La Trassiera

LA TRASSIERA

- by Natasha Norford

La Trassiera was a sumptuous stone-villa seated high on the craggy cliff tops of the Engadine Valley- styled lavishly, lined with stone, brilliant and serene- proudly positioned above the lake and villages below, and swathes of forest behind.

It slept twelve, sat fourteen, entertained marvellously, and operated entirely without check-in, formality, or room service. It was both hotel and a hideaway- a place you might go a lover, an ancient friend, or entirely alone.

In summer, it was a dream: gorgeous French-fitted doors opened to balconies and courtyards glowing in sunshine, long late frescoes and garden parties carried well into the night- champagne glasses littering terraces and rounds of blue cheese, oysters and pearl, fresh breads and rose cakes ferried in from neighboring Spanish villages and French markets decked it’s platters. It’s patrons wined, dined, read, danced and swam, siesta’d and stargazed.

But it was winter that La Trassiera truly glowed. Windswept and wonderful, rain would glitter over it’s large glass windows, where the villa, cosseted as it was by the surrounding woods and wolds of pine and oak, weathered harsh winds and wild nights with ease- a warm and welcoming stronghold in any tempest. Fireplaces roared with cedar boughs, the libraries, ante-chambers and rooms were scented with pine, mandarin and saxifrage. Red tasseled cushions, Byzantine reliefs, books of poetry and printed tapestries lined it’s walls, drying lavender, alcoves of chess tables for playing and lovemaking- visitors would wander through almost any room or hall, and be lost therein for hours, entirely oblivious to whatever perils lay in the wakes beyond it’s sturdy doors.

***

Such a night of perils it was that, speedily crossing Italy’s northern mountains, whistled a train bearing one young woman to this- her singular destination.

She travelled alone. Silently clutching a small book, she did not read it, instead gazing out at the blinking lights fading over the vast expanses of forest and tillage, she watched the first flickers of snowfall alight over treetops and tilled fields; evening was settling.

Bookmarking a page within her novel, a small, neatly scripted letter was folded. It read as follows:

Ms. Summers,

I write to inform that you have been named recipient of a small fortune, stated in the will and testament of my client Lord Havisham, at his passing, of December 12.

The only daughter and next of kin to his long-serving portraitist, [and perhaps, long-suffering, the lawyer refrained from adding. Lord Havisham was a vain, unpleasant man] your late father, this sum befalls you alone.

Instructions as to it’s lodgement await you on the estate of La Trassiera, in the southern mountains of Switzerland. Enclosed is a ticket to take you there, funds necessary for the journey, for which you are expected to embark on the 8.00 o’clock line, at the station Gare du Nord, December 19 of this month.

For all further enquires, I am yours- ect

Barry, M., Lawyer, of London, Tarney and Assoc.

The train rattled on.

Night had well and truly fallen when, at last, Poppy Summers arrived, the last and final guest of the twelve booked at the grand estate for the weekend. She was escorted up the stairs, down a long hall, and into a commodious set of rooms, wherein a fire lay flickering, a bathtub steamed, and deep damask drapes were drawn against the heavy chill of the night.

The housekeeper withdrew, wishing her a comfortable evening. Alone, Poppy quietly unpacked her portmanau, laying out her bedclothes and curled by the fire, unfolding again the curious summons she had received only two mornings prior.

No more curious a summons had she heard of- none more unexpected. Laying the letter aside, she gazed into the glowing coals, their embers dancing against the stone tiles. What could it mean?

***

Early the next morning, the twelve guests of La Trassiera awoke to snow, laying white and pleated over the hills and heartlands of their residence.

“Fascinating.” The German doctor, standing on the landing and looking out over the expanse, said, shaking his head.

“Quite!” He was joined, almost instantly, by a well-applied, well-dressed woman of middling age (and a recent divorce settlement). “Quite, quite fascinating! Quite a turn, Doctor.”

He nodded again, politely, acknowledging the two ladies, and then quickly excused himself. His door closed, and she looked after him with unconcealed chagrin before turning to Poppy. Giving her a tight smile, the woman then too made her excuses, muttering something of tea and needing it.

At the base of the stairs, Summers met only one other guest- a small, doll-like girl in a checker pinafore, large hair bows, and high socks.

“Hello!” The girl said chirpily, breezing easily past Poppy, pig tails sailing behind.

“Isn’t it magical! Have you seen the snow?” Without waiting for a reply, she shimmied upward, tiny legs navigating each bound expertly.

Poppy eyed her ascent up the stairs with surprise, the girl handled each stair like a gazelle, and had soon clattered down the hall above.

The day passed quietly. At any moment, Poppy expected a call, a note, a directive of some sort as to M., Barry’s, letter and directions. Instructions, he had written, would be provided.

But none came.

Guests passed each other at intervals. By a powder room or at the portico, they might nod, a brief wave, but otherwise they kept to themselves.

They were an eclectic mix of individuals. Beside the German doctor, the well-dressed divorcee, and the pig-tailed girl, there were eight other guests lodging.

