Page 25 of Under a Dancing Star

I lift myself on my elbows and give my head a tentative shake. It aches a little, but the fuzzy feeling is gone. After a quick, cold shower I am feeling much better, and I throw on a clean shirt.

It’s only then that I notice the envelope propped up on my nightstand. I recognize the slightly florid handwriting immediately – it belongs to my mother.

Sitting down on the bed I tear open the envelope and pull out the lavender-scented pages, running my eyes over the lines. There is the usual local gossip, an update on her social calendar, news of her friends’ much more well-behaved daughters and their achievements, which seem largely matrimonial. Finally, there’s a paragraph that sends a shiver down my spine.

Your father and I passed a very enjoyable evening with the Astleys on Thursday. I think that we have managed to smooth over much of the unpleasantness from the horrible scene last month. By the end of the evening Cuthbert even admitted to finding your spirited nature rather charming! I believe there may still be hope there if you could learn to curb your wildness, Beatrice. Indeed, Philip made it clear that he would look very kindly on the match. Well, absence, as they say, makes the heart grow fonder; now let us hope the expression proves true for young Cuthbert! Really, Beatrice, eligible young men do not grow on trees and we need to begin approaching your future with far more seriousness.

The rest of the page blurs before my eyes and I crush the paper between fingers that are shaking slightly. A familiar hollow feeling settles in my chest. It brings home the truth; that my visit here really is only a temporary reprieve from my parents’ machinations.

Well, I think, dropping the letter calmly on to the floor and kicking it under the bed and out of sight, if that’s the case, then I’d better make the most of it.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“There you are!”

I look up to see Hero in the doorway. “Are you coming out to the garden?” she asks. “The people here tonight won’t stop talking politics and I’m fed up.”

I force a smile, pushing Mother’s letter to the back of my mind. “As long as there’s plenty of food,” I say. “I’m starving.”

We arrive at the dinner table to discover that of course there is plenty of food and that Hero is quite right: Politics have taken over the conversation.

“Italy is the home of art, of culture, of civilization,” one man is shouting, waving his cigarette to punctuate his sentences. “We are the children of the Roman Empire.”

“So you think it’s your history that makes you superior now, do you?” another man asks.

“He’s got a point, darling,” a woman puts in, “I hadn’t realized you’d been around so long that you could personally take credit for the battle of Carthage.”

The first man’s face turns a mottled red. “Our history is our blood, our birthright. Mussolini understands this…”

I pick up a plate and pile it high with smoky grilled fish and sweet peppers, listening all the while. Most of what I know about Mussolini comes from the film reels, enthusiastic in their approval of his efforts to regenerate the country, his emphasis on everything running like clockwork. I have also seen the silent footage of young, strong troops marching in perfectly ordered lines. The cold, mechanical quality of it left me feeling more disturbed than impressed. While I may not know as much about Mussolini and Italy, I do know a little about Moseley’s new British Union of Fascists and what I see frightens me.

“But look at Germany,” another voice breaks in. “Look at what is happening there. That’s the danger. Don’t think it can’t happen here.”

“You can’t deny that under Mussolini things are improving,” Uncle Leo says, taking a sip of wine. He is not alone – others are nodding.

“What about the Blackshirts?” I ask then.

“Not you too,” Hero groans under her breath. “I give up.” She turns on her heel and stomps back towards the house.

“What do you know about the Blackshirts?” Leo’s smile is indulgent.

“That some of their methods are less than pleasant,” I say calmly. “And that, historically speaking, fanatical nationalism doesn’t usually end well.”

There’s a brief silence, while Leo looks at me with surprise in his eyes.

“Well when I met him, I thought Il Duce was rather charming,” a languid redhead says, before flashing a dazzling smile at Ben who has just appeared on the terrace. The hum of debate picks up again. I take the opportunity to bite into a good chunk of warm bread, briefly closing my eyes in appreciation of Rosa’s genius.

“Good to see you again, Simone,” Ben murmurs, wrapping his fingers around the woman’s hand, and smiling down into her wide green eyes. There’s something lingering in the look they share, and I wonder suddenly if they have been to bed together. Then I push the thought away. It’s none of my business, after all.

“Ah, Benedick,” she sighs. “How nice to see you.”

“Benedick?” I choke on a giggle, and he shoots me a warning glare. Simone’s wide eyes shift and sweep over me in a leisurely fashion, taking it all in, from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. The slight wrinkling of her nose and the way her mouth tightens into a brief pucker of disdain tells me that she has found me lacking in every way. For some reason, I find it amusing rather than insulting.

“Come and sit beside me.” She returns her limpid gaze to Ben, gesturing to a chair. “We have so much to catch up on.” Her voice is a purr. It’s all such a cliché and the sort of scene I’ve seen Ben act out often enough now to find quite funny. When I look up though, I see that Ben isn’t looking at her – he’s looking at me, and there is something odd in his expression. I wonder if he caught her disdainful glance.

Ben hesitates.

“Oh don’t mind me, Benedick,” I say cheerfully. “I’m just here for the food.”