Silent in the Sanctuary

The next day we rose early and made the trip into Milan, Plum resplendent in a garish tasselled red fez he had purchased on his travels. Violante sobbed quietly into her handkerchief, blowing her nose every minute or so, and Lysander was busily tapping his fingers on the window, beating out the measures of a new concerto. The morning was brilliant, the rich white-gold light of Lombardy rolling over the landscape, gilding the scene in the style of a Renaissance masterpiece. Even the smallest detail seemed touched with magic. The humblest peasant on the road was magnificent, a gift to commit to memory and treasure on a bleak grey day in England. I sighed, wishing Italy had seen fit to give us a kinder farewell. It would have been easier to leave her in a rainstorm.

Milan at least blunted the edge of my regret. The railway station was thronged with people speaking dozens of dialects in four languages, and I knew I would not miss the chaos of Italian cities. There was something to be said for the orderliness of English society, I reflected, looking for the fourth time to the station clock. Alessandro had scant minutes to find us, I realised. I scanned the crowd anxiously for his tall, elegant figure.

“Perhaps he’s been run over by a carriage,” Morag put in helpfully. I fished in my reticule and extracted her ticket.

“Board the train, Morag. Your seat is in third class. I will see you in Paris.”

She took the ticket, muttering in Gaelic under her breath. I pretended not to hear her and turned away, just in time to see Alessandro approaching. He was hurrying, as much as Alessandro ever hurried anywhere. His clothes were perfectly ordered, but his hair was slightly tumbled, and when he spoke his voice was faintly breathless.

“Ah! I have found you at last.” He greeted my brothers and Violante, who wailed louder and waved her handkerchief at him.

“Come along, Alessandro,” I told him. “We’ve only a moment or so to board.”

“Then let us embark,” he said, bowing from the neck. He offered his arm, and I noticed his other was carefully holding a basket covered with a damask cloth. Luncheon, I thought happily.

We were seated quickly in a surprisingly comfortable compartment. Violante and Lysander had begun an argument and were quietly hissing at one another. Plum took out his sketchbook to record a face he had seen on the platform. Only Alessandro seemed excited by the journey, his dark eyes flashing as they met mine.

“I have brought you a gift, a souvenir of my country,” he said softly, placing the basket on my knees. I stared at it.

“I had thought it was luncheon, but as the basket has just moved on its own, I rather hope it isn’t,” I told him.

He laughed, a courteously modulated sound. Florentines, I had observed, loved to laugh but only modestly.

At his urging I lifted the damask cloth and peered into the basket.

“How very unexpected,” I murmured. “And how kind of you, Alessandro. I don’t suppose you would mind telling me what it is, exactly?”

This time he laughed fully, throwing back his head and revealing a delightful dimple in his cheek. “Ah, Lady Julia, always you enchant me. It is a dog, what you call in your country an Italian greyhound. Surely you recognise her. Her breed has been painted for centuries.”

I peered again at the trembling creature nestled against a cushion. She was black and white, large patches, with a wet black nose and eyes like two bits of polished Whitby jet. She lifted her nose out of the basket and sniffed me deeply, then sighed and laid her head back onto her paws.

“Of course. I see the resemblance now,” I told him, wondering how this frail, ratlike creature could possibly be related to the cosseted pets I had seen gracing the laps of principesse in gilded frames.

“È ammalata,” Alessandro said apologetically. “She is a little unwell. She does not like the travelling. I put her yesterday into her little basket, and she does not like to come out.”

“Oh, that is quite all right,” I said, hastily pulling the damask over her nose. “Perhaps she just needs a bit of rest. What is she called?”

“That is for you to decide.”

I did not hesitate. “Then I shall call her after my favorite place in all of Italy. I shall call her Florence.”

Alessandro smiled, a smile a nymph would envy, beautiful curved lips and even white teeth. “You pay the greatest honour to my city, my Firenze. I am glad that you like her. I wanted you to have some token of my appreciation for this kind invitation to your family’s home.”

