Chapter Forty Five
A Terrace With A View Part II
As she drew level with him, on seeing how pensive Tom was looking, Sybil's heart went out to him.
"Darling, whatever is it?"
"Nothing…"
"Tom? I know you. Your nothings have a habit of turning into somethings!"
"Well, if you must know, I was just thinking… about Michael".
At that, Sybil nodded her head. She knew how much Tom had been affected by the murder of Michael Collins and that all these years later how much he still missed him.
"Tom. I know just how much Michael…" she began but he waved her into silence; instead nodded his head in approbation of what she had chosen to wear.
"There, what did I tell you? Darlin' you look absolutely magnificent. Is Edith back yet?" he asked. "She told me she would be driving down to the hotel to collect Friedrich just as soon as she had Max settled for the night".
"Max should sleep well enough. He and Saiorse have been walking that little dog of his around the gardens for ages".
"She seems quite smitten with him".
"Who? Max or Fritz?"
"Both of them!"
The two of them shared a laugh.
"I think she's quite taken with the idea of having someone to care for; what with Robert being off and about with Danny all the time".
"What on earth's Robert got to do with it? In case you hadn't noticed, darlin', Saiorse and he are always at each other like cat and dog".
"You think so?"
"Well, aren't they?"
"Perhaps. Or maybe it's just a cry for attention on her part. Haven't you noticed how she..." Sybil shook her head and smiled. "Honestly, men can be so unobservant!"
"About what?" he asked mystified.
"No matter. It'll keep. As for Edith..." She shook her head again. "No. Not yet. But she telephoned from the hotel a short while ago. They'll be here in about an hour or so. Mary didn't see why the hotel couldn't arrange for a motor".
"Any sign of Mary or Matthew?"
"Mary's still upstairs. Hodge is helping her to finish dressing".
Tom lofted an eyebrow.
"Really, Sybil, it's about time all that nonsense came to an..."
Sybil waved him into silence.
"By the way, when I left, Matthew was downstairs in the library. He seemed very pleased with himself. When I told him I was coming down here to find you, he grinned and asked me to be sure and tell you that it worked".
"Did he now for sure?" Tom grinned broadly. A knowing smile played around the corners of his mouth.
"And?"
"And nothing!" Tom chuckled and tapped the side of his nose. "Never you mind. That's between Matthew and me. Just call it the Branson magic!"
Sybil laughed merrily.
"I see. More brotherly advice... about how to handle Mary? Honestly, you two..."
"Well, even if that's what it was, he came to the right place!" The smugness of his smile deepened.
"Oh?" She lofted a brow.
"You know, I've often thought ... being a chauffeur... It stood me in good stead..."
"Really? For what?"
"Not what darlin', who".
"And just who do you have in mind?"
"Women!" He paused. "You see, women are like motors. Temperamental. They often need coaxing". He grinned.
"And you're the expert, are you?"
"I haven't heard you complaining!" Tom laughed.
"So this advice you gave Matthew..."
"Darlin', you can ask me all the questions you like for sure. I'm not saying anything else about it. I'm just very pleased to hear what he asked you to tell me".
And with that, at least for the present, Sybil knew she would have to be content. Not of course that she had any intention of giving up; knew she would wheedle whatever it was out of Tom eventually; when he was disposed to be more talkative. It was only a question of time and for the moment it could wait.
So, she decided to change tack.
"Oh, what a positively wonderful view! Are those vineyards down there?" Sybil pointed down the hill. Tom followed his wife's gaze to where, below them on the slope in the middle distance, rows of neatly ordered plants marched in regimented lines across the hillside.
"I suppose they must be. I think I saw a grove of olive trees down there earlier as well".
Sybil placed her hands on the top of the wall, leant forward breathing in the heady scents of the summer's evening. She stood up and turned to him.
"Thou paradise of exiles, Italy!"
Tom looked quizzically at her.
"Shelley". She smiled.
"Who else?" He raised his eyebrows and grinned as, at the same time, in his mind there now formed the image of a long gone evening back in Ireland, of a lamp lit room at the top of what then had been Ma's homely house by the sea in far distant Clontarf.
