by Lucy Gordon
But she forgot the feeling as she gained her first glimpse of the dramatic Amalfi coast. She’d heard of it, and studied pictures, but nothing could have prepared her for the dazzling reality of the cliffs swooping down, down, down into the sea.
‘They’re so high,’ she said in wonder. ‘And those little villages clinging to the sides-how come they don’t slide down into the water?’
‘They are protected by a great hero,’ the driver announced proudly. ‘The legend says that Hercules loved a beautiful nymph, called Amalfi. When she died, he buried her here, and placed huge cliffs all around to safeguard her peace. But then the fishermen protested that they would starve because now they couldn’t get to the sea, so he built them villages on his cliffs, and vowed that he would always keep them safe. And he always has.’
Looking down, Angel found the pretty tale easy to believe. What else could explain how the little towns clung on to the steep sides, rising almost vertically, white walls blazing in the sun?
‘Is the Tazzini estate up there?’ she asked.
‘Right on top, although the lemon orchard stretches down the cliff face, in tiers, to catch as much sun as possible.’
‘Are the lemons good?’ she asked, trying to sound casual.
‘The best. The makers of limoncello always compete to buy Tazzini lemons.’
‘Whatever is limoncello?’
‘It is a liqueur, made with lemons and vodka, straight out of heaven.’
So she had a ready market for her produce, she thought, with a surge of relief.
‘There they are,’ the driver said suddenly, pointing as they rounded a bend. ‘Those are lemon flowers.’
Angel gasped and sat totally still, riveted by the sight that met her eyes. It was as though someone had tossed a basket of white blooms from the top of the cliff so that they cascaded down, shimmering, gleaming, dazzling in the sun, awesome in their beauty.
On the last stretch she took out a mirror and checked her appearance. She’d resolved that those days were behind her, and in future she would worry less about her appearance. But she simply couldn’t let her first entrance be less than perfect, and so she checked her mascara and refreshed her lipstick. Now she was ready for the fray.
They were approaching a large pair of wrought-iron gates which were closed but not locked, so the driver was able to open them and go through. Another few minutes and she could see the villa.
As she’d told Nina, it wasn’t a palace but a large country house, although built on impressive lines. Made of pale grey coloured stone, it reared up three floors, with a flight of stairs running up to the second floor from the outside, where a covered balcony ran the length of the building. Down below there was a riot of decorations. Little half-fountains appeared out of the walls, watched over by stone animals carved to incredible perfection. Angel found herself smiling.
Three broad steps led up to the double doors that formed the entrance, and which stood open. She went right in, followed by the driver, who was hauling her many bags. Looking around, she saw a hall that was spacious yet strangely domestic, even cosy. Warm red tiles stretched away across the floor, leading to archways that seemed to invite her in. Incredibly, she felt welcome.
She tried to be sensible. This feeling of having come home to the place where she belonged was the merest sentimentality, sugar coated with wishful thinking. Yet the sensation pervaded her, despite her efforts to resist it. It was almost like being happy.
She paid the driver, refusing his offer to carry the bags further. She wanted to be alone to enjoy her first minutes in this lovely place.
From the hall a flight of stone stairs with wrought-iron banisters streamed upwards, beckoning her. Angel began to climb it slowly, feeling as though she were moving in a dream. Halfway up she stopped to look out of a window, and realised that the house was close to the edge of the cliff, directly overlooking the sea. From here she could see the water stretching into the distance, incredibly blue, shining serenely under the clear sky. The window was open and she stood there a moment, breathing in the clear air, listening to the silence.
When had she last heard silence? When, in her rackety life, had there been such peace, such potential for tranquil joy? If she hadn’t come here, how much longer would she have survived?
Soon she began to climb again. After the heat outside, the house was blessedly cool, protected by the thick stone walls. She emerged onto a large landing, leading to a corridor with several doors. One in particular attracted her attention, because it was the only double door. No doubt this would be the master bedroom, and the one she would take as her own.
Eager to see it, she pushed open both doors and walked in.
For a moment she could discern nothing, as the wooden shutters at the three windows were mostly closed. Then the gloom cleared slightly and she saw that one of them was open a few inches, and a man was standing there, looking out through the narrow gap.
At first Angel could make out little of him, except that he was tall and lean. Then, as her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, she saw that he was dressed in old jeans and a frayed denim shirt, with scuffed shoes to complete the picture. Probably the gardener, she thought. But what was he doing here?
‘Hello?’ she said.
He turned quickly.
‘Who are you?’ they both said together, in Italian.
Angel gave a brief laugh, realising that her indignation was a tad illogical.
‘I’m sorry, this is my fault,’ she said, ‘for not letting anyone know I was coming today.’
He pushed the shutters further open so that light streamed into the room, falling directly onto her like a spotlight as she moved towards him. She saw him grow suddenly tense, his face harden, but he didn’t speak.
‘I’m the new owner of the estate,’ she said.
‘The Signora Clannan.’
Angel had reverted to her maiden name, but she let it go for the moment.
‘That’s right. Obviously you’ve been expecting me.’
