Love Out of Time (Part 2) by Gina Lancaster
Isabella sighed as she lay back on her sofa. The windows were wide open revealing a glorious day. Fine gauze curtains moved in the breeze, and Isabella was grateful that this refreshing light wind blew most of the time here, high up in the mountains. It gave a delicious edge to these hot days. She was not well. Indeed, though she rarely allowed herself to think about it, Isabella did not have many more months left to her in this world.
But she was a pragmatic woman, and she had made all the arrangements necessary to ease her passing, to provide for her grown up family, and for a decent burial when the time came. No need for anyone to worry, least of all herself.
As she lay there, her mind, as often happened these days, drifted back to a time many years ago. As a much younger woman she had needed, and sent for, help with her children. Within a few weeks, a lovely unspoilt young English girl had responded. Her name, which suited her so well, was Rosamund. Indeed her cheeks had the freshness of a young rose newly in bloom, and sometimes when she smiled, a delicate blush would colour them. She had come as an au pair, for a year, to brush up her Italian, but on Isabella’s insistence, had stayed far longer.
At the time, Isabella had been thirty eight, and an important fashion designer in Milan, far too busy to take the children backwards and forwards to school, or make them their packed lunches for midday. This became Rosamund’s job. Rosie, as she liked the children to call her. She played with them after school, helped them with their English, and tucked them into bed at night. They grew to love her. Sometimes Isabella would arrive home to hear shouting and laughter ringing round the gardens. It filled her with pleasure that her children were so happy, but their flushed smiling faces as they ran to greet her, also served to highlight the deep sadness she carried within herself.
Her husband of nine years was a politician. His work took him all over Italy, and often abroad. She rarely saw him now. At some point she had realised that she no longer missed him. Once, oh so long ago, they had revelled in an exquisite passion. He had adored her, and she him. Everything in their lives seemed perfect.
After the children were born, she had needed time to recover, passion had been put on hold, and his job became his priority. Gradually the nights he spent away became more frequent, until he rarely came home at all. At first she questioned him, protesting mildly. But after a while she took up her career once more in the fashion world she had left so willingly for him. For a time, this busy life satisfied her, and she became slowly aware as the children grew, that the great consuming love they had once known, had simply burnt away in the hot Italian sun.
Rosie was many years younger than Isabella. At seventeen she was like a child herself. Her innocence fascinated her new mistress, and Isabella began spending time with Rosie, eating meals with her, and talking with her through the long hours of the evening, when the children were in bed. She discovered that despite her young age, Rosie had a great deal in common with her. She read widely, had a gift for languages, and loved opera and art almost as much as Isabella herself.
A great binding warmth grew between the two.
Isabella fingered her pearls as she thought of Rosie. She was seventy-eight now, with hardly any time left to her. All that was forty years ago. Strange that the presence of a young girl in her life was still so vivid. Yet as she looked out over the ribbon of silver water that flowed through the valley below, Isabella had to acknowledge, that Rosie was the last person she had ever truly loved. Truly loved. The words rang round her mind, and tightened round her heart.
She wondered where Rosie was, what she might be doing? Would she even remember her now? She too would no longer be young. Isabella was suddenly filled with an urgent desire to find Rosie again. Yes, she was unafraid to say it now. Unafraid to finally admit to herself,
that her love for Rosie had been so consuming, strong, so lasting. Since their friendship all those years ago, she had never again been close to anyone. She remembered the passion with which her love had been reciprocated. So intense had their unexpected friendship become, that Isabella felt it could not last..should not last. Three brief years passed like a long sigh of ecstasy. It was all that made life good. Their mutual discovery, so many long conversations, and later, love by moonlight. Oh those nights..... Isabella's breathing deepened as she remembered the starlit skies above them, and the cool grass beneath Yet despite the glory of their time together, or perhaps because of it, Isabella had felt she must let Rosie go. Of course she had missed her instantly. She had missed everything Rosie had brought into their lives, the fun they both had with the children, and the laughter. She missed the laughter most of all. But Rosie was so young, with all her life ahead of her, it seemed right to free her and to let her explore life without Isabella’s heady love for her holding her back.