At the sound of the board creaking, he half turned in his chair and looked hesitantly towards the door of his room, to see, standing by the door, motionless in the shadows, Sybil, in her ivory white night gown and lace shawl, her dark hair spilling down over her shoulders like spun ebony. Tom also froze, mesmerised by the vision of loveliness before him.
"And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea -
What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?"
All these years later, the copy Tom had made years ago, back in the summer of 1919, of Sybil's favourite poem, "Love's Philosophy" by Percy Bysshe Shelley, the ink these days somewhat faded, hung in a frame above his desk at home in Idrone Terrace.
"Well, if you're going to start quoting poetry at me, to misquote Verdi, "let others have the universe if I may have you". At that, she moved forward into his open arms and rested her head against his shoulder. He kissed the top of her head, breathing in her scent, a mixture of Arpège the perfume by Lanvin which she favoured, and sun warmed skin. Sybil lifted her head. Gazing into eyes, she reached forward and caressed his face with the tips of her fingers; her touch was feather light.
"Tom Branson, you're a hopeless romantic!"
"I know!" Tom nodded. He grinned unabashedly.
After all the events of the previous night, the remainder of their train journey down into Italy and over to Florence had proved thankfully singularly uneventful.
Having breasted the summit of the line in the Mont Cenis tunnel, it was thence down on into Italy with, at the southern end of the tunnel, the Rome Express passing through a gallery cut through the soaring rock face of the mountains before finally emerging into the verdant Alpine countryside beyond and with everyone on board the train, the Bransons and the Crawleys included, being witness to an unforgettable view of the towering snow capped Alps.
Thereafter the speeding express slipped effortlessly southwards, wending its way down through the foot hills of the Alps, passing Oulx-Claviere-Sestrieire and Salbertrand, thence out across the wide plains of Northern Italy, onwards to Turin where at the railway station, the two Meyer children were safely delivered into the care of their relatives with profuse thanks being extended to all the adults in the Branson-Crawley party, especially to Edith, for all they had done to help engineer the children's escape from a kidnap attempt back across the border in France.
After leaving Turin, the Bransons and the Crawleys found themselves heading for Asti, famous for its bareback horse race. Tom's suggestion, made with a twinkle in his eye that Mary might like to consider competing in the event, was met with a frosty reception from the elder of his two sisters-in-law.
"Oh, I don't know, it all sounds rather fun," opined Edith.
"Yes, well you would think that!" exclaimed Mary raising her eyes heavenwards.
For her part, Sybil said nothing.
Instead, she sat silently beside both Mary and Edith, gazing intently out of the compartment window, seemingly entranced by the passing landscape of Montferrat; its churches, castles, farms and vineyards. In fact, Sybil saw little if any of this; was lost deep in thought. For, despite Tom's assurance that it could not possibly have been Fergal whom she had seen there on the platform back at Modane, she remained completely unconvinced. In her mind, Sybil knew she was right; had the unshakeable premonition too, that nothing good would come of it. Indeed, quite the reverse.
Beyond Alessandria, the heavy train climbed upwards through the Ligurian Apennines to Ronco, then down to Genoa, where they arrived shortly before midday with Danny and Robert standing out in the corridor, fascinated by the different railway carriages to be seen standing in the station and which had arrived here on trains from all over Europe; the boys competing with their fathers to see which of them could spot a coach from yet another new country be it Yugoslavia or even far distant Roumania.
Having left Genoa, the express sped southwards, skirting along the very edge of the sparkling waters of the Italian Riviera, passing through a rapid succession of tunnels cut through the projecting cliffs, past Nervi, surrounded by groves of olive, orange and lemon trees, Santa Margherita, then Rapallo with its grey walled castle standing hard by the edge of the sea and La Spezia with its great naval arsenal, the town made colourful by a mass of flowers and sub tropical trees.
