Read Online The Savage Garden by Mark Mills - Free Book Online
Authors: Mark Mills
Tags: antique
Ads: Link
her. He wondered which of them was lying. And why?
"Apparently, you have a good mind, an enquiring mind." She must have seen him squirm. "You're not comfortable with flattery?" "No."
"He also said you were extremely lazy." "That's more like it."
This brought a laugh from Signora Docci.
He was able to put in a couple more productive hours in the library, despite the distraction.
Why had Professor Leonard not even hinted at the true nature of his relationship with Signora Docci? Unless he had completely misunderstood her, everything pointed to some kind of love affair between the couple. Maybe love affair was overstating it. In 1901 that probably meant little more than an unchaperoned stroll through the gardens, or a charged look across a crowded room, although somehow he doubted it. Signora Docci's few words on the subject had shown the strain of many more left unspoken. And she had almost choked herself laughing when he'd cast aspersions on Professor Leonard's sexuality.
He found himself speculating on what had happened to keep them apart. It was probably doomed from the start—a penniless student and a young heiress. Much would have been expected of any potential spouse of Signora Docci. He would have been well vetted, the future of the estate a prime consideration. And a young foreigner with an interest in Etruscan archaeology would hardly have offered much comfort in that department.
These were, of course, wild imaginings, but he let his mind roam the possibilities until it was time to leave.
Foscolo, the rock-ribbed handyman, insisted on being present when Adam took possession of the bicycle. He had a big square head planted on a small square body, and his iron-gray hair was clipped to a brush. There wasn't much to say on the subject—it was an old black bicycle with a wicker basket—so Adam shook Foscolo's knuckled hand and thanked him. This wasn't good enough for Foscolo, who wanted confirmation that all was in working order. Adam dutifully cycled around the courtyard a few times for his audience of one and declared the brakes to be
"eccellente."
Foscolo grunted skeptically and raised the saddle an inch or two.
Peddling back to San Casciano, Adam deviated from the main track, exploring. The dusty trail petered out in an olive grove. It wasn't a totally wasted detour. He found himself presented with an impressive view of Villa Docci. From afar, the shuttered, silent rooms of the top floor seemed even more striking, more ominous.
His thoughts turned to Signora Docci's account of her eldest son's death at the hands of the Germans. They also turned to Fausto's curious, half-mumbled comment on the same subject just the evening before:
"Cost dicono."
So the story goes.
EITHER HE WAS SO DISTRACTED THAT HE DIDN'T HEAR her footfalls, or she deliberately set out to creep up on him. Probably a bit of both.
He was standing at the head of the valley, on the brow above the amphitheater, staring up at the triumphal arch. A warm light from the lowering sun was bleeding through the trees, flushing the garden amber. Even the dense wood of dark ilex beyond the arch seemed somehow less forbidding.
It was here, just inside the tree line, that the spring was located—a low artificial grotto housing a trough of rusticated stone. Under normal circumstances, water would have filled the trough before overflowing into a channel that ran beneath the arch to the top of the amphitheater, where it divided.
He was standing astride this channel, staring up at the arch, when he heard her voice.
"Hello."
She was off to his left, beneath the boughs of a tree. Her long black hair was tied back off her face in a ponytail and she was wearing a sleeveless cotton dress cinched at the waist with a belt.
"You haven't moved since I first saw you," she said in accented English, stepping toward
"Apparently, you have a good mind, an enquiring mind." She must have seen him squirm. "You're not comfortable with flattery?" "No."
"He also said you were extremely lazy." "That's more like it."
This brought a laugh from Signora Docci.
He was able to put in a couple more productive hours in the library, despite the distraction.
Why had Professor Leonard not even hinted at the true nature of his relationship with Signora Docci? Unless he had completely misunderstood her, everything pointed to some kind of love affair between the couple. Maybe love affair was overstating it. In 1901 that probably meant little more than an unchaperoned stroll through the gardens, or a charged look across a crowded room, although somehow he doubted it. Signora Docci's few words on the subject had shown the strain of many more left unspoken. And she had almost choked herself laughing when he'd cast aspersions on Professor Leonard's sexuality.
He found himself speculating on what had happened to keep them apart. It was probably doomed from the start—a penniless student and a young heiress. Much would have been expected of any potential spouse of Signora Docci. He would have been well vetted, the future of the estate a prime consideration. And a young foreigner with an interest in Etruscan archaeology would hardly have offered much comfort in that department.
These were, of course, wild imaginings, but he let his mind roam the possibilities until it was time to leave.
Foscolo, the rock-ribbed handyman, insisted on being present when Adam took possession of the bicycle. He had a big square head planted on a small square body, and his iron-gray hair was clipped to a brush. There wasn't much to say on the subject—it was an old black bicycle with a wicker basket—so Adam shook Foscolo's knuckled hand and thanked him. This wasn't good enough for Foscolo, who wanted confirmation that all was in working order. Adam dutifully cycled around the courtyard a few times for his audience of one and declared the brakes to be
"eccellente."
Foscolo grunted skeptically and raised the saddle an inch or two.
Peddling back to San Casciano, Adam deviated from the main track, exploring. The dusty trail petered out in an olive grove. It wasn't a totally wasted detour. He found himself presented with an impressive view of Villa Docci. From afar, the shuttered, silent rooms of the top floor seemed even more striking, more ominous.
His thoughts turned to Signora Docci's account of her eldest son's death at the hands of the Germans. They also turned to Fausto's curious, half-mumbled comment on the same subject just the evening before:
"Cost dicono."
So the story goes.
EITHER HE WAS SO DISTRACTED THAT HE DIDN'T HEAR her footfalls, or she deliberately set out to creep up on him. Probably a bit of both.
He was standing at the head of the valley, on the brow above the amphitheater, staring up at the triumphal arch. A warm light from the lowering sun was bleeding through the trees, flushing the garden amber. Even the dense wood of dark ilex beyond the arch seemed somehow less forbidding.
It was here, just inside the tree line, that the spring was located—a low artificial grotto housing a trough of rusticated stone. Under normal circumstances, water would have filled the trough before overflowing into a channel that ran beneath the arch to the top of the amphitheater, where it divided.
He was standing astride this channel, staring up at the arch, when he heard her voice.
"Hello."
She was off to his left, beneath the boughs of a tree. Her long black hair was tied back off her face in a ponytail and she was wearing a sleeveless cotton dress cinched at the waist with a belt.
"You haven't moved since I first saw you," she said in accented English, stepping toward
Similar Books
