The Italian’s Cinderella Bride

by Lucy Gordon

  ‘We will discuss this tomorrow,’ he repeated.

  Still the bumbling fool wouldn’t understand. ‘But there’s so much to settle. Come on, we’ll have a bottle of wine and-’

  He stopped. Franco had raised his head and looked him in the eyes. Ruth thought she would have died if he’d turned that look on her. There was more in it than resentment. There was sheer murderous hate for this creature who stomped all over his most sacred memories with hobnailed boots.

  At last Franco understood. He faltered into silence, grew pale, and even stepped back as though afraid that Pietro might strike him. But that wouldn’t happen, Ruth knew. Pietro had no need of his fists when his eyes could convey such a terrifying message.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ Pietro said quietly, and walked out of the shop, across St Mark’s and into the labyrinth of calles.

  He went on walking for an hour, caring nothing for where he went, seeing nothing, feeling nothing except the inner emptiness that was his defence against a feeling that was a thousand times worse. When he became aware of his surroundings he found he was approaching his home.

  He moved mechanically, going to his room, switching on the computer, reading it with dead eyes, checking his emails.

  And there was one from Gino.

  Ruth arrived later that evening, having resisted the temptation to hurry after Pietro. He wouldn’t thank her for dogging his footsteps, she knew.

  Her resolutions were all made. The earthquake that had happened inside her was something he must never be allowed to suspect, and until she was more sure of herself she would keep her distance.

  There was no sign of him when she entered, but she could hear his steps coming from behind the closed door of his room. This way, then that, then back again, like a prisoner pacing his cell. Once she thought she heard a fist being slammed down. Then there was silence again while she stood, wondering what to do.

  Without warning the door opened.

  ‘Don’t stand there,’ he said curtly. ‘I’ve been waiting for you to come in.’

  ‘I didn’t want to disturb you.’

  ‘Thanks, but a pot of strong English tea would do me more good.’

  She made some and took a large mug of tea in to him.

  ‘Where’s yours?’ he wanted to know. ‘I hate drinking alone.’

  When she returned he said, ‘I sent Minna to bed, so I’m afraid it’s make-do-and-mend in the kitchen.’

  ‘I had something on the way home.’

  ‘Are you being tactful?’ he demanded suspiciously.

  ‘I thought it might make a nice contrast to Franco.’

  He groaned and spooned sugar into his mug. He’d taken a fancy to the tea she made, and would sometimes drink it in preference to coffee.

  Ruth was feeling her way carefully. The resolve to keep her distance had died with the first sight of his haggard face. The protectiveness she’d felt in the shop came surging back.

  ‘This is Franco’s fault,’ she said angrily. ‘Why did you say he could bring his party here? You could have simply thrown him out.’

  ‘Could I?’ Pietro said ironically. ‘Do you think that would have stopped him? It wouldn’t. He’d have ground on and on until I’d have had to kill him to make him shut up.’

  ‘Killing him might have been a good idea,’ she said thoughtfully.

  Pietro shook his head. ‘Bad for business.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘I was becoming afraid of what I might do. So I said yes.’

  ‘But that didn’t really shut him up.’ She sighed. ‘He just found something else to badger you about-until you gave him that look.’

  ‘You saw it, then?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘Did it give much away?’ he asked, apparently indifferent.

  ‘Plenty.’

  ‘He’ll never know what danger he was in at that moment.’

  ‘Oh, I think he knows,’ she said lightly. ‘He got a grandstand view of your eyes.’

  Pietro gave a grunt that might have been satisfaction.

  ‘Anyway, it’s too late now,’ he said. ‘I’ve agreed and I won’t go back on my word, but I’d give anything not to have this happen.’

  He saw her looking at him and grimaced.

  ‘I know, I know. I sound like a mean, miserable old miser, turning his back on the world.’

  ‘You’re not old,’ she said, venturing to tease him a little.

