Page 62 of Under a Dancing Star

“AREZZO! AREZZO!” The call comes up the corridor and I jump in my seat, on edge and flustered.

“We’re here,” Ben says unnecessarily, getting to his feet. The moment is gone and I wonder how on earth to get it back, what exactly he was going to say. There’s no chance to talk now, not as we’re swept up in the bustle of getting ourselves and our bags out on to the platform.

We walk through the waiting room and the ticket office without saying a word to one another.

Klaus is waiting for us outside the station. He leans casually against a flashy new convertible car – sleek and expensive as a racehorse – and waves when he spots us walking towards him.

“Hello!” I exclaim. “Where on earth did you get that?”

Klaus leans forward and kisses me quickly on both cheeks. “Ah, it is your uncle’s newest toy,” he says, opening the door for me as Ben climbs into the back seat.

“My uncle?” I say, puzzled, as Klaus slips behind the wheel and starts the car up.

“Yes.” Klaus nods, something I can’t place in his voice. His smile is mechanical. “They came home early.”

“They?” This can’t be good.

“Your uncle has brought his guests back with him for the exhibition,” Klaus replies.

“His guests?” I repeat. “Lady Bowling?”

“Yes.” Klaus pulls out of the station. “And Sir Hugh.”

I look up at the rear-view mirror and meet Ben’s eye there. It seems the perfect bubble we’ve been living in is well and truly burst.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

“You just have to be careful, Beatrice,” Uncle Leo says earnestly. “Think about your reputation. You can’t just go gallivanting off to Florence without a by-your-leave or a proper chaperone. Your parents entrusted me to take care of you, and to have you spend your time here in a way that they would approve of.”

I gather that despite Filomena’s best efforts to paint the trip in the most respectable light, it hasn’t gone down well with my uncle.

“I did have a chaperone,” I say.

Leo frowns. “I know Ben is a tutor of sorts,” he says, and I suppress a nervous giggle. “But he’s still a young man, Beatrice. He’s hardly the most appropriate escort.”

He has changed, I think. The relaxed and cheerfully scruffy man who greeted me when I arrived in Italy has been slowly fading away. His clothes are smarter. He’s more buttoned up, and his face is cleanly shaven with a thin moustache above his top lip. It has coincided with meeting Lady Bowling, perhaps, but I think it was always there. The bohemian patron was no more than an act.

Having arrived home with less than twenty-four hours to go before the big exhibition, Ben has been kept busy with his work, which means I haven’t really seen him. This is probably for the best with Uncle Leo finally paying attention to my comings and goings, but I find – much to my surprise – that I miss being with him, even though we have only been apart for a few hours. It is quite disturbing.

The artists are all working hard. There’s a feeling of breathless anticipation in the air, and I find myself drawn into their nervous excitement, all the while envying their sense of direction and purpose. Klaus ropes me in to help with the hanging of his work in the house, fluttering anxiously like a moth bumping up against a glowing windowpane. To please my uncle, Filomena insists that I show some of my own work, the product of my art lessons. I’m not sure the sketch of the inner workings of the forearm is exactly the sort of ladylike accomplishment Leo was hoping for, but I’m proud of it and I place it in a quiet corner where it’s unlikely to draw much attention.

I escape to my room for a moment of quiet, to read and to look through the rest of the sketches that I made in Florence. I compare them to the first drawing of the stag beetle and realize how much I have improved. When Filomena first suggested the lessons I saw them only as an inconvenience, but they had real value. It was a gift that she gave me, in more ways than she could perhaps have anticipated.

Through my open window I can already hear the sounds of people arriving at the villa – shouted greetings and bursts of laughter and the clatter of footsteps through the halls. I know that I need to turn my mind to getting ready. Besides, the sooner I join the party, the sooner I’ll see Ben.

The thought of a party back home would have me full of dread. I remember the disastrous dinner party that led to my coming here. Already it feels like so long ago – as if it happened to someone else, someone who has nothing to do with the girl who arrived here six weeks ago.

I go to my wardrobe for something suitable to wear. Unfortunately, there are no dresses in with my new clothes. I run my fingers along the rail and my hands brush against my old dresses. There’s nothing in my new Italian wardrobe that would fit in at Langton Hall. These beautiful colourful scraps would be as out of place as a butterfly in the damp, dark hallways of my home. Mother and Father would also never throw a party like this one; they would never open up the house to whoever wanted to come. There would be a guest list, a seating plan, the same slender circle of approved acquaintances rolling through the door again and again. I close my eyes for a moment, thinking of my home and of my parents and feeling a pang that I am finding so much happiness being away from them.

When I open my eyes again I find comfort in the room around me. This room which is warm and full of light is friendly, already familiar, already so much my own.

With a sigh I drag out the best of my old dresses and button myself into it. It feels tight and restrictive.

There’s a knock on the door. It’s Ursula.

“Can I come in?”

She looks ethereal in a dress that is a column of spun gold, her eyes heavily lined in dark kohl. Like a nubile Egyptian queen.