'We seem to have lost Basil and Penelope,' said Ianthe, linking their names cosily together. 'Did anyone see which way they went?'
Apparently nobody had, but as there was a convenient café where they had stopped it seemed sensible not to go on any further.
'I'm sure Basil will look after Penelope,' Ianthe reassured Sophia. 'After all he is a clergyman.'
'Yes, of course,' said Sophia, for had she not been thinking that herself?
'We seem to have lost the others,' said Basil, 'but this was the café I meant. If we sit near the window they'll see us when they arrive.'
'Yes, they will,' said Penelope. She was beginning to realize that she had meant to throw Ianthe and Basil together so that when Rupert came — as he surely would — Ianthe might seem to be involved with him.
'What would you like?' asked Basil. 'Coffee and brandy?'
'Thank you.'
When the waiter had brought their drinks they sat in a rather awkward silence.
'Do you know Ianthe well?' Penelope asked.
'Not really — I was a curate in her father's parish for a short time.'
'Before he was a canon?'
'Yes, before that.'
'She's a charming person,' said Penelope, feeling that this was expected of her.
'Yes, charming, I suppose, but a little inhuman, don't you think? Just a little too good to be true?'
Penelope looked at him suspiciously. It did not seem quite natural that he should feel as she did about Ianthe.
He fitted a cigarette into a rather too long holder.
'I suppose I ought not to say this, but she was a bit keen on me at one time.'
Penelope smiled to herself at the old-fashioned phrase 'a bit keen on me'. It seemed to make him rather 'caddish' in a way that men weren't nowadays. She took a sip of brandy, wondering what he expected her to say. Then she realized that he was smiling at her indulgently and it suddenly occurred to her that he was one of those men who imagine that all women are running after them. So she had got herself into another of her ludicrous situations. What she would have said or done was still uncertain, when there was a commotion in the doorway of the café, and a stout handsome elderly woman, in a tight silk dress printed with tiger lilies, rushed past the waiters to the table where Penelope and Basil were sitting.
'There you are!' she called out in a ringing tone. 'I've been looking for you everywhere. You went out without your scarf and you know how treacherous these Italian nights are.' She was brandishing in her hand what looked like a hand-knitted muffler in two shades of ecclesiastical purple.
She sat down heavily in a vacant chair at the table and summoned the waiter with a gesture.
'Coffee is not good,' she said, 'it will keep you awake. You know you must have your nine hours sleep. My sister is a great believer in a little brandy — not more than a teaspoonful — in cases of biliousness,' she added to Penelope.
'Milk,' she said to the waiter, 'latte — hot,' she hesitated for the Italian word, 'bolente,'' she brought out at last.
'But I don't want boiling milk,' protested Father Branche unhappily. 'One never knows what milk will be like abroad. It might be goat's milk, or even sheep's milk — imagine that!'
'It would probably be very nourishing,' said Penelope.
'Oh, Miss Bede, let me introduce . . .' Basil began, then realized that he had forgotten Penelope's name, if he had ever known it.
'How do you do,' murmured Penelope. 'I'm Penelope Grandison.'
'She is a vicar's wife's sister,' Basil went on.
'A vicar — what vicar?' asked Miss Bede suspiciously.
'The vicar of a north London parish.'
'Oh, I see.' Miss Bede nodded, obviously not quite satisfied.
'My brother-in-law is the Reverend Mark Ainger,' said Penelope.
'Ainger,' Miss Bede repeated, is he in Crockford's Clerical Directoiy?'
'Yes, I'm sure he is,' said Penelope, rather taken aback. 'I haven't actually looked, but he must be.'
'I always believe in checking up,' said Miss Bede firmly. 'There are so many impostors nowadays. Not, I'm sure,' she said, smiling graciously at Penelope, 'that your brother-in-law is an impostor.'
'No, he isn't, I assure you . . .'
'Still, it will be interesting to look him up.'
'Well, you can hardly do that here,' said Basil smugly.
'There must be a Crockford somewhere in Rome — in the Vatican Library, no doubt. They like to check up, of course. Do you know,' Miss Bede turned to Penelope, 'the Jesuits have a list of every Church of England clergyman who is visiting Italy and know exactly what he is doing at every minute of the day or night?'
