Caprice and Rondo - Dorothy Dunnett [91]
‘Will you tell her?’ He was looking at her.
She took her time. ‘No. You won’t do it again. But you weren’t really thinking of Anna, were you; only of Julius and yourself?’ She broke off. She said. ‘You should try to see behind all that self-possession. Anna is kind. She cares, like Bel. You do like her?’
‘I like Bel,’ he said. ‘I’ll take your word about Anna. You are saying I ought to confide in her?’
He hadn’t said he didn’t like Anna. He must have noticed how lovely she was. He hadn’t had, as yet, much chance to discover anything else. Then she remembered something promising, in that respect anyway. ‘You must like her,’ Kathi said, ‘if you want Jodi to marry her daughter. Or perhaps you were just tormenting Julius and never meant it at all.’ She wished he would sit down.
Suddenly, he did. ‘She told you? And you disapprove because of Jodi’s youth? But it isn’t more than a suggestion. It would unite two parts of the Bank. Gelis would first have to agree.’
She was relieved. She said, ‘Anna would help. She would do anything to see you together with Gelis.’ She hesitated. ‘She told me about Montello.’
He stopped breathing. She saw it. Then he said, ‘What about Montello?’
‘Julius heard that the vicomte de Fleury — that your grandfather was being nursed in the Carthusian monastery there. One of my uncles died in the same place. It’s just outside Venice. Jan went there with his father three years ago. I didn’t know the connection. I don’t think Uncle Anselm did either. But you did?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Naturally, he had to be paid for.’
She wished she had never opened the subject. She said, ‘Anna thought Gelis ought to be told. She thought the old man might throw light on your … You might learn finally the truth of your birth. But you must know all he could tell you already.’
‘No. I have never spoken to him,’ Nicholas said. ‘No one has. He is paralysed. There is no point in Gelis or anyone else visiting him, even with the lure of becoming mother to the next landless and penniless vicomte de Fleury. I’m sorry. You and Anna have clearly discussed the matter in depth.’
‘I thought you would want it for Jodi,’ Kathi said sharply. ‘I heard about the poem you burned.’
The door opened. ‘You did?’ Nicholas said. Jelita came in and, receiving permission, crossed and prepared to pour out fresh wine.
Kathi hid her hands in her sleeves. She said, ‘Anna told me. It wasn’t hard to guess why you did it.’
A tray appeared, and she took a cup from it, as did Nicholas. Jelita bowed and departed. A few moments before, she had tried to joke about his name. Before the door had time to close, Nicholas had again disposed of his wine with a flourish, but this time down his throat. After that, he lifted the wine-flask, and refilled his own cup. Hers was untouched.
He said, ‘There is poetry and poetry. Posterity, I assure you, lost nothing in that piece. Indeed, this time’ — he emptied the goblet once again — ‘not even the ashes complained.’ The grey eyes, returning, contemplated her. ‘Will two cups be enough? What else did you want me to tell you?’
He had guessed, although Jelita, bringing the wine-flask, had not. The drug this time had been light; enough, she had thought, to smooth this parting, and to give him ease afterwards. She had not expected confidences, although he had made her some without wine, and what he had withheld then, she suspected he would withhold now. She began, none the less, by simply repeating his last words. ‘This time, not even the ashes complained? What happened the other time, Nicholas?’
He answered with no hesitation, slurring slightly. The readiness itself was a mockery. ‘Gelis once burned a toy and it screamed. She wanted to stop me divining where Jodi was. But of course, even ash is enough.’
He stopped, lifting a self-admonitory finger. Then he unfolded his other hand with the cup. ‘Shall I drop it again? Now you can guess all that happened.’
‘Don’t,’ Kathi said. She could guess. Destroying the poem, he must have thought it was over; the single agonising