The Brunellesci Baby

He turned from her and buried his face in his grandmother’s bosom, one tiny hand clutching at the shiny silk, roundly rejecting the overture.

Letting her hands fall, she felt exposed, and at a loss what to do.

Then Zandro was at her side, holding out a glass to her, his eyes commanding, willing her to take it. ‘Your gin and tonic,’ he said. ‘Drink it.’

His voice was low, with a rough edge. He took her arm and led her to a couch, where she wrapped both her hands about the glass he had pressed on her. It was cold, ice clinking as her hands trembled.

Of course Dominic didn’t recognise her. Her head knew that but unthinking instinct, the primal tug of a bond he couldn’t be expected to sense, and which had taken her unawares, had led her to make that futile gesture.

Zandro didn’t say I told you so. He sipped from his beer and told her, ‘Nicky’s often shy with new people at first. But curiosity will get the better of him.’

As if to reinforce the remark, the baby turned his head until one eye could find her. When he saw her looking back at him he immediately hid his face again.

Zandro laughed, but she didn’t join in. Her throat hurt too much.

She hadn’t known she would feel such emotion, like a warm flood tide. Children had been something she’d vaguely looked forward to in the future, before she found out about Dominic. The sensation on finally being confronted with a living, breathing baby had been something of a shock. He’d instantly become a person—a tiny person who was her responsibility. Someone she must love and care for.

Again she vowed to do that, to make any sacrifice he needed from her.

Mrs Brunellesci was looking down at him, stroking a heavily veined hand over the soft curls, murmuring something to him in Italian.

She loves him.

The thought was like a cold shower. She ought to be glad, even grateful. If Zandro saw Dominic as a responsibility, an obligation, and the old man regarded a grandson as some kind of insurance for the future of his company, at least one member of the family had given the baby genuine affection. And he loved, trusted his grandmother.

But I have to take him away.

Doubt entered her mind, whispering like a malevolent goblin. Is it fair? Can you do that to him—to her? Should you? Her stomach made a sickening revolution.

The gin was blessedly steadying. Zandro had been quite heavy-handed with it, light on the tonic.

Mrs Brunellesci asked in a heavily accented voice, ‘Your room, is all right, Lia?’

Trying to smile, she said, ‘Yes, fine. Thank you for letting me stay.’

‘Zandro says you wish to know your son. He says you have a right.’

He did? Her gaze went involuntarily to him. Again she could feel that indefinable masculine charge that seemed to hum around him.

A muffled thump drew her attention to his father. Domenic stood scowling, leaning on his stick with both hands, and as she watched he lifted it a little and brought it down again with another thump.

Zandro got up. ‘Please sit, Papa, and I’ll get you another drink,’ he offered, guiding his father to a chair.

Domenico shook him off, saying something explosive in Italian before sinking into the armchair.

Apparently unruffled, Zandro grinned, and fetched a glass of rich red wine for his father, who accepted it with a grunt and continued to scowl while he drank it.

Zandro didn’t sit down again, prowling about the room while he finished off his beer, then placing the empty glass on the drinks cabinet.

Dominic lifted his head at last from his grandmother’s protection and looked around. He wriggled down from her lap, sliding to the floor, and then on hands and knees made a beeline for his uncle.

Zandro bent as the baby drew near, picked him up and swung him high, big hands firmly holding the little boy’s body under his gleefully waving arms. Dominic giggled, and Zandro smiled up at him. He lowered the child into his arms and unselfconsciously kissed a fat cheek.

It was astonishing. Nothing in what he’d said had hinted at genuine fond feelings for his nephew.

Dominic raised a hand to pat his uncle’s face, poking a finger into his mouth. Zandro growled, pretending to relish the finger, making smacking noises with his lips, and again the baby giggles pealed.

This wasn’t as she’d assumed it would be. She felt oddly panicky.

Zandro, the baby still in his arms, strolled over to her, taking his time. He sat beside her, settling Dominic on his knees.

The baby stared solemnly at the other occupant of the sofa and Zandro said softly, ‘Nicky—this is your mother.’

‘Ma?’ He turned to his uncle again.

‘Mother,’ Zandro said. ‘Mo-ther. Mamma.’

