（Click.）
She was eye-catching, said Evelyn. Astute. Pretty.
（Click.）
Margaret sat back down. How pretty? she asked.
She was a Leonardo, said Evelyn.
Which one?
Lady with an Ermine.
Oh, said Margaret, raising an eyebrow.
Not in attire, of course – mostly black and white in the evenings, white during breakfast service. Very buttoned up, but those were the times, of course. We all were, I suppose – but her skin and eyes. The drape of hair across her forehead. The blush on her cheeks.
It seems you were quite taken with her?
Everyone was taken with her, said Evelyn.
Even Forster?
No, dear. He’s a queer.
Evelyn paused the story. She flicked ash off her cigarette and Margaret watched her intently.
He wasn’t there the night I’m thinking of, continued Evelyn. The night of my birthday. He hadn’t arrived yet.
What was her name? interrupted Margaret.
I don’t rem—
Oh let’s give her a name—
—let’s not—
Something like Beatrice!
For God’s sake, Margaret! It’s not about a name. It’s about a moment. That’s all. It’s not about her name.
Apologees, said Margaret, leaning back theatrically and retreating with the remains of her grappa. Continuez, she said.
Evelyn continued: She knew my birthday was approaching because it had been the talk of our group for days, and although she spoke little English, she understood what we said. A curious worldliness. Saying nothing but understanding everything. And she asked the cockney signora if she could take over the cooking that particular night, to give us all – me really – a feast like no other. The cockney signora was thrilled, of course, and retired early.
Which was no great loss, said Margaret.
None at all, qualified Evelyn. I remember my feelings of excitement as I came down the stairs and— Weren’t you travelling with anyone? interrupted Margaret.
No. Unchaperoned until Rome.
Unchaperoned? How on earth—？
Margaret. Please. We were an unconventional family. Scandal was a rite of passage. May I continue?
Margaret gestured that she may.
Evelyn said, I should have realised that something special was brewing. I walked into the drawing room and there was a hush. Constance Everly was smiling at me and she took my hand and— Constance Everly?
Yes.
The poet?
Yes. Constance Everly the poet, Margaret.
Evelyn sat back, exhausted. She could never get through a story without interruptions.
And? said Margaret.
And what?
Constance Everly took your hand …？
And. Squeezed. It, said Evelyn.
Why are you talking oddly?
In case you want to interrupt again. I’m leaving gaps. Between. Words. So you can slip in, and not disrupt the— Oh just tell the bloody story, Evelyn.
Evelyn laughed. She said, Constance led me into the dining room. Candles were on every surface and running down the centre of the tables were small tubs of Parma violets – so rare, that early in the season – and sprigs of rosemary and the smell was intoxicating. This was a room that had been thought about; the effect it would have on those who entered. And there was wine in large earthenware flagons, and fiaschi on the table – bottles wrapped in straw – and the young woman poured out the wine for me and bade me sit. And the other guests followed and gasped at our moment of beauty, of bellezza. Our night, finally, of Italian authenticity and grace. She fed us a simple pappardelle with a ragù— She probably used the boiled beef, said Margaret.
And rabbit with white beans, and bitter greens that she would have collected from the roadside in Fiesole or Settignano, which she cooked ripassati style with garlic and oil. And when we were all served, out she came from the kitchen and stood in the corner, in the shadows, and watched us eat. Our enjoyment being her enjoyment. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I was twenty-one when this moment was presented to me. The gift was beyond my comprehension. Only later did I come to understand what she was offering.
Oh? And what was she offering?
A door into her world. Priceless.
Margaret poured out another glass of grappa and sipped it. Her mouth was tight. She said, You’ve never told me this story before.
Have I not?
I think I’d remember. Why now?
Yes, why now? thought Evelyn and she said, The rabbit.
The rabbit?
Yes.
Have you not had rabbit since?
And the music.
What music?
The Overture to Spontini’s La Vestale. The signore played it this morning. A simple memory of the Teatro Verdi.