Somewhere in the distance frogs croaked and a dog barked. Emma drifted to sleep in Marco’s arms.
The next morning, Marco found her some clothes and a strong walking stick, and she hobbled downstairs to an early breakfast. As soon as she had finished, he brought a couple of horses and they rode into the nearest village. It seemed as if every inhabitant was outside, going about some urgent business. She supposed they were catching up on their lives, bringing back old habits and order after the long interruption.
There was one telephone in the village and it was working. She breathed a sigh of relief as the operator motioned her to pick up the receiver.
“How will I pay for this?” she whispered to Marco as she waited for the connection.
“I’ll pay.”
The static on the line surged and crackled and she closed her eyes, willing the call to go through. It was ten o’clock and her father would have finished his paperwork for the estate, ready for a cup of coffee before he began his rounds.
Suddenly the line cleared, and she heard the voice of the butler.
“Matthews? Is that you? Let me speak to my father. Yes, yes, it’s me, Lady Emma.” She should have thought more carefully about how she would introduce herself. Poor Matthews had sounded as if he’d heard a ghost, which he had, in a way.
At home the telephone was in a poky little cubbyhole under the stairs because her father refused to have it in his office and she waited, tapping her foot, until she heard her father’s steps echoing on the flagstones of the big hall.
“Who is this?” He sounded angry, upset. “Is this some kind of joke?’
“Daddy? Daddy, it’s me, Emma. I’m alive…Yes, really…no, I’m not hurt. It was Catherine, my maid…” Through the blur of her tears she saw Marco move to stand a short distance away, giving her some privacy.
It took three days for money to come through in a wire, and for the British Ambassador in Rome to issue her travel documents. During the three days, Marco took her around the estate, letting her meet his workers, explaining the techniques of wine making, storing and shipping. She’d always had a good head for the business side of things and enjoyed comparing how things were done here with the traditions of her father’s estates.
They found the owner of the dog. Mickey’s real name turned out to be Grande, unoriginal but eloquent. His owner had been in the caves with Marco. They figured the dog must have seen Emma and recognized her when he found her trying to climb the slope. He’d learned the trick with his tail with small children.
Emma bent down and rubbed the animal’s ears. “You’ll always be Mickey to me,” she whispered. “There’s always a big bone for you at my house.”
The days took on a rhythm. They rode out each morning under the sun, with Emma clad in trousers, a loose shirt and a floppy hat. They stopped to eat in a cottage somewhere and to sample the local wine. In the afternoon they returned, hot and dusty, and bathed together, never tiring of exploring their bodies, talking about their morning, always ending in making love on the soft bed with curtains drawn across the windows to create an early dusk. Then they slept until the air cooled.
After dinner in the evening they talked more about the estate, about how Marco would solve the problems that had accumulated while he was away, about marketing his wine. Emma told him about the big house in the Cotswolds, the crops they grew, her father’s dedication to the land.
When it grew dark then they would walk up the stairs, arms entwined around each other’s waist and fall into bed, sated with food and wine and sunshine. Their lovemaking was sometimes slow and easy, sometimes fraught with a raw need, always satisfying, touching the depth of their soul.
The money and the government papers arrived by messenger as they sipped an aperitif on the terrace in the late afternoon of the third day. The man propped his bicycle against a tree and handed them the buff envelope with “On His Majesty’s Service” printed in black across one corner.
Marco signed for the letter and gave the man a tip. Well content, the messenger pedaled away, the wheels scrunching on the freshly raked gravel.
Emma took out the papers and looked at Marco with tears in her eyes.
“I have to go.”
He thrust his hands in his pockets. “I know.”
“I’ll write to you.”
“Of course.”
That night she lay naked in bed with her eyes half closed while he snuffed the candles. The fear settled in her belly, like a living organism, cold and voracious. What if she found she no longer cared for him once she was back in her familiar home? What if he forgot her as soon as she was out of sight? Her head told her that the test would be a good one, but she also knew the physical pain around her heart that had started at the thought of saying goodbye would never go away if she lost him. With icy certainty she understood that if she didn’t return to Marco, even if she had to marry, she would never find anyone who could touch her spirit and make her body sing in the same way.
Darkness took over the room as the last candle guttered and died. She felt the bed move as her lover lay down beside her. For a long moment he remained silent, then his hand found hers.
“Bella donna,” he whispered, his lips brushing her hair. “Always remember that I’m waiting for you. That I love you.”
She couldn’t find her voice to reply. Her throat grew tight as she fought to hold back the sob that threatened to shatter her tenuous control. Instead she took a giddy delight in touching him, clinging to him, feeling his arms around her.
She said nothing, not even when he gently moved her legs apart and slid into her, but she tightened her hold on him, trying to etch every precious moment into memory.
Words were meaningless as he brought her to the inevitable conclusion.
Chapter Eleven
The Channel between Calais and Dover was rough and choppy as usual. Emma stayed on deck, huddled in a canvas chair tucked into a corner out of the wind. As they approached the berth she pressed up to the rail and she spotted her father immediately. When she stepped off the gangway, he swept her into a wordless embrace, unmindful of the other passengers swirling around them. He kissed her forehead and she felt the dampness of tears on his cheek.