‘Ma-ma.’ Dominic giggled some more, then struggled upright to stand on the man’s knees, exploring his face with inquisitive fingers. He lost his balance and Zandro caught him, settling him again.

This time the little boy regarded the strange woman for longer, and finally stretched out a hand. She lifted her own and he curled his around two fingers with a surprisingly strong grip. Something happened to her heart—as if those baby fingers had squeezed it too.

The nanny appeared in the doorway and briskly entered the room. ‘Time for bed?’ she said, spying her charge, and Dominic dropped the fingers he held, wriggled from Zandro’s hold and took off towards his grandmother.

The nanny snatched him into her arms, laughing, and held him while Mrs Brunellesci gave him a kiss, then Domenic did the same.

Zandro stood up as they approached him. ‘Barbara,’ he said, ‘this is Lia Cameron, Nicky’s mother. Barbara Ayreshire, Lia.’

The woman looked only slightly surprised, perhaps already forewarned. ‘Hello.’ She smiled. ‘He’s a bonny boy, isn’t he?’

‘Yes.’ Impossible to say any more, although she ought to congratulate the woman on how well Dominic had been looked after, tell her she was pleased, thankful.

But she couldn’t do it. Rage and resentment surfaced. It wouldn’t be fair to take it out on Barbara, who was only doing—and doing well—a job that she was paid for. A job that should have been done for nothing but love, by Dominic’s own mother.

Barbara Ayreshire joined them as they sat down to dinner, placing a baby monitor on the long sideboard. She was at Domenic’s right, beside Zandro, while the elder Brunellescis took the head and foot of the table. Which left a chair on Domenic’s left for Lia.

She was conscious throughout the meal of the old man’s unbending demeanour, although he poured wine for her and passed her butter and salt; and of Zandro sitting opposite her, his nearly black eyes enigmatic when they clashed with hers and held them for moments at a time.

Refusing to lower her gaze, to meekly accept she was an unwelcome spectre at the feast and pretend she wasn’t even there, she stared back at him each time until someone claimed his attention, or the housekeeper laid another dish in front of him and he turned to thank her.

Mrs Brunellesci occasionally addressed a remark to Lia in her richly accented English. Had she had a good flight from New Zealand? What was the weather like there? How much was the time difference?

Poor woman, she was doing her best. It was a relief to turn to her and try to conduct an ordinary conversation.

The nanny inquired which part of New Zealand their visitor was from—oh, Auckland? Barbara had visited the city, also some tourist spots—Rotorua’s boiling springs and the equally popular Bay of Islands in the north. ‘What a beautiful country it is.’

Even Zandro spoke to her several times, concurring with Barbara’s opinion, asking if Lia needed sauce for her dessert, commenting that one of the cheeses presented after that was from New Zealand. He sliced off a piece, holding it out to her on the cheese knife.

She took it because it would look ungracious if she didn’t, placed it on a cracker and nibbled until it was gone. But surely they were all glad when the meal was over.

Coffee was served in the front room. While the others sat down, Barbara took her cup and excused herself, leaving with it in her hand. It would have been nice to follow suit.

‘Lia?’ Zandro stood before her, handing her a cup. ‘I’ve sugared it for you.’

‘Thank you.’ He’d remembered how she liked her coffee. That should perhaps have made her feel less alienated. Instead she was bothered. He was too observant, those gleaming impenetrable eyes not missing anything. And too often they were fixed on her as if trying to gauge her thoughts, delve into her deepest secrets.

Of which she had at least one too many. If he found her out she had no doubt there would be hell to pay.

She drank her coffee quickly and stood up. ‘If you’ll excuse me…’

‘You must be tired.’ Mrs Brunellesci’s understanding nod failed to hide her relief. ‘It’s two hours later in New Zealand, you said?’

Zandro came to the door with her. ‘Goodnight, Lia. If you need anything Mrs Walker will take care of it.’

She wouldn’t have dreamed of disturbing the housekeeper, but she nodded and said, ‘Thank you.’

Going up the stairs, a faint tingling along her spine convinced her that his too-perceptive gaze was still on her. It took an effort not to look back when she got to the top, to keep walking until she reached the relative safety of her room.

She wasn’t going to be cowed by him, or anyone.

