The Tuscan Child(50)

“A pigeon,” she said. “How did you manage to catch a pigeon?”

“Simple, really. I set up a trap. The pigeon came and took the bait.” He grinned. “Let us hope he has brothers and sisters.”

“I can make a good stew with this. Good broth,” she said. “My son Renzo is looking so frail lately. His sore throat and coughing do not go away. This will do him good. And you, too.”

“No,” he insisted. “Keep it for Renzo, and the grandmother, and yourself. It’s a gift.”

“Nonsense,” she said. “We’ll all share in the bounty.”

Then she fingered the pieces of parachute. “So soft. So luxurious,” she said. “I will make the best petticoat and drawers with this.” She held it up to her face, smiling at him. “It is too bad it will not be seemly to show you when I have finished the garments.” Her look was definitely flirtatious.

“Not to mention too cold,” he pointed out, and she laughed.

“That too.” Then she grew thoughtful. “Maybe I can use some of this silk to barter for things that we need, like more olive oil. I know that the Bernardinis have jars hidden in their basement. Gina Bernardini loves nice things . . .” She paused, looking up at him. “What do you think?”

“They would know that the silk came from a parachute, therefore they would know that I am here.”

“But if I said that I found the parachute up in the forest?”

“They would know that a man escaped and was in the area, and someone would tell the Germans and they would come looking for me.”

She sighed. “You are right. It is a risk I cannot take.” Then she brightened up again. “But when the Germans finally go and the Allies come, we shall still be bartering and I will still keep some silk, just in case.”

Hugo finished the polenta and olive spread she had brought for him and handed her back the cloth they had been wrapped in. She folded it, then looked up and said, “Do you think of your wife all the time, the way I think of my Guido?”

“No,” he said. “I’m afraid I don’t. Not often. Not often enough.”

“You are not happy in your marriage?”

“Not really. We’re too different, I suppose. We met when we were both students in Florence. In England I’d probably never have met her. I come from a noble family and hers was, well, lower middle class, I suppose you could say. Her father worked in a bank. A bank clerk. Nothing wrong with it, but we would never have met. But we both shared a passion for art. And she was nice-looking. Good legs. She loved to have fun, to go out dancing and drinking wine. I suppose we were two foreigners drawn together more because we were in a strange land.” He paused, looking at her, wanting her to understand. “I expect at the end of our year in Florence we would eventually have parted and gone our separate ways, but we were young and inexperienced. When Brenda announced that she was expecting a child, I did the right thing—I married her. We lived in London for a while. I painted. I worked in an art gallery. The baby was born. Things were fine.”

“And then?” she asked. “Something went wrong?”

“And then my father’s health declined. He had been gassed in the Great War, you know. He called me home and said he needed me at Langley Hall because he could no longer run the estate. So I brought Brenda and the child to live in the country in a great big house. She never liked it. Too far from the bright lights and city life and fun. And she never really got along with my father.”

“So what will happen when you go home?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “We’ll just have to see.”

“At least she likes art. That is a good thing,” Sofia said. “Tell me about your art and your studies. I would love to know more.”

“Not now. You need your sleep. Go home,” he said.

“Oh, but I love to hear about art,” she said. “We live in an area of great art, you know. Michelangelo, Leonardo, Fra Angelico, Botticelli.”

He was surprised. He wondered what farm girl in England could reel off the names of English painters.

“You know about art?”

She shrugged. “Their paintings are in our churches. I went to Florence once on a school trip before the war. I couldn’t believe that anyone could paint such lovely things. And sculpture? Have you seen Michelangelo’s David? The nuns said we weren’t to look because he was naked. But he was beautiful, was he not?”

“So you looked?” He laughed.

She gave an embarrassed smile. “I was only studying great art. That is not a sin. Do you paint naked bodies?”

He laughed again. “I’m afraid I don’t. The people in my landscapes were fully clothed.”

“I wish I could see your paintings,” she said. “If I could find you some paints and paper, you could paint the landscape here. It is very beautiful, is it not?”

“It is,” he agreed. “But paints and paper are the least of our worries.” He took her hand and she let him. “You really should go,” he said. “You will be ill if you don’t get enough sleep.”

“Nonna told me I was becoming lazy because I did not wake until seven,” she said. “She is always up at five. That is how it was in the old days. She is eighty-one and still expects to help in the fields. She has been urging me to harvest the turnips, saying she feels useless stuck indoors with nothing to do.”