Strictly speaking, the invitation had been Plum’s and I noticed that there was no shivering, pointy-faced puppy for him. And as I clutched the basket and looked out of the window, saying my silent farewells to this country I had grown to love so well, I wondered what significance this present carried with it. Alessandro had implied it was a sort of hospitality gift, a way of thanking one’s hosts for opening their home. Still, I could not help but think there was something more pointed in his intentions. And I was not entirely displeased.

Paris was grey and gloomy, sulking under lowering skies like a petulant schoolgirl. We had tarried a few days to shop and show Alessandro the sights, but none of us forgot for long we were being called home in disgrace. Lysander and Violante had made up their quarrel and spent most of their time cooing and making revoltingly sweet faces at one another. Plum, doubtless irritated at their good humour, sulked until I bought him the most outrageously ugly waistcoat I could find—violet taffeta splashed with orange poppies. He insisted upon wearing it with his fez, and wherever we went, Parisians simply stopped and stared. For his part, Alessandro was subdued. I had thought the glories of Paris would enchant him, but he merely regarded them and made notes in his guidebook. It was not until I found him murmuring Italian endearments to Florence that I realised the poor boy must be homesick. He had never left Italy before, and this trip had been a sudden, wrenching thing. There had been no pleasurable time of anticipation, no peaceful evenings by the fire with maps and guidebooks and lists at hand, no chance to dream of it. I think the reality of the cold grey monuments and the wet streets dampened his spirits as thoroughly as they dampened our hems. I promised myself that he would enjoy Bellmont Abbey and our proper English Christmas, even if it killed me. Of course, I had no way of knowing then that it would indeed kill someone else.

As a contrast to the dripping skies of Paris, London was lit with sunset when we arrived, the great gold light burnishing the dome of St. Paul’s and lending a kindly glow to the chimney pots and brick houses stacked against each other like so many books in a shop. Even the air smelled sweeter to me here, a sure sign of my besotted state, for London’s air has never been salubrious. I pointed out the important landmarks to Alessandro, promising him we would return after Christmas for a thorough tour. He sat forward in his seat, eagerly pressing his hands to the window, taking in the great city.

“It is so big,” he said softly. “I never thought to see a city so large.”

“Yes, it is. And filthy besides, but I love it dearly. Now, we will make our way to the Grand Hotel for the night, and tomorrow we will embark for Blessingstoke. The train journey is not long. Blessingstoke is in Sussex, and the Abbey is quite near to the village proper.”

Plum leaned across Alessandro to take in the view. “God’s teeth, it hasn’t changed a bit.”

“Plum, it may be Shakespearean, but it is still an oath. You know how Aunt Hermia feels about profanity.”

He waved me off with a charcoal-smudged hand. “Auntie Hermia will be so happy to see her prodigal boys, she won’t care if I come draped in rags and swearing like a sailor. I’ll wager the fatted calf is being roasted as we speak.”

On that point I was forced to agree. Our Aunt Hermia, Father’s youngest sister, had come to live at the Abbey when our mother died from exhaustion. Ten children in sixteen years had been too much for her slight, graceful shape. Aunt Hermia had done her best to instill proper manners and a sense of decorum, but seven hundred years of March eccentricity was too much, even for her iron will. We were civilized, but the veneer was a thin one. In her later years, Aunt Hermia had even come to embrace her own peculiarities, and it was true that her drawing room was the only room in England where ladies were invited to smoke after dinner. Needless to say, Marches were seldom invited to Court.

“Speaking of returning home,” Plum said, his expression a trifle pained, “I don’t suppose we could stay at March House instead of the Grand Hotel?”

I blinked at him. “Plum, the arrangements have already been made at the hotel. I hardly think it would be fair to disappoint their expectations. Besides, Father is in Sussex. The house would have been closed up months ago, and I am certainly not going to simply turn up and expect the staff to scurry around, yanking off dust sheets and preparing meals with no warning.”

“They are servants, Julia,” Plum pointed out with a touch of exasperation. “They will be perfectly content to do whatever is expected of them.”

I looked at him closely, scrutinising his garments. His coat buttons were loose, a sure sign he had been tugging at them in distraction. It was a nervous habit from boyhood. He dropped buttons in his wake as a May Queen dropped flowers. The maids had long since given up stitching them back on, and he usually went about with his coat flapping loosely around him. Yes, something was clearly troubling him, and I did not think that it was solely his irritation at Lysander’s marriage. I suspected his pockets were thin—Plum’s tastes were expensive, and even Father’s liberal allowances only stretched so far.