Which room, she wondered, had they assigned to Nicky? Already she’d begun to use the family’s diminutive. It had jarred at first that he bore a nickname unknown to his own mother. But it suited him, the name he’d been given for his grandfather’s sake too burdensome for such a small person. Perhaps in time he would grow into it…and become as insensitive and judgmental as the other males in the household?

‘Not if I can help it!’ The words, spoken aloud, echoed in the big room. Despite the heat outside, she shivered. Tonight Rico’s family had been indulgent towards their youngest member, even tender and loving. Babies could be allowed to be babies. But when he became a young boy and then a man, wouldn’t he inevitably suffer as Rico had, relentlessly pressured into the family mould, bullied and browbeaten until he either knuckled down and accepted his fate, or rebelled?

Rico had rebelled, but the shadow of his family had always been there during his all-too-short time with Lia, when the two of them had lived in their own closed, defensive world.

Zandro had intruded in person on that world, breaching the cocoon they’d made for themselves. He’d looked at Lia with contempt, scarcely acknowledging her existence, and talked to his brother about family honour, about obligations, about their parents’ disappointment at Rico’s ‘ruining his life.’ About a place being ready for him whenever he came to his senses and returned to his home and family. And the sooner that happened the better.

‘It’s emotional blackmail!’ Lia had said later. ‘Don’t listen to him. He’s trying to make you feel guilty, manipulate you.’ She couldn’t believe Zandro had any feelings of his own. His eyes had been frosty, his expression barely hiding distaste—for her, and for the small flat that she and Rico shared, so different from the palatial home Rico had fled and swore he’d never go back to. And for the lifestyle they’d chosen, living for the day.

It had been, no doubt, feckless and irresponsible. Zandro had certainly thought so. He’d warned that Rico’s generous allowance could be cut off if he persisted in ‘this idiocy.’ Lia was convinced he was taking a perverse pleasure in the threat.

She’d made some sound of protest, clutched Rico’s arm to support him in his defiance, and Zandro had turned his inimical gaze on her, his lips curling in a way that made her cringe. ‘Your girlfriend,’ he’d said, looking at Lia but speaking to his brother, ‘wouldn’t like that. Do you think she’ll stick around when you have no money?’ Making it obvious that he thought he knew the answer…

That was when Rico had told him to go. For once standing up to his older brother. Defending Lia.

Breakfast, Mrs Walker had said, rattling off information that she was obviously accustomed to giving guests on their arrival, was served at seven-thirty. ‘Before Mr Zandro goes off to the office. But I can do something for you later if you like.’

‘No, that’s fine.’ Putting an extra burden on the household help would be inconsiderate. And although here under sufferance, inevitably she would come face-to-face with the family sometime during the day. Was Nicky allowed at the breakfast table?

With five minutes to spare she left her room and was arrested by the murmur of Barbara Ayreshire’s voice from one of the other rooms along the passageway, and Nicky’s incomprehensible burble.

Turning away from the stairs, she followed the brass-edged carpet runner to the source of the sound, finding a half-open door and pushing it wider.

A blue cot with rumpled bedclothes occupied one corner of the room. Above it a clown mobile hung, and the ceiling was blue too, with painted animals peeking from behind misty clouds.

The nanny stood before a changing table near the cot, obscuring the baby. When she picked him up he looked over her shoulder directly at the doorway. ‘Duh!’ he said, pointing.

The woman turned to the newcomer. ‘Oh, good morning, Ms Cameron.’

‘Good morning.’ Her eyes were on the baby. ‘Please, call me Lia.’ She hoped it sounded casual, friendly. The trusting way the baby snuggled close to the nanny evoked an unfamiliar emotion. One pudgy hand was clutching at the white collar of the woman’s polka-dotted pale pink dress, his cheek resting on her shoulder.

‘Would he come to me?’ she couldn’t resist asking, walking forward slowly so as not to alarm the child.

‘I don’t know. He might remember you from last night.’

This time there was no audience except the nanny to see if he rebuffed her. She held out her arms, said quietly, ‘Nicky?’

He turned to look up at Barbara, who gave him an encouraging smile. ‘That’s your mummy,’ she said, earning for herself, although she couldn’t know it, a rush of gratitude. ‘Do you want to give her a cuddle?’