  He gave a faint smile. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘And why shouldn’t you turn your back on the world if that’s what you want to do?’

  ‘It’s commonly held to be a bad thing.’

  ‘But if the world no longer has anything that you want, why should you pretend about it? What’s the point of being a count if you can’t get your own way?’

  ‘I wish my father could hear you. He was an aristocrat of the old-fashioned type. If you had a title then certain things were expected of you. It was your duty to present a particular face to the world and behave in a lordly manner, no matter how you felt inside. Plus, of course, you always got your own way.’

  ‘But you don’t agree?’

  ‘His beliefs were right for his time, but not for now.’

  ‘Then you don’t have to go on with this. There must be someone else’s place Franco can take over. Don’t just give in to him.’

  ‘You’re very fierce. I wouldn’t like to meet you in a calle on a dark night, in this mood. Perhaps I should warn Franco.’

  ‘I’m only saying you should keep your home the way you want it.’

  ‘The way I want it,’ he sighed.

  She could have kicked herself. Of course this desolation wasn’t the home he wanted. Without the woman he loved it was simply all he had left.

  The woman he loved. She’d always known it with her head, but now she realised what it really meant. It meant that he’d chosen to die inside rather than live without her. Somewhere inside Ruth there was an ache.

  ‘I shouldn’t have said that,’ she said awkwardly. ‘It’s none of my business-about your wife. I’m sorry.’

  He became suddenly still, as though she’d struck him. Slowly he turned and gave her a keen look.

  ‘What do you know about my wife?’ he asked in a strange voice.

  When Ruth didn’t answer, Pietro said, ‘What is it, Ruth? What did you mean about my wife?’

  ‘Nothing. I had no right to mention her. I didn’t want to make you angry.’

  ‘I’m not angry, but I would like you to answer me. Just how much do you know about her?’

  He sounded as if he resented her knowing anything, Ruth thought, her heart sinking. Had his love really been so powerfully possessive that even the mention of her name was forbidden to others?

  ‘I know hardly anything,’ she said awkwardly. ‘Just that she died last year, and it hit you very hard. It must have done for you to turn away from the world like this.’

  ‘Like I said, mean, miserable miser,’ he replied ironically.

  ‘That’s your business. You don’t have to grieve the way other people think you should. Only you know what-’ She forced herself to stop, afraid of making everything worse.

  ‘Yes, only I know,’ he said quietly.

  ‘No, that’s not true,’ she said, gathering her courage. ‘She must have known as well.’

  ‘Known what?’ He turned quickly to look at her, and there was a strange, keen look in his eyes.

  ‘How dreadfully you loved her. She must have known that. People don’t just understand what we say, but what they feel in the atmosphere.’

  ‘So you don’t think the words matter very much?’

  ‘Yes, the words are nice, but they’re not everything.’

  ‘I thought women attached a lot of importance to them.’

  ‘That’s because we know a lot of men don’t find them easy. So if he manages them, it means more. But if he doesn’t-I promise you a woman knows the man who loves her and the man who doesn’t. Whether he says
it or not, it’s there in the tone of his voice, the way his eyes rest on her, the things he remembers to do.’

  She had meant to comfort him with the thought that his wife had died content in the knowledge of his love, but to her horror he closed his eyes suddenly and turned his head away. She groaned, realising how insensitive she had been.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ she said hurriedly. ‘Please forget I said anything. What do I know?’

  ‘Don’t put yourself down,’ he said, turning back. ‘I think I’d rely on your experience more than anyone’s.’

  ‘Even when I can’t remember what it was?’ she asked wryly.

  ‘Especially then.’

  ‘That doesn’t make any sense.’

  ‘It makes perfect sense. If you’re not using your memory you’re relying on your instincts. I trust your instincts.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said softly. ‘I wish there was some way I could help you. But nothing really helps, does it?’

  ‘I once believed that. I’ve sat in this place and listened to the silence and wondered how I was going to get through the rest of my life. I’m not sure how I’d cope if I had your problems, probably not as well as you do, but I can talk to you, not to anyone else.’

