The Fires of Torretta

by Iris Danbury

  “Chance what?” queried Seppi. “I do not understand.”

  By the time she had explained the phrase and its uses and given Seppi further enlightenment on the intricacies of the English language, another half hour had slipped by. Her watch indicated half-past eleven and outside, even the tough and hardy Sicilian crowds had thinned out.

  She had to leave it to Seppi to recognise his brother’s car. Niccolo was already there in the driving seat, while Erica sat in the back.

  “So there you are!” she greeted Rosamund. "Where on earth did you get to?”

  Before Rosamund could reply a man alighted on the far side of the car and held the door open.

  “Wasn’t it lucky we met Brent!” Erica continued. “You know him already, I think.”

  “Yes, we’ve met,” murmured Rosamund. “Sorry we missed you through dawdling.”

  She looked up and caught Brent’s glance which said plainly, “Then don’t dawdle now!” She stepped into the car and settled herself next to Erica. Seppi stood waiting while Brent murmured something to Niccolo.

  When Erica realised that Brent had elected to sit in front with Niccolo, while Seppi had scrambled in the back and wriggled himself between the two girls, she protested.

  “I thought you’d sit with us.” Her tone was unnecessarily sharp.

  Brent turned slightly and spoke over his shoulder. “The balance of nations has to be maintained. One shouldn’t have all the English in one part and all Italian in the other. How should we ever manage to learn each other’s language?”

  Erica gave a little sniff of displeasure, but short of commanding Niccolo to stop the car and let everyone change places, there was nothing she could do.

  As Niccolo drove along the twisting curves of the road to Torretta, Rosamund remained silent, but Seppi and Erica maintained a lively conversation, explaining how it was that the two couples had become separated.

  “We thought you’d gone to a disco somewhere,” said Erica. “There was no dancing at the Excelsior and it was there we saw Brent. So we stopped and talked and drank wine, and naturally we offered him a lift home.”

  Rosamund smiled in the darkness. Erica made it sound as though she already owned Niccolo’s car—if not the owner. And how did Brent Stanton relish the familiarity of being called by his Christian name on so short an acquaintance? Rosamund had not yet progressed that far.

  Then it occurred to her that Brent Stanton must have a car of his own. He would obviously need it for his journeys to the Villa Delfino from wherever it was he lived on the slopes of Mount Etna. Why then did he need a lift home tonight? He must have gone into Taormina earlier and he would certainly not have walked there.

  But they had all arrived at the Villa Mandelli and Brent was declining Niccolo’s offer to drive down to the Delfino.

  “I’ll go down the short path, thanks,” he said. “Good night.”

  In the villa, the elder Mandellis and Stephen had evidently retired, for only a couple of maids and a manservant waited to offer refreshments and finally lock up.

  Rosamund went up to her room, but it was not long before Erica knocked and came in.

  “Isn’t he the most—attractive specimen?” she began.

  “You mean Mr. Stanton? He wouldn’t appreciate being called a ‘specimen’, even if you’re thinking of adding him to your collection.”

  Erica gave a quiet little laugh. “You know, it’s the first time I’ve ever heard you say such peevish remarks about anyone, let alone a reasonably presentable young man who might be quite useful to us.”

  “Us?” queried Rosamund with raised eyebrows.

  “Well, at least we might be able to make up a foursome sometimes and go places.”

  “And how do you propose to allocate the two men? Are you landing me with Niccolo? Or am I to partner Mr. Stanton for your ultimate benefit?”

  Erica laughed delightedly. “Oh, I really do believe you’re jealous! You’re warning me off Brent.”

  Rosamund shook her head and looked away. “Not in the least. It may be that Niccolo has plenty of time to spare to squire girls about, but soon I shall have considerable work to do for your father, and as for Mr. Stanton “Oh, do stop calling him that. You know you think of him as Brent.”

  “All right then, Brent. He works, too. On Mount Etna. He comes here to the cottage also to work.”