Audrey was a classical violinist, single, stolidly independent, and prone to bouts of dark anxiety- but at all times, a brilliant dinner guest, buxom, brilliant and gifted. She had graced the tables, and stages, of many an Austrian, American and French composer, ballet recital and opera gala. There was nothing of sordid, social intrigue Audrey did not know, or care to share. Her tastes were both classical and commercial, high and low.

The family of Mia, Poppy’s friend at the stairs, were a warm, well-connected four. Both parents, successful, professional individuals (banking, and science respectively), regarded highly in their field by peers and competitors alike- had high expectations of their two well-mannered children, of whom Mia the reader has met, and Pierre, the reader has not. Like his sister, Pierre was a confidant, assertive lad of twelve, aware of his elder’s rights over his young sibling (Pierre exercised these with remarkable efficiency), but also of any adult’s over his. Deference to his elders was chief amongst his skill set. Lucas and Bridgette, parents, had done very well in all matters of raising. They themselves were both descendants of hard working Cameroonian emigres’s- and had been instilled with a firm sense of social ethics and family values. No more exemplary, or admirable a family could be found.

Beside these, stayed a young American couple, recently married, and entirely engrossed with one another. They were often seen conferring quietly with one another, over what, none of the others could guess, earnestly discussing some small matter or other. Their whispered discussions and approving nudges were the most interaction they afforded the general group, at any rare moment of crossing.

Rare to descend the staircase at all was Sir Linus , an ancient, wizened man, who seemingly never blinked. Meals were delivered unquestioningly to his apartments (the finest La Trassiera boasted), and in these he kept to himself more than any of the other guests present.

Sir Linus studied a mysterious manual printed in foreign script with intense scrutiny, was rarely without it. The others silently admired his elevated status with great regard, an air of deferential awe was afforded in his presence. All settled on the occupation being either philosopher, writer or scholar. Hans, the German doctor, was most fascinated of all by an occasional sighting of Sir Linus and at each opportunity, attempted to pry out some measure of conversation from the distinguished gentlemen. His every effort was adroitly, and routinely rebuffed- like a great tiger with a small cat, and Hans knew no more of Sir Linus and his past than any other of the occupants at La Trassiera that weekend.

The final remaining visitor to mention was a young man who first spied Poppy’s arrival at the villa on the evening prior through a gap in the balustrades. He had been just his door when a small commotion downstairs drew him outward to watch.

Poppy arrived, flushed and bright eyed, all dark hair and glowing locks. Snow sat on her cap. She was being ushered in by a porter and housekeeper, they were exchanging coats and greetings and luggage in hushed voices and smiles.

Stock still, and strangely stunned, Bryson had never been more transfixed. She was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.

***

It was not until the third afternoon of La Trassiera’s imposed lockdown that slowly, one by one, the guests of the stone villa gathered at last together- and seated themselves at the large, wooden table in the hotel’s glowing kitchen.

The housekeeper poured teas, the group settled, striking up low conversation with mixed result, until, at last, a general bubble of noise rose.

At one end, Bryson eyed the beautiful new arrival with shy fascination. She was speaking with Audrey, of whose loud laughter and rigorous guffaws soon domineered the room. Much the leader of the group, and easily the general commandeer of sparkling social debate, she soon elected, in turn, each of the guests to share their traveller’s tale.

Outside, the light faded. Gloaming settled and fires were stoked, night lights were lit, tea’s were replaced with meats, breads and cheeses.

Some hours later, these were cleared, but the seats did not- conversation ran steadily on. Around 11 pm, Sir Linus made his appearance, grandly occupying the head chair (which was immediately vacated by the good doctor), and silently continued to consult his manual, gazing occasionally over it at his evening’s companions.

At last, turning to Poppy, the group waited for her to share.

Recounting to them the curious set of circumstances that had brought her to La Trassiera only days before, she explained to them her recent and unexpected good fortune, her long and late night train ride through France, Italy and the mountain passes, and finally- her arrival here, deposited as she was, and no more aware of her position than ever she had before.

“My word,” the doctor shook his head. “What a curious tale.”

The others agreed. A mystery indeed! Could it be solved? Could it be understood? Could M. Barry, lawyer be contacted? No, the phone lines were down. The telegraph system outed. After much discussion, and many deliberations by each at the table, a voice at the far end finally spoke.

It was Sir Linus, presumed philosopher, addressing the group.

“The young lady may want to consult the bound book in the study,” he said. “It sits on the desk, beside the pipe stand.”

As the spell of his words fell, the room was silent. And then together, the moment broke, chairs scraped back, the visitors stood and filed boisterously out- one by one through the hall and down to the grand doors of the villa’s study entrance.

Sir Linus did not move, but continued to consult his manual, implacable and philosophical as ever.

And, just as he had said, there lay, beside the brass pipe stand on the study table, a black bound notebook- of which no words read but these:

Poppy Summers, daughter of William Summers, portraitist:

The check to $20, 000. Spend wisely, save well.

Yours,

L. Herod Havisham

A small slip- the amentioned check, fluttered out, and onto the floor.

The guests looked at it, and then each other.

A small fortune lay before them.

What would one do with $20 000?