Page 51 of Under a Dancing Star

“Actually, he’s an excellent teacher. Much as it pains me to admit it.”

“Bea and Ben enjoy… What do you English call it?” Filomena smiles. “Bickering?”

Sir Hugh takes a sip of tea. “Benedick always did have the ability to charm. But also to rub people up the wrong way.”

I eye him speculatively. “You know him well then?”

“I know his temper,” Sir Hugh says, his tone suddenly serious. “A troubled young man, very troubled. Though a promising artist now, I have heard.” He must notice my inquisitive look. “A sad story, I’m afraid. His mother, when she had him, was young and – well, she was unmarried—”

“I don’t think Bea needs to hear all this ancient history,” Filomena cuts in, and I am suddenly relieved. If I hear this story, I think, it should be from Ben.

I cast about for something else to say. “Are you staying here long?” I ask.

“That,” says Sir Hugh, “is something I was just discussing with Filomena.”

“I hope you will stay as long as you wish to!”

I didn’t hear Uncle Leo come in, and we all turn around at the sound of his voice. Frances drifts into the room behind him and folds herself into another chair, crossing one leg over the other. Leo lays a hand on Filomena’s shoulder. “It is an honour for us to have you both here,” he continues, his smile engulfing both Frances and Sir Hugh.

“You are much too kind,” Sir Hugh says. “However, as I was explaining to your charming fiancée, Frances and I have an important dinner to get to in just a couple of days’ time. I can say no more.” His tone is light, teasing.

“But why?” Uncle Leo frowns.

“Ignore him,” Frances says. “He’s enjoying being mysterious. The truth is that we are attending a small dinner being hosted by Benito.” I see Filomena’s hand go to her throat in a quick, unconscious gesture. “My late husband was, as you know, a great, personal friend of Mussolini’s, and he is in Rome this week.”

“An honour indeed,” Leo says, his eyes wide.

“You have met him yourself?” asks Sir Hugh.

Leo looks rather wistful. “I haven’t, no.”

Frances nods. “A marvellous man, and so charming. What he’s done for this country, well … we could use some of it back in England. Perhaps darling Oswald will be able to make some much-needed change there. You know,” she says slowly, tapping her chin, “you could come with us, as my guests, if you wish. That way I could introduce you to the man himself – it’s the least I can do after your gracious hospitality.”

Leo looks like a child at Christmas. “Visit Rome to meet with Mussolini?” he breathes. “We would love to, wouldn’t we, darling?” He turns his shining eyes on Filomena.

“What an opportunity.” Filomena’s voice is steady. “Regrettably, I must stay here with Hero and Bea.” She smiles at him. “But you must go, my love. We will be quite all right here for a week or two without you.”

Leo catches up her hand. “Best of women,” he says. “And when I’ve only just got back as well. I truly don’t deserve you.” He turns to me. “Isn’t she wonderful, Bea?”

“Wonderful,” I agree and I force a mechanical smile. I am slightly horrified by the whole idea of this visit with Mussolini. Nothing that I have seen or heard at the villa has made me feel any more inclined towards the fascist cause. If anything, it has been the opposite. It’s a problem that I have had to deal with before – questioning the judgement of the adults around you is not an especially comfortable experience. The idea that my uncle could be wrong – dangerously wrong – about something so important is unsettling. I try to shake off the uneasy feeling that it gives me.

I look up and as I do so I catch an odd look – almost of displeasure – flicker over Sir Hugh’s face, his gaze moving between Filomena and my uncle.

“It’s decided then,” Frances says. “We were planning to leave tomorrow – will that be too soon?”

“Not at all!” Leo claps his hands. “We like to seize the day in this house.”

As he stands, I glance over at Filomena. The look in her eyes takes my breath away. It is a look of bone-deep sadness, a weariness that leaves her shoulders drooping, a tremble in her hands.

Half a second later the look is gone, and Filomena’s face is serene once more, her shoulders back, her chin lifted. I would almost think I had imagined it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

I think it’s safe to say that everyone is relieved when my uncle and his new friends leave for Rome the next day.

Once more it feels as if the reins have been loosened, and over the following week the house fills up again as Filomena welcomes guests – more and more artists arriving in the build-up to the villa’s end of summer exhibition. There are new faces and some that I recognize from earlier in the summer. Everyone seems very busy.

Although as a playwright she won’t be presenting at the exhibition, Ursula has been caught up in her work as well, camped out in the summer house for days, and I’m surprised to find that I miss her. I go in search of her one morning, to discover her wild-eyed and dishevelled, hunched over her desk. The piles of paper in the room seem to have multiplied ten-fold, teetering precariously in corners, scattered across the floor, marked with the dirty rings from the bottoms of coffee cups.