While, with the exception of Sybil, the other adults in the party may have been entranced both by the beauty of the landscape and the charm of old fishing ports such as Portofino glimpsed from the train, the younger children were becoming decidedly bored by the length of the journey; were, as Saiorse made abundantly clear, more interested in luncheon. Fortunately, but a short while later, resplendent in his immaculate steward's uniform, Andre appeared in the open doorway of Edith's compartment, where the younger children had congregated and were presently listening spellbound to yet more of her adventures out in Mesopotamia, to announce that lunch was served.
At Viareggio, the express headed inland, and towards Pisa, where, as Tom had told them years before, from the left hand side of the train the famous Leaning Tower, Cathedral and Baptistery were clearly visible to one and all. Here the express divided with the greater part of the train heading on southwards to Rome and distant Sicily, while the carriages for Florence headed eastwards, via Empoli, arriving in the capital of Tuscany shortly after four o'clock in the afternoon and which, as Saiorse remarked, was just in time for tea.
Here in Florence, the railway station of Santa Maria Novella resembled nothing short of a building site, with the whole area in the throes of being rebuilt. While the Chef de Bord ensured that the porters attended to the family's luggage, Matthew glanced about him, clearly impressed by all the building work taking place.
"Well, I've heard it said that Il Duce has made the trains run on time!"
Tom demurred.
"Hm! But at what price, I wonder?"
Having thanked the Chef de Bord for all his assiduous attention, especially his help in trying to find out what had become of the three boys when they disappeared from off the train, the combined families set off along the platform. Behind them, all their various pieces of luggage, trunks and suitcases, were loaded onto trolleys and conveyed by a bevy of unformed railway porters straight to the line of motors waiting immediately outside the railway station in the broad square of the Piazza di Santa Maria Novella, directly opposite the magnificent church of the same name; all under the silent, steely, ever watchful gaze of Benito Mussolini, Il Duce, whose face gazed down impassively upon the square and its denizens from a multitude of colourful posters all extolling the munificent benefits of Fascist rule.
The Villa San Callisto stood a short distance from Fiesole and lay at the far end of a long, gravelled drive, lined with cypresses, the beginning of which was marked by a pair of massive wrought iron gates, topped by the crest of the Florentine family which had built and once owned the property, the entire estate encompassed and hidden from prying eyes by a high stone wall.
After a journey of nearly an hour, the three motors which had conveyed the Bransons, the Crawleys and their luggage sedately all the way from the railway station down in Florence up into the hills around Fiesole along, in part, narrow, winding, stone walled roads and which said Tom to Sybil put him in mind of those which they had encountered back in 1924 on the Beara Peninsula in the far south west of Ireland, had drawn to a measured stop in front of the villa. A few minutes later everyone had climbed out and into the blaze and the heat of Tuscan sunshine. But, before moving forward to meet the line of black and white clad staff awaiting their arrival out on the gravel in front of the house, speechless at the sight that now presented itself, for a moment everyone in the family remained silent, looking about them at their new surroundings.
The villa was truly magnificent.
Beneath a hipped roof of terracotta tiles, punctuated by several low stone chimney stacks, the honey coloured walls of the villa nestled among beautiful gardens studied with trees, fountains and statuary, with lawns bounded by low hedges of box. From where they were now standing the garden in front of the mansion descended in a series of terraces towards a low stone wall, beyond which, shimmering in the afternoon heat haze, lay the city of Florence.
With his knee for the present at least no longer paining him, Edith watched nervously as, with Fritz trotting by his side, Max skipped playfully across the gravel of the forecourt, at the same time eyeing both the villa and its surroundings with a sense of both foreboding and trepidation. With the safety of her young son uppermost in her mind, Edith thought it would be far better if all three of them stayed at the Pensione Lucchesi in Florence as they had intended. She knew how desperately Max wanted to spend all his time with cousins but in her view the risks were too great. If they stayed here, as Mary was insisting that they did, it was only a matter of time before something happened.
She would have to speak to Friedrich about it all later when, as arranged, the two of them met up at the hotel. For the time being all Edith could do was try and see that darling little Max came to no harm by exercising the greatest possible vigilance.
As they moved forward to meet the staff, it fell, of all people, to little Bobby to express what they must all be thinking.
"Ma, it looks like a palace!" he piped in awe.