  ‘But you don’t-I mean, we never talk about anything much, unless it’s about me,’ Ruth protested. ‘You don’t talk about you.’

  ‘But you were the one who said the words mattered less than what you pick up in the atmosphere.’ He gave a brief laugh. ‘You might describe our atmosphere as two desperate characters drowning. But we’re not drowning anymore.’

  ‘Not as long as we just cling on to each other,’ she said. ‘You’re right. It makes all the difference.’

  ‘With any luck we may hold each other up until one of us can touch the bottom,’ he said lightly.

  ‘One of us? If I can touch land do you think I’m going to go off and leave you to drown?’ she asked. ‘Would you leave me?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ she said softly.

  Ruth fetched him another mug of tea and when she returned he was going through a large photo album. Several more rested on a chair.

  ‘I gathered these to get them out of Franco’s way when he takes over the building,’ he said.

  To her surprise she saw the pictures were of children; two boys and a girl. The boys were in their late teens, the girl about thirteen.

  ‘That’s me,’ Pietro said, pointing. ‘The other one was my friend Silvio, and the girl was Lisetta, his sister. She used to trail along behind us, and we were kind to her in that selfish, casual way of boys.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ Ruth asked, peering closer. ‘You all look as though you’re about to throw something.’

  ‘Dice. We had a special game where you had to toss the dice better than anyone else. If you won, the prize was a stone. Lisetta played it better than either of us. She had a naturally straight “eye”. She’d win stone after stone, and when she had a pile of stones, she’d risk the whole lot on one throw. Sometimes she won, more often she lost, but losing never bothered her. She’d just laugh and start again.’

  He studied the picture, smiling. ‘I think it was her idea of being kind-let the boys win in the end so that they don’t feel too bad.’

  ‘That sounds very traditional. Was she really like that?’

  ‘She was very kind.’

  ‘Is this her?’ Ruth had come across a large portrait of the same girl, now grown up, dressed in the garb of a college graduate.

  ‘That’s her on the day she graduated with honours,’ Pietro said. ‘She was the bright one, put us all to shame. After that she became a professor herself, the youngest they’d ever had.’

  ‘Wow!’

  Ruth studied the calm face, which already held more than a touch of assurance. She wasn’t pretty, but she was handsome, and she looked as though she did nothing by chance.

  Something made her look back to the first picture. There were several of them showing her ready to throw the dice, always smiling, and always with something in her eyes that made Ruth sure Pietro had misread her.

  This wasn’t an old-fashioned girl letting the boys win out of a misplaced concern for male pride. This was a high roller with the nerve to stake her entire winnings on one throw, and the courage to laugh if she lost. Even as a child it had been there. Later, beneath the professor’s exterior, beat the heart of a risk-taker. Ruth found herself liking Lisetta.

  For her wedding she’d worn a fancy confection of satin and lace that didn’t quite fit with the severity of her looks. Her veil swept the ground, her bouquet was enormous, but what stood out most was the look of blazing happiness on her face. There could be no mistaking her feelings, even when she was pictured alone. But when she was looking into Pietro’s smiling face she was consumed by radiant joy.

  Until now Ruth had pitied him, grieving for the woman he’d loved, but this was also the woman who had given him an adoration few men ever knew. What would it do to him to lose that love? Looking around at the bleakness of his life, Ruth thought she knew.

  She found him watching her. Without a word he took the photo and put it out of sight.

  ‘She looks like a marvellous person,’ she ventured.

  ‘She was, generous and giving…’ His voice trailed away and he sat staring at the floor, his hands clasped between his knees.

  She could bear his pain no longer. Dropping to the floor, she laid her hands over his.

  ‘If only there was something I could say,’ she whispered.

