The Malaspiga Exit Read Online Free Page B

looking into a long, cool room and immediately a musty smell intruded. Her heart was racing. A man came towards her, a tall, slim man, pale and smooth, like ivory. The best-looking man she had ever seen in her life.
    â€˜Signorina Dexter?’ I am Alessandro di Malaspiga.’ She gave him her hand and he brought it up to his mouth, without actually touching it. His eyes were black, large, heavy-lidded. After a second’s pause, they smiled at her in keeping with his lips.
    â€˜Please come in; my mother is waiting for you.’ The length of the room was exaggerated in her mind. Afterwards, when she was used to it, it didn’t seem too large. That day it was like a vast corridor: the walls covered with tapestries, a huge table, riotously carved, standing in the centre of it, and round a fireplace, painted, carved and gilded with the Malaspiga coat of arms, she came upon a group of people. There were two servants dressed in white livery. They stood behind a table, which was covered with a white cloth and glittering with silver. In a long chair, her feet raised on a foot-rest, a woman looked up at Katharine and held out a pale hand, flashing with rings.
    It was the same bell-like voice, beautifully modulated. ‘How delightful this is. I am Alessandro’s mother. We talked on the telephone. Do come and sit beside me; let me look at you.’ It was a beautiful face, impossibly white-skinned, with great black eyes that glowed, a mouth painted bright scarlet. Delicate waves of grey-black hair curved from under a wide-brimmed hat, with a wisp of veil falling from the crown. On the left lapel of her black silk dress she wore a pale pink rose. After the first shock of seeing her, Katharine realized that she must be nearly eighty years old. Two other figures rose from a settee; one moved with the grace so natural to Italian women, and Katharine shook hands with a painfully slim girl with a handsome face and coal-black eyes. She wore no makeup except black liner which emphasized the density of her eyes and detracted from fine features and a beautiful mouth.
    â€˜My daughter-in-law, Francesca,’ the old Duchess said. ‘And this is our friend Mr. Driver.’
    She pronounced the English name with emphasis. Her presentation of the young Duchess di Malaspiga had been hasty by comparison. He came forward and shook Katharine’s hand. He was a young man, somewhere in the early thirties, with fair hair and grey eyes, fine teeth—she thought irrelevantly that you could disguise every feature except the magnificent dentistry of the North Americans.
    â€˜Hullo,’ he said. ‘John Driver—nice to meet you, Miss Dexter.’ The accent was Canadian.
    â€˜Sit down,’ the old Duchess suggested again. ‘Close to me, my dear.’ She gave Katharine a beautiful smile.
    Then the servants began to serve tea. It was an extraordinary ritual. Tea was poured from a huge silver pot into cups so small that they contained only a mouthful. Sugar and milk were presented on a silver salver. There were plates of rich pastries and an enormous confection of icing and walnut was solemnly cut and slices passed round. Nobody ate anything, except the Canadian, and the Duke, who took one pastry and left half of it. She was too nervous to eat herself; she finished the tiny cut of tea and sat balancing the cup, wondering suddenly if Ben Harper or Frank had any idea what they were asking her to do when they suggested she get to know her family. Family. It was ridiculous to use the word in connection with these unreal, stylized people. The beautiful, mummified old woman in her picture hat and fresh rose, the impossibly handsome Duke di Malaspiga, his wife with her Cleopatra eyes and sad expression—only the man called Driver was real. He asked for more tea, talked to the Duchess, and watched her with friendly eyes.
    Her cousin the Duke leaned towards her.
    â€˜You have a family resemblance,’ he said.