For a while they wrote long wonderful letters that kept the thread that tied them so closely together, unbroken. Then, as the years rolled by, she heard that Rosie had married, later that she had moved. Later still that divorced, moved again, and slowly they lost touch. Rosie never returned to Italy, saying that if she did, it would be impossible for her to leave again. I should have begged her to return. I should have told her that I longed for her to come back; longed for her to stay here forever, Isabella thought. Isabella knew from her letters, that Rosie had taken a late degree, and become a language tutor at a private school in London. Her subject, Italian, the language in which she had once confided to Isabella, that she now dreamed. She whispered the words as they lay together on the soft newly mown grass beneath the tall windows of Isabella's beautiful drawing room. Together they breathed it the scented air of the summers evening, and rejoiced in these precious moments, murmuring their love.
After the divorce, as far as Isabella knew, Rosie had never married again, but now she knew nothing more of her life. Was she happy Isabella wondered? The more she thought of Rosie, the more urgently she needed to know.
***
Rosie picked up the paper knife, and made herself slit the envelope open. Inside she could see a folded piece of paper. As she drew it out, a photograph fell to the floor. Gathering it up she looked at the picture closely, then hesitating for a moment, she took a deep breath, and looked again. Holding it out under the light she still could not see the people in it clearly. Oh for god’s sake, her glasses were upstairs. She ran up the stairs as though someone was leaping after her and descended again at the same pace. Now breathless, and fraught with an unexpected wash of emotion, something deep beneath the surface stirred. Old deeply hidden memories were trying to help her make sense of these mysterious things. In the heart she had buried years ago, she began to feel that perhaps there was no real mystery here. Just a reawakening. But to what?
***
‘It’s no good. I must find my Rosamund once more before I can no longer command my senses or my person.’ Isabella thought. ‘I owe it to us both.’
She lifted the phone and called directory inquiries to find a detective agency that could possibly track Rosie down with speed. Given several numbers, it did not take long. Soon a very competent and keen young private detective called at her home, and she passed on all the information she had about a girl who had been seventeen forty years ago.
When he had left, promising to start his investigations immediately, Isabella fell to thinking how on earth she would respond if Rosie was found. Of course she would want to remind her in some way of those marvellous few years they had had together, and how precious they had been to her. She remembered how Rosie would often run into the great tumbling garden around the Villa and fill her arms with flowers to delight Isabella. A large vase would be found, invariably that beautiful mossy green stone one with raised handles that gave it the look of a Grecian urn. That would remind her. But a simple stone vase after all these years…she wanted her to have so much more.
Her two children, after all, were wealthy now, her daughter had married well, and her son was an investment banker in America. She rarely saw either of them, and knew they wanted for nothing. They certainly wouldn’t need this small though supremely elegant villa in the mountains. And what would happen to her car when she was gone? Then there were all those beautiful letters she and Rosie had written to one another for years after she had left. The ones she had received had been kept as treasures under lock and key in her personal filing cabinet. ‘I wonder if she kept mine.’
Her mind made up, Isabella decided to make up a parcel for Rosie. If her detective ever found her, he could take her gifts to England and deliver them to her door.
It was difficult walking round the house gathering the things she needed. Isabella had become infirm and weak over the last few months, and tired easily.
The vase was finally found at the back of a dark cupboard in the store-room off the kitchen. It took her two days to find it. I should send her a photograph of myself too. One where I am old, but not too old, so that she can see I am not quite as I was. Is that too vain, she thought? Isabella had once been an extraordinarily beautiful woman, and though she was old, the quiet ghost of her beauty clothed her still. No, I’m beyond vanity now, but I don’t want to shock her with my decrepitude. Slowly and painfully she climbed back up stairs to her room with its large wrought iron balcony overlooking the valley. The river far below, glistened in the sun, and she relished its glory before searching for the old album she knew was hidden somewhere amongst her books. The large oak bookcase, gave up its cache quickly. In the album a cheery photograph of her at about sixty years old, with some friends at a table in a restaurant seemed just the one. She was wearing her double strand pearls, the ones with a hint of rose that seemed to glow in the sunlight, just as Rosie had. And Rosie had loved them. Isabella had worn them constantly when Rosie was here, and had done so, to remind her, ever since. She hoped she would instantly recognise them. Of course she would. She reached behind her head with great difficulty, to unclasp them.
Then sorting through a box filled with glamorous jewels from her days in the fashion world, for the silk pouch in which they had first come to her, she thought what useless fripperies most of these baubles were. But the pearls were different. With infinite delicacy, she poured them into the soft receptacle, and drew the cord . They would be safe in there for Rosie now. She carried them downstairs with great tenderness, ready to parcel up with the vase. Isabella had not made up a parcel for years, and wondered how to pack such a bulky item. All she could find was an old box that had been delivered with an order from the grocery store a week or two back. That would do. Leaving everything ready, and now feeling very tired, Isabella decided to leave things until morning, and climbed slowly and painfully back up the stairs. As she returned to her room, she was surprised by a sense of peace enveloping her, an experience she had not had for many many years.