“I’m fine, Daddy,” she said. “I’m fine.”
He released her at last and mopped his eyes with a large, white handkerchief. “Come, come,” he said, as if she had been the one causing the delay. “The car is waiting.”
He’d brought the Rolls and a driver, so he could sit in the back with Emma, holding her hand and asking her endless questions.
After she’d given a few short answers he patted her hand. “Quite understand, my dear,” he said. “Bad experience. Not ready to talk about it yet. Take your time, take your time. It’s enough to have you back safe and sound.”
They fell silent as the car whisked them west toward the Cotswolds. Emma knew her father would never ask her another question until she was ready to talk. Although he might long to know every detail, he would allow her the time she needed and while he waited he would quietly watch over her, looking after her comfort.
Home. Home where she could relax, where she knew what to expect, where she would be welcomed and cherished. Home that had lost most of its power to delight, because it held no trace of Marco.
It began to rain, a soft, gray drizzle that sucked the color out of the surroundings. The suburbs of London were drab, the streets a sea of umbrellas, and the country towns were virtually deserted. The grey stone of the houses blurred through the rain-streaked windows and the roofs shone black like the tarmac of the road. She held her father’s hand and made small talk, blocking her mind to the contrasting memory of the bustle and vivid colors of Marco’s country.
Her father might have decided to wait for more answers, but in the next few days everyone else had questions for her. Her friends, and of course the authorities, were hard to satisfy.
The parents of Catherine Hall, her maid, had to be informed that their daughter was d
ead, not missing. Emma spent a dreadful few hours with them in their grief, knowing all the time the question they wanted to ask was, Why her? Why not you? The same question had echoed for days in her own head.
Catherine’s body, identified as Lady Emma Houndsdale, was to be shipped from Naples the same day Emma had left, and her father had been preparing to receive it when she had telephoned him. He still seemed bewildered by the sudden change in circumstances and she often found him staring at her when he thought she wasn’t looking, as if unable to believe she was there. As she passed him, or sat close in the evening, he sometimes reached out to touch her, a light, gentle stroke, as if to reassure himself that he wasn’t dreaming.
The cook prepared all her favorite recipes and she took long walks or rode across the fields with the dogs.
But after a few days she grew restless. It was wonderful to be home, to see the happiness in her father’s eyes, to be pampered and spoiled again, but her thoughts continually returned to Marco. Too frequently she found herself gazing blankly at a picture she didn’t see, or staring out of a window where there was no view. What was he doing right now? Was he thinking about her? Was he wondering if she would come back, or had he put her out of his mind? Her bed felt cold and empty and she found it hard to settle back into any of her old routines. At last she decided to travel up to town to fill a day with some shopping and have lunch with Gillian Westmarland.
Gillian had been at the last episode of the Game, before she met Johnny Westmarland and helped save his life. There was talk, too, that she had brought off some clever coup that was important to the country’s security, but the details had remained hush-hush and vague.
Whatever the truth of the story, Gillian had married Johnny as soon as he recovered from his wounds, the Game had been shut down, and a lot of the people who had joined in had discreetly retired from society. Including Emma herself.
She found Gillian waiting for her in the lobby of the Savoy. A silver tray sat on a low table with two cups and a silver coffee service.
As soon as she caught sight of Emma, Gillian sprang to her feet and gave her a hug and a kiss. “Thank God you’re alive,” she said. “We heard such terrible things about the fire on the ship.” She stepped back to look her up and down. “Are you all right? You look pale.”
“It’s nothing. Just a little tired still.” Emma returned Gillian’s penetrating scan, taking in the loose-fitting and most unfashionable frock. “My God,” she said as she plumped into a large armchair. “Don’t tell me you’re-”
Gillian nodded excitedly and stroked the small bulge in her abdomen. “Just in time for Christmas,” she said. “Isn’t it marvelous?”
“Wonderful. Congratulations. This calls for something stronger than coffee-” Emma looked around for a waiter.
“No, no, thank you. This is quite strong enough for me.” Gillian stroked her belly again and gave it a little pat as if communicating reassurance to the baby. “But if you want…”
Emma caught the eye of a waiter at last. “Do you have a bottle of Bel Amore?” naming the glorious white vintage from Marco’s estate.
“No, madame, that wine is not available to restaurants. It’s sold only to a select private list. I’m sorry. May I suggest something else? Or would you like to see the wine list?”
“No, no thank you. I’ll stick to coffee.”
She glanced across and saw Gillian watching her, a thoughtful look on her face. “Is that a special wine you found in Italy?”
“Yes. It’s rather nice, and I thought I’d like to try it here. Away from the sunshine and the hills, you know, it often tastes quite different.”
“Special memories, then?”
“In a way.” Emma took a sip of coffee, then looked at her nails, newly manicured and polished, and changed the subject. “Marriage seems to agree with you.”
Gillian gave a long sigh and stirred her full cup of coffee. “I’m quite sickening about it, actually. I keep telling all my friends they shouldn’t be afraid to do it.” She stirred her coffee yet again.
