“Oh, how forceful you are!” Alison said, rolling her eyes. “Come, Lizzie, before he gets truly cross. He’s a bear when he’s hungry.”
They came through the courtyard again — she noticed for the first time that several of the tubbed trees were lemon trees — and climbed a curving flight of tiled steps to the gallery above. There were orchids hanging in clay pots everywhere, and Alison stopped at several of them, examining the blooms, nodding in apparent approval of the gardener’s care. On the western end of the gallery, overlooking the gardens and the lawn and the sea far below, she led Lizzie first into the master bedroom and then opened a connecting door in an archway, and showed Lizzie the room she would be occupying.
As promised, a carafe of lemonade stood on the bedstand, its pale yellow echoing the color of the spread on the bed and the cushions on the chairs. The windows were wide open to the air outside. A tiny spider tirelessly spun a glistening web in the branches of the orange tree just outside the window. There was the overpowering scent of the oranges themselves and the muskier fragrance of the flowers in the garden, and saturating all, the omnipresent aroma of the sea.
“We shall be right next door to each other,” Alison said, “should you need anything. Please feel free to wander wherever you choose. The house isn’t quite so cavernous as the one in London, and you won’t get lost, I’m certain. The idea, of course, was to keep it spacious and airy, and I think Geoffrey has succeeded admirably, don’t you?”
“Did he design it?” Lizzie asked, surprised.
“Down to the last nail,” Alison said.
“And the furnishings and decorations?”
“I take full responsibility for those. Had I left it to Albert, we should have had a replica of our London mausoleum, as so many people here do. I took the matter into my own...”
“I thought the London house was beautiful,” Lizzie said.
“Well, thank you, you must be sure to tell Albert. I wanted something more fanciful here though — bright and cheerful and gay. Why does one come to the Riviera, after all, if not for the sun and the sense of freedom it allows? On Sundays, when the lot of them are gone, you’ll find me lying shamelessly naked on the lawn. We’re quite protected from prying eyes here, and with the servants away, who is there to comment on the pagan manners of the mistress? You must feel free to dress however casually you wish during your stay here. I myself favor white with a touch of embroidery here and there — you saw Moira’s apron? Undoubtedly purchased from a shrewd French peasant who charged the sky for it. You need not worry about petticoats or frills or even shoes, for that matter. I wander about barefoot more often than not — but do be careful of bees in the clover! And you must be careful as well to wear something long sleeved at dusk, lest the mosquitoes devour you alive. They’re dreadful here, the size of falcons and as bloodthirsty as vampires. In town, of course, we shall have to appear the proper ladies, but here at the villa we may set aside any notions of convention or formality or custom or even time. I’m inviting you, in short, to abandon yourself completely to the sun and the sea and the fragrant air and to feel, dear Lizzie, as perfectly at home here as I myself am.”
“Thank you,” Lizzie said softly. “I don’t think I’ve gone about barefoot since I was a little girl.”
“Exactly the point, my dear. Barefooted, bare-arsed, however you wish — and please don’t blush.”
“I’m long past blushing at anything you say,” Lizzie said, and smiled.
“Good. Let’s change our clothes and hurry down to lunch before Albert eats the tablecloth. If you haven’t packed anything suitably hedonistic, just give a shout, and I shall try to fit you out. You won’t have time for a proper bath, but there should be hot water in the basin there, if Moira’s properly prepared the room. We shall have good French wine with our lunch, so I’d ignore the tepid lemonade, were I you. You can find your way down to the terrace, can’t you? I shall meet you there. Lizzie,” she said, and hesitated. “I’m so happy you’re here.”
“And I,” Lizzie said.
In the evening they sat on the terrace in a circle of illumination provided by the oil lamps, and listened to the chatter of the insects in the grass and in the surrounding woods. The oil had been liberally laced with citronella, and its scent hovered on the air, though Lizzie wasn’t certain it was having much effect on the mosquitoes. She had been bitten twice since dinner time, once on the ankle and another time — through her skirt — on the thigh. Albert avuncularly warned her not to scratch the bites as that would only irritate them further. He himself seemed immune to attack. “My meat’s too sour for them,” he explained. “They prefer the sweeter stuff. Besides, I’m English.”
“He’s complimenting you, I believe,” Alison said.
“I am,” Albert said, and filled their glasses with wine again.
It had grown colder than she expected it would. The afternoon sun had been so deliciously hot, but now she felt the slightest bit chilled in the night air, even though she had thrown a shawl over her shoulders. Alison, on the other hand, showed not the slightest sign of discomfort, though she was wearing only a wide peasant skirt and embroidered blouse; for all her warnings about the fearsome mosquitoes, she was barefooted, and the blouse was sleeveless.
“We’ve been invited to lunch at the Ashtons on Sunday,” Albert said.
“I hope you declined,” Alison said.
“I certainly did not,” Albert said. “I rather fancy Mildred. Besides, it’ll be my last day here.”
“Your last day? What on earth do you mean?”
“I’m off to Berlin on Monday.”
“You will have to go alone then,” Alison said.
“I hadn’t expected you to attend a business...”
“I meant to the Ashtons. Lizzie and I shall be taking the sun. I refuse to give up my one day of solitude for the sake of listening to Mildred blather on about the latest Parisian fashions.”
“I’ve already begged off for you twice,” Albert said, “awaiting your...”
“You will simply have to beg off for me again then, won’t you?” Alison said. “You can explain that I’m caring for a convalescent friend. Benjamin should quite understand convalescence. He’s been convalescing from asthma for as long as I’ve known him.”
“There’ll be some Russians, I’m told.”
“I can do without Russians as well,” Alison said. “Did you want to meet some Russians, Lizzie?”
“Well, I...”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t enjoy that sober lot, nattering on in dreadful English. I should sooner listen to the drone of the mosquitoes.”
“They do seem out in force tonight,” Albert said. “Are you being eaten, Lizzie?”
“Not at the moment,” Lizzie said.
“Good, perhaps the bloody citronella’s working. I have no faith in it myself. So what shall I tell them?”