One Hot Summer

by Norrey Ford

  ‘No. We hardly mentioned her name. We spoke of the house, the furniture, Gina’s wedding dress, Signora Cellini.’

  His eyebrows rose. ‘Then why are you blushing crimson? You are not the blushing kind, are you? What else did you talk of?’

  She said furiously, ‘You have no right to question me like that. This is not the Inquisition. We’ve been so happy together all day, I thought we were friends. And now it seems you have been suspecting me, watching me down to the flick of an eyelash. It’s horrible!’ Guilt made her angry, but with herself, not him. Now she was really in a trap, compelled to lie to Marco who had been so good to her; or to break her promise to a stranger who might or might not be genuine.

  ‘Suspecting isn’t the word I’d have used. I don’t suspect—I know. You are keeping a secret from me; possibly a secret you don’t even know you possess. All day I’ve hoped you would tell me. Now I am compelled to ask.’

  ‘But I am not compelled to answer. I don’t know where Bianca is, and I learned nothing from Gina about her. In fact, she spoke mostly of you. She said you were an eligible bachelor, that when you finally married it would be a great occasion, and that speculation among the young unmarried and their mothers was a strain.’

  He laughed at that. ‘Is that all? Poor Gina! Have you noticed how newly-married people always try to marry off all their friends? Nothing more?’

  ‘If you are asking if I’m keeping a secret from you, I am. But you will learn it all in good time. Not from me. It is not mine to tell.’

  The magic of the day was gone. She was suddenly aware of the garishness of the colours, the overcrowded piazza, the thrusting coach-parties, the peeling paint and shabbiness behind the advertisements. A moment of disenchantment, the fairy gold turning into a handful of dried leaves.

  ‘You are entitled to keep your own counsel, naturally. But I still think you may have learned something without realising that it is important. Couldn’t we explore the possibility of that?’ He was keeping a tight control of his voice; his manner remained as charming as before, yet the easy atmosphere was gone. He was the head of his house again, the head of a vast business empire and no longer in holiday mood. He had waited and pounced, and had her in his trap.

  ‘One thing,’ she remembered suddenly, ‘which puzzled me, and I may have had it in the back of my mind all day. A trouser suit of Bianca’s has vanished from her wardrobe.’

  ‘Stolen? One of the maids? Francesca is honest, but her family are lazy good-for-nothings. She supports them, I believe. A dozen or more mouths to feed, poor child. I won’t have thieves in my house. We shall have to investigate.’

  She put her hand on his, as it lay on the table. ‘No, Marco, say nothing. Wait and see what happens. Bianca took very little when she went. She’ll be in need of fresh clothes by this time.’

  ‘She came home and took it? And no one saw?’

  ‘I’ve been wondering. Suppose she’s on the island still?’

  He frowned. ‘Who would dare shelter her?’

  She had used those very words herself, when speaking to Paolo. In Marco’s mouth they sounded impossibly feudal, and her hackles rose. ‘Stop talking as if you owned the island and everybody on it, body and soul! You don’t. And if you did you’d need to be ashamed of yourself, for the poverty, the dirt, and bad housing. You’re not lord of all you survey, so some people might hide her for the sake of reminding the Cellinis that they are not all-powerful. You can’t be popular with everyone, Marco, if you hold mediaeval ideas. You may have succeeded in keeping prosperity out of the island in order to preserve your own Shangri-la, but you can’t keep ideas out.’

  His face became a polite mask, tight-lipped, cold of eye.

  ‘I have searched the island,’ he said distantly. ‘As you know. So has Dino, and he knows more hiding places than I ever could. You don’t think—’

  She saw the question written on his face and answered it before he could ask. ‘No, I don’t think Dino has hidden her. He’s probably one of the people who wouldn’t dare. Besides, he likes you.’

  He pushed back his chair. ‘Speaking of Dino, we should be making for the harbour. He will come early, as always, so if you’ve finished your shopping we could be on our way. He’ll have to take the nuns back to Sorrento later, and the Mother Superior does not like them to be late.’

  She collected her things and stood up. The treat was over. She had offended, and was to be taken home early like a naughty child.

  Signora Cellini had had a happy day, she said. She was well, and had slept during the siesta hour. The nuns sat side by side placidly, hands folded in their laps, waiting till it should please someone to take them home to their convent. Gently, with polite smiles, they refused an invitation to remain for dinner.

  Marco himself drove them down to the harbour. Jan unwrapped the kaftan for Signora Cellini to see, then went to change. It would not do to add to her crimes by keeping the master of the house waiting for his evening meal.

  The blue trouser suit was back. Jan rang for Francesca.

  ‘Si, si, signorina. You made a mistake. See, it was hanging at the other end of the wardrobe, next to the bridesmaid’s dress. Look how the folds of the long skirt hid it.’

