Widow - Anne Stuart [25]
“You sit here, madame,” she said.
“What do you mean? I always sit at the head! Except when Pompasse is here. Where is he?”
“He’s dead, madame. You remember. And now Charlie is here. She is the master’s wife. She takes precedence.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, let the old witch sit where she wants,” Gia said bitterly.
“Madame should sit at the head…” Charlie began at the same time, but Maguire had already seated the old lady at the foot of the table. He looked up at Charlie and smiled wickedly.
“You’re the matriarch now, Mrs. Pompasse,” he said. “Might as well enjoy it.”
“I don’t want…”
“Will you sit down, for Christ’s sake!” Gia said, grabbing the chair on Maguire’s left. “I’m starving, and we’ve already spent too long waiting for you.”
There was nothing she could do but sit. Madame Antonella sat at the foot of the table, Gia on one side and Maguire on the other. Charlie grabbed the chair and sat.
It had always been Pompasse’s chair, huge, oversize like the personality of the man himself. She felt small, trapped, and for a moment she half expected the arms of the chair to wrap around her, holding her prisoner. But of course it was only a chair—there were other things that were keeping her trapped.
The dinner was miserable, despite Lauretta’s excellent cooking. The majority of Gia’s conversation was directed at an unresponsive Maguire, although occasionally she sent out a barb in Charlie’s direction. Madame Antonella said nothing, eating everything in sight and dribbling half the food on her massive, black satin bosom, and Maguire simply watched them all out of his cool, dark eyes.
It was amazing to Charlie that she could manage to choke down anything.
“This is an inferior wine,” Antonella announced at one point after downing her fourth glass. “Where is Pompasse? He never would have allowed such garbage to be served at his table. It’s your fault,” she said, glaring at Charlie.
Five years ago Charlie might have been tempted to argue—but now she was past the need. “We’ll have Tomaso see if there’s anything better,” she said.
“I like it,” Gia pronounced. “Don’t you, Maguire?”
Maguire hadn’t touched his wine, a detail that hadn’t escaped Charlie’s attention. In fact, she’d been watching him too much. It was purely for lack of something better to look at. Antonella’s table manners were far from appetizing and Gia was too hostile. And the walls were bare.
“Where did the paintings go?” Charlie asked abruptly.
Gia didn’t even bother looking around. She had managed to down a fair amount of wine herself and, if anything, her malicious mood had only deepened. “You mean your portraits? They’ve been gone for a long time. I don’t know whether he burned them or sold them, but your glorious face hasn’t been seen anywhere around here for the past five years.”
“Burned them?” Charlie echoed, horrified.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Antonella piped up. “He knew the value of his work—he would never have burned anything. And why do you think he would, you stupid little tramp?”
Since that had been Antonella’s form of address to every one of Pompasse’s models for the past fifty years, Gia didn’t bother to take offense. “Because he loved Charlie and she abandoned him, you old bitch,” she shot back.
Charlie set her fork down. She’d barely eaten a thing since she’d heard of Pompasse’s death, and this kind of atmosphere wasn’t doing much for her appetite. “Could we not fight…?” she began in a faint voice.
“Don’t be ridiculous. All we ever do is fight in this household,” Gia snapped. “That’s the way Pompasse wanted it. Or have you forgotten that along with everything else?”
“He wouldn’t have burned his paintings, even those of that whore,” Antonella said flatly. “Someone must have hidden them.”
“And where would that be?” Maguire broke in softly. He’d been watching, listening to the ensuing conversation with all the rapt attention of a gossipmonger.
Madame Antonella shrugged her massive shoulders. “Ask Pompasse.”
“He’s dead, you old witch!” Gia snapped, her voice ragged.
“Of course