Sybil smiled and ruffled his fair hair.
"Yes, Button, it does; doesn't it?" She hugged the little boy fiercely to her as if somehow all her present fears for him could be warded off in one tight embrace.
"Just like the ones in Baghdad, Ma, that Aunt Edith was telling us about on the train," added Saiorse for good measure. Hearing her name, Edith looked up and smiled warmly at her niece.
Having warned him to take care on the flagstones, Edith now stood watching as Max, with Fritz, still on his improvised lead from the night before, followed Danny and Robert as they sauntered around the colonnade surrounding the fountain in the courtyard beyond the entrance hall.
Then, while Nanny Bridges took little Rebecca upstairs to settle her down for her afternoon nap accompanied by Mary's maid Hodge who, with some difficulty, her Italian being non existent, was doing her very best to supervise the allocation of all the various pieces of their luggage into the right bedrooms, having finished walking around the ornate entrance hall, together with Saiorse and little Bobby, the other adults, escorted by the Italian equivalent of Barrow, now moved through the courtyard and out onto the terrace which lay beyond.
For his part, finding himself much taken with the tinkling fountain in the courtyard, left to his own devices, young Simon sat Oscar his teddy bear down on the wide marble surround. Then, sitting next to the little bear, he proceeded to point out to Oscar all that could be seen from where the two of them were now seated. On witnessing this, Danny had sniggered and nudged Robert. With a mystified Max following behind in their wake, a moment later and the two older boys had tiptoed quietly over the flagstones to the fountain where, their stealthy approach entirely unnoticed by the younger boy, all unsuspecting, Simon still sat talking softly to his teddy bear.
"Your bear," whispered Danny,
He had come to a stand just behind Simon and now somehow managed to contrive a menacing hoarseness to his voice. Of course, Simon hadn't forgotten the events of last night when they were all still on the train. His brother Robert and their cousin Danny had contrived to kidnap poor Oscar and then proceeded to subject the little bear to all manner of fiendish torments, at one point even threatening to disembowel the dumb, furry creature. So, on unexpectedly hearing Danny's voice and so close at hand, poor Simon whipped round as if he had been stung.
"Yes, what about him?" he asked with a start, now glancing nervously up at his Irish cousin.
"Does he know how to swim?" asked Robert. Simon's brother laughed an equally menacing sounding laugh.
"No, he doesn't!" exclaimed Simon forcefully.
"Oh dear!" laughed Danny.
"Anyway, why do you want to know that? I mean, if Oscar knows how to swim?" asked Simon suspiciously.
"What a shame!" exclaimed Danny with exaggerated and feigned concern.
"Yes, isn't it?" sniggered Robert.
At which point, seeing the evil looks upon the angelic faces of both his brother and their cousin, as he now looked at the deep, circular pool surrounding the fountain, with realisation suddenly dawning upon him and fearful of what new and awful fate might now be awaiting Oscar, Simon snatched him up forthwith from off the marble surround of the fountain, clutching the little bear to him as tightly as he could. The two older boys shrugged their shoulders and laughed.
"Never mind, Si'. We'll get him in the end," chuckled Robert.
"And when we do…"
Danny pointed at Oscar and drew his forefinger swiftly across his throat, indicating that the poor bear would receive no quarter from them whatsoever. With young Max still following faithfully in tow, completely unaware of what it was that Danny and Robert had found so amusing, the three boys now wandered off out onto the terrace in search of their parents and other siblings.
"Penny for them?" he asked of her.
"Tom, darling, they're not worth even that. But…"
"But what?"
"If it was him…"
"Sybil! It can't have been!"
"Tom, I know what I saw!"
"If you say so".
"Why won't you believe me?"
"It's not that".
"What then?" she persisted.
"It just doesn't make any sense".
"Sense or not, it was him I tell you!"
"All right, all right. I don't want us to argue about it, for sure. Especially not now. Not with all that we've just been through, let alone the fact that you're expecting. Look, I'll put a call through to the paper in Dublin tomorrow. Or else let me send a telegram".
And with that, Sybil had to be content.
"But what good will it do?" she persisted.
