Free The Villa Triste by Lucretia Grindle Page A

Like a slap. So firm and hard, my eyes watered.
    Issa was watching me – waiting, I suppose, to see what I would do – so I turned and looked up at the Orsanmichele, pretended to be studying the Della Robbia rondels, some of the few pieces of art actually left in the city, because I could not bear for her to see that I would have been the first person to agree with her. To admit that, in all likelihood, it would not have been wise to trust me. Because I was too weak, and too frightened. I always had been. Even before the war, I had not been as strong or as brave as Isabella or Enrico. I had not had noble thoughts or inclinations. All I had wanted to do was marry Lodo and have the sort of dull happy little life that millions of women like me had had for centuries.
    I wiped my eyes with the back of my glove, and turned back to her.
    ‘I don’t see, then,’ I said, ‘why you’re telling me now.’
    ‘Because we need you.’
    I stared at her. And thought of that boy – of poor Massimo with his big laugh and his cold eyes, who was probably also in this up to his neck, but who, no matter how many Nazis or Fascists he faced, would never come up against anyone harder than my sister.
    Snatching the handlebars of the bike, I pulled it away from her and turned towards Via Calzaiouli.
    Isabella waited for a moment, then hurried after me. She placed her hand on mine and pulled me to a stop.
    ‘Don’t!’ I spun around on her. ‘Don’t ask me for anything.’
    Issa took a step back, as if I had hit her.
    ‘It’s one thing,’ I said, ‘if you want to call me an untrustworthy coward to my face – I admit you may be right. But if you hold me in such contempt, you can’t also ask for my help.’
    She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. Issa stepped backwards again, up onto the pavement, and I walked away, not certain where I was going, but so angry I could feel myself shaking.
    In Calzaiouli, not all of the shops were closed yet. People flocked and separated, walked and stopped to look in windows. Life was doing its old imitation of normality. I could feel myself trembling, biting back tears.
    I closed my eyes and wished with all my heart that I could open them and see Lodo walking towards me. He did not want me to be a partisan, or join a fight, or blow up trains, or do whatever it was Issa was going to ask me to do. He just wanted me to be his wife. Because he loved me.
    I felt a hand on my shoulder and jumped. Isabella had caught up with me.
    ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Cati,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. That was wrong, about not trusting you. I’m sorry.’
    I felt my foot falter.
    ‘Is that what Mama and Papa think, too? That none of you can trust me?’
    I stopped and looked at her. She shook her head.
    ‘No. No.’ She shook her head again. ‘I said that because I was angry, because you’d made fun of us, that day on the terrace. And I wanted to hurt you.’ Wisps of her hair had escaped and curled in the damp air. ‘Papa said I shouldn’t worry you. That you have enough to worry about, at the hospital, and with Lodo. He’s right. I shouldn’t have. It was wrong. I’m sorry.’
    ‘He’s known from the beginning, hasn’t he?’
    Isabella waited for a moment, then she nodded. ‘He was – he and some of the other professors. They were helping at the beginning. To organize.’ She was watching me closely as she spoke, knowing how much this would hurt, this additional exclusion. She put a hand on my sleeve. ‘He didn’t want any more risk than necessary. He said not knowing would keep you safer.’
    ‘And what about Mama?’
    I knew I shouldn’t ask it, but I couldn’t help myself. It was like pulling a scab, then pulling it some more when it started to bleed. Issa didn’t answer.
    ‘And Enrico?’ I demanded, remembering how we had stood under the cedar tree. ‘Doesn’t he trust me, either?’
    Isabella shook her head. Then she nodded. In the strange misty half-light, I saw