Chapter 17

The next morning, Lady Violet asked me to carry a few items to the gamekeeper's cottage. The earl had gifted it to her to use as an art studio when the gamekeeper was called up. I carried a canvas and a cloth bag filled with tubes of paint. Lady Violet wanted to start painting again after a period of feeling uninspired, and she blamed the war for this. Her life wasn't affected greatly by the war. Food rationing didn't apply to her or his lordship, or to us servants, and for that I was grateful. Regular supplies of milk, butter, cheese and meat came daily from Home Farm. And Mr Carter, the old head gardener, kept the kitchen garden ticking over with help from Tom and Sam, providing us with vegetables of the season. The orchard supplied apples all year round as they were stored in a cellar, and there was an abundance of wild blackberries to be picked from the surrounding land. The kitchen maids would make jams, preserves and pickles in the still room to ensure nothing went to waste. One experience Lady Violet could not escape – and she complained about it daily – was the sound of the planes and the whizz, bang and thud of bombs being dropped around us. She seemed oblivious to the devastation they caused, and her view of the war was rather blinkered compared to us servants.

We walked down to the lake, designed by Capability Brown in the eighteenth century – Lady Violet had told me one morning while we discussed the view as I brushed her hair – and it was complete with folly, grotto and waterfall. The leaves on the trees surrounding the lake were red, orange, yellow with the advance of autumn, and they reflected in the water. We climbed over the stile onto the grass, the morning dew dampening my ankles above the line of my boots, and entered the bluebell woods through a gate. Leaves, pine cones, conkers and acorns covered the ground. Gunshots could be heard coming from Netley Park, where the Canadian soldiers were based. Birds called out to each other and there was the occasional squawk from a pheasant. We passed a pillbox, one of many installed in the area in case the Hun succeeded in their plan to invade. Lady Violet led me along a narrow path, pushing the undergrowth aside with a big stick until we reached a cottage straight out of ‘Hansel and Gretel'. It was built from red bricks and complete with chimney and two windows with floral curtains on either side of a door. Removing a key from her pocket, Lady Violet unlocked the door, and we went inside to a sitting room, dominated by a vast fireplace and a basket of logs. The floor was covered with a beautiful Persian rug with a red-and-white pattern. There were two armchairs, a chaise longue, a table in the corner and a small stove. A door led to a bathroom with water closet and sink. In the corner of the living room stood an easel with a half-finished painting of a bowl of fruit, and there were brushes and palettes and a number of tubes of paint scattered around. I unpacked the paints and brushes from the bag, placing them on the trestle table beside the easel.

‘What will you paint next, milady?' I said.

‘I must confess that I've always wanted to paint a portrait,' she said, her eyes lighting up.

‘Of whom?' I said.

‘That is the question, Maggie.'

‘You don't know who to paint?'

‘No one in this place inspires me. Servants are all rather bland to look at in their plain uniforms and I have no desire to paint you, despite your impeccable taste in clothes. No offence.'

This didn't bother me as who wanted to sit still for hours on end?

‘What about your guests?' I said.

‘Oh there isn't time to paint them what with all the fun activities we could be partaking in.'

‘You could invite someone to the house especially in order to paint them?'

‘I could indeed, but no one springs to mind, Maggie. I'm used to being in London, and Gatley is a rather dull place with equally dull people, don't you think?'

As she was being especially unkind, I felt obliged to set her straight. ‘You're talking to a London girl, so I can see what you mean about it being quieter here. But it would be unfair to refer to the local community in that way.'

She rolled her eyes. ‘Well, I suppose you do have a point, Maggie. Where will I find my muse in this place?'

I shrugged. ‘Hopefully someone will turn up. In the meantime, you could paint a vase of flowers?'

‘Boring.'

‘Or a country scene?'

‘Maybe.'

That evening, when I was ironing a blouse for Lady Violet, Sam brought me a note.

Meet me tomorrow at 1 o'clock on bench under willow tree by river in Gatley. I bring picnic.

Luca

My heart soared. Luca had kept his word.

‘When did Luca give you this?' I said.

