you.”

She let him put a tall, sparkling glass of water into her hand, and was grateful for the coolness of it, and, in a vague kind of way, for his coolly considerate presence. It was obvious that he knew or had guessed all about her and John Ryland, and although at one time it would have been more than she could bear that anyone should have the power to spy on her private anguish, somehow Michele di Lucca didn’t seem to matter.

She discovered that her hostess had come over to sit beside her, and was making a determined effort to engage her in conversation.

“John tells me that your sister is married to his brother.” The brief, formal remark broke through the numbness surrounding Candy, and she found herself stammering a disconnected reply.

“Yes, he—my sister—I
... we know one another.”

“Quite well, I expect.” The lovely eyes were intent. A good many people around the world would have been grateful for such an opportunity of studying Anna Landi at close quarters, but at the moment the advantages of the situation were lost on Candy.

“Yes, quite well.”

“He’s a very
... interesting man.” The Contessa turned her elegant head to take another look at her son and John Ryland, who were once again conducting a rather desultory dialogue on the other side of the room, and for the first time Candy really took in the striking quality of the older woman’s beauty. She looked very little more than thirty, but it was obvious that to have a son of the Conte’s age she must be at least fifteen years older than that. Her skin had a flawless, creamy perfection that was far too remarkable to be just the result of skilful make-up, and neither around her enormous eyes nor her well-moulded mouth was there a wrinkle to be seen. Her thick black hair was arranged on top of her shapely head in heavy, gleaming coils of elegance, and Candy noticed that even her beringed hands were white and supple and incredibly smooth
-
skinned, their long, tapering coral tips contrasting effectively with the paleness of the slender fingers.

She was speaking again, her attention temporarily diverted from the two men. “You like Rome?” she asked, leaning back to rest her head against a pile of cushions. Her eyes, half-closed and as inscrutable as a cat’s, stu
di
e
d the English girl attentively. “You think you will find it pleasant to live here?”

“Oh, yes
...
very pleasant. But I don’t expect I shall be living here long.”

“Why not? Your music will probably keep you here long after Signor Galleo has finished instructing you. There are many opportunities for young singers in Rome, and you would be foolish to turn, your back on them. Tell me, is your singing to be your life?”

Startled by the suddenness and directness of the question, Candy hesitated. And then her decision of the morning came back to her, and as she glanced across the room and her eyes fell on John Ryland she said fervently: “Yes. Singing is everything to me—absolutely everything.”

The Contessa looked at her for a moment, a tiny smile touching the corners of her mouth. And then, almost imperceptibly, she shrugged, “When we are young,” she remarked cryptically, “we have the strangest ideas.” With a swift movement she took the half-empty glass out of Candy’s hand and set it down on a nearby table. “Something a little stronger,” she remarke
d
, “would be good for you. Michele, give Miss Wells a glass of sherry.”

Reluctantly, for she didn’t feel like arguing, Candy accepted the sherry, and as she sipped it her hostess leaned forward to pat her arm almost affectionately.

“To-night I am having a little dinner-party, and of course you will stay for it.”

“Oh, but I couldn’t!” Candy protested in genuine horror. “I mean
.
.. you don’t know me. I’m just being a nuisance.”

“But
how nonsensical! It is what Michele brought you for. You are an
artist ...
and I love all artists. Please,
signorina,
I shall be very unhappy if you will not stay.”

Candy wondered if John Ryland would be staying too, and her nerve almost failed her. And then pride came to her rescue, and she smiled. “Thank you, Contessa, I’d love to stay.”

Shortly afterwards the older woman left her, to lean against the massive marble fireplace and talk
or rather listen, to John Ryland. She seemed to be a good listener, when it suited her, and clearly it suited her to listen to the tall, dark-haired Englishman. Candy watched them, and slowly, gradually, she began to understand.

From the beginning she had noticed that John and the statuesque Italian beauty found one another interesting—that wasn’t particularly surprising. But now, as she stu
di
e
d them both more carefully, she realized with a painful shock that there was more than interest between them. As they talked, John rarely took his eyes off the Contessa’s lovely face, and even from a distance Candy could see how the actress’s eyes shone luminously every time she looked up at him.

