by Iris Danbury
She was at the foot of the stairs when she heard the receptionist call ‘Mrs. Sanderby!’ Mrs. Sanderby. It must be a mistake, the clerk was calling Kent. Althea had checked herself on the last step and her blood froze as a girl, small and dark-haired, came to the reception counter.
‘Oh, Mrs. Sanderby, this came for you this afternoon,’ the clerk was saying, as she handed the girl a large envelope.
‘Thank you very much.’ The girl called ‘Mrs. Sanderby’ was the same girl that Kent had introduced as Jennifer Holroyd, the girl on whose left hand sparkled an engagement ring.
Slowly Althea forced herself to walk towards the reception counter. ‘I’ve decided to leave tonight—at once,’ she said. ‘Please let me have my bill.’
The reception clerk momentarily stared at Althea, then said quietly, ‘Yes, madam, I’ll attend to it at once. You’ll be staying for dinner?’
‘No, I won’t wait.’
‘Not bad news, I hope?’ The middle-aged clerk spoke sympathetically.
‘Nothing like that.’ Althea’s words came through frozen lips. ‘I’d like to leave within half an hour.’
She turned blindly and reached her room. Perhaps in some other circumstances she might have flung herself on the bed and sought the relief of a good cry, but there was no time now.
She began to pack her suitcases, gathered the oddments from dressing-table and chest of drawers. Her hands moved quickly, blindly, acting for themselves, for her brain refused to function.
Kent had humiliated her on previous occasions, but never like that occasion today. To come to this inn, knowing she was here—well, there was possibly no harm in that, tactless though it might be. But to hold her in his arms, to kiss her, receive her own kisses in return, pretend that she was all the world to him, when all the time he had been playing a double game. What did he expect to gain by such colossal pretence, unless it was to bolster up his own conceit?
Was it not enough for him that he had brought this girl, Jennifer, here as his companion? Was she fiancée or wife? The hotel register had lain open on the desk when Althea was speaking to the clerk. There, plainly enough, in searing letters was the scrawled ‘Mr. and Mrs. Sanderby’.
Althea could not really believe that the events of this afternoon had happened to her. They must surely all be pan of an illusion. Yet the warmth of Kent’s body had seemed real enough when he held her close to him.
Cold reason told Althea that there was no illusion. The only illusion had been that she had believed in him, in spite of her own common sense. She had allowed him to deceive her and more fool she!
Kent was a man who could not be satisfied with one woman. He must have a string of conquests. Even Jennifer could not wholly claim him. In the midst of her own anger, Althea felt a slight touch of compassion for this other girl who would eventually find that it was not safe to let Kent go out for a walk on the hills without flirting with someone else. He could even humiliate Jennifer and approach Althea with a smile on his face and selfishness in his heart.
Althea hoped that she would not come face to face with Kent before she could escape from the inn. She telephoned for her luggage to be taken down, cautiously approached the reception, paid her bill as quickly as possible and went out to the garage.
She had not bothered to check oil and petrol and hoped she could get as far as Callander without incident. Her luck at least held here and she also realised that she had eaten nothing since the packet of sandwiches she had taken on her day’s excursion.
She had no appetite for a meal, but had the sense to know that she must have food if she expected to continue to Edinburgh, where she had originally hired the car. She did not expect for a moment that Kent would come chasing after her. He had Jennifer as his evening companion. Althea had merely been someone unexpectedly handy for the late afternoon.
As she ate her solitary meal in the small hotel at Callander, she remembered all that Kent had said. Most of all, she reflected on what he did not say. He had not even mentioned the word ‘love’. At least he had not pretended to love her.
She recalled his words about Carla being at the stage ‘where she falls in and out of love with whatever man happens to be handy and gives her a friendly smile.’
How accurately those words might apply to herself! At what point had he ever given her any indication that he wanted her love? She had fallen in love with him unasked, even unencouraged. She had made yet another conquest too easy for him, but she had no right to blame him for not loving her. Only this last shameful encounter rankled in her mind. Well, it was all over now. Married or only engaged, Kent would never be her concern.
CHAPTER TEN
Winter in Capri was an enjoyable way of spending those months which in England would have been a succession of rain, cold winds and perhaps considerable snowfalls. The island grew quiet and the steamers brought only a handful of passengers. The Piazza Umberto was comparatively clear and no longer thronged with visitors.
Althea and her father had a few busy months before them when she arrived back at the end of October. The shop had to be fitted and decorated and furnished, and quite often she despaired that it would ever be ready on time.
‘I think it will be ready about three years’ hence,’ she grumbled to her father one morning when so little progress had been made.
‘Patience, girl,’ he advised. ‘Don’t you realise that we’re competing for the available labour? Capri doesn’t just hibernate or go to sleep in the winter. Everyone’s busy making ready for the next season.’
That was true, as she soon found out. Souvenir shops might be shut until next April, but the owners were not idle. Trinkets had to be made, new supplies ordered. Even Domenico who kept the cafe in the village spent a large part of his spare time on marquetry work. She called at the cafe one morning and found him at a table in the corner engaged on a representation of the Marina Piccola with the jutting headland and the Faraglioni rocks.