'Goodness, I didn't know that,' said Penelope weakly. Surely they couldn't know about every minute, she thought, but decided not to pursue the subject. She wondered if Mark knew about it.
Fortunately, perhaps because of some confusion in the order, the hot milk did not appear and soon Miss Bede seemed to want to lead Basil away. As they were staying quite near to each other the three of them walked back together, rather slowly, for Miss Bede was wearing very high-heeled shoes — most unsuitable for an elderly lady, Penelope thought.
'The night air is so treacherous — in more ways than one!' Miss Bede said, suddenly roguish. 'My sister will wonder where I've been. She decided to have an early night with Adonaïs — a poem by Shelley, you know. If one must read in Rome that seems very suitable, don't you think.'
'Oh yes,' said Penelope, rather confused.
'Here we are then,' said Miss Bede. 'Good-night, Miss Grandison. Basil, say good-night to Miss Grandison.'
Basil did as he was ordered and followed Miss Bede into the Albergo di Risorgimento. He was like some tame animal being led away, thought Penelope scornfully. She didn't see how anyone could take him seriously, not even a clergyman's daughter, who might be thought to have to make do with her father's curates.
She supposed she would have to explain how she and Basil had gone ahead of the others and lost them, but to her surprise there was nobody to explain to. The others were not yet in, so she got undressed quickly and was lying in bed reading when she heard Ianthe at the door.
'Oh, that's a relief,' said Ianthe. 'I'll just go and tell Sophia you're here.'
'Surely you weren't worried about me?' said Penelope.
'Not worried exactly, and of course we both knew you would be all right with Basil. Did you have a jolly time?'
Penelope could not help smiling at Ianthe's choice of adjective, but perhaps 'jolly' was what the 'time' had been. Yet 'ludicrous' would be more accurate, she felt.
'A lady came and fetched him away,' she said. 'A Miss Bede.'
'One of the ladies he is in Rome with, I suppose.'
'Well yes, one does suppose so.'
Ianthe smiled. 'Something of the kind happened when I knew him,' she said. 'The lady was a rich widow and wanted to marry him.'
Penelope remembered what Basil had said about Ianthe being 'a bit keen' on him and wondered if she had been jealous of his attentions to the widow. It was difficult to imagine Ianthe feeling such a strong emotion.
'Did you ever feel anything for him?' she asked boldly.
'I — feel anything for Basil Branche?' Ianthe's astonishment seemed genuine. 'Well, I suppose I quite liked him, as one usually did like the curates, but there was no other feeling.'
'I thought you might have been passionately in love with him at one time,' said Penelope, wondering if she was going too far.
But Ianthe laughed good-humouredly.
'Actually,' Penelope went on, 'it's difficult to imagine you falling in love with anybody — if you see what I mean,' she added hastily. 'You're so cool and collected and I'm sure a man would have to be almost perfect to come up to your standards.'
'What a strange idea you must have of me,' said Ianthe. 'I'm just like anybody else in that way. I could fall in love,' she began and then broke off in embarrassment, for now that the opportunity had presented itself she
found it was not so easy to tell Penelope about John. There was not much to tell and a girl like Penelope would think very little of a bunch of violets, tea in a café, and a kiss in public.
'You sound as if you are in love with somebody,' said Penelope, 'but I suppose I mustn't ask who it is.'
Ianthe's silence confirmed her worst fears. Obviously she must be in love with Rupert Stonebird, but as they both knew him it was awkward to discuss the subject further. If only he would come to Rome and put them out of their misery!
16
The next few days passed happily and profitably in a whirl of sightseeing. Churches were reverently admired, views exclaimed over, ruins gave rise to solemn or facetious comments. Feet and backs ached in a good cause and Sister Dew's ankles swelled in the unaccustomed heat. Basil Branche was seen frequently in the distance, but always with the ladies he was escorting. Penelope's scorn for him increased.
'A tame donkey — that's what he's like, letting himself be led about like that,' she said to Ianthe, who was contemplating a slab of marble fallen in the grass. They were spending the afternoon at Ostia, and Ianthe and the two sisters had drawn away from the rest of the party for some feminine small talk.
'Some young men seem to be fated to that kind of life,' said Ianthe. 'I suppose it isn't always as easy as it sounds and we know that it has its disadvantages.' She smiled, remembering what Penelope had told her about Miss Bede ordering hot milk for him in the café.
'I think men should be more — well — manly,' said Penelope in disgust.
'Oh darling, we know they can't always be that, and why should we expect them to be,' said Sophia. 'I'm sure Father Branche is rather delicate, you know. He doesn't look at all strong and it would be a great strain trying to be manly all the time.'
'Miss Bede won't let him out of her sight,' said Penelope. 'I suppose he's like a son to her.'
'We must suppose so,' said Sophia, 'though it's often difficult to guess what a man may be to a woman — age doesn't seem to enter into it.'
'But Miss Bede must be more than twice as old as Basil Branche,' said Ianthe, almost protesting, for she had seen Penelope's disgusted expression when Sophia was speaking and could not forget that John was five years younger than she was.
'I couldn't be in love with a man younger than myself,' Penelope declared.
'But then you're so very much younger than the rest of us,' said Ianthe. 'A man younger than you would be just a boy. When you're older you may feel differently.'
'Yes, Penny, you don't really know what you're talking about,' said Sophia sensibly. 'I don't think it matters at all a man being a few years younger than a woman — provided he's suitable in other ways, of course.'
She smiled as she watched her sister run ahead to where the guide was pointing out a particularly interesting mosaic pavement. In her pocket Sophia had a postcard from Rupert Stonebird saying that he was arriving in Rome from Perugia that evening; she was keeping the news as a surprise for Penelope.
'But when he isn't particularly suitable,' Ianthe continued, her tone almost agitated, when Penelope was out of earshot. 'I mean, doesn't appear to be suitable . . . what then?'
'Well . . .' Sophia felt embarrassed and confused, as if she had heard something not meant to be spoken aloud. 'Perhaps then it doesn't concern anybody but the woman herself — obviously it doesn't. She is the one who must know in her heart whether he's suitable or not, whatever other people may think.' She was remembering that her mother had not considered Mark a suitable match for her, Sophia, the older daughter, though nobody could exactly disapprove of a clergyman. So if Ianthe really fancied Basil Branche — and it suddenly occurred to Sophia that this could be the reason for her unexpected outburst — it was difficult to see why a few years difference in age should be holding her back. And she had no parents to disapprove of her choice or to find him 'unsuitable' in any other way. Sophia was just about to say something that might draw Ianthe out still further, while being at the same time sympathetic and comforting, when Edwin Pettigrew, guide book in hand, came up to them and began talking about the amphitheatre which they were now approaching.
'Remarkable carrying power sound has in such a structure,' he said. 'We must put it to the test. Perhaps your husband will oblige us, being the one most accustomed to public speaking.'
'It will be a new beginning for one of his sermons,' said Daisy. 'Let's run up to the top and see if we can hear him.'
'My friends,' Mark began, 'many of you have no doubt stood in the amphitheatre at Ostia Antica, marvelling . . .' then suddenly he broke off, for Sister Dew in her scramble up the steps to the top had stumbled and fallen and appeared to be unable to get up.
'Sister Dew, are you hurt?' called out Sophia anxiously.
'It's my ankle — something seems to have gone. I can't move.'
'Quick, Edwin, go to her,' said Daisy, 'and see what you can do.'
Edwin hurried to where Sister Dew lay in a tumbled heap. In his veterinary practice he specialized in the treatment of small animals, and the sheer bulkiness of Sister Dew reminded him that his work had been with cats and pet dogs rather than with horses and cows, but he examined her ankle as best he could.
'We must get her to hospital for an x-ray,' he said. 'Something may be broken.'
'But we don't know where the hospital is,' moaned Sister Dew, forgetting to be splendid for a moment. 'I never did like these old places. There should be a notice up saying these steps are dangerous — you wouldn't have this kind of accident in England.'
'Well, there aren't any amphitheatres in England,' murmured Penelope. She could not help wanting to laugh, for Sister Dew looked so comic lying there, and it was even funnier when two burly-looking middle-aged Italians offered to take her to hospital in their car and attempted to carry her shoulder high to the place where it was parked.
'Ought I to go with her?' Sophia asked.
'No, my dear,' said Daisy firmly. 'Edwin and I will go. I should like to see inside one of those hospitals.'
'Well, we can't all go,' said Sophia, sounding relieved. 'And one of those Italians does seem to speak English.'
'She couldn't be in better hands,' said Mark. 'I suppose they will take her to the English hospital? And of course I shall visit her there — if she is detained.'
'Yes, darling — but don't forget that this evening we're going to have dinner in Trastevere,' said Sophia. And without Sister Dew it would really be a more suitable party, if, as she very much hoped, Rupert Stonebird could be persuaded to join them. 'Of course you must visit her,' said Sophia, 'but there's an English chaplain and you must leave him something to do.'
'I expect he has plenty to do,' said Penelope. 'I'm sure English tourists, especially women, are always falling about in ruins and getting taken to hospital. And getting upset by the food and wine, too.'
'And English people are dying everywhere,' said Sophia. 'Rome is full of their bones.' Here lies one whose name was writ in water — she felt she could not bear to visit the English cemetery with Sister Dew.
Back at the pensione there seemed to be some agitation at the reception desk. Rupert Stonebird was trying to explain to the little man in the striped jacket that he wanted a room for a few nights.
'It isn't enough to have read Colucci when it comes to ordinary conversation,' he said, turning to Sophia thankfully. 'Somehow the things one wants to say aren't to be found in that excellent work.'
Behind Sophia he could see Ianthe and Penelope standing side by side. He wäs struck immediately by Ianthe's absolute rightness here — the Englishwoman in Rome — in her cool green linen suit and straw hat. Penelope looked slightly grotesque by contrast, in dusty black cotton, with red sandals on her stumpy little bare feet. She reminded him of some of the women who had been at the conference in Perugia. And yet Penelope was more appealing than these and seemed genuinely pleased to see him. Her dusty little toes amused him, for they were such a contrast to Ianthe's smooth beige linen shoes. When Sophia, tentatively yet someh
ow firmly, put forward her plan for the evening he found himself thinking that it would be fun and was delighted to accept. There had not been much time for romance or even flirtation at the conference. A handsome Italian girl to whom he had been attracted had turned out to be disappointingly serious-minded, wanting from him only a secondhand copy of a long out of print anthropological book which he had promised to look for in Kegan Paul's and other suitable shops. Somehow it had not seemed a promising start to an affair, though it might well have provided a solid basis for marriage. But perhaps it was something lacking in himself that made an attractive woman see him rather as a procurer of secondhand books than as a lover. With this thought in mind he set out for the evening in a rather subdued mood — dark-suited, with his spectacles in his hand. Nor was he encouraged to find that a possible rival — a good-looking dark man some years younger than himself — had been invited to join the party. Sophia addressed him as 'Father Branche', which made Rupert think that he must be a celibate Roman Catholic priest — so perhaps he was not a rival in the true sense of the word after all. Apparently they were fortunate in having his company that evening, since the two ladies he was with had another engagement.
'The Misses Bede are dining with Cardinal Pirelli this evening,' he said, or seemed to have said, for the name 'Cardinal Pirelli' seemed to Rupert at once familiar and unlikely. Yet English ladies in Rome no doubt did dine with Cardinals — it seemed right for both parties for they would have much to learn from each other.
Edwin and Daisy, after reassuring Sophia about Sister Dew's ankle, which was only a severe sprain, decided not to join the others for dinner but to go in search of more Roman cats to feed. Edwin even hoped to get another sight of the Aberdeen terrier he had seen a few evenings ago in the Via Botteghe Oscure. Their absence left a rather suitable party of six to dine at the restaurant in Trastevere. Nicely paired off, Sophia thought happily, dividing the party between two taxis.
'You come with us, Ianthe,' she said, 'and Penny can go with Rupert and Father Branche.'