Page 6 of Under a Dancing Star

I look at them now and feel a pang of sympathy. They look smaller in this moment, their eyes ablaze with fanaticism.

“I’m sorry,” I say wearily. Guilt sits heavily in my stomach.

“I don’t know what we’re going to do with you, Beatrice, I really don’t,” Mother replies, and her voice sounds sad and quiet, as though she’s given up on me somehow. The ache inside me grows. I made fun of Cuthbert but the bleak truth is that they are probably right. My future as it stretches out in front of me looks horribly empty. I can’t carry on like this for ever. Maybe Cuthbert – or someone like him – really is the only option.

“There, there, Delilah,” Father says. He walks up and down the room a few times and then stops suddenly, looking at her. “Listen, I think … I think it’s time for us to consider Leo’s offer.”

“No!” Mother exclaims. “Michael, I thought we agreed…”

Father holds up his hand and Mother falls quiet. She always does, when he says so.

“We have no choice,” he goes on. “Clearly we’re not getting through to Beatrice. These childish antics are getting out of hand, and now she’s embarrassed us in front of half the county. Best thing for everyone if she’s far away for a while, under some strict supervision. I’m sure” – he turns to me, suddenly fearfully tall, a glint of steel in his eyes – “that, given time to reflect, Beatrice will reach the same conclusions we have, and that on her return she’ll behave in a way more becoming of a young lady in her situation.”

“Return from where?” I ask suspiciously. “Where exactly am I going?”

“Your uncle feels that your cousin Hero needs some young companionship. He has invited you to stay with him this summer. Your mother and I had not yet decided, but under the circumstances I think it might be a good idea.”

“Uncle Leo?” I say, a sudden flare of excitement catching inside me. “Uncle Leo who lives in Italy?”

“It’s not a holiday, young lady,” says Father. “It’s a chance for you to reconsider your appalling behaviour.”

“Oh, yes,” I say, my mind racing. I clasp my hands together to keep them from trembling. “In Italy.” The feeling of claustrophobia that has been dogging me more and more these last few months loosens its grip a little.

“Leo is such an upright man,” Mother says thoughtfully. “He won’t stand for any nonsense, and perhaps spending time with a sweet girl like Hero will help to mend your atrocious manners. My sister – God rest her soul – was an extremely proper woman. You’re right, darling – this may be exactly what Beatrice needs.”

An image of gaunt, miserable Aunt Thea flashes through my mind and I barely manage to repress a shudder. Uncle Leo always seemed pretty severe too. But still. Italy.

“We can tell people that Beatrice will be spending the summer in Europe,” Mother continues. “Acquiring a bit of polish. That will give the talk about this terrible evening time to die down.” She positively quakes at the reminder.

“And, of course,” Father puts in here, “Leo lives such a quiet life in the countryside. He’s going to remarry soon. A widow of good standing, I understand, who will no doubt be a sobering influence on you, Beatrice.”

My heart thumps. Whatever the circumstances, the dazzling promise of summer in Italy burns too brightly to be overshadowed by either the ominous “respectable widow” or stern, solemn Uncle Leo. Still, I try hard to conceal my excitement. It won’t do for my parents to think this is anything other than a just punishment.

“Very well,” I say meekly, turning my eyes to the floor. “If that’s what you think is best.”

“I hope it goes without saying that you will be on your best behaviour, Beatrice Emma Langton,” Father says warningly. “You will not disgrace the Langton name abroad. You must give me your word that you won’t get into any of your scrapes in Italy.”

“Oh, of course, Father,” I say, looking up at him now and smiling sunnily. “I promise.”

Part Two: Villa di Stelle

July, 1933

There is a kind of merry war betwixt Signor Benedick and her; they never meet but there’s a skirmish of wit between them.

– Much Ado About Nothing, Act I, Scene 1

CHAPTER FOUR

The boat chugs away, and it is not long before Mother and Father are reduced to tiny specks in the distance.

As soon as they fade from sight, I begin to feel a lightening of spirit. I am, unfortunately, accompanied by a vinegar-faced woman who is a distant relative of the vicar, and her presence is all that prevents me from dancing a little jig. (The vicar himself had, unsurprisingly, been very in favour of my banishment and had even bestowed a smile of approval upon Mother, an event so startlingly rare that it left her quite dazed and unable to remember the Lord’s prayer.)

The white cliffs of Dover stretch out behind me, a bleached streak daubed against a pastel-blue sky. Each inch of water that I place between myself and my home feels like a loosened button on a too-tight dress. I drag in deep breaths of the cold air and taste salt on my lips.

For most of the journey I hang over the rail on the ship’s deck, feeling the sting of the water on my face, fingers of sea breeze curling around me, tugging my hair from its pins. I watch with a sort of disbelieving thrill as slowly, slowly, the horizon shifts, and France comes into view.

At Calais I am bundled, like an unwanted and unwieldy parcel, into the arms of another, equally disapproving lady, who escorts me on a train to Paris. I have no time to absorb any of the sights or sounds that batter me from every side on this part of the journey and, intrepid as I hope I am, the presence of a guide isn’t completely unwelcome. I have, after all, barely left the county before this, let alone the country. The noise and the lights and the swirl of people who all seem to know exactly where they are going is unnerving. But I feel excitement too. I am equal to this, I think.