"I'll have Padraig make a few discrete enquiries down there in Cork. He owes me a favour or two".
All of which was true enough.
Padraig, Donal and Niamh's son was now a cub reporter with the Indy. While Tom Branson would have hotly denied any charge of nepotism, given his relationship to Padraig, not surprisingly there were those in the newsroom on Talbot Street who whispered that the young man's appointment had been down to a case of who you know rather that what was undoubtedly the case that like his "Uncle" Tom, Padraig was exceedingly good with words and had a nose for a sniffing out a real story.
Whether it had something to do with the warmth of that summer's evening or where they were, here in Italy, overlooking one of the most beautiful and romantic cities of the world, neither of them ever knew. An unspoken private message passed between them as, taking Sybil by the hand, Tom led her beneath the pergola, all but hidden beneath a riot of heavily scented sweet smelling roses and feathery, pendulous,violet blooms of wisteria, along a gravel path, and towards a lead roofed brick gazebo at the far end of the terrace, well away also from prying eyes.
"The children..." she began haltingly as, having sat down on the bench within the gazebo, Tom's mouth now greedily sought her own.
"They won't come down here. Not tonight," he coaxed.
"And what makes you so sure of that?" She moaned as his lips captured hers.
"Because darlin'… knowing Nanny Bridges… I don't doubt… that she… has the youngsters… all well in hand".
"The young ones, maybe… but what about Danny, Robert, Saiorse…"
Tom shook his head; their kisses deepened
"Tom!"
"Hm?"
"Oh, Tom!"
He grinned, knowing how he was driving her wild with desire; how much she was enjoying his skilful ministrations.
"And in case… you hadn't noticed… darlin', Danny's growing up fast. If, as you said… you told him you were coming down here… to find me, he'll have… the sense… not to follow. At least not for a while. After all, unlike Bobby… he and Saiorse… are far more… worldly wise for sure than we were at their age. In case… you've forgotten… that detailed explanation you gave them… when you were expecting Bobby… and they both wanted to know… all about babies… saw to that".
Sybil giggled through that particular remembrance.
During that never-to-be-forgotten exchange in the kitchen of the house on Idrone Terrace, when Danny had been seven and Saiorse six, on several occasions Tom had turned an embarrassing shade of red, especially when Sybil had explained in some detail to a fascinated Danny and Saiorse what it was that the man did to the lady with his mickey.
Now, having made a pillow for her head from his jacket, Sybil lay back upon the bench while Tom's insistent hands first slipped lower; were now sliding back up underneath the silk filminess of her dress and under her cami-knickers. He grinned. Thank God that these days women's clothes were far less complicated than they once had been.
"And, as for young Robert… he goes… where Danny goes… and at the moment… after that business on… or should I say off the train… Mary's keeping him… on an extremely tight leash… or so Matthew told me. And… if not that… knowing Danny… and Robert… those two… will be far too busy… exploring the house… to come… down here".
"Tom! What do you think you're…"
Hoisting her dress up around her hips, he had unbuttoned the front of her knickers, the fingers of his hands gently probing in between her legs.
"Don't you start playing the innocent with me milady, you hussy! It doesn't become you! You want this as much as I do!" He chuckled.
"Hussy?"
"You heard me!"
Sybil grinned. He knew her too well.
In the evening light he thought the creamy softness of her breasts seemed possessed of a warm glow, perhaps something to do with her pregnancy. Now, as he continued to both cup and mould each of them in turn, caressing her hard nipples through the filminess of her dress and brassiere, arching her back, Sybil pulled him toward her, her fingers sifting through his hair.
Mindful of the child she was now carrying, notwithstanding the possibility of discovery, at least to begin with, they moved slowly, almost languidly against each other. Tom felt Sybil's hands slipping gently beneath his shirt, her fingers sifting through the mat of hairs upon his chest, caressing his nipples, moving upwards, clutching at his shoulders; her nails as they began raking the bare skin of his back. Then, as he knelt and straddled her, she helped him quickly push down first his trousers and then his undershorts, grasping his buttocks, her legs wrapping around him, clinging to his shoulders, helping to pull him down upon her. With his knees either side of her upon the bench, he guided himself in between her legs, thrusting gently forward, their bodies joining as one.