  “That isn’t what he told me,” contradicted Erica. “Somehow I fancy Mr. Brent Stanton will put in quite a lot of his time here when we’re living in the villa.”

  Rosamund had no answer to that prophecy, but when Erica had returned to her own room, she wondered if a surfeit of attention from two English girls might not induce Brent Stanton to spend less time at the Villa Delfino, rather than more. She doubted if he were particularly susceptible to feminine allurement, but in any case it was no concern of hers. Yet how was it that her thoughts returned again and again to this man of whom she knew so little—except that he managed to irritate her on the occasions when she met him? Surely she could not imagine that he would be important to her future.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Stephen decided that it might be both convenient and profitable if Rosamund helped him to examine the books in the extensive Mandelli library.

  “You don’t mind working today even if it’s Sunday?” he asked her after breakfast when she was strolling in the garden.

  She laughed. “Why should I? I know that at some time I can take Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday off if I want to.”

  Signor Mandelli was not only agreeable, but offered to point out volumes that might be of interest. Rosamund made notes of titles and authors as well as the proper location of each book, for in such an immense collection it was easy to forget exactly where a particular book belonged.

  Halfway through the morning Signora Mandelli accompanied a maid who brought hot chocolate and delicious little cakes to restore the energies of the three workers.

  “You progress?” she asked.

  “Yes, indeed,” answered Stephen. “Thanks to your husband—and, of course, Rosamund.”

  Signora Mandelli smiled. “You have done much work for the professor?” she now asked Rosamund.

  “For more than a year.”

  “And you like it?”

  “Very much. I never imagined that we’d be working here in Sicily for a year or that we should make the acquaintance of such a charming family as yourselves.”

  Signora Mandelli gathered that this was a complimentary speech, but it had obviously been too difficult for her to grasp the meaning of individual words. With a serene smile she left Rosamund and spoke to her husband and Stephen.

  After lunch followed by a short siesta, Stephen and Rosamund continued their task of noting what books might be of initial interest, but at the end of a couple of hours Stephen’s energy flagged.

  "Let’s call it a day, shall we? I’m going nearly dizzy with such a vast assembly. It’s an embarrassment of riches. Anyway, we’ve more than enough to start on and even when we’re living in our own villa we shan’t be far away. We can always come here and consult any book we need.”

  “I’ll type these notes first,” Rosamund suggested, “while they’re still fresh in my mind. Then we shall have carbon copies.”

  By the time she had finished she judged that there was still enough daylight for her to take a short walk. She went through the villa gardens where the ilex and cypress trees rustled in the evening breeze, and decided she would explore the road that led down towards the Villa Delfino and the beach beyond. When she came to the Villa gates it occurred to her that she might call and see if Tomaso and Maria were supplied with enough fuel to keep them warm.

  The gates were open, but now she hesitated. If Brent Stanton were anywhere about he might imagine that she had seized on any excuse to visit him. She laughed softly to herself. Were all her actions to be guided by what Brent might think? If she had a purpose in calling, then she was certainly not going to be put off by such considerations.
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  She walked briskly along the short, winding drive to the front door and pulled the large knob that she hoped operated a bell. After a minute or so Tomaso unlocked and unbolted the heavy door.

  “Signorina?”

  “May I come in?”

  “Si, si, signorina.”

  “I wanted to see if you have enough wood for the stove and perhaps you need more blankets?”

  He smiled without comprehension, then beckoned her to follow him through the hall towards the kitchen. No doubt, she thought, Maria would understand better these domestic details.

  In the kitchen the soft glow of lamplight fell not only on Maria’s expectant face but on Brent’s unsmiling features. He rose from a chair by the stove and murmured a curt “Buon giorno” to Rosamund as Tomaso evidently confessed that he did not understand what the signorina wanted.

  “Just to make sure that there’s enough wood or whatever fuel is used for the stove,” Rosamund now said testily to Brent. “Also, if they need more blankets, they should take them from the linen cupboard.”