‘I just went to Home Farm to get milk and butter, and he asked me to give it to you. I wrote it for him as he doesn't know how to write in his own language, let alone in English.'

‘That's good of you,' I said.

Aunt Edith had asked me to accompany her to St Andrew's the following morning for the Sunday service. The other servants went to the chapel at Gatley Hall most Sundays, but Lady Violet had given me permission to go into the village. I had planned to walk but, if I met Luca, the time it would take to get back would make me late for Lady Violet after her morning activities.

‘I promised to take my aunt to church in the village tomorrow, but I won't get back in time for Lady Violet if I meet Luca after the service.'

‘Why don't you borrow my bicycle again?' Sam said.

‘That would give me plenty of time. You are a good egg, Sam. Thank you.'

I couldn't wait to see Luca again, and wondered whether he'd try to kiss me. As I took Lady Violet's blouse upstairs, it struck me that it wouldn't be long before Sam told Elsie about my rendezvous with Luca – if he hadn't already – and then the other servants might find out as well. What if I became a laughing stock? Although this thought concerned me, my feelings for Luca were so strong that nothing was going to stop me from meeting him. I'd just have to take the risk and hope for the best.

The following day, I cycled into the village, called on Aunt Edith, and together we crossed the road to St Andrew's.

‘You are a dear, Mags, accompanying me to church,' she said.

Throughout the service, I was so excited about meeting Luca that I sang each hymn with great enthusiasm, especially ‘Morning Has Broken', my favourite hymn of all.

Afterwards, I dropped Aunt Edith home before going to the river to meet Luca. He hadn't yet arrived and so I leant the bicycle on a low wall bordering the towpath and sat down, my heart beating faster than usual. I could almost hear it thumping, and a queasy feeling lurked in my stomach, reminiscent of when I'd been excited growing up about my birthday or Christmas Day. On the opposite bank, leaves on the trees were beginning to turn, and clusters of them floated down the river towards the bridge. A cloud of midges flew into my face, and I swatted them away with a hand, spitting out a couple and wiping my mouth with the handkerchief from my pocket. A couple of ducks larked about, quacking loudly. Planes in a V-formation passed overhead, the now familiar sound ominous. Villagers walked up and down the high street, popping into shops, and the ATS canteen across the road, where Aunt Edith volunteered, looked especially busy, with a queue of people at the counter. A man trudged past with a suitcase, his head hanging low, yet another London evacuee no doubt. A horse and trap passed, the clippity-clop of hooves soporific, the sound taking me back to when Mr Foster had taken me to Gatley Hall only days ago. So much had happened in that short space of time. I'd almost been murdered, and had become infatuated with the man who saved my life. And now we were about to be alone together for the first time.

Luca appeared ten minutes or so late, and propped his bicycle against the wall next to mine, his rear wheel resting on my front wheel. He removed a brown paper bag from its basket. On seeing me, his face broke into a big smile, and he looked more dashing than ever. He wore the clothes of a farm labourer, with a hole in the sleeve of his jersey, but this didn't matter to me one bit.

‘Ciao, Mags,' he said.

‘Hello, Luca,' I said.

He leant down and kissed me on one cheek and then the other – it was traditional where he came from, I understood – before joining me on the bench.

‘I have egg sandwich. Mrs Marshall made.' Opening the paper bag, he took one out and handed it to me.

‘Thank you,' I said.

‘Prego,' he said, taking one out for himself.

We ate. My sandwich was delicious. No doubt the eggs had been collected that very morning. It was uplifting to sit outside by the river and watch life go by.

‘In Italy we say, "Dolce far niente",' Luca said.

‘What does that mean?'

‘The sweetness of doing nothing.'

‘That is a lovely saying,' I said. ‘Where in Italy are you from?'

‘Firenze,' he said. ‘Florence, the English say.'

I had heard of Florence, of course. ‘Oh really?' I said.

‘My family has bakery, the best in the city.'

‘And you know how to make bread, and cakes?' I said.

‘Certo,' he said, and I assumed this meant certainly.

‘What is Florence like?'

‘It is a city of art. There is the Michelangelo statue of David and you can go to the Uffizi gallery with Botticelli pittura of Venus, the goddess of love.'