Increasingly, however, for both of them, desire eventually became all consuming; eventually overtook Tom's earlier caution as the pace of his thrusts, which had begun as a slow, steady rhythm, now increased, both in their frequency and in their depth, driving Sybil wild with longing, just as he knew they would. And, as his need of her deepened, his face close beside her left ear, Tom murmured her name. Now, raising his head, his lips yet again eagerly seeking her own, probing gently with his tongue, at the same time opening his eyes and gazing down at her, Tom saw Sybil's beautiful face suffused with delight. Redoubling his efforts, once more burying his face deeply against her neck, moaning her name yet again, Tom knew that like her, he too was nearing the point of no-return.
Encumbered as they were by their clothes, now, in an effort to speed their release, reaching beneath her dress, grasping hold of her hips, Tom pulled Sybil tightly to him, moulding her body as closely to his own as he possibly could; a silent, physical reminder that, for all his own efforts, he needed her to keep pace with him. He felt her writhing beneath him, her lips as they brushed first his brow and then his mouth. A moment later, his body tightly sheathed within her own, he felt Sybil achieve her release, opening his eyes, saw her throw back her head in wanton delight, moving against him, her fingers once more grasping at the bare skin of his shoulders beneath his shirt.
"I love you my darling!" she cried.
"Sybil!" he moaned; aware that he could contain himself no longer.
His thrusts quickened, deepened, grew faster than ever.
"Darlin'!" he exclaimed as, while she watched him, cupping his face in her hands, savouring the moment as he came, Tom spilled himself deeply within her.
"I love yous!" he slurred.
For what seemed a long while, flushed and sated, they lay enfolded together while the last waves of their love making ebbed. In the ensuing silence, somewhere close at hand, a bird trilled. And then, from the direction of the villa, they heard the sound of footsteps on gravel.
In the end, Tom's intuition about Danny's growing worldliness was proved right; at least up to a point. Now, having just finished dressing, they were both in the process of making sure that each of them was completely and thoroughly presentable.
"I'll make some enquiries tomorrow".
"Well, if you're sure…" Sybil was concentrating on straightening Tom's white tie.
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll see. The children will love it".
"Da? Ma?"
The voice of their eldest son served to bring both of them instantly back to the present. A moment later and Danny appeared in the entrance to the gazebo. On seeing his parents he smiled happily. He loved both of them so very much.
"What is it, son?" asked Tom in the most matter-of-fact voice he could muster; his arm held fast about Sybil's shoulders.
"Da, Aunt Mary says Aunt Edith and Max's father will be here very shortly and would you both please come back up to the house".
"For sure!" Tom smiled.
"And Uncle Matthew asks that you please remember the shepherd's hut out at Hawkridge". Danny sounded mystified; looked questioningly at his parents.
"Does he indeed? The cheeky blighter," Tom said softly. Seemingly absent minded, he passed his free hand over his head, then grinned; saw Sybil smile. They exchanged knowing glances.
The incident involving the shepherd's hut out at Hawkridge on the far eastern side of the Downton Abbey estate had taken place in the summer of 1926, when Sybil had been expecting little Bobby. One afternoon, finding that the old Renault was at their disposal, Tom had driven Sybil out in the motor to see some of the places on the estate which she hadn't seen since she was a girl. When it happened, the road they were negotiating was little more than a rutted, stony track. Despite Tom taking things slowly, suddenly the motor hit a pothole and lurched violently. There was an ominous sounding loud crack and the Renault sagged drunkenly to one side.
"Bugger!" yelled Tom. "That sounded like the front axle. Are you all right, love?"
"Yes perfectly".
"Stay put darlin' and I'll take a look".
At that Tom had hopped out of the motor, much as he had done on the train to Dublin back in the summer of 1919 when the IRA had attempted to blow up a bridge on the railway line close to Booterstown between Kingstown and Westland Row station in Dublin. A few moments later and he was back. Tom jumped up onto the running board and put his head in through the driver's window.