  Maria offered her a chair and Brent grinned down at her, but his eyes lacked friendliness.

  “A creditable thought! I’m glad that you realise what a pair of treasures these two are. I’ll give them your message.”

  “Thank you,” she answered icily, and rose to leave, but Maria was already offering a plate of small cakes and setting a cup and saucer ready for coffee. “I didn’t intend to stay or interrupt you,” Rosamund added.

  “You must stay now or Maria will be offended. But you weren’t interrupting anything. Sometimes I come in and chat with them. They lead a lonely life and see few faces except for the couple of summer months when the owner is here. Then, apparently, there’s never an idle moment from dawn to midnight.”

  “They won’t be so lonely when we’re living in the villa, and I assure you we shan’t overwork them.”

  Tomaso and Maria were eagerly following the expressions on the faces of Brent and Rosamund, and now Brent translated the gist of the conversation.

  “I notice you don’t ask me if I’m warm enough in my shack,” Brent remarked, a challenging light in his eyes.

  “If you need anything, perhaps we can fix you up,” she promised.

  “I daresay I can manage, although the draughts that come whistling through the roof at nights are no gentle breezes. I don’t wonder Maria couldn’t stand it.”

  When eventually she had finished the coffee and eaten a small cake, Rosamund realised that outside darkness had fallen.

  “Grazie, Maria,” she thanked the woman, and stood up. “I must go.”

  Brent moved away and picked up a jacket. “I’ll come up to Mandelli with you.”

  “I know the way,” she said ungraciously, then tried to soften her brusqueness by adding, “I came down by the road and—”

  “If you’re going to be so cocksure, I’ll take you up the short cut path and abandon you halfway.”

  “An unworthy threat!” She smiled as she caught the mock-menacing look on his face.

  Outside, the night was darker than she had expected and she was relieved that she had not been forced to tackle the return journey alone in these as yet unfamiliar surroundings.

  Brent opened a rough iron gate at the end of the garden which led to the path between the two villas, but although she had negotiated it a couple of times in daylight it was quite a different matter in this blue-black darkness.

  After she had nearly stumbled a couple of times, Brent said distantly, “I have two arms and one of them would be available for you if you think you have a use for it.”

  “Gallant indeed!” she muttered. She linked her arm within his and clambered over the stones and boulders. “I think the road would have been easier,” she ventured after a few moments.

  “Do you always take the easy way out?”

  “When there’s no point in doing things the hard way,” she answered.

  “Some bushes here,” he warned her. “Mind your nylons.” She could have exploded with laughter. Her nylons had already been ruined during the first few yards of this nocturnal climb.

  “When are you going to start learning Italian?” he asked. “Tomaso and Maria don’t understand English very well.”

  “I have learned quite a bit since I came here,” she protested quickly. “I know a few phrases, but Tomaso speaks rather differently. Sicilian?”

  “Yes, a dialect certainly, but he understands reasonable Italian. I can interpret for you when I’m here, but on weekdays you’ll have to muddle through as best you can.”

  “I shall get on with them in their language better when you’re not around, I expect,” she said calmly. “You inhibit me and make me self-conscious.”

  At that he shouted with laughter, almost missed his footing, but quickly recovered. The momentary pressure of his strong fingers on her arm gave her a warm, glowing feeling that she instantly tried to quell.

  He escorted her along the paths of the Mandelli garden where an occasional lamp indicated the way, but when he came to the front of the house with its lights blazing out, he said, “I’ll leave you here. You’ll have no difficulty now.”

  “Of course. Thank you for coming with me.”

  “No trouble. See you later.” He had vanished into the shadows before she had time to say good night.

  She smiled to herself at the haste with which he had rid himself of her company. Evidently he had no desire to be seen strolling clandestinely with a companion in a neighbour’s garden.

  As she went up the wide curving staircase of the villa she pondered on the meaning of that “See you later”, but dismissed it as a meaningless current phrase.