Candy sipped at her sherry, and it made her cough. So that was it! John had gone to Rome, and in Rome he had met the Contessa di Lucca—or perhaps he thought of her as Anna Landi. As a result of that meeting his life had been changed, and looking at him now as calmly and objectively as she could manage to do, she saw quite clearly that as far as he was concerned the mother of Michele di Lucca had become the centre of the world.

After a few minutes Michele himself m
o
ved over again to the English girl, and standing beside her as if he felt happier on his feet launched into a rather stiff and uninspired effort at conversation. His brown eyes seemed to stare over the top of her head, into nothingness, and she had the feeling that he was absolutely detached, for which she was thankful.

At about half past seven his mother sent for one of the maids, and she was whisked off to an enormous guest bedroom, where she was left alone to make any repairs to her appearance that she might think necessary. Despite what her hostess had said about informality
she wished very much that she could have had an opportunity to change. To her it seemed extremely unlikely that any woman, given the opportunity to prepare herself properly, would turn up for dinner at such a house as the Contessa’s without being dressed to suit the occasion, and that almost certainly meant formal evening dress
.
If she had not been in such a numb and abstracted mood she supposed she would probably have been in an agony of nervousness and apprehension, but as it was she had neither the energy nor the interest to care very much. If it had been possible for her to change she would have done so, but as it wasn’t possible the light woollen dress in which she had set out that morning would undoubtedly have to do. It was an attractive dress, of navy blue with a deep band of white around the hem, and its fitted bodice and slightly flared skirt suited her insubstantial figure so well that she couldn’t really have looked more enchanting if she had been dressed for the evening by Balenciaga. She didn’t know that she looked enchanting, but she hadn’t the heart to worry about it, and after washing quickly in an adjoining bathroom concentrated mainly on doing what she could with her face and hair.

The room in which she had been left was an artistic creation in white and gold,
and despite her abstracted state of mind as soon as the door was flung open by the
maid she had uttered a little gasp of pleasure. The dominant feature of the room was a gilded and incredibly pretty French bed, with a cover of heavy white silk, and in front of the half open windows long curtains of gold brocade swayed gently in a cool current of evening air. The honey-coloured floorboards were
scattered with rugs of thick white fur, and there were armchairs upholstered in white velvet and piled with gold brocade cushions. The dressing-table was a massive French antique, littered with silver-stoppered bottles and jars, and reposing on its burnished surface there was even a set of heavy silver-backed brushes and combs.

Gingerly, Candy lifted one of the magnificent brushes, and then put it down again rather as if it had threatened to bite her. She opened her handbag and taking out her own comb ran it rather hastily through her hair, which actually wasn’t in need of much attention, powdered her nose and outlined her forlornly drooping mouth with lipstick. Then she gathered up her bag and left the room, closing the door behind her.

Outside in the echoing marble-floored corridor she hesitated for a moment, uncertain which way to go, but then she managed to remember which way she had come with the maid, and after that it was a simple matter to retrace her steps until she came to the graceful curve of the staircase. There, however, she stopped, for just below her, in the echoing entrance hall, two people were talking, and somehow she sensed immediately that their conversation was of a sort which it could be embarrassing to overhear.

“Marco...” It was the Contessa’s voice, and it was husky with a kind of urgent appeal. She was speaking in Italian, rapidly and anxiously, and she
wa
s
obviously making a considerable effort to be both persuasive and soothing. Hesitating at the head of the stairs, Candy looked over the gilded iron balustrade and saw that the actress was standing just below her, her dark head gleaming like burnished ebony in the light from the chandeliers. She had changed into a little gold lame suit which bore the unmistakable stamp of one of Rome’s topmost fashion houses, and as she moved her slim hands in a series of expressive gestures they flashed with the dark green fire of emeralds.

