Would you believe it? You start off doing someone a favour, not so much as a thought for your own interests, then, before you know it, the whole thing backfires and you end up in this mess. Typical!
Claudia’s mouth turned down at the corners. All right, all right, maybe the word ‘favour’ was not strictly accurate. A letter had arrived from her bailiff, urging her to visit the estate immediately and without delay, so theoretically, if you wanted to be pedantic, you could argue that this was in her own interests. They were her vineyards, her problems, if you like-but a bailiff’s job is to run the estate, smoothly and without fuss, isn’t it? Therefore it was a measure of how seriously Claudia Seferius took her new obligations that she actually did set off at once. Heaven knows it was one hell of a sacrifice. She’d have given her right earring to stay in Rome for the processions and the dances and the gladiatorial games, but, alas, with wealth comes responsibility-and was she a girl to shirk hers? She was not.
On the other hand, a voice inside her had argued, there was no reason why you can’t cut a few corners. And Claudia was all for listening to a balanced argument…
Necessary as it might be to visit Etruria, equally she could see no reason why she should not be home again before the spring equinox and the subsequent rush of wall-to-wall festivals. Grabbing her cat, her bodyguard and the merest essentials, that same afternoon she rented a driver and gig from the nearest stand and set a cracking pace along the Via Flaminia. Since this was the main road linking Rome with the Adriatic, progress had been swift and she had not so much as hesitated when, at Narni, the road swept east. Claudia simply swept north. And that was when the trouble began.
Because, instead of being ensconced in her villa by now, albeit digesting some dreary report on what damage winter had inflicted on the poor vines or sidestepping her late husband’s odious tribe of relatives, she was stuck in this godforsaken backwater.
‘Drusilla?’ She twizzled her neck to crane out of the window. ‘Is that you?’
It was not. The rustle that she’d heard was a hedgehog, stretching its stubby post-hibernatory legs, and Claudia chafed her upper arms. They say spring comes early to Umbria, and she’d seen for herself how the almond blossom was almost past and the corn was standing tall, but all the same it was really too cold to stay at this window much longer, and yet The new moon, so thin it had to lie on its back to support itself, was rising between two dark wooded hummocks but, below the skyline, fog rose steadily and when you held the lamp to the window, a fleecy wall glowered back at you.
Dear Diana, it’s like staring into Hades. Only noisier! Good grief, you come to the country expecting peace and tranquillity and what do you get? Billeted next to a bloody great zoo, that’s what. And they have the cheek to say Rome’s noisy! Well, it might get rowdy in the streets from time to time and the pavements might turn mucky in the rain, but at least you don’t find yourself sleeping alongside half the African jungle. Brawlers, beggars and bawds you get used to. The stonemasons’ hammers, the creaks of the cranes, the cobblers’ lasts-that’s civilization with a capital C. But out in the country one expects no more than leaves tousled in the wind, perhaps the odd bark of a fox, not this constant succession of bloodcurdling howls and menacing growls, and certainly none of these formidable pongs.
‘’Night, miss.’
Claudia’s heart flipped a backward somersault and landed awkwardly as two security guards emerged from the gloom.
‘Goodnight.’ Her reply was a trifle croaky, but the fog, which plays tricks anyway, had gobbled them up again.
She counted to twenty then whistled two or three piping notes repeatedly. A horse doctor from Tolosa once told her that a cat had over thirty muscles in its ear, enabling it to detect the highest squeak of a dormouse, the shrillest trill of a warbler. Surely Drusilla could hear this? Claudia waited, gooseflesh creeping over her shivering frame. Nothing. Not a sign. Only when her teeth began to chatter did she drape her tunic over the sill and close the shutters, one reluctant leaf after the other, her cheek pressed against the polished beech long after the two big bruisers had finished their rounds.