“Look, are you going to drink that, or just stir it to death?”
Gillian put the spoon down. “Sorry, I ordered it by habit. To tell the truth, it tastes horrible. Ever since I knew I was pregnant, my taste buds have gone haywire.”
“Have a glass of milk or something. Isn’t that supposed to be good for you?”
“Yes, but I’m starting to loathe the sight of milk. Johnny keeps bringing it to me.”
“Johnny? Gentleman Johnny in MI5, the swashbuckling hero?”
Gillian bristled. “He’s not like that at all. He’s very sweet and understanding-”
Emma reached out to touch Gillian’s knee. “I know, darling. He’s gorgeous and wonderful and I shouldn’t be teasing you. He adores you, I could see that.”
Emma finished her coffee, and they went in to lunch. She asked for a glass of Soave. It was nice enough, but not a patch on Marco’s wine.
“Tell me what happened in Italy,” Gillian demanded as they were served.
“Nothing to tell, really. I don’t remember all that much about the shipwreck, just that I was washed ashore and some Italian peasants found me. There was a doctor who helped me find my way back to Naples.”
“Hmm. That’s it?’
“That’s it.”
Gillian picked up the last lettuce leaf and sat back. “So, are you going to tell me about him?”
“About whom?”
“The man who gave you the wine.” She placed her elbows on the table and propped her chin on her hands. “Was it the mysterious doctor? I know there’s more. I want every detail.” She dropped her voice. “Or at least every detail that’s fit to print, as Sam Parfitt used to say.”
Emma laughed. “You don’t miss the newspaper, do you?”
“God, no. Sometimes I do some office work for Johnny. Typing and stuff.” Her face grew serious. “There’s a lot going on in Europe, you know, Emma. In Germany and in Italy…”
“I know.”
Reminded that Gillian and Johnny were associated with the British secret services, Emma launched into a modified account of the village hidden in the caves and Marco’s struggle with the government forces. She still wasn’t ready to share too much and refrained from giving details of the torture and death of Claudia. She only mentioned Marco in passing as the leader of the outlawed group.
Gillian listened wide eyed. “This is all so useful,” she said. “Would you talk to Johnny about some of this?”
“I suppose so.”
“So keep the political details for him and tell me more about this Doctor Marco.”
Emma smiled as she sipped her wine. “There’s not much more to tell.”
“Of course there is. I can see it in your face every time you mention his name. What does he look like?”
She had never realized how good Gillian was at worming information out of someone. She tried to describe Marco without making him sound like a Hollywood star.
Gillian sighed again. “He sounds dreamy. What was he like in bed?”
Emma choked on her last sip of wine. “Gilly!”
“You can tell me. I’m a married woman. How often, where?”
“Several times, wherever we could, and that’s all you’re getting out of me, Mrs. Gillian Westmarland.”
“So are you going to marry him?”
“Oh, Gillian, I don’t know.”
“Of course you know. I knew I was going to marry Johnny as soon as I met him, although I had horrible doubts at times. Did he ask you?”
“Well, not in so many words, but he wanted me to stay with him.”
“Hmm. Do you care about getting married?”
“I should, but I’d take him under any conditions.” Suddenly that truth was as clear as daylight to her. “I’m so torn. My father-”
“Your father,” Gillian said decisively, “would let you marry the local ratcatcher if that’s what you wanted. And he’d book St. Margaret’s, Westminster, fo
r it.”
“Marco’s been on the run and could be again. I’ve been reading a bit about Mussolini since I came back. I’m worried about him.”
“You have reason to be worried,” Gillian broke in. “Rule of iron, but not as brutal as in Germany, although not far off. The Blackshirts enforce authority, those who disagree and speak out can be murdered. A lot of people have left, rather than face death or the prisons on remote islands. I quote from the revered leader, ‘ Italy wants peace and quiet, work and calm. I will give these things with love if possible and with force if necessary.’”
Emma felt a tiny, cold shiver snake through her. “You know a lot.”
“It’s Johnny’s job to know, and I help him now. In 1927 they launched the Battle for Births. They want every family to have at least five children. Next it will be land, then currency, then crops. It’s in their manifesto. They’ll ride roughshod over anyone who dissents.”
Emma thought of the newspaper started by Marco’s father.
Gillian leaned forward. “Sorry to give you a current affairs lecture, but if you love this man, he will soon need you by his side. You need to decide where you want to be. And where he should be. Ask yourself what your real dilemma is… If you marry an Italian at this time you will have to make difficult choices. Think back, Emma. We both know what kind of life you led. Do you still want that?”
Emma shook her head. “The things that came easily to me turned out to be not worth having. I could care less about my social position, although it’s important to my father and I can’t hurt him.”
“Think about the things worth having that are harder to attain. The things you would fight and die for are precious and few, aren’t they?”
Emma took a gulp of water. “Very precious and very few.”
On the way home in the train from London, Emma did a lot of thinking. Talking to Gillian had made her put her feelings into words. To her surprise she’d heard herself say she would take Marco under any conditions. Did she really mean that?
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