  He shook his head. ‘You don’t need to. If I could talk to anyone, it would be to you, but-Ruth, I wanted to say…I wish things were different. I wish I was any use with words-’

  She silenced him with her fingertips over his mouth. Then, because it seemed natural, she slipped her arms around him. He hugged her back with all the force of a man who hadn’t been hugged for a long time, and they held each other in silence for a while.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  R UTH waited, tense with hope to see if Pietro would move his hands over her, but he only held her without stirring until at last he disengaged himself. Now he would send her away, she thought, but he got to his feet, saying, ‘I need a walk before I can sleep. If we’re keeping an eye on each other, are you coming?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  As they reached the door downstairs they heard a soft pattering of feet and Toni caught up with them.

  ‘I guess we’re all going,’ Ruth said.

  ‘He never did like being left behind.’

  Pietro locked the door behind them, then crooked his arm for her to slip her hand through it, and they began to wander through the tiny streets, lit only by a faint silver glow from above. At first they did not speak, and for a while the only sound was their feet echoing on the paving stones, and the soft noise of Toni padding behind them.

  ‘I think this must be the quietest place on earth,’ Ruth mused. ‘Anywhere else you’d always be able to hear a car, even at night, but here there’s no noise at all.’

  ‘Oh, yes, there’s noise, if you know how to hear it,’ Pietro said. ‘Listen to the water.’

  She listened, and understood what he meant. From every direction came the plash of water on stone, so soft that it was almost part of the silence, yet unmistakably there.

  She was content, almost happy. The disturbing feeling towards Pietro that was growing inside her could be set aside for the moment, while she relished their camaraderie. Somehow she knew that her previous life had never been blessed with anything like this.

  They strolled on peacefully, keeping to the narrowest backstreets. Outwardly Pietro was as calm as she, but inwardly he was troubled.

  I should have told her by now, but how shall I say it?

  ‘Let’s go this way,’ she said, drawing him sideways.

  ‘Do you know what lies this way?’ he asked curiously.

  ‘A tiny canal, and a tiny bridge. I like them better
than the big, glamorous places.’

  ‘So do I.’

  There were a hundred tiny canals and tiny bridges, but he knew the one she meant, and after a while they came to it and went to stand on the bridge, looking down into the depths. Here and there a light was still on in one of the buildings, the reflection dancing in the ripples on the water.

  From somewhere came the sound of a horn as a ship began its journey out of the lagoon, away to foreign parts, sending waves running back through the large canals, then the small ones, so that even here the water danced higher before settling back.

  Another long, contented silence. Then came the sound that sent a pleasurable shiver down Ruth’s spine, a yodelling wail, coming out of the darkness, echoing from wall to wall before dying away into the distance. A pause, then it came again, finally shivering into silence.

  ‘Do you know what that is?’ Pietro asked.

  ‘Yes, it’s a gondolier, signalling that he’s coming around a blind corner,’ she said. ‘There he is.’

  As they watched a long shape drifted into sight, turning towards them, the gondolier plying his oar at the rear, in front of him a young man and woman in each other’s arms.

  I must tell her now, Pietro thought.

  Down below the lovers looked up, then smiled and waved, as though wanting to share their happiness with the world, before vanishing under the bridge.

  I will tell her, but how will she take it?

  The email from Gino had said,

  I know you think I should have returned before, but I’ve been doing so well in Poland, finding all sorts of new places that will interest you. I’d planned to go on to Russia next-after all, that was what you originally told me to do-but it will mean being away for a long time and I suppose I ought to clear this other thing up first, otherwise it’ll just drag on.

  I’m coming by train from Milan, and I’ll be at the station the day after tomorrow, at about five-thirty in the afternoon. If it’s all right with you I’ll stay the night, and leave the next day. That’ll give me time to talk to Ruth and put her right about whatever’s worrying her.

  Pietro had read this several times, trying vainly to detect any hint of concern for the girl Gino had once loved and planned to marry. But it was a fruitless task, and at last he had begun to outline a reply. As he had tapped out the letters his face had been concentrated into a scowl.