Lucy Gordon: A Family For Keeps

Her relaxed mood vanished and his probing made her nerves taut again.

'I don't know who you are,' she said in a low, angry voice, 'but I can't see why you come here.'

'Must there be a reason?'

'Well, you don't need a place to sleep, do you? And why else would you be here except to patronise us? No,I I'm sorry-' She threw up her hand. 'I didn't mean to say that. But just don't start getting clever with me.'

'Not even to stop you hurting someone?'

'I'm not going to hurt anyone.'

'Except yourself.'

'That's my problem.'

' Mio Dio , it's like trying to argue with a hornet. I only said you picked your memories to suit yourself.'

She gave an edgy laugh.

'If I could do that I'd forget a lot of things. It's the ones I can't help remembering that are the problem. Piero's the wise one. He's found a way to choose what to remember.'

'Yes, I guess he has,' Vincenzo said wryly. 'And I think I hear him coming, so can we delay our hostilities for another time?'

She walked over to the window, annoyed with herself. For a brief moment she had been at ease with him, regaining human feelings that she had thought lost for ever. Then he had stepped over an invisible line, actually daring to understand her. And he had become an enemy again.

The door opened and Piero appeared.

'Not today?' Julia asked sympathetically.

'Not today,' he said brightly. 'Never mind. Maybe next time.'

Abruptly Vincenzo remembered that he had to be somewhere else, clapped Piero on the shoulder, and departed.

The next afternoon, while Piero was out, Julia spent the time looking around the great building. The sight was both melancholy and magnificent.

The grandeur was still there. The Counts di Montese had lived like kings, secure in their wealth and authority. Now it was all gone. The rooms were silent and draughts whispered down the corridors.

The walls of the grand staircase were lined with frescoes, leading to a large one at the top, that she now knew was Annina. Watching it gave her a vague sensation of disturbance that grew with every moment. She wanted to run away, but she forced herself to keep climbing until she was facing the painted woman with her wild hair and her tormented eyes. Her heart raced faster and faster; she was suffocating-

And then it stopped. As suddenly as it had started the suffocating misery and terror ceased, leaving her with a feeling of calm release, almost as though someone had laid a comforting hand on her, and said, 'I'm here. I'll make it all right.'

The sensation was so clear that she looked around to see who had spoken. It was almost a surprise to find herself alone, the awareness of another presence was so intense.

She moved away from the picture. The disturbing currents that had flowed from it a moment ago had vanished. Now it was just a picture again.

Walking on through the building, she explored the rooms that were almost bare of furniture. She grew more fascinated as she went from room to room. She knew and understood places like this.

She took her time, studying the frescoes on the ceilings, some of which were very fine. Unlike the pictures, they were fixed, impossible to sell without tearing down the building. They gave her an idea of how magnificent this place must have been at its height.

At last she went into the great bedroom where the Count di Montese must have lived and held court. It was empty except for the huge bed and a few chairs, but the sense of grandeur lingered. She looked up at the ceiling frescoes. Then she tensed.

Was it her imagination, or was there a patch where the colours were darker? The afternoon light was fading fast, and she could not be sure.

Hurriedly she found a chair, pulled it out and reached up. By standing on tiptoe she could just touch the patch and feel that it was damp.

And that meant it was recent, she thought. Somehow water was coming through that ceiling right now.

But where did it come from? She ran to the window and pushed it open, leaning out to look up. Just above her was a row of small windows, suggesting an attic.

She hurried out and down the corridor, urgently seeking a way of getting up to the next floor. At last she found a small, plain door that looked as if it might be the one. But it was locked.

There was no time to lose. She was assailed by a vision of water pouring down through ceilings, over walls, unstoppably ruining the beautiful building.

She rattled the door, which was old and shaky on its hinges. There was only one way to do this. Gathering all the strength she could muster, she gave a hard kick, and knew an unbelievable sense of satisfaction when the door gave way.

Oh, the blissful release of one violent action!

She sprinted up the stairs and found herself in the great attic at the top of the building.

It was long and low, and seemed to be used as a store room. There was some furniture here, and what looked like pictures, wrapped in heavy brown paper.

And there, by the wall, was a water tank, with a pipe leading from it across the floor. The pipe was old and broken, and water was pouring from it with terrible inevitability. If not stopped it would flood the floor, soaking down until the whole building was damaged.

Then she set her chin.

'Not if I have anything to do with it!' she breathed.

She needed something to wrap around the pipe! But what? Rags would do for now.

A frantic search around the attic revealed nothing of any use, and the water was pooling across the floor, threatening the wrapped pictures that were leaning against the wall.

Her handkerchief was too small. She would have to use her woollen sweater. Wrenching it off, she wound it frantically around the belching pipe, but already water was seeping through.

Something else! Her shirt. She managed to tear this into strips and tie them around the pipe, but the water just kept coming. Soon she would need a torch, as the light was fading every moment.

She must dash downstairs to find something more reliable, and put more clothes on, since with both her sweater and shirt gone she was freezing in her bra. She headed for the door, but stopped to rush back to the pipe and tighten the rough bandage. Then she raced back to the door, not looking where she was going, and colliding with someone.

At once two strong arms went around her and she fell to the floor with her assailant.

With everything in her she cursed him. It was hard when she was out of breath, but she did her best. She cursed him for delaying her, she cursed him for lying on top of her so that she couldn't escape the sensation of his big, powerful body against hers. She cursed him for his warm breath on her face and the smell of lemons and olives that came from him. Above all she cursed him for the feel of his loins against hers, and the sweet warmth that was beginning deep inside. She rejected it, she repudiated it, she wanted no part of it. But it was there, and it was all his fault.

'Get off me,' she snapped.

As he recognised her voice Vincenzo demanded, 'What the devil-?'

'Get off me.'

For a moment he didn't move. He might have been too thunderstruck to move, lying against her, gasping.

She too was gasping, she realised in outrage. The warmth was becoming heat, spreading through her.

'I said get off me.'

He did so, moving slowly, as if caught in a dream. In the gloom he pulled her to her feet, but didn't release her. Looking into his eyes she saw her own sensations mirrored and, perversely, it increased her rage at him.

'What are you doing up here?' he asked with difficulty.

'Trying to stop the place from being wrecked. There's a burst water pipe up here, and it's going to flood this building from the top down.'