The little boy looked back at the inviting arms extended to him, then stretched out his own, and the nanny relinquished him.

He was surprisingly heavy, curving into her careful embrace. Warm, and smelling of shampoo and baby powder and…baby, she realised, inhaling the sweet, clean scent. He leaned against her breasts and took a fistful of her hair, gazing at her with gravity, as if trying to memorise her features.

Maybe a subconscious part of his baby mind recognised them from an earlier time. Did she seem dimly familiar to him after all? And surely a trace of likeness to her own face was discernible in his?

Then he smiled, a wide grin making several small white teeth visible, and she felt tears pricking the back of her eyes. Memories both happy and sad floated through her mind.

He was a lovely baby, and it wasn’t fair that he’d been deprived of his mother, that she’d missed out on the changes of the last ten months, not had the pleasure of seeing his first real smile, hearing his first laugh, discovering his first tooth, watching him learn to crawl as he did so efficiently now. Missed, too, his birthday, by several weeks.

Who were the Brunellescis to decide that a child was better off without his mother? Lia might have been inexperienced and penniless, but the first she could have overcome, and the second had been well within their power to correct, for the baby’s sake.

Instead they’d taken him away from her. Left her to fend for herself as best she could.

That wasn’t love, it was an exercise of naked power.

The baby tugged at the strand of hair he held, and Barbara said, ‘Careful, Nicky!’

‘It’s all right.’ Gently unwinding the clinging fingers, holding the warm little hand in her own, smiling forgiveness, she couldn’t resist kissing a smooth, rounded cheek.

Nicky ducked and then gave her a mischievous grin, a sly sideways glance. He presented his cheek to her and when she puckered her lips dodged again, making her laugh. It was a game he obviously enjoyed.

‘Little tease,’ Barbara said cheerfully. ‘He’ll give the girls a hard time when he grows up.’ She checked her watch. ‘Are you going down for breakfast?’

‘Yes, I was. Are you?’

‘Nicky and I have ours in the kitchen. His table manners leave something to be desired—don’t they, young man?’ Deftly the nanny removed the baby to her own arms.

So he wasn’t tolerated at the family table? Banished because he might make a mess and spoil their coldly formal meals? It was tempting to ask, Can’t I join you? That would be a lot more comfortable than eating with the grown-ups. But she supposed if she offended the elder Brunellescis it wouldn’t help her case.

When she went down the three of them were already seated in a glass-walled conservatory off the dining room, reached by a shallow flight of steps. Plants hung on the walls, and the round marble table was ringed by four white-painted cane chairs with padded fabric seats. Another two chairs had been put aside in a corner. A tea trolley held cereal, bread, salami and cheese, a pot of jam and one of honey.

‘I’m sorry if I’m late,’ she said. Zandro rose from his chair and pulled one out for her, offered coffee from a pot on the trolley. As she took the chair, Domenico lowered the newspaper he was reading, nodded his patrician head and raised the paper again.

His wife looked apologetic. ‘Buon giorno, Lia.’

Zandro poured her coffee. ‘Did you sleep well?’ His voice was coolly courteous. Making conversation but not as if he really cared. He sat down again and passed the sugar bowl over as she murmured, ‘Yes, thank you.’

‘If you would like toast or a cooked breakfast—’

‘I’m not very hungry first thing in the morning.’ She reached for the corn flakes on the trolley, shook some into the bowl before her and picked up the white china jug to pour milk on them. Her hand, she noted, pleased with her composure, was steady.

His eyes inspected her, taking a leisurely but dispassionate inventory of her upper body. ‘You were very thin…before.’

Mrs Brunellesci said unexpectedly, ‘Too skinny. Domenico!’ She turned to her husband and he lowered his paper again. ‘Lia looks good now, you think? More healthy. A woman should look like a woman, is what you say, hey?’

He directed an icy, reluctant stare across the table. ‘Better,’ he agreed, before folding the paper noisily and laying it aside to take up a cup of coffee.

Zandro’s mouth twitched, a muscle moving near his jawbone. He was trying not to laugh.

That the man had a sense of humour at all was a revelation. And the fact that he could find his father amusing was a kind of comfort, making Domenico seem less formidable.

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