  She was surprised that there was still ample time for a leisurely shower and change of dress. A long interval seemed to have elapsed since she started her walk.

  Stephen and Erica along with the Mandelli family were already in the drawing-room when Rosamund entered. She saw that tonight there were several guests.

  “I am sorry to be late,” she apologised to Signora Mandelli as the introductions were made. “Am I the last to arrive?”

  “You are not late,” broke in Niccolo. “There is one more guest to arrive.”

  She accepted a glass of vermouth from Niccolo and noticed that Erica was wearing a new dress of strawberry pink chiffon and that her shining blonde hair was piled high in a bun.

  “Ah, here he is,” Rosamund heard Niccolo say. She looked up to see Brent entering the room. He crossed at once to Signora Mandelli and even Rosamund’s scanty Italian caught the drift of his apologies. She felt herself redden as she realised that she had undoubtedly been the cause of the delay, obliging him to accompany her back to the Villa Mandelli after dark.

  Erica greeted him with eager enthusiasm, and perhaps a mischievous demon incited him to raise her hand to his lips in the Italian fashion. He merely bowed to Rosamund, murmured “Buona sera” and gave no indication of an earlier meeting, so she followed his lead.

  When he had moved away to meet other guests, Erica gave Rosamund a searching gaze.

  “You’ve gone quite pink,” she observed. “Indeed, you look most guilty. What have you been up to?”

  “Up to? Nothing as far as I know.” Rosamund was relieved when dinner was announced and the party trooped into the handsome walnut-panelled dining-room.

  She was relieved, too, that she was placed some distance away and on the opposite side of the table from Brent who sat between Adriana and Erica. Niccolo, next to Erica, was compelled to give most of his attention to his neighbour, a middle-aged woman upholstered in red brocade with a dazzling assortment of jewels about her neck and shoulders.

  Rosamund was placed between Stephen and an elderly man with a short, pointed black beard and gold-rimmed eyeglasses. She had already forgotten if he were the husband of Niccolo’s companion and after a few sentences he gave up the struggle of trying to converse with her and turned his attention to his other neighbour who was at least Italian and shared
his native tongue.

  Seppi at the far end of the table made comical signs to her that he was desolated not to be nearer and she smiled in return, but she was not sorry to be left alone to enjoy her food and cast a few surreptitious glances at the rest of the party.

  Adriana, she noticed, was much more animated than Rosamund had hitherto seen her and laughed and joked with Brent, sometimes to the exasperation of Erica, who could not follow the quick interchange in Italian.

  In the drawing-room after dinner, Stephen managed to corner Brent along with one of the other men and eventually the three escaped apparently to the library on the pretext of consulting a particular book on the geological formation of the earth’s crust.

  Seppi attached himself to Rosamund and insisted on her correcting his English. The rest of the company had drifted into small groups of twos and threes, Erica and Niccolo in one corner with an older man; Adriana sat dutifully beside her mother, and now Rosamund noticed that the sombre withdrawn expression on the girl’s face had returned. She was no longer animated.

  When Stephen returned with his two companions and apologised to his hostess for their absence, Erica said, “You shouldn’t have taken away one of the young men. We were left quite unbalanced.”

  “Unbalanced?” queried Brent, sitting down next to her. “That sounds most ominous. Not right in the head, you mean?”

  Erica tapped him lightly on the arm in reproof. “You know perfectly well what I mean—unbalanced in numbers.”

  Rosamund intercepted a glance of mild irritation on Niccolo’s face and when she turned her head, she saw that Adriana, who had first smiled up at Brent, now turned her back on him.

  The guests eventually drove off, Brent accepted a lift from someone who would drop him outside the Villa Delfino gates, and Rosamund and Erica went to their rooms.

  Rosamund half expected Erica to come and chat over the evening’s happenings, but the girl did not come. Then when Rosamund was in bed and half asleep, there was a soft tap on the door and Erica came in.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Rosamund as she switched on the bedside lamp.