‘Oh, yes, we’ve all known you were coming, although not exactly when. You kept that detail to yourself, so that you could catch us unawares. Very shrewd. Who knows what discoveries you might have made?’
She could see him better now, and thought she’d never come across any man who looked so hard and unyielding. There was a gaunt wariness about him, not just in his face, but in his tall, angular shape, the way he crossed his arms defensively over his chest, telling the world to keep its distance.
He might as well have warded her off with a sword, she thought.
‘I wasn’t trying to catch anyone out,’ she said, trying to remain good-tempered. ‘It was an impulse decision.’
‘And you couldn’t even have made a phone call from the airport to give Berta a chance to be ready for you? She’s your housekeeper, and a more faithful, hard-working soul never lived. She deserves better.’
Angel had a faint sense of remorse, but it was quashed in the rush of indignation. What the hell did he think gave him the right to talk to her like this?
‘Look,’ she said, ‘I presume you’re one of my staff, so let me make it clear right now that you don’t speak to me like that. Not if you want to go on working for me.’
‘Is that so? Then how fortunate that I don’t work for you, or I’d be shaking in my shoes now.’
‘Don’t be impertinent. If you’re not one of my employees, what are you doing in this room, where you most decidedly have no right to be?’
She thought he grew a little paler, the twist to his mouth a little more sardonic.
‘True,’ he said. ‘I have no right. Not any more.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘My name is Vittorio Tazzini, and I used to own this place.’
CHAPTER TWO
‘Y OU ?’ The word had an unflattering tone that came out before Angel could stop it.
‘Yes,’ he said, looking down at himself. ‘A scarecrow like me. This used to be my room, and I returned to s
earch for something I left behind. I apologise for being here when the new padrona arrived. If I’d been warned, I’d have cleared out and not troubled you.’
She was disconcerted, not so much by his words as by the way his eyes flickered over her. There was nothing new in that. For years men had gazed at her with admiration, even frank lust, trying to strip her in their thoughts. She had thought she was bored by it, but it might have been better than the contempt in this man’s gaze.
‘There’s no need to be melodramatic,’ she said coolly.
‘Is it melodramatic to call you padrona? Isn’t that what you are? The new mistress to whom everyone will now defer? I’m merely recognising reality.’
‘No, you’re trying to make me feel uncomfortable, as though I should be ashamed of being here.’
‘It never occurred to me that you would feel ashamed of anything.’
‘Look, this won’t work. I’ve seen off sharper men than you.’
‘I don’t doubt it. Your very presence in this place is a triumph. But what will you do now you’re here? I’ll wager you haven’t given it a thought. Not a serious thought, anyway. But why should you care? Those huge alimony payments will take care of all problems.’
‘Not that it’s any of your business,’ Angel said, her eyes beginning to sparkle with anger, ‘but I intend to make my own way. I understand the estate is profitable. Everyone assures me that Tazzini lemons are second to none.’
He regarded her sardonically.
‘So, you’ve heard about the lemons and now you think you know everything.’
‘No, but I know about limoncello.’
A grin spread over his face, suggestive of derision rather than amusement. It made her uneasy.
‘Truly,’ he said, ‘your knowledge is awesome. But how far does it go? For instance, what kind of lemons are grown in this place?’
‘What kind? Lemons are lemons, aren’t they?’
‘You instruct me. How foolish of me not to think of that.’
‘Now, look-’ she began hotly.
‘Lemons, as you so expertly say, are lemons. But are they Meyer lemons, Eureka lemons, Lisbon lemons?’
‘All right. I didn’t know there was more than one type,’ she said, facing him squarely.
‘No, and you don’t know which kind is the best for limoncello. In fact, you know nothing.’
‘Well, I’m not planning to tend them myself. I’ll employ someone who knows what to do. In fact, there must already be someone working here.’
His grin became a little wild.
‘You have nobody who can care for those lemons so that they’ll get the best price,’ he said flatly.
‘There are gardeners, aren’t there?’
‘There’s one. He’s a good workhorse, but he’s not an artist. You’ll have to explain everything to him.’
‘But surely there’s a head gardener, who doesn’t need to be have things explained?’
‘The only one who knows is me, and I’m out of here since you seized my home.’
‘You’re blaming me? You’ve got a nerve. Is it my fault you chose to sell?’
‘I did not-’ He stopped himself with a sharp breath. ‘Don’t trespass on that situation. You know nothing.’
‘Then don’t throw accusations at me. I didn’t seize your home-’
‘No, your husband did. But who ended up owning it?’
‘And that makes me a criminal, does it? I have no desire to “trespass on that situation” as you call it. I just want to take over my new home and settle in.’
He drew a sharp breath.
‘As you say,’ he said coldly. ‘Welcome to your home. I’ll inform your staff that you’re here.’
He walked out, followed by her glare. If there had been anything to throw, she would have thrown it.
She was furious with him for ruining the first special moments here. Everything had been peaceful and beautiful, until she’d walked in and found him waiting, almost as if trying to spring a trap for her.
It was no use telling herself that it had been pure accident. That was common sense, and she wasn’t in the mood for it.