The man beside her was about the same height as herself, and his hair, which once had obviously been very black, was tinged here and there with streaks of silver. He was probably, Candy thought, about fifty, and undoubtedly Italian. His dark grey suit was very well cut, and although he was possibly a little over-weight on the whole he looked rather an elegant figure. To Candy it seemed that there was something decidedly familiar about him, and as she stared down at the top of his head she suddenly realized what it was. He was remarkably like the Conte di Lucca.

Suddenly, somewhere, a bell rang—evidently the front door bell, for a uniformed maid came hurrying to answer it—and the Contessa checked herself in what sounded like the middle of a sentence. The man, who didn’t really seem to have said very much, shrugged and moved a little away from her and as he did so a man and a girl were ushered by the maid into the circle of light cast by the great central chandelier, and the woman known to the world as Anna Landi advanced to meet them with both hands outstretched.

When, several minutes after the hall had again emptied itself, Candy at last
found the courage to descend the staircase and rejoin her hostess and her fellow
-
guests in the
salotto
with the green velvet hangings she found, more or less as she
had expected, that rather a daunting little gathering had assembled in her absence.
The Contessa was perched on the arm of a sofa, engaged in an animated if one-
s
ided conversation with a pretty black-haired girl in a long fluttering dress of
eggshell, blue voile, and beside the girl, on the same sofa, a massive matron in
black velvet seemed to be her mother was placidly monopolizing the Conte. John
Ryland, temporarily a little lost, was standing alone in front of the fireplace,
staring into the rosy-hued cocktail in his glass as if it were a crystal ball, and the
Italian with the greying hair whom Candy had seen with the Contessa was also
alone, gazing through one of the uncurtained windows into the clear, starlit night.
The couple whose arrival had interrupted his conversation with his hostess were
there too, and just as Candy entered the room the man moved purposefully over
to the Contessa, with the evident intention of attracting some of her attention to
himself. He was tall and lean, with a slight stoop, and an American accent which
could probably have been heard easily on the other side of the heavy oak door. The girl who had arrived with him was left sitting alone and looking rather bewildered, and as she glanced at her with mild curiosity Candy realized that she was from the East—possibly from Japan. She was wearing a romantically beautiful evening dress of heavy, gleaming silk in which glowing reds and golds blended luxuriantly, and everything about her small, neat figure was almost unbelievably delicate and doll-like.

On impulse, and partly because of a subconscious feeling that they were both in a sense outsiders, Candy sat down beside the little silk-clad
s
hape and smiled at her. It didn’t seem to her to matter that they hadn’t
been introduced, for if she was not simply to run out of the house in an agony of unhappiness and embarrassment she had to talk to somebody, and she saw nobody else to
w
hom it would be possible to attach herself.

The girl smiled back, revealing extraordinarily pretty teeth, and in precise, slightly accented English she murmured something formal and predictable about the beauty of the room, and the excellence of the Contessa’s central heating. And then to Candy’s astonishment and horror, her slanting brown eyes suddenly filled with tears, and her small mouth puckered. The tears overflowed and began to roll down her cheeks, and then she started to sob audibly
..
. little, subdued, choking sobs that despite their unobtrusiveness had a powerful and immediate impact on the whole of the room.

Everyone looked round as swiftly as if the girl had stood up and screamed, and one by one they all stopped talking. In the silence the two Italian women on the sofa stared across incredulously at their fellow-guest—the elder with mounting disapproval in every line of her heavy-jowled face, the younger open-mouthed and fascinated—and the men froze where they stood.

Only the Contessa remained in command of the situation. A bare half-glance had evidently been enough to allow her to take in what was happening, and once she had taken it in she tactfully avoided looking a second time. Instead, she glanced with very slightly upraised eyebrows at the girl’s husband, into whose sallow cheeks a dull red flush was slowly creeping, and muttering something the American left her and walked over to his wife.

“Listen, stop it, will you?” Candy didn’t want to listen, but she couldn’t help overhearing the half
whispered words. The man had so placed himself that he was between the weeping girl and most of the other people present, and only Candy, who for some reason hadn’t thought of moving away, saw the look in her eyes as she lifted her distorted face.