"The axle for sure!" A minute later, and with Tom's added weight, the motor had settled still further into the pothole. "Well, we can't stay here!" Tom looked up at the sky. "And it looks like rain for sure". It was then he saw the shepherd's hut at this time of the year standing empty and forlorn in the corner of a neighbouring field.
A short while later, with a fire set in the hut's stove and Sybil sitting ensconced on the straw covered floor seated on the blanket that Tom had fetched from the Renault, he said he would hot foot it down to Blenkinson's farm where he knew there was a telephone so that they could let the family know what had happened.
"Will you be all right in here on your own?" he asked solicitously.
"Of course. The baby's not due for months. But all the same, try not to be too long".
Tom smiled down at her.
"It's a couple of miles at least. I'll be back as soon as I can". He knelt to kiss her and a moment later he was gone.
By the time Tom returned, it had begun to rain heavily. Opening the door of the hut, he let himself inside. Within the dim interior, it was snug and warm. Sybil was still sitting on the floor by the stove. As the door opened, she looked up at him and smiled. He grinned and knelt beside her.
"I spoke to Matthew on the telephone and they're sending Farrar out in the Morris although it'll take him a while to get all the way up here. We'll just have to sit tight and wait for sure". Above their heads, the rain drummed noisily on the roof of the hut. "I find myself wondering what on earth we can do to pass the time?" He smiled lazily.
"Well, we can make a start by getting you out of those damp clothes". Sybil grinned.
"And then?"
"Really, Mr. Branson, do I have to spell it out for you?"
Tom smiled as her hands began easing his rain-flecked jacket back from off his shoulders.
"So just what did the two of you do to pass the time up there in the back of beyond?" asked Matthew with a chuckle.
Tom leaned over the billiards table for his shot.
"Never you mind!"
"Oh, by the way..."
"What?"
Matthew said nothing. He merely smiled and passed his hand over his brother-in-law's hair, extracting from it a wisp of straw and held it out to Tom.
"Mary noticed it over dinner, as, I think, did Cousin Violet. I'm sure the sight of it nearly gave the old girl heart failure. You obviously didn't understand her when she made that remark about you helping out with the harvest!" Matthew laughed.
"Feckin hell" exclaimed Tom and blushed red.
A few moments later and the three of them set off happily together through the gardens, back up to the villa, Tom with one arm wrapped about his wife's waist and the other around his son's shoulders.
"Da? Can I ask you something?" asked Danny looking up at his father.
"For sure!"
"What's a shepherd's hut used for?"
Tom contrived a dry cough.
"Ask your mother!"
Behind them in the gathering dusk, in the lengthening shadows below the terrace, a man slipped away down the hillside.
A short while later, up at the house, keeping well in the shadows, Fergal now watched impassively as, with its headlights blazing and driven by Lady Edith Crawley, with Friedrich von Schönborn seated beside her, the powerful Fiat swung off the road from Fiesole and turned in at the ornate wrought iron gates and onto the gravelled tree lined drive leading to the Villa San Callisto.
As the gates closed behind the Fiat, Fergal turned and, lost in thought, walked slowly towards his own car parked some distance away in a clearing among the pines. The knowledge conveyed to him by one of his subordinates that Tom Branson was intending to hire a motor and take his family up into the hills could prove useful. The roads up here were tortuous; steep, and with several hairpin bends. Were a motor to run off the road, the consequences for all those on board could well prove fatal.
Fergal smiled and mentally corrected himself; would prove fatal.
Author's Note:
For Sybil's love of Shelley's poetry and what came after, see Chapter 8 of Home Is Where The Heart Is.
Arpège was created for Lanvin by Andre Frayasse in 1927, the name being chosen by the perfumer's daughter.
There seems to be no basis in fact for the oft quoted remark that during the period of Mussolini's rule the trains in Italy ran to time.
For Tom and Sybil's visit to the Beara Peninsula, see "Reunion".
A shepherd's hut is a small, usually wooden, four wheeled hut, moved from field to field, and used by a shepherd during the spring to tend to newly born lambs.