commence. I will fill in Yvonneâs part,â said the Contessa.
The room filled again with music made by aged fingers tripping lightly across the ivory keys and the subsequent singing from the opera group rising to match the magnificent, but faded, glory of the room itself. Although the combined talents of the pianist and of the singers now splendidly filled the space with sound, the focus of the music room remained on the Steinway grand piano that represented the undying love of a husband and wife. Il Conte had given the piano to his wife when they arrived in Italy and had taken up residence in the Villa Batelli. Since then it had been moved to various homes they had shared until it had accompanied her to the apartment when she had been widowed. It was now carefully positioned between two large, luxuriously curtained French windows and was a constant reminder of a wonderful and loving musical partnership. Accordingly, it was polished daily by the Contessa in homage to its beauty and its memories. In contrast, close inspection of the windowsâ formal decoration revealed that the generous swags and tails were laced with what looked suspiciously like cobwebs. Instead of detracting from the setting they somehow managed to add to the patina and stability of the Contessaâs home.
A large portrait in oils, encased in the confines of an ornate and heavily gilded frame, beamed down approvingly from its place above the mantelpiece. Il Conte Professore Giacomo di Capezzani-Batelli, the Contessaâs late, much-loved husband and one-time Professor of Voice at both the Istituto Musicale Luigi Boccherini in Lucca and Londonâs Royal Academy of Music, watched with varnished satisfactionas the music flowed. Like almost everything else in the apartment he was a lingering relic of an earlier time and, like the heavy brocade that grandly draped and swaged the windows, he too was gently encased in a filigree of cobwebs. Elizabeth had never taken positively to the skills of wielding a feather duster â or any duster, for that matter. A cursory flick with a cloth and the occasional wheezy blow, ineffectual at best, was as good as things got. Over the passing years, her already short stature had become even shorter due to the curvature of her spine. As a result, anything above head height stood very little chance of being assessed as a job opportunity. For his part, suspended in semi-majesty against the wall, high above the large marble fireplace, Il Conte had long ago resigned himself to never being freed from the gentle spidery embrace that enfolded his upper regions.
The room fell silent as the last notes of the sextet died away into the late afternoon. The Contessaâs music room became, once again, an oasis of calm and serenity; a monument to the cultural passion she and her husband had shared. The position of the apartment ensured that the bright Tuscan sunlight never reached the sacred confines of the Steinway and it was only at this time of day, when the subdued tinges of the fading light reflected off the buildings opposite, that the colours of the floor rugs began to glow.
â Bravi, angeli miei ⦠that was beautiful,â said the Contessa, beaming with enjoyment. âSuch phrasing and breath control. You have remembered what we practised at our last rehearsal very well.â She always referred to her singers as her angels. It was a sincerely meant, warm term of deep affection. âDid I tell you about my plans for our next project?â she said suddenly.
Carlo shifted his position, snorted and let out a couple of growls. Renata di Senno, who had removed herself to asafer distance on the other side of the piano to Carlo, glared at him.
âFart?â she mouthed to Riccardo Fossi, who stood opposite her, perilously close to the chair and belligerent canine.
âWhat?â he mouthed back, his brow furrowed.
âThe dog; has it farted again?â She tried to communicate her
The room filled again with music made by aged fingers tripping lightly across the ivory keys and the subsequent singing from the opera group rising to match the magnificent, but faded, glory of the room itself. Although the combined talents of the pianist and of the singers now splendidly filled the space with sound, the focus of the music room remained on the Steinway grand piano that represented the undying love of a husband and wife. Il Conte had given the piano to his wife when they arrived in Italy and had taken up residence in the Villa Batelli. Since then it had been moved to various homes they had shared until it had accompanied her to the apartment when she had been widowed. It was now carefully positioned between two large, luxuriously curtained French windows and was a constant reminder of a wonderful and loving musical partnership. Accordingly, it was polished daily by the Contessa in homage to its beauty and its memories. In contrast, close inspection of the windowsâ formal decoration revealed that the generous swags and tails were laced with what looked suspiciously like cobwebs. Instead of detracting from the setting they somehow managed to add to the patina and stability of the Contessaâs home.
A large portrait in oils, encased in the confines of an ornate and heavily gilded frame, beamed down approvingly from its place above the mantelpiece. Il Conte Professore Giacomo di Capezzani-Batelli, the Contessaâs late, much-loved husband and one-time Professor of Voice at both the Istituto Musicale Luigi Boccherini in Lucca and Londonâs Royal Academy of Music, watched with varnished satisfactionas the music flowed. Like almost everything else in the apartment he was a lingering relic of an earlier time and, like the heavy brocade that grandly draped and swaged the windows, he too was gently encased in a filigree of cobwebs. Elizabeth had never taken positively to the skills of wielding a feather duster â or any duster, for that matter. A cursory flick with a cloth and the occasional wheezy blow, ineffectual at best, was as good as things got. Over the passing years, her already short stature had become even shorter due to the curvature of her spine. As a result, anything above head height stood very little chance of being assessed as a job opportunity. For his part, suspended in semi-majesty against the wall, high above the large marble fireplace, Il Conte had long ago resigned himself to never being freed from the gentle spidery embrace that enfolded his upper regions.
The room fell silent as the last notes of the sextet died away into the late afternoon. The Contessaâs music room became, once again, an oasis of calm and serenity; a monument to the cultural passion she and her husband had shared. The position of the apartment ensured that the bright Tuscan sunlight never reached the sacred confines of the Steinway and it was only at this time of day, when the subdued tinges of the fading light reflected off the buildings opposite, that the colours of the floor rugs began to glow.
â Bravi, angeli miei ⦠that was beautiful,â said the Contessa, beaming with enjoyment. âSuch phrasing and breath control. You have remembered what we practised at our last rehearsal very well.â She always referred to her singers as her angels. It was a sincerely meant, warm term of deep affection. âDid I tell you about my plans for our next project?â she said suddenly.
Carlo shifted his position, snorted and let out a couple of growls. Renata di Senno, who had removed herself to asafer distance on the other side of the piano to Carlo, glared at him.
âFart?â she mouthed to Riccardo Fossi, who stood opposite her, perilously close to the chair and belligerent canine.
âWhat?â he mouthed back, his brow furrowed.
âThe dog; has it farted again?â She tried to communicate her
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