Still, even if Plum was flirting with insolvency, there were other considerations. “It is impolite, both to the staff of March House, and the hotel,” I told him. “Besides, I hardly think that it will help our cause with Father to have descended on March House with no warning and inconvenienced his staff and eaten his food. You know they will send the bills to him. Under other circumstances, I might well agree with you, but I think a little prudence on our part might go some distance toward smoothing matters for Ly,” I finished.

Plum darted a look to the other part of the compartment where Lysander and Violante were huddled together, heads nearly touching as they whispered endearments.

“And we must do whatever we can for Lysander,” Plum added, his handsome mouth curved into a mocking smile. He left as quickly as he had come, settling himself some distance away behind a newspaper. I turned with an apologetic glance to Alessandro, but he was staring out the window, his expression deeply troubled and far away. I did not interrupt him, and the rest of the journey into London was accomplished in silence.

The manager of the Grand Hotel, in an act of unprecedented kindness, assigned me a suite on a different floor from my family. There had been some difficulty with the arrangements, he said, fluttering his hands in apology, our letter had come so late, it was such a busy season with the holiday fast approaching. I reassured him and took the key, grateful for the distance from the rest of the party. Violante and Lysander had broken out in a quarrel again on the station platform, Plum was sulking openly, and Alessandro was by now visibly distressed. He only smiled when he noticed my trouble in coaxing Florence from her basket. She remained curled on her cushion, staring at me with the lofty disdain of a Russian czarina.

“Florence, come out at once. This is unacceptable,” I told her. Alessandro smiled at me, a smile that did not touch the sadness in his eyes.

“Ah, my dear lady. She does not understand you. She is an Italian dog, you must speak Italian to her.”

I stared at him, but there was no sign of jocularity in him. “You are not joking? I must speak Italian to her?”

“But of course, my lady. Do as I do.” He bent swiftly and pitched his voice low and seductive. “Dai, Firenze.”

The little dog leaped up at once and waited patiently at his heel. “You see? Very easy. She wants to please you.”

The dog and I regarded each other. I had my doubts that she wished to please me, but I thanked Alessandro just the same and turned to make my way into the hotel. Florence sat, staring down her long nose at me.

I sighed. “Andiamo, Firenze. Come along.” She trotted up and gave my skirt hem a deep sniff. Then she gave a deep, disappointed sigh.

“I know precisely how you feel.”

The next morning I made my way down to breakfast in the hotel’s elegant dining room, feeling buoyant with good cheer and a good night’s sleep. Something about being on English soil again had soothed me, and I had slept deeply and dreamlessly, waking only when Florence barked out an order to be taken for a walk. I handed her off to a grumbling Morag with a few simple words of Italian, although I had little doubt Morag would simply bark back at her in Gaelic. But even Morag’s sullenness was no match for my cheerful mood as I entered the dining room. I might have known that it would not last.

Resting against my plate was a hastily scrawled note from Lysander explaining that he and Violante had chosen to have a lie-in and would take the later conveyance instead of the morning train as we had planned. I wrinkled my nose at the note and crumpled it into my butter dish. A lie-in indeed. More like an attack of the cowardy-cowardy custards. Ly was nervous at the prospect of facing Father. The possibility of losing his considerable allowance, particularly with a wife to maintain, was a grim one. The notion of keeping Violante on the proceeds of his musical compositions was laughable, but also frighteningly real. Ly was simply playing for time, expecting the rest of us to journey down to Bellmont Abbey and smooth the way for him, soothing Father out of his black mood and making him amenable to meeting Lysander under happier terms.

It simply would not do. I applied myself to a hearty breakfast of eggs, bacon, porridge, toast, stewed fruit, and a very nice pot of tea. I enjoyed it thoroughly. The Italians, for all their vaunted cookery skills, cannot do a proper breakfast. A bit of bread and a cup of milky coffee is a parsimonious way to begin one’s day. When I was well fortified, I had a quick word with the waiter and made my way to Lysander and Violante’s rooms and tapped sharply on the door.