Page 18 of Bloodlines and Birthright

“You won’t have to. I noticed on the ferry into Monteoro that the villa has a private dock. We could hire a boat to row us to it then cross the garden and knock on the front door.” His gaze moved beyond me to the bushes lining the gravel driveway.

I turned but couldn’t see anyone there.

“You!” the guard called out. “Are you the English come about the art?”

Oscar and I exchanged glances. Then we both nodded. “We are,” Oscar said, approaching the gate.

“You are early.” Even as he said it, the guard opened the gate.

We walked through, exchanged small smiles, then kept on walking.

“I should have realized something art related would get us in,” I said. “Brother Eduardo told me that Signore Scala is an aesthete.”

“Are you sure he meant it in terms of a lover of art?”

“His English is excellent. I think he knows what an aesthete is.”

Oscar stayed silent.

“Why? What else does it mean?”

Oscar took a moment to respond. “It’s a word used to describe a man who likes other men.”

“Is it? Oh. I see.” I cleared my throat. “I don’t think Brother Eduardo meant that. His English may be good but it’s not his mother tongue. It’s unlikely he knows that meaning.”

“He might if he’s one, too.”

“Oscar! You can’t go about accusing people of…” I lowered my voice. “…of that.”

“I’m simply chatting to a friend about the complexity of our beautiful language. Now, concentrate on what we’re going to say to Scala. Knowing he may be an aesthete could prove helpful.”

I wasn’t sure how, but I didn’t ask him to elaborate. He seemed lost in his thoughts, while I suddenly became aware of our surroundings. The path from the gate ambled through the ornamental gardens. Sprawling lawns gave way to clusters of huge trees, some I recognized as European, others that looked more exotic. Bees and butterflies danced on the warm air, and insects chirped cheerfully from the direction of the pond, it’s glistening surface just visible through the trees. Up ahead, the gleaming jewel of the villa that we’d seen from the ferry as well as the road up to the abbey, took pride of place amid the verdant setting. Somehow it was both serene and pompous. I couldn’t wait to see what it looked like inside.

Did my appreciation of the villa and its gardens make me an aesthete? Under the traditional definition of someone who appreciated beauty and culture, I certainly was. But what about the alternative definition Oscar, and perhaps Brother Eduardo, had given? Was my appreciation of beautiful things the reason why some mistakenly thought I liked men in that way?

“Impressive,” Oscar murmured as he knocked.

The door was opened by a footman, or perhaps he was the majordomo, who also seemed to be under the impression we were the two Englishmen who’d come early for their appointment. We did not correct him. He took our hats and invited us to wait in the entrance hall while he fetched Signore Scala.

“Impressive,” Oscar said again, as he took in the marble floor and grand sweeping staircase. “I’ve seen something like this in a ladies’ magazine.”

“You read ladies’ magazines?”

“It was India’s copy and I read it while waiting in her drawing room. Do you think those busts are real?” He indicated the heads of what appeared to be Roman emperors set into recessed wall cavities. “They look as though they’ve been dug up from an archaeological site.”

“Surely they’d be in a museum if they were.”

The majordomo returned and showed us through a door flanked by marble columns into another room that was just as worthy of a magazine article as the entrance hall. A gilt framed mirror above the fireplace—made of marble, of course—caught the sunlight streaming through the arched windows and reflected it back into the space. The air was sweetened by the scent of flowers arranged in vases decorated with hints of gold. I breathed in deeply as my gaze skimmed past the majordomo, standing formally by the door, to the paintings of ancient ruins nestled in idyllic landscapes.

I leaned closer to Oscar and whispered, “I think the hotel clerk was wrong. Scala doesn’t appear to be suffering financially.”

“Unless these are all fake,” Oscar whispered back. “Or he has placed everything of worth in this room and the rest are bare.”

The majordomo bowed as a gentleman dressed in a light-colored lounge suit with golden-yellow cravat entered. The newcomer smiled, revealing a set of straight teeth beneath his pencil-thin black moustache.

“Welcome, welcome to my home. I am Pietro Scala.” He took Oscar’s hand and shook it vigorously. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you. Which one is Mr. Fry-Ponsonby and which is Mr. Hoskins?”

Oscar cleared his throat. “We have a confession to make. We are not the gentlemen you were expecting. My name is Oscar Barratt, and this is Professor Gavin Nash. We’re book collectors.”