‘You’ve employed Ludo Manzo, who beats and mocks them.’
‘Ah. Ludo Manzo. Is he the reason I’m attacked by arsonists, then?’ Leandro’s voice has gone dangerously quiet. Clare swallows. ‘Is he the reason I’m lumped in with all the other masserie?’
‘I don’t know. How can I know? But… perhaps it’s only the case that…’ Clare hesitates. ‘Perhaps it’s only the case that you can’t be on both sides at once.’
‘Ha! It’s strange to hear my nephew’s words coming out of your mouth, Chiara,’ he says.
‘They’re my words, Leandro. You said to me, weeks ago, that down here politics is something that happens to you, not something you can choose to ignore. And you were quite right. These are desperate men, and desperate times, so it seems to me. I don’t see that anybody can remain on the fence. Not even you.’
For a long time after Clare says this Leandro watches her; he’s inscrutable, she can’t tell how he feels or what he thinks, yet she senses hostility, a new chill. Eventually he says:
‘No, you’re right. It’s time I came down off the fence.’ And the hairs stand up along her forearms. It sounds like a warning. Then the aia dogs start barking, their clamour ringing in the still air and echoing from the walls. Four men on horses have arrived at the front gate. There they pause, the horses tossing their heads and stretching out their necks, while one man talks to the gate guard. Then they carry on around to the rear of the complex. Clare and Leandro watch them until they are out of sight below the walls, and Clare feels anxious knots forming in her gut. The men all have rifles across their backs, or holstered behind their saddles. Leandro says nothing; he turns back to his coffee and reaches for his cutlery as Anna brings out a fresh omelette and puts it in front of him. And even though Clare knows she shouldn’t ask she can’t help herself.
‘Who are those men?’
Leandro chews carefully, and swallows, his eyes on his plate.
‘An insurance policy,’ he says, not looking up.
‘Signora?’ says Anna, gesturing to the omelette. Her eyelids are puffy and red, as they have been since Federico died. Clare shakes her head, and the girl goes. She doesn’t even want her coffee. She doesn’t dare ask Leandro what he means, but sweat starts tickling along her hairline, and when she thinks of the coming evening – what she will do, and what will come afterwards – she has a cold, creeping feeling of dread.
All day as they sit, or drink, or read, Clare is gnawed by anxious thoughts. This is what they’ve done every Sunday of the summer, and yet it now seems as though they’re faking it, deliberately killing time, stiff in their roles; as if they all know something’s coming, somehow, though only Pip does. Clare sees more mounted men arriving, and then six others in a mule cart, who clamber out and stand beneath the masseria walls, stretching out their shoulders and backs, some of them joshing each other, some grim-faced and quiet. She paces the roof, watching, powerless. The door creaks and thumps as several of them come into the complex, vanishing into the servants’ rooms and storerooms in the front wing of the quad. After lunch, Clare decides she must warn Ettore. Whatever the purpose of these men is, he thinks the masseria will have its normal handful of guards, and that Leandro is in Gioia. Her prescience of violence is like seeing black clouds gathering upwind, and knowing there’ll be no sheltering from the storm when it breaks. But when she tries to leave, planning to walk into Gioia and warn him, the guard on the front door refuses to let her out.
‘The master… rules nobody to go,’ he says, in tortured Italian. ‘Much trouble. To be safer, inside.’
Breathing too fast, and with her cheeks scorching, Clare can only retreat. Her heart sinks. If she gets the same response that night, at eleven, what then? The only possible hope is that Carlo is on the door, and can be persuaded. She feels close to tears; close to breaking. From the terrace she sees Leandro watching her, and she dithers for a while before setting out across the courtyard. His level gaze is like a searchlight, and Clare does everything she can to clear her face of expression. She goes to sit with Pip in the long sitting room as he finishes the last pages of Bleak House, running one of Peggy’s silky ears between his finger and thumb, again and again. He frowns at the text, and after a while Clare realises that his eyes are completely stationary, and he hasn’t turned the page. Time is rushing on too quickly; she wants the sun to stay up for ever, and the night to never fall.
And then, of course, with Leandro and Boyd in residence dinner is later, the whole evening longer. Without them, Pip, Marcie and Clare would likely have retired by eleven, for want of something else to do. Sick to her stomach, Clare barely touches the food. Full dark falls and it is nine o’clock, then ten, and they are all still at the table on the terrace surrounded by sticky little glasses and various bottles of liqueur, with smoke from Leandro’s pipe clinging to their skin and hair. There are tremors in Clare’s bones – like after Francesco Molino was beaten, like after Federico attacked her – juddering up through muscle and blood, her own personal earthquake, and she can do nothing to stop it. It’s half past ten when they finally quit the table and go down to the sitting room, and Clare walks close to Pip.
‘Go to your room now,’ she whispers to him, and he stiffens.
‘Do you really think they’re coming?’ he says.
‘I… I don’t know. I hope not.’ She has the wild thought that they’ll somehow have heard about the extra men arriving, or at least that Leandro is here. That they’ll call it off. ‘I don’t know,’ she repeats. ‘But just in case. Will you go, please? And lock the door. I’ll come up and join you soon.’
‘All right.’ He gives her a look then; a strange, appraising look, quite alien to him. Startled, Clare says nothing else.
She almost gasps in relief when Marcie excuses herself minutes later, yawning conspicuously.
‘I’m done in. I think I’ll hit the hay,’ she says, taking Leandro’s hand and smiling as he kisses her knuckles. ‘And I’m sure you boys can’t wait to be shot of us so you can discuss business and broads. Will you be up for hours?’
‘It’s not true! And no, honey, not hours,’ says Leandro. Clare carefully doesn’t look at him. She stoops, gives Boyd a brief peck on the cheek.
‘I’ll go too,’ she says, flushing when nerves turn the words shrill. She wants to take a deep breath, wants to steady herself, but she can’t seem to exhale properly. Boyd reaches up and cups her neck gently for a moment, and she’s sure he must be able to feel her pulse thudding.
‘Good night, darling. I’ll be right behind you.’
‘Walk me up, Clare?’ says Marcie, proffering her arm. ‘What’s bothering you?’ she says softly, as they climb the stairs. ‘Come on now, I can see there’s something.’
‘I…’ Clare’s mind goes blank. ‘I think perhaps… perhaps I may be in the family way, after all,’ she says desperately. There’s a startled pause and then Marcie laughs. It echoes up and down the stairwell, and has a sardonic edge that jars Clare with instant suspicion. ‘Is that funny?’
‘Oh, no! I mean – well, I’d thought it was something awful!’ Marcie gasps, dabbing at her eyes. ‘Why should that make you look as though you’ve the weight of the world on your shoulders?’
‘Well, I… I’m not sure how Boyd will take the news.’
‘Oh, I bet you’re not!’ says Marcie. Clare stops climbing. Beneath her hand Marcie’s arm is smooth and slender, but strong.
‘What do you mean by that, Marcie?’ she says. Marcie’s smile lasts a second longer, and then it vanishes. Her eyes are unreadable.