  ‘When did the Signorina Bianca bring it back, Francesca? Today, when we were out?’

  The girl paled. Her hands, outstretched in protest, trembled. ‘I have not seen her—I swear it.’

  Jan looked at the terrified girl in exasperated silence. Suddenly she felt sick to death of the whole Cellini set-up. What did it matter to her where Bianca had chosen to hide herself? Why should she bully this poor child, so easily scared out of her wits, in order to pull the Cellini irons out of the fire? How much more peaceful life would have been, now and in the future, if she had never set eyes on Marco, the villa, everything.

  ‘Go away,’ she told Francesca. ‘It doesn’t matter. I made a mistake. I’m sorry. Please don’t cry any more.’

  ‘You believe me, that I have not seen Signorina Bianca?’

  Oddly enough, Jan discovered, she did believe the girl. If Bianca had slipped in during the day, Francesca had not seen her. Three years’ hospital training helped one to hear the ring of truth in a desperate voice. She nodded, and the girl scurried off.

  Three years’ training also taught one to observe accurately. Not to miss the smallest detail. How could she have missed that trouser suit on the rail, when she had searched for it so carefully?

  Dinner was easy, after all. Signora Cellini had had a happy day. She was animated, full of chatter about her friends the nuns and eager to hear news of Gina and Cesare. Jan was made to describe the house, the furniture, Gina’s clothes, in detail.

  Marco put in a word occasionally, but his mood was remote and calm. Far different from Jan’s own chaotic emotions, which she found difficult to analyse. Impatience to be done with the villa and all its devious ways; a longing to be safe within the walls of the hospital, secure in the familiar routine, part of the vast throbbing life within the great glass walls. A bitter longing to remain here, within sight and sound of Marco Cellini, whom she hated and loved in equal measure. If time would stand still—here and now!

  Tomorrow her promise to Paolo ended. She would tell Marco all she knew. And the next day she would go home and it would all be over. A dream—fading with the coming of day, as dreams do.

  The Signora lingered long after her usual time for retiring, talking happily. Then she begged Jan to bring out her guitar and sing. Jan glanced enquiringly at Marco, who nodded. She plucked the strings experimentally, then began with some modern folk music, singing softly. The Mediterranean night deepened from violet to purple, the stars came out one by one; the flower scent which would be her longest-lasting memory of the Villa Tramonti hung heavy about them, mingled with the smell of Marco’s cigar. After a while he left the two women, and stood at a distance staring down over the terrace to the sea and the headland far below. Was he listening? She thought not. He seemed lost in thoug
ht. Lost to me for ever, she thought as she sang. Her mouth curved into a wry smile. How can one lose what one has never possessed?

  At last the Signora said she was tired. Jan put the instrument away and gave the elderly woman her arm. Marco came back to them and kissed his mama goodnight.

  ‘Goodnight, my son. You are kind to your old mother, God bless you. It has been a happy, happy day. You, and my dear Jan, and Bianca.’

  Jan’s heart turned over. So the girl had been here!

  But Marco took the words coolly.

  ‘Did she stay for tea—Bianca?’

  ‘Why, of course, dear. This is her home, why shouldn’t she? You know Bianca loves her English tea as much as I do.’

  ‘Did the nuns have tea too?’

  A frown drew the elegant, delicate brows together. ‘Nuns, dear? What nuns?’

  Jan caught the man’s light, unhappy sigh. Living on the narrow edge between the real and the unreal, how hard it must be for him.

  The Signora took a long time to settle. She fussed gently over this and that, but at last her sleeping tablet took effect and she drifted into light sleep.

  Jan had been with her a whole hour. Marco must have gone long ago, to his own rooms somewhere in the heart of the villa.

  CHAPTER VII

  ‘Come here, Jan.’

  Marco spoke out of the darkness. At first, coming out of the lamplight of the house, Jan could not see him.

  ‘I'm here, on the terrace wall. I want to talk to you.’

  As she moved towards him, he held out his hand for hers, drew her towards him. Side by side, they looked out across the water. He pointed to moving lights at sea. ‘Fishing boats. Jan, can you really leave us? Leave all this? I have been thinking that in little more than thirty-six hours, you will be gone. Please stay, cara mia! We need you here.’

  His voice was soft and deep, dangerously tempting. If he meant to exert all his charm to persuade her to stay, it would be so difficult to say no. Yet go she must. Nothing else was possible. Did he know, could he suspect, how his persuasions would tear her heart?

  ‘Holidays come to an end,’ she forced herself to speak lightly. ‘It is always sad. And then, after all, one is happy to be home again. It happens every year, Marco. Even when I was a child and went to Bridlington with a bucket and spade, I yelled all the way to the station. And next day I was playing with the kids next door quite happily.’

  ‘Do we mean so little to you? You