“Oh, yes,” I say, my mind racing. I clasp my hands together to keep them from trembling. “In Italy.” The feeling of claustrophobia that has been dogging me more and more these last few months loosens its grip a little.
“Leo is such an upright man,” Mother says thoughtfully. “He won’t stand for any nonsense, and perhaps spending time with a sweet girl like Hero will help to mend your atrocious manners. My sister – God rest her soul – was an extremely proper woman. You’re right, darling – this may be exactly what Beatrice needs.”
An image of gaunt, miserable Aunt Thea flashes through my mind and I barely manage to repress a shudder. Uncle Leo always seemed pretty severe too. But still. Italy.
“We can tell people that Beatrice will be spending the summer in Europe,” Mother continues. “Acquiring a bit of polish. That will give the talk about this terrible evening time to die down.” She positively quakes at the reminder.
“And, of course,” Father puts in here, “Leo lives such a quiet life in the countryside. He’s going to remarry soon. A widow of good standing, I understand, who will no doubt be a sobering influence on you, Beatrice.”
My heart thumps. Whatever the circumstances, the dazzling promise of summer in Italy burns too brightly to be overshadowed by either the ominous “respectable widow” or stern, solemn Uncle Leo. Still, I try hard to conceal my excitement. It won’t do for my parents to think this is anything other than a just punishment.
“Very well,” I say meekly, turning my eyes to the floor. “If that’s what you think is best.”
“I hope it goes without saying that you will be on your best behaviour, Beatrice Emma Langton,” Father says warningly. “You will not disgrace the Langton name abroad. You must give me your word that you won’t get into any of your scrapes in Italy.”
“Oh, of course, Father,” I say, looking up at him now and smiling sunnily. “I promise.”
Part Two: Villa di Stelle
July, 1933
There is a kind of merry war betwixt Signor Benedick and her; they never meet but there’s a skirmish of wit between them.
– Much Ado About Nothing, Act I, Scene 1
CHAPTER FOUR
The boat chugs away, and it is not long before Mother and Father are reduced to tiny specks in the distance.
As soon as they fade from sight, I begin to feel a lightening of spirit. I am, unfortunately, accompanied by a vinegar-faced woman who is a distant relative of the vicar, and her presence is all that prevents me from dancing a little jig. (The vicar himself had, unsurprisingly, been very in favour of my banishment and had even bestowed a smile of approval upon Mother, an event so startlingly rare that it left her quite dazed and unable to remember the Lord’s prayer.)
The white cliffs of Dover stretch out behind me, a bleached streak daubed against a pastel-blue sky. Each inch of water that I place between myself and my home feels like a loosened button on a too-tight dress. I drag in deep breaths of the cold air and taste salt on my lips.
For most of the journey I hang over the rail on the ship’s deck, feeling the sting of the water on my face, fingers of sea breeze curling around me, tugging my hair from its pins. I watch with a sort of disbelieving thrill as slowly, slowly, the horizon shifts, and France comes into view.
At Calais I am bundled, like an unwanted and unwieldy parcel, into the arms of another, equally disapproving lady, who escorts me on a train to Paris. I have no time to absorb any of the sights or sounds that batter me from every side on this part of the journey and, intrepid as I hope I am, the presence of a guide isn’t completely unwelcome. I have, after all, barely left the county before this, let alone the country. The noise and the lights and the swirl of people who all seem to know exactly where they are going is unnerving. But I feel excitement too. I am equal to this, I think.
When we step off the train at the Gare du Nord in Paris it has begun to rain and in the sea of unfurled black umbrellas I feel strangely anonymous. No one here knows who I am, and the thought is thrilling.
I am to continue to Italy on my own. The second disapproving woman escorts me to the train, her relief at completing her part of this task apparent. I climb carefully up the ladder-like steps, followed by a porter who carries the capacious carpetbag that I uncovered in one of the attics at home and points me to my seat. I am still on my feet as the train pulls away and I sway slightly as the gears grind and groan beneath me.
The whistle blows like a fanfare, and I find myself suddenly, gloriously, unbelievably alone. It is an almost frightening feeling, as though my normal life has been torn away from me – like a magician whipping away a tablecloth from beneath a full dinner service. I stow my bag in the compartment that I have all to myself, then I stretch out in my seat and laugh out loud, the sound ringing in the empty carriage.
I sit with my book unopened in my lap as I watch the blurry, rain-soaked shapes of the scenery tear past the window, as day turns to night and back again. I doze briefly, but mostly I am too excited to sleep. When I navigate the single change at Milan alone, I feel something uncurling inside me, singing through my veins, and I greet it with a sense of giddy recognition – freedom. For a wild moment I think I could just disappear: get on a train to Spain or Switzerland or deepest Russia and never be heard from again. Of course, I don’t, but the mere fact that I could is enough to leave me breathless.
There is a sense of unreality about the whole journey. I could be anywhere. The tantalizing glimpses of the landscape that rush alongside the train are gone almost before I can make sense of them. The train compartment feels small and cramped after so many hours, and I am stiff and impatient – impatient to arrive, impatient to look properly, impatient to take it all in.
It’s late evening by the time the train draws in to Arezzo. A gloomy stillness has fallen and the rain has turned into a sullen drizzle. The carriage is practically empty, and I pull down the window, surprised by the chill in the air.
Uncle Leo is meant to be meeting me off the train, but I don’t see him waiting on the platform as we draw in. I gather my belongings and make my way to the door. There doesn’t seem to be a steward on hand. I hesitate – my bag is quite bulky, and the steps down to the platform are high. I am about to throw the bag from the door when a boy appears with his hands outstretched. He looks like he is about twelve or thirteen and he smiles, calling up in Italian. Gratefully, I hand him my case, before turning to clamber down the steps.
I reach the platform only to find the boy disappearing into the crowd, my luggage clutched victoriously in his hands.
“Hey!” I shout, taking off at a sprint, pushing my way past the other people on the platform. The boy looks over his shoulder, clearly surprised to find me giving chase. He hesitates for a moment and that is enough for me to surge forward, grabbing the end of my bag. I tug sharply, hoping to get a better grip and the boy pulls back, shouting and trying to shake me off.
Suddenly, from behind comes another voice, loud and carrying, also shouting angry words at me in Italian. An accomplice of this boy’s, I realize, and for the first time my heart quickens with fear as well as anger. I am about to be outnumbered.
A strong hand curls around my wrist and I just have time to register that this newcomer is tall, even taller than me, before I begin to fight back.