A Law Unto Himself

‘Yes,’ Beatrice told her. ‘You’ll find it next to the Post Office. Tell them you want a pair of waterproof walking boots. Get a pair with a fleecy warm lining. I find they’re the best. Would you hold Dom for me, while I go and find that brochure?’

The sleeping child was a heavy weight in her arms. Francesca considered herself reasonably au fait with children and their care—living at the heart of an Italian family, it was hard not to be—but it had struck her, as she watched Beatrice with her son, as she saw Elliott’s quick frown of concern before he left the house, that the children she was used to seeing were always presented antiseptically clean and beautifully dressed by their nannies; immaculate accessories to their pretty mamas; always well-mannered and schooled.

She had seen other children, of course, running about the streets, playing games, street-wise children with dark, knowing eyes.

Holding Dom, it came to her that, if the wedding had not been called off, she would very probably by now have been carrying her first child. She would have had to have had a son, of course… Her grandfather would have permitted nothing else.

She was not sorry she had not married Paolo, she decided, relinquishing Dom to his mother’s arms as Beatrice returned triumphantly handing her a small leaflet entitled ‘Village Walks’. As she was only just beginning to realise, there were other ways to live than that stipulated by her grandfather.

She was beginning to wonder if there wasn’t more of her mother in her than she had always supposed. She was finding that she rather approved of the British family life, where husband and wife and later on their children had their own home separate from parents, aunts, uncles and grandparents. And she was beginning to appreciate how difficult it must have been for her mother adapting to life at the palazzo.

Francesca was just setting out from the village when the doctor’s car arrived. Recognising her from the dinner party, she stopped to exchange a few moments of conversation with her and then set off down the drive.

Drifts of leaves whispered drily round her feet, warmed by the sun, and still crisped with a hint of the frost they had had overnight. The hills in the distance were purple-blue and hazily indistinct, the trees that seemed to stretch right across the countryside to their feet, in irregular masses of gold and bronzes, warm patches of colour against the softer backdrop, their foliage a brilliant contrast to the pale blue of the sky.

It was colder than she had anticipated; her pleated, kilt-like skirt and its complementary soft wool sweater was moulded to her body by the force of the wind.

She had brought with her a bright yellow jacket, which picked out the thin yellow stripe on the tartan skirt, fully believing that she would not need it, but now, as she shrugged elegantly into it, she was glad of its protective warmth.

By the time she reached the village, having stopped once or twice to look curiously inside the shuttered gates of the two large houses she passed, wondering to whom they belonged and admiring the avenues of trees that bordered their drives, her face was glowing pink with the cold, her bare hands tingling.

She found the shop immediately. The village was only small, little more than a straggle of pretty Cotswold houses, either side of the main road. There were no other customers in the shop; the woman who came forward to serve her was small and plump with greying hair and a warm smile.

Explaining what she wanted, Francesca sat down and tried on the selection of footwear she was given. In the end she decided on a pair of sheepskin boots dyed dark blue, which toned in with her skirt. They had warm linings and thick, waterproof soles. The woman serving her showed no surprise when Francesca said that she wanted to keep them on, and parcelled up her court shoes, having first admired the quality of the leather.

Outside again, Francesca realised that she needed gloves. The village had only one dress shop, next to an antique dealer’s, and Francesca hovered outside the window for a few minutes, her eye caught by a pretty Dresden piece. She had noticed that Beatrice had several similar pieces on display in her own small sitting-room, and it occurred to her that this shepherdess might make the right gift for her hostess when she came to leave.

Having bought her gloves, and studied the shepherdess again, she looked for somewhere to sit while she studied the pamphlet Beatrice had given her.

Beatrice had mentioned the previous day that the village boasted a very popular tea shop, and Francesca soon found it tucked down a narrow ginnel, which opened out into a courtyard, overlooking the river and surrounded by well-kept green lawns.

The tea shop was open and quite busy. In addition to serving tea and coffee, it also sold a wide variety of specialist teas and coffee beans and, as a waitress led her to a table, Francesca sat back and amused herself watching the shop’s customers come and go.

She wasn’t in any hurry to rush back. If she did, Beatrice would worry because she wasn’t able to entertain her, and besides, it was fascinating watching people come and go.

Beatrice had already mentioned to her that the Cotswolds were a very popular tourist area, and now she was seeing the truth of this statement, recognising one or two American accents among the softer local ones.

She drank her coffee piping hot and ate the scone she had ordered. It was fresh and light and the jam was obviously home-made. Francesca enjoyed her food. She had never needed to worry about her weight, but she never ate more than enough to make her feel just pleasantly full.

The pamphlet described several local walks, most of which she rejected as being too long, but there was one which seemed to circle the village and which she judged would take her back to Beatrice’s in good time for lunch. After lunch she intended to suggest that Beatrice should have a rest while she looked after the children, but she sensed that it wouldn’t be easy to convince her hostess that she would be quite happy spending her afternoon taking care of her children.

She paid her bill and left. The waitress who had served her was delighted by the tip she had left, and commented in the kitchen that she had been really nice as well as beautiful-looking.

Francesca found the path quite easily. It was well signposted, and led down to the river.

She was glad she had taken Beatrice’s advice and bought some boots, because in places the path was muddy underfoot. But, well wrapped up against the cold, she was free to enjoy the brilliance of the autumn sunshine and the peace of the countryside. She paused to watch some ducks paddling contentedly in a large pool. Willow trees overhung it on the opposite bank, and a solitary fisherman sat on a camp stool casting his line.

When the path eventually turned away from the river to run across a field, Francesca walked a little faster. Water had always fascinated her, and she had lingered rather longer than had been wise in the cold wind.

The path crossed another field, and then skirted a copse of trees. In the distance she could see a farmer ploughing, leaving a rich, dark furrow behind the tractor, the strident cries of the birds following him, clearly audible on the cold air.

A high hedge encircled the field, the ground rising steeply towards it, so that she couldn’t see what lay on the other side, but when she climbed the stile she discovered to her astonishment that the path led not into another field, but what looked like a private garden.

A rash of ancient outbuildings lay ahead of her, and then an inner stone wall with a gate in it.

The part of the garden she was in was laid out in what must once have been vegetable beds. She could see an untidy tangle of fruit canes which looked as though they hadn’t been touched in years and which were thickly overgrown with brambles.

The path cut straight through this garden, and she could see a stile set in the hedge at the opposite side of it.

She looked around, and then, not being able to see where else the path might lead, she climbed down and started to cross the garden, feeling very much the intruder.

She was half-way across when the gate in the inner wall opened and a man walked out. He couldn’t see her, concealed as she was by the mass of brambles and overgrown canes, but she could see him, and her heart almost stopped as she recognised him.

Oliver Newton. What horrible chance had brought her here to his garden, where she must obviously be trespassing, having left the real path somewhere in the field?

She panicked at the thought of being confronted by him, without really knowing why. It was a totally unfamiliar sensation to her, but one she couldn’t ignore.

He was wearing a pair of worn and faded jeans and a thick woollen sweater, and he seemed to be heading for the pile of logs stacked up by one of the outhouses.

She could, she realised now, see a thin curl of smoke from one of the chimneys she could only just discern beyond the inner wall.

She waited until he had turned his back to her, and then darted out of her hiding place, intent on escaping from the garden before he discovered her in it, only she was frustrated in her escape by a trailing bramble which caught her unawares, tearing painfully at the soft skin of her face and making her cry out instinctively as she fought free of it.