Page 7 of Under a Dancing Star

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.

Relinquishing my grip on the bag I pull my elbow back, digging it sharply into my assailant’s stomach. I hear a groan as my wrist is released and I swing around to face him. It’s a man, who is now bent over, winded, his arm wrapped protectively over his stomach. He foolishly lifts his face, and I have a brief impression of the kind of boyishly golden good looks typically afforded to Classical statues before I spring into action.

Drawing on the information I have gleaned from reading several of Father’s well-thumbed books on pugilism, I curl my hand into a fist, careful to keep my thumb outside and across the bottom of my fingers and deliver a blow to his nose which sends him staggering backwards with an incoherent cry, landing with a thud on the floor.

Pain sings through my hand and my heart is hammering as I swing back to find my bag lying, abandoned, on the ground and the thief gone. I snatch it up. Adrenaline thunders through my veins as I turn to face my assailant again, clutching the bag in front of me like a shield, poised to run or to fight if I have to.

“Stop, stop, for God’s sake!” he shouts, getting to his feet and holding his hands out in front of him in a sign of surrender. His nose is bleeding rather freely down the front of his white shirt.

I pause, thrown by his accent. He is, I realize, English.

“Who are you?” I demand, and I’m thrilled that my voice is only slightly shaky.

The young man straightens, scowling. “I’m Ben,” he says acidly. “And I can only assume that you are Beatrice.”

CHAPTER FIVE

“If you lean forward and pinch your nose it will slow down the bleeding,” I say.

Ben glares up at me over the top of my handkerchief. “Yes, thank you,” he growls, batting me away. “I don’t think any more of your advice is needed.” He is slumped on a bench in the waiting room. After the initial confusion, our various onlookers have departed, leaving me alone with Ben – the person who, it transpires, my uncle has sent to collect me.

“I’m only trying to help,” I reply.

“I think it’s a little late for that,” he snaps. “Perhaps if you hadn’t punched me in the face in the first place…”

“I have apologized for that,” I say, “several times, in fact.” I try not to roll my eyes. He’s been hamming up the very minor injuries that he sustained for quite some time. “No, don’t sit up straight yet,” I say firmly as he moves. “You need to give the blood time to clot.”

Now that the heat of the moment is over, I can see that Ben is younger than I first thought, perhaps eighteen or nineteen. He is handsome – tall and broad-shouldered with curly golden hair that flops over his forehead and, beneath the handkerchief, a perfectly symmetrical face. Symmetry is, as I understand it, very important when it comes to beauty. The young man in front of me is very symmetrical and very beautiful – and I rather suspect that he knows it.

“Anyway,” I continue, smoothing down my skirt, “it was more than a little bit your own fault, you know. What did you expect me to do when you appeared, looming over me and grabbing at me like that?”

This earns me another dark look and Ben whips the handkerchief away from his face, clambering to his feet. I eye his nose critically and observe that the bleeding has stopped.

“I was not looming,” Ben says with exaggerated patience. “I was trying to rescue you.”

“Rescue me?” I try to keep a straight face. “I see. Did you think that I needed rescuing?”

“Yes, well.” He grimaces, lifting a hand to his nose. “I didn’t realize you were going to turn into a bloody madwoman, did I?”