‘Sorry to disturb you, Domenico,’ she said.
‘No trouble.’ He rose at once to pour her a cup of coffee.
She sat near him, watching him select pieces of wafer-thin wood for the picture.
‘Don’t you find it fiddly to put in all those buildings and the boats?’
‘No. You choose the wood for the rocks like this.’ He held a piece of some pale exotic wood delicately mottled and closely resembling in miniature the strata of the rock formation. ‘And smooth with ripples for the sea—so.’ He picked up another piece that looked as though it had been specially grown for such a purpose.
‘D’you sell the pictures to tourists?’
He nodded. ‘A shop in Capri. I have to work all winter. In summer I have no time.’
When she left the cafe she walked up to the street where Brian had his studio. He was on the point of leaving for a tour along the North African coast, stopping wherever he could find subjects to paint.
‘Most likely places where I can afford to live,’ he had told her.
Althea had reported as delicately as she could on her visit to Margot in London. She tried to take the middle way, neither raising his hopes nor depressing him. She had not mentioned the caller who was evidently taking Margot out that particular evening.
‘She seemed well,’ added Althea.
‘Contented?’ he queried.
‘I didn’t get the impression she was discontented.’ She wanted very much to suggest that he might pay Margot a visit himself, but that might prove either futile or even disastrous and Althea kept discreetly silent.
In her turn Althea had been diplomatically questioned by her father about Kent. Had she seen him in Scotland?
Yes, she answered indifferently, but as he had arrived only on the day she was leaving, she had not spent much time with him.
Her father seemed to ponder the matter, but evidently decided not to force her confidence.
Emilia also asked questions about Kent. ‘Is he coming back in the spring?’ she queried one day.
‘I don’t know.’
Emilia beamed at Althea. ‘I have changed what I think about him. He would not be at all a suitable husband for Carla, that is true, but he has many other charms.’
‘Undoubtedly,’ agreed Althea. ‘He never stops charming one girl after another.’
She was aware of Emilia’s raised eyebrows. ‘You have noticed perhaps that Ermanno seems to like Carla?’
‘Yes, I have.’ It would have been impossible not to notice that Carla and Ermanno were constantly together whenever he could visit Capri.
‘He is of a very good family in Naples,’ continued Emilia. ‘His father is an important official. Ermanno is the only son although there are some daughters, and if Carla should marry—but no, it is too soon to talk of that.’
‘What does Lorenzo say about Ermanno?’ asked Althea. She had fallen into the habit of calling her father by his Italian name, because the other two called him nothing else.
‘He likes him.’ Emilia’s dark eyes flashed. ‘How could he find fault with him? Ermanno is handsome and has good manners.’
‘Of course,’ murmured Althea. The young man had appeared to her a rather sleepy type of Italian, anxious only to sit with Carla in some secluded corner.
‘The Englishman Kent has not good manners, I think,’ Emilia went on, ‘but no doubt he has the good heart and would be a true husband.’
Althea could have laughed ironically at the trend of this conversation. A true husband? For whom? It was all very well for Emilia to try to push Althea towards Kent now that Carla might settle for Ermanno. But what did Emilia know of the real Kent? What, for that matter, did anyone know?
Althea took the line that she was completely indifferent, although it was far from the truth, but she had to decide that Kent was to be cut right out of her life. If he came to Capri again, she would have as little to do with him as possible.
The Villa Stefano was in the process of being redecorated outside and refurnished within. Workmen came and went, often exasperating her father by their habit of turning up to do two days’ work, then staying away for a week, while cement dried out in a heap somewhere, or pieces of wood were left sticking out at some dangerous angle.
‘Always some excuse,’ Lawrence fumed. ‘A month ago it was the vintage they were busy with and had to return to attend to the fermenting or something. Now it’s the roof blown off someone’s house and the rain will come in.’
Althea laughed, ‘Don’t complain, Lorenzo. You’d have exactly the same troubles back in England. You have to decide which is more important, this villa or your new shop. By the way, what’s it to be called? The shop, I mean.’
He frowned. ‘I’ve been trying to think of a handle. You can’t just call it Buckland’s Silk Store exactly. At first, I had the idea of making up a portmanteau name out of you three, Emilia, you and Carla, but nothing exciting came out of that.’
‘Couldn’t you call it just “Lorenzo”?’
‘Lorenzo.’ He chewed it over. ‘I shall ask Emilia what she thinks.’
Althea guessed that he was thinking of Emilia’s susceptible feelings towards a husband actually in trade and keeping a shop. One must always remember that Emilia’s uncle had been an admiral!
‘Of course you could always call it the Grotta di Sete, the Silken Grotto,’ she suggested mischievously.
‘I might at that, except that I want the decor to be light and airy and far removed from a grotto.’
The winter months sped away and Christmas became a part-Italian, part-English festival, with all the good points of both. Carla was charmed with the idea of presents from a Christmas tree and Althea made a black and fruity Christmas pudding, to the delight of Rosanna, the cook. In return, there were Italian delicacies or marzipan; silver bells placed everywhere in the house for New Year, so that the year could be rung in.