(...to be continued...)
But she was a pragmatic woman, and she had made all the arrangements necessary to ease her passing, to provide for her grown up family, and for a decent burial when the time came. No need for anyone to worry, least of all herself.
As she lay there, her mind, as often happened these days, drifted back to a time many years ago. As a much younger woman she had needed, and sent for, help with her children. Within a few weeks, a lovely unspoilt young English girl had responded. Her name, which suited her so well, was Rosamund. Indeed her cheeks had the freshness of a young rose newly in bloom, and sometimes when she smiled, a delicate blush would colour them. She had come as an au pair, for a year, to brush up her Italian, but on Isabella’s insistence, had stayed far longer.
At the time, Isabella had been thirty eight, and an important fashion designer in Milan, far too busy to take the children backwards and forwards to school, or make them their packed lunches for midday. This became Rosamund’s job. Rosie, as she liked the children to call her. She played with them after school, helped them with their English, and tucked them into bed at night. They grew to love her. Sometimes Isabella would arrive home to hear shouting and laughter ringing round the gardens. It filled her with pleasure that her children were so happy, but their flushed smiling faces as they ran to greet her, also served to highlight the deep sadness she carried within herself.
Her husband of nine years was a politician. His work took him all over Italy, and often abroad. She rarely saw him now. At some point she had realised that she no longer missed him. Once, oh so long ago, they had revelled in an exquisite passion. He had adored her, and she him. Everything in their lives seemed perfect.
After the children were born, she had needed time to recover, passion had been put on hold, and his job became his priority. Gradually the nights he spent away became more frequent, until he rarely came home at all. At first she questioned him, protesting mildly. But after a while she took up her career once more in the fashion world she had left so willingly for him. For a time, this busy life satisfied her, and she became slowly aware as the children grew, that the great consuming love they had once known, had simply burnt away in the hot Italian sun.
Rosie was many years younger than Isabella. At seventeen she was like a child herself. Her innocence fascinated her new mistress, and Isabella began spending time with Rosie, eating meals with her, and talking with her through the long hours of the evening, when the children were in bed. She discovered that despite her young age, Rosie had a great deal in common with her. She read widely, had a gift for languages, and loved opera and art almost as much as Isabella herself.
A great binding warmth grew between the two.
Isabella fingered her pearls as she thought of Rosie. She was seventy-eight now, with hardly any time left to her. All that was forty years ago. Strange that the presence of a young girl in her life was still so vivid. Yet as she looked out over the ribbon of silver water that flowed through the valley below, Isabella had to acknowledge, that Rosie was the last person she had ever truly loved. Truly loved. The words rang round her mind, and tightened round her heart.
She wondered where Rosie was, what she might be doing? Would she even remember her now? She too would no longer be young. Isabella was suddenly filled with an urgent desire to find Rosie again. Yes, she was unafraid to say it now. Unafraid to finally admit to herself,
that her love for Rosie had been so consuming, strong, so lasting. Since their friendship all those years ago, she had never again been close to anyone. She remembered the passion with which her love had been reciprocated. So intense had their unexpected friendship become, that Isabella felt it could not last..should not last. Three brief years passed like a long sigh of ecstasy. It was all that made life good. Their mutual discovery, so many long conversations, and later, love by moonlight. Oh those nights..... Isabella's breathing deepened as she remembered the starlit skies above them, and the cool grass beneath Yet despite the glory of their time together, or perhaps because of it, Isabella had felt she must let Rosie go. Of course she had missed her instantly. She had missed everything Rosie had brought into their lives, the fun they both had with the children, and the laughter. She missed the laughter most of all. But Rosie was so young, with all her life ahead of her, it seemed right to free her and to let her explore life without Isabella’s heady love for her holding her back.
For a while they wrote long wonderful letters that kept the thread that tied them so closely together, unbroken. Then, as the years rolled by, she heard that Rosie had married, later that she had moved. Later still that divorced, moved again, and slowly they lost touch. Rosie never returned to Italy, saying that if she did, it would be impossible for her to leave again. I should have begged her to return. I should have told her that I longed for her to come back; longed for her to stay here forever, Isabella thought. Isabella knew from her letters, that Rosie had taken a late degree, and become a language tutor at a private school in London. Her subject, Italian, the language in which she had once confided to Isabella, that she now dreamed. She whispered the words as they lay together on the soft newly mown grass beneath the tall windows of Isabella's beautiful drawing room. Together they breathed it the scented air of the summers evening, and rejoiced in these precious moments, murmuring their love.
