The Tuscan Child(89)

“There,” I said. “All done and ready to go.”

“Bene,” he said. “Good. Now let us go on our adventure.”

We cut across the vineyard between the rows of vines and picked up a track that went up the hill between olive groves. In the distance we heard a shout and saw a cart going up the hillside on another track, the man exhorting his horse to move faster. Renzo stared at it, frowning.

“A cart,” he said. “Something about a cart.”

“What about it?”

“A flash of memory returning. Something about a cart. A man came to our door and said he had brought the cart and he wanted payment first. But my mother had already gone and he went away again.”

“Do you think she was planning to escape with this cart?” I asked, looking up at him hopefully. “Maybe she and my father were going to escape together, or maybe she had arranged the cart to transport my father to safety.”

He shrugged. “Who knows? There is nobody alive to tell us now. That is what is so frustrating, to realise that we shall never know.”

I nodded agreement. We walked on in silence. “Did you sleep well last night?” he asked.

“Very well.” I gave him a little smile.

He smiled, too. “I’m sorry the earthquake interrupted us. And now there is no more time.” He paused. “I was wondering, if I managed to come to London someday, could I see you again?”

“If Cosimo would let you out of his sight for that long,” I said without thinking.

He frowned. “I am not a prisoner of my father, you know. It is just that with his limited mobility I have to do things he would otherwise have done. But I go to Florence on occasion. And Rome. So why not London? I am sure his wines are not well enough represented in Harrods.”

“Why not?” I laughed. “And yes, I would like it if you came to visit me.”

“You must leave me your address.”

“I don’t know where I’ll be,” I said. “I’ve been sleeping on a friend’s couch since”—I was about to say, “Since I came out of hospital and my boyfriend went off to marry someone else”—“since I had to give up my last flat,” I finished. “But I’ve just inherited a little money from my father. I’m hoping it will be enough for a down payment on a small flat somewhere.”

“In London?”

“Yes.”

“But you hate the city,” he said. “I can tell that you hate the city.”

“I have to work, and it would be lonely living out in the country.”

“I see.” He looked at me and I thought for a moment he was going to say something, but then he looked away and stomped on up the hill. “This is quite a long way,” he said. “I can’t believe my mother came up here with her basket to the woods every day. They were strong people in her generation.”

He was right. The steep climb was making me perspire, and I was finding it harder to chat easily. I was glad when the path entered the woodland at the crest of the hill. Here it was cool and quiet, soft underfoot, and smelled sweet. The band of trees was not very broad, however, and we came out on the other side to see the rocky pinnacle rising above us. All around it was a fence with signs saying “Danger. Keep Out. Unstable Rocks” every few feet.

I glanced at Renzo. “Is this all right?”

“We’ll have to see, won’t we?” he said. “Come on, here is where we can get through the fence.” He led me to a section where one could squeeze through. Ahead there were steps cut into the turf. A riot of poppies bloomed along with other wild flowers. With the crag towering over us it was a brilliant spectacle, and the thought came to me that my father would have loved to have painted it.

The first steps were quite easy. Then a second flight went almost vertically up the rock face. These steps had crumbled in places, and the rock beside the stairs had fallen away so that they hung out over a sheer drop. I swallowed hard but wasn’t going to let Renzo see that I was afraid.

“You go first and I’ll be right behind you to catch you,” he said.

That set off an alarm bell in my head. Had this been the plan all along? Take the English girl up to a place where no one comes and throw her off a cliff?

“No, you go first,” I said. “I want to see which steps are stable and which aren’t.”

“Oh, you want me to plunge to my death, do you?” He turned back to me, laughing.

“Rather you than me,” I replied.

“That’s hardly true love, is it?” he asked. “What about Romeo and Juliet?”

“They were too young to know any better,” I replied.

“All right. I’ll go first. Stay over to the right side of the steps,” he said, and started upward.

A stiff breeze swept in from distant mountains. Far below on the left side I could see the remains of an old track leading down to a road in the valley. Tiny lorries and cars the size of Dinky Toys made their way along the road. After Renzo had gone three or four steps, I followed him, holding on tightly to the rusted iron railing on the right. We both came safely to the top and stood on a former forecourt to admire the view. On all sides of us were range after range of forested hills. Hill towns like San Salvatore perched precariously on the tops of some of them. Old fortresses rose out of woodland. It felt as if one could see to the end of the world.