The Brunellesci Baby. Daphne Clair
‘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