After the divorce, as far as Isabella knew, Rosie had never married again, but now she knew nothing more of her life. Was she happy Isabella wondered? The more she thought of Rosie, the more urgently she needed to know.
***
Rosie picked up the paper knife, and made herself slit the envelope open. Inside she could see a folded piece of paper. As she drew it out, a photograph fell to the floor. Gathering it up she looked at the picture closely, then hesitating for a moment, she took a deep breath, and looked again. Holding it out under the light she still could not see the people in it clearly. Oh for god’s sake, her glasses were upstairs. She ran up the stairs as though someone was leaping after her and descended again at the same pace. Now breathless, and fraught with an unexpected wash of emotion, something deep beneath the surface stirred. Old deeply hidden memories were trying to help her make sense of these mysterious things. In the heart she had buried years ago, she began to feel that perhaps there was no real mystery here. Just a reawakening. But to what?
***
‘It’s no good. I must find my Rosamund once more before I can no longer command my senses or my person.’ Isabella thought. ‘I owe it to us both.’
She lifted the phone and called directory inquiries to find a detective agency that could possibly track Rosie down with speed. Given several numbers, it did not take long. Soon a very competent and keen young private detective called at her home, and she passed on all the information she had about a girl who had been seventeen forty years ago.
When he had left, promising to start his investigations immediately, Isabella fell to thinking how on earth she would respond if Rosie was found. Of course she would want to remind her in some way of those marvellous few years they had had together, and how precious they had been to her. She remembered how Rosie would often run into the great tumbling garden around the Villa and fill her arms with flowers to delight Isabella. A large vase would be found, invariably that beautiful mossy green stone one with raised handles that gave it the look of a Grecian urn. That would remind her. But a simple stone vase after all these years…she wanted her to have so much more.
Her two children, after all, were wealthy now, her daughter had married well, and her son was an investment banker in America. She rarely saw either of them, and knew they wanted for nothing. They certainly wouldn’t need this small though supremely elegant villa in the mountains. And what would happen to her car when she was gone? Then there were all those beautiful letters she and Rosie had written to one another for years after she had left. The ones she had received had been kept as treasures under lock and key in her personal filing cabinet. ‘I wonder if she kept mine.’
Her mind made up, Isabella decided to make up a parcel for Rosie. If her detective ever found her, he could take her gifts to England and deliver them to her door.
It was difficult walking round the house gathering the things she needed. Isabella had become infirm and weak over the last few months, and tired easily.
The vase was finally found at the back of a dark cupboard in the store-room off the kitchen. It took her two days to find it. I should send her a photograph of myself too. One where I am old, but not too old, so that she can see I am not quite as I was. Is that too vain, she thought? Isabella had once been an extraordinarily beautiful woman, and though she was old, the quiet ghost of her beauty clothed her still. No, I’m beyond vanity now, but I don’t want to shock her with my decrepitude. Slowly and painfully she climbed back up stairs to her room with its large wrought iron balcony overlooking the valley. The river far below, glistened in the sun, and she relished its glory before searching for the old album she knew was hidden somewhere amongst her books. The large oak bookcase, gave up its cache quickly. In the album a cheery photograph of her at about sixty years old, with some friends at a table in a restaurant seemed just the one. She was wearing her double strand pearls, the ones with a hint of rose that seemed to glow in the sunlight, just as Rosie had. And Rosie had loved them. Isabella had worn them constantly when Rosie was here, and had done so, to remind her, ever since. She hoped she would instantly recognise them. Of course she would. She reached behind her head with great difficulty, to unclasp them.
Then sorting through a box filled with glamorous jewels from her days in the fashion world, for the silk pouch in which they had first come to her, she thought what useless fripperies most of these baubles were. But the pearls were different. With infinite delicacy, she poured them into the soft receptacle, and drew the cord . They would be safe in there for Rosie now. She carried them downstairs with great tenderness, ready to parcel up with the vase. Isabella had not made up a parcel for years, and wondered how to pack such a bulky item. All she could find was an old box that had been delivered with an order from the grocery store a week or two back. That would do. Leaving everything ready, and now feeling very tired, Isabella decided to leave things until morning, and climbed slowly and painfully back up the stairs. As she returned to her room, she was surprised by a sense of peace enveloping her, an experience she had not had for many many years.
(...to be continued...)