When he said the word love, I looked away, my face warming, for it would be embarrassing if he knew how quickly I'd fallen for him. It wasn't the done thing to allow a man to know how besotted you were.

How I longed to go to this place with all its art and to eat the bread and cakes from Luca's family bakery. If only it were possible to speak to him in his language. Although I spoke a little French, Italian was different, the words more rounded and voluptuous. And the way these words rolled off Luca's tongue was mind-boggling. How did he get his tongue to make that sound? As he told me about this faraway, dreamy place, I imagined visiting one day. He must be sad to be so far from home, away from his family as well as his own traditions and culture. Being in England must be a culture shock for him, and I hoped that the war would end soon so he could go home. This would take him far away from me, but I couldn't imagine that we had any kind of future.

‘There is Ponte Vecchio – a pretty bridge with houses – and the River Arno where in summer you go' – he made a breaststroke movement with his arms and I said,

‘Swimming?'

‘Swimming, yes. Or…' He then used his arms to show he was rowing.

‘Boating?'

‘Esatto. In Italy, summer is hot, and we try to stay cool. We go to countryside, the mountains, the sea. My family has house in the hills.'

Luca's command of English was competent, but could be improved upon. I wondered whether I should offer to teach him more. Would he be offended or delighted by such an offer? When we'd finished eating, he leant towards me and kissed me on the lips. Although he smelt of a strange mix of cologne and dirt from the farm, it was a kiss I'd never forget as long as I lived, tender and loving. He pulled away from me and looked into my eyes and I saw how long his lashes were.

‘You are beautiful, Mags,' he said. ‘Ti amo.'

‘What does that mean?'

He brushed my face with his fingers, sending a tingle right through me. ‘Love,' he said, softly. ‘I love you, Mags. You are so bella, beautiful.'

Overwhelmed by his words, I didn't know what to say. He loved me? And so soon after our first meeting? How could he know? I was certain that I loved him, so it was possible. Perhaps we were soulmates, and we'd known each other in a previous life or something. Was that how we both knew so quickly?

South London boys didn't waste time on saying nice things before or after kissing you, like Luca did, despite having a far broader vocabulary available to them. He leant forward and kissed me again, this time for much longer, pushing his tongue into my mouth in the most expert way, and I didn't care about passers-by throwing disapproving looks in our direction. When I looked up, an elderly woman in a red hat shook her head and tutted in our direction. Luca threw her one of his beautiful smiles and she scuttled off along the pavement, and then he put his arms round me and pulled me to him, and I inhaled the scent of him. Never had I wanted to be with a man so much. This was a dangerous situation, though as falling pregnant was far too easy. Mother's words sprang to mind; all those warnings about being careful that I'd shrugged off, not expecting ever to feel like this about anyone. My hormones had a mind of their own, and they were directing my decisions, rendering me powerless. I was completely and utterly entranced by him; one might say obsessed in an unhealthy way. Mother had been right; when you were overwhelmed by strong feelings for a man you'd allow him to take you in his arms, because all you wanted was to be with him, to feel his skin against yours. Luca's confidence and swagger gave away that he'd made love to many women. All he had to do was ask me to meet him somewhere quiet where no one would find us, and I'd give myself to him without a second thought.

For now, I needed to go back to Gatley Hall, to complete my sewing tasks, and prepare for Lady Violet waking up from her afternoon nap.

‘I have to go,' I said.

‘We meet again next Sunday, same time?' he said, as if reading my mind.

Thrilled by his suggestion, as it fitted in rather nicely with taking Aunt Edith to church, I said, ‘All right.' Although waiting for a whole week seemed like an awfully long time.

We kissed again, and he wrapped his hand round mine, stroking my fingers in the most seductive way. Reluctantly, I pulled away and went to fetch my bicycle, releasing my wheel from his. It was impossible not to be aware of him watching my every move even though I had my back to him. Sure enough, as I turned to face him and gave him a wave, he was studying me intently, almost unbuttoning my dress with those big chocolate eyes of his. The anticipation of our next meeting sent a tingle right through me as I cycled back to Gatley Hall, unable to wipe the smile from my face. For I was madly in love.