In fact, she was annoyed with herself for acting like Angel at her most queenly and petulant. She’d believed that was part of the old life, left far behind. But years of being pampered and deferred to had left their mark, despite her best intentions.
I have not allowed Joe to turn me into a spoilt brat, she reassured herself. I have not.
Well, perhaps just a bit.
Angel strode to the other two windows and pushed the shutters wide open so that sunlight streamed in everywhere, like a benediction. Now she could look around the room, which was like no bedroom she had encountered before. Like the rest of the house that she had so far seen, the floor was covered in dark red flagstones. The bed was almost seven feet wide, with a carved walnut headboard and matching foot.
Trying it cautiously, she found that the mattress was firm almost to the point of hardness, but when she stretched out for a moment it was curiously comfortable. The lamp on the bedside table was defiantly old-fashioned, with a carved stand and a parchment shade.
There were two wardrobes, also of walnut, standing in the spaces between the windows. Ornate on the outside, they were basic on the inside, with rails and wire hangers, so unlike the padded satin hangers on which her elegant clothes normally hung. A large chest of drawers stood against one wall.
And that was it.
And yet she felt at home. The very starkness and simplicity of the room was peaceful.
Angel delved further into one of the wardrobes, realising how old it was, and how much in need of repair. The floor actually had a hole. Reaching into her bag, she took out a small torch that she carried everywhere and trained it on the hole. The light went right through to the floor, showing her something small and green.
Reaching under the wardrobe, she managed to grasp the object, which turned out to be an address book. Perhaps this was what he’d lost. He must have left it in a trouser pocket, from where it had fallen out of sight.
From down below she heard a woman’s voice, sounding worried, almost tearful, then Vittorio Tazzini’s, seeming to comfort her. She just managed to get to her feet and brush her clothes down before the door opened and a powerfully built middle-aged woman entered, with Vittorio’s arm about her shoulder.
‘This is Berta,’ he explained in English. ‘She looks after the house and does a wonderful job.’ He translated this for the woman before reverting to English to say, ‘Unfortunately, she understands very little of your language, and she’s worried in case this counts against her.’
‘Why should it?’ Angel asked. ‘We can speak in Italian.’ She crossed her fingers and spoke slowly. ‘Berta, I’m sorry that I did not warn you I was coming. It was rude of me.’
To her relief, Berta understood, and a smile broke over her broad face. She too spoke slowly.
‘If the signora will come down to the kitchen I will prepare coffee while the room is made ready.’
As they descended the stairs, Angel could see that the household was already alive to her presence. All the staff were buzzing around her bags, beginning to take them upstairs, but not before they’d given her quick looks of curiosity.
She could sense the other woman’s unease, and it touched her heart. She hadn’t come here to hurt anybody.
When Berta served up coffee, Angel thanked her with her warmest smile and said in slow, clear Italian, ‘This looks delicious. I’m sure we’re going to get on really well.’
Berta nodded, looking happier.
‘By the way, is this what you were looking for?’ she asked Vittorio, holding out the little book.
‘Yes, it was. Thank you. Where did you find it?’
‘It had fallen through a hole in the bottom of one of the wardrobes.’
Berta tut-tutted. ‘There now! Such a state some of the furniture’s in! But you’ll be able to see to it, won’t you?’
To Angel
’s surprise, this was addressed to Vittorio.
‘Why should you say that?’ she asked. ‘Now that Signor Tazzini’s property has been found I see no reason for him to come here again.’
Berta’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh, dear! You haven’t said-’
‘Haven’t said what?’ Angel asked, her eyes kindling.
‘It’s only-you knowing nothing about the estate,’ Berta faltered, ‘and the padrone knowing so much…’
‘Perhaps you’d better leave us for a moment, Berta,’ Vittorio said quietly.
‘Si, padrone.’
It was the word ‘padrone’ that reduced Angel’s patience to danger level. Berta had called him ‘master’ because that was how she still saw him. And the way she scuttled out underlined the unwelcome fact.
‘Do you mind telling me what’s going on?’ Angel said coolly. ‘Because everyone seems to know, except me. In fact, you seem to have made quite a few decisions that I know nothing about. Perhaps it’s time you informed me.’
‘All right, it’s very simple,’ he said in a hard voice. ‘You need an estate manager, a real expert, and that means me. You haven’t a hope of doing it on your own, you’ve already proved that.’
‘Damned cheek!’
‘Well, face facts. You don’t know the first thing about the lemons you grow, not even what type they are. How often do they need watering? How long between planting and harvesting? How often do they flower? The whole prosperity of this place depends on intensive knowledge, or your harvest will fail. And I didn’t spend years working myself to a standstill to see you throw it away.’
‘If that’s your way of asking me to hire you, you’re making a very bad job of it.’
‘Don’t waste my time with that sort of talk. I’m not asking you to hire me. I’m telling you. You don’t have a choice.’
‘The hell I don’t!’
‘That’s right, you don’t. You need me, that’s the plain fact, so why waste time?’
‘And you did it all on your own, did you? Without you there’s no one except the “workhorse” you mentioned?’