visiting her aunt in Florence.
Jan narrowed her eyes, watching the girl. Maybe she knows something. Maybe everyone but Marco knows. The servants, especially the women, must have known of the battle of wills going on between Bianca and her brother.
Jan poured her coffee. ‘Is the Signorina Bianca beautiful? I’d like to see a photograph of her. There must be one somewhere.’
‘ Si, si. Have you not seen it? A big coloured picture, where she was bridesmaid at the wedding last summer? There is one in the Signore’s room. I will fetch it to show you.’
‘ No, Francesca, wait! Do not disturb the Signore. Perhaps Signora Cellini has one in her room.’
The girl shook her head. ‘Signore Cellini took them away when his sister went. If there are no photographs, she does not remember to ask for her daughter all the time, only sometimes. The Signore has gone to Naples with Dino. I can fetch the picture. He will not be back all day.’
The wedding picture showed the bride and four bridesmaids. The bridesmaids wore long-sleeved, high-waisted dresses in deep cream silk with brown velvet sashes, and carried sprays of cream roses. Jan drew a deep breath.
‘She’s beautiful, Francesca. One day she’ll be a bride herself.’
‘ Si signorina .’ Expressionless. Not the voice of a girl talking weddings.
When the girl had disappeared with the photograph, Jan buttered her rolls absently, thinking. A young married friend? The other bridesmaids could be dismissed. Obviously daughters living at home and, however sympathetic to romance, not able to shelter a runaway. But the bride? There was a possibility.
How am I so sure that Bianca has not eloped, and is not now married to her sweetheart? Is it because I am living in her rooms, wearing her clothes, am supposed to look something like her, that I imagine I can feel as she does? She loves her mother and brother, she doesn’t want to hurt them permanently, or bring disgrace on the family. Of that I’m sure. So this is a protest only, a cry for help.
Pushing the tray aside, Jan pressed her fingers to her temples. Think, think! Somewhere there must be a clue to the girl’s mind, if only I could read it. No one disappears entirely without trace. Especially—
She sat up straight, startled by a thought. Especially if she really wants her protest to be noticed. What’s the good of a demonstration if no one sees it? If only Marco had told me the whole story at the beginning, we might have found the solution by now.
She was still puzzling over the problem as she dived into the pool and swam lazily. When she floated, she reflected that the all-over golden tan she had acquired would be the envy of her friends, and that the tan would fade long before the memories of last night; of all the hours she had spent in Marco Cellini's company.
Signora Cellini was in her favourite spot on the terrace overlooking the sea. She had her needlework in her lap, but her hands were folded over the delicate silks, and she stared out to sea like a blind woman. Jan stood unnoticed, watching the older woman, and the change in her overnight caught at her heart. The Signora seemed to have shrunk since yesterday. The frail bones showed clearly through the thin black dress; shoulderblades and vertebrae.
Enough is enough, Jan thought. She’s had all she can take. Bianca must come home. Marco must forget all his scruples about publicity. If he doesn’t find his sister soon, his mother will slip through his fingers.
She went forward and knelt beside the old lady, who lifted heavy lids to look at her. The disappointment in the sharp old eyes brought a lump to Jan’s throat.
‘ You’ve finished the passion flower,’ she said gently, touching the embroidery, noting the skin of the long narrow fingers was thin as paper. ‘ Is it for Bianca? It’s a screen, isn’t it?’
She had a theory which she half feared to test. But now, if ever, was the time. The matter of Bianca’s return was urgent.
The
Jan narrowed her eyes, watching the girl. Maybe she knows something. Maybe everyone but Marco knows. The servants, especially the women, must have known of the battle of wills going on between Bianca and her brother.
Jan poured her coffee. ‘Is the Signorina Bianca beautiful? I’d like to see a photograph of her. There must be one somewhere.’
‘ Si, si. Have you not seen it? A big coloured picture, where she was bridesmaid at the wedding last summer? There is one in the Signore’s room. I will fetch it to show you.’
‘ No, Francesca, wait! Do not disturb the Signore. Perhaps Signora Cellini has one in her room.’
The girl shook her head. ‘Signore Cellini took them away when his sister went. If there are no photographs, she does not remember to ask for her daughter all the time, only sometimes. The Signore has gone to Naples with Dino. I can fetch the picture. He will not be back all day.’
The wedding picture showed the bride and four bridesmaids. The bridesmaids wore long-sleeved, high-waisted dresses in deep cream silk with brown velvet sashes, and carried sprays of cream roses. Jan drew a deep breath.
‘She’s beautiful, Francesca. One day she’ll be a bride herself.’
‘ Si signorina .’ Expressionless. Not the voice of a girl talking weddings.
When the girl had disappeared with the photograph, Jan buttered her rolls absently, thinking. A young married friend? The other bridesmaids could be dismissed. Obviously daughters living at home and, however sympathetic to romance, not able to shelter a runaway. But the bride? There was a possibility.
How am I so sure that Bianca has not eloped, and is not now married to her sweetheart? Is it because I am living in her rooms, wearing her clothes, am supposed to look something like her, that I imagine I can feel as she does? She loves her mother and brother, she doesn’t want to hurt them permanently, or bring disgrace on the family. Of that I’m sure. So this is a protest only, a cry for help.
Pushing the tray aside, Jan pressed her fingers to her temples. Think, think! Somewhere there must be a clue to the girl’s mind, if only I could read it. No one disappears entirely without trace. Especially—
She sat up straight, startled by a thought. Especially if she really wants her protest to be noticed. What’s the good of a demonstration if no one sees it? If only Marco had told me the whole story at the beginning, we might have found the solution by now.
She was still puzzling over the problem as she dived into the pool and swam lazily. When she floated, she reflected that the all-over golden tan she had acquired would be the envy of her friends, and that the tan would fade long before the memories of last night; of all the hours she had spent in Marco Cellini's company.
Signora Cellini was in her favourite spot on the terrace overlooking the sea. She had her needlework in her lap, but her hands were folded over the delicate silks, and she stared out to sea like a blind woman. Jan stood unnoticed, watching the older woman, and the change in her overnight caught at her heart. The Signora seemed to have shrunk since yesterday. The frail bones showed clearly through the thin black dress; shoulderblades and vertebrae.
Enough is enough, Jan thought. She’s had all she can take. Bianca must come home. Marco must forget all his scruples about publicity. If he doesn’t find his sister soon, his mother will slip through his fingers.
She went forward and knelt beside the old lady, who lifted heavy lids to look at her. The disappointment in the sharp old eyes brought a lump to Jan’s throat.
‘ You’ve finished the passion flower,’ she said gently, touching the embroidery, noting the skin of the long narrow fingers was thin as paper. ‘ Is it for Bianca? It’s a screen, isn’t it?’
She had a theory which she half feared to test. But now, if ever, was the time. The matter of Bianca’s return was urgent.
The
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