When Carla opened her chief present from Ermanno, a beautiful necklace of crystal stones, with earrings to match, she said to Althea, ‘I release you entirely from that promise you made long ago.’
‘What promise was that?’ asked Althea, affecting ignorance.
‘About Kent, of course. You know very well.’
‘Oh, that!’
‘Now that I have Ermanno, it would be selfish of me if I did not set you free,’ said Carla magnanimously.
Althea smiled. ‘I understand. But it doesn’t matter.’
‘You have gone away from him?’ queried Carla.
‘Gone away? He’s in England. You could say he’s gone away from here.’ She knew Carla meant ‘gone off, but Althea was deliberately obtuse.
‘Then perhaps you like Brian better—although he, also, has gone to some other place.’
‘Brian is just a very good friend,’ replied Althea. No one but she knew that he was married and still loved his wife dearly.
Shortly after Easter the shop was finished enough to open in what Lawrence called at least ‘half splendour’. The name ‘Lorenzo’ was painted over the top of the window and also in handsome gilt letters down the side of the door frame.
At the cocktail party to inaugurate the venture, the white ribbon stretched across the open doorway had been cut by Emilia, to much applause from a small crowd of her friends in Capri and one or two relatives from Naples. Dr. Fortini, who had proved helpful in legal matters as well as attending medically to Lawrence, strolled around eyeing the shelves with their multi-coloured contents. Domenico from the cafe was invited along with his wife and two handsome daughters who sighed with envy and admiration of the lengths of silk draped in the window.
Carla had appropriated for herself a lovely nasturtium-red knitted suit that was one of the samples Lawrence had ordered from Milan.
‘You won’t keep your samples long,’ Althea told her father, ‘with Carla hopping off in them every time.’
‘Perhaps we can induce her to wear a label around her neck advertising where her suit came from,’ he replied with a twinkle.
‘And the price!’ added Althea, giggling.
A week after the opening of ‘Lorenzo’ news came from the estate agents in London that the Bucklands’ house was sold at an exceedingly good price and the new owners would be glad to buy various carpets and furnishings if Mr. Buckland desired.
‘Splendid!’ was Lawrence’s comment. Althea was glad, too, for she knew her father had already expended considerable sums of money both on the shop and the improvements” to the Villa Stefano.
‘Would you like to go to London, Althea?’ he asked when they spoke of the details. ‘You could settle almost everything in one personal visit that would take endless correspondence.’
‘Of course I’ll go,’ she agreed. ‘I can do any other bits of business you want at the same time.’
‘It’s a good idea to go now before the spring and summer season starts. I can spare you better now than later.’
She was often grateful to her father that he placed such confidence in her and let her know that she was so useful to him.
On this visit to England she did not believe that he could make some ill-conceived arrangement for her to meet Kent. She had never spoken to her father of that last encounter with Kent and the subsequent shock of seeing the girl Jennifer in the hotel. Let the past with its shame and humiliation remain dead.
In London she decided to stay in the house, since all the formalities of transfer had not yet been settled. She could then son out any furniture that might be useful to herself at some future time or even be sent to the Villa Stefano.
‘Don’t throw away or dispose of too much,’ her father had advised. ‘Remember the future. You might want a few pieces to set yourself up in a flat or a house of your own. Then, if you decide to live here for another year or so, we can always tell the store to dispose of them for us.’
It took days to son out what she called the ‘junk’ and rubbish that accumulates in the course of years. With Mrs. Harvard’s help, the rooms gradually became less cluttered and the new owners were extremely glad to take ma
ny surplus pieces.
‘It’s such a great help to have a carpet or two to stand with,’ said the woman. She and her husband had returned from a long stay abroad and had little in the way of furniture.
After the Villa Stefano with much of it redecorated and the rooms lit by the wonderful Mediterranean light, Althea saw her old home as dingy and shabby. She supposed this was inevitable when moving away. If she came back to live in London at some time in the future she would have a home as light and spacious as she could make it.
She took the opportunity to visit a furniture exhibition as well as several stores which were displaying new schemes in colour and decor. She could always suggest new ideas for further work at the villa.
The day came when the house purchase was completed and Althea moved out to stay for a night or two at a hotel before returning to Capri. She had only to see that her own furniture was sorted in the furniture repository and the items chosen for the villa packed and shipped to Capri. There were cases of her father’s and her own books, a few ornaments and a T’ang horse of which he was particularly fond.
Now that the parting had come, she felt a pang or two at leaving her old home. It was as though that chapter of her life was finished irrevocably and a new one not even uncertainly begun.
She was eager now to return to Capri and plunge herself in the business of buying and selling at ‘Lorenzo’.
On her first visit to the shop the day after she arrived at the villa, she noticed that Brian’s studio was open. So he was back from North Africa and preparing for the new season here. She was glad, for she missed him to some extent. At least he was a man she could talk to easily and unselfconsciously.
She walked through the doorway of the studio and called, ‘Brian! Anyone at home?’