I did too, said Mr Collins.
Would I know his work? asked Reverend Hyndesight.
I doubt it, Reverend. Lots of nudes. And not all pudica.
He did landscapes, too, said Evelyn.
And nudes in landscapes.
What was that one?
After Titian.
He was heavily influenced by the post-impressionists, I read, said Mr Lugg proudly.
Yes, said Evelyn. Cézanne especially. I met him.
Sleeping Venus. That’s the one, said Miss Everly.
Did you really? asked Mrs Lugg.
And how was he? asked Mr Collins.
Titian? asked the reverend, confused.
Cézanne, clarified Mr Collins.
French, said Evelyn, and everyone said Ah, as if that was description enough.
Evelyn sat back and thought, What a lively table we are.
She looked at the other guests and they were silent and still struggling with their soup. She wondered how they would cope, should they have to chew.
When dinner came to its natural conclusion, the maid began to clear. She manoeuvred herself behind Evelyn and Evelyn could feel the nudge of her body and the faint whiff of sweat as she bent over her shoulder. Evelyn couldn’t take her eyes off her. And as the maid’s hand moved to collect the furthest plates, a shaft of candlelight lit the dark hairs on her arm and Evelyn felt a little light-headed. An empty glass was knocked over and Evelyn instinctively reached for it and so did the maid and their hands touched briefly, and they looked at one another. Vi chiedo scusa, said the maid and she threw a surreptitious wink Evelyn’s way. Evelyn tried to hide her smile but failed.
Share your thoughts, Miss Skinner, said the reverend.
Um, said Evelyn, playing for time. It’s my birthday next week. Am I allowed to say that, or was it—？
Indeed you are, said Miss Everly.
I’m going to be twenty-one, said Evelyn.
Twenty-one!
Maybe the signora could rustle up a roast, said the reverend.
A roast? said Evelyn. I was hoping for something a little more authentic. Maybe a visit to a trattoria full of locals.
The rumble of a delicate Home Counties stomach voiced its protest.
I know the perfect place, said Mr Collins. On Tornabuoni. Open kitchen, charcoal stove stoked by hand. Sparks flying everywhere.
Mr Lugg said that he and his wife wouldn’t be able to join her, should the dubious charms of an illegible Italian menu prevail over the safety of English fare.
We must stay close to home on account of my wife’s condition, he said.
Evelyn said she understood.
（The phrase, however, went around the room as swiftly as a cholera outbreak, and Mrs Lugg’s condition was, of course, understood as pregnancy.） In the days to come, the comments came quietly on the breath: How are you doing, Mrs Lugg? A little sickness?
A little, said the unwitting new bride.
But you must be so pleased?
（This confused her.）
First time?
No, I had a little bout in Venice.
Later, lying in her room, Evelyn was left swooning and breathless by the events of the evening. The attraction she had to the maid, the attraction the maid had to her. Life was unfolding at an extraordinary pace. She could still hear voices in the drawing room below. A faint murmur and a burst of laughter. She knew that at some point in the evening, after she’d left the table, the conversation would have turned inevitably to her father’s mistresses and the so-called ‘arrangement’ in her parents’ marriage. And sure enough, she heard footsteps on the landing, the word ‘mistress’ and ‘money’s on the mother’s side’。 She rolled over and attempted sleep.
The next day. Rain. The smell of woodsmoke crept under Evelyn’s bedroom door as the first hearth fires were lit in the salon below.
In a letter to her father, Evelyn wrote:
My dearest father,
I was awoken by a very dramatic storm last night. Lightning splintered the sky and by morning the Arno was a raging torrent. The sand-diggers cannot work this morning, I fear. I shall miss them. My thoughts turn to the great flood of 1333 …
Evelyn put down her pencil. She had little to say on the great flood of 1333. She stood up from the desk. The sky was marbled violet grey, though the sun was trying to break through. She opened the window and stuck out her hand. The rain had ceased and there wasn’t a moment to lose. She put on her bonnet and hoisted up her skirt. Full pelt down the stairs straight into the arms of the maid. Linen broke their fall, and laughter their embarrassment. They were so close, it would have been rude not to kiss, but— Perdonatemi – No it’s me, I’m the one who’s sorry—
Woss goin on ’ere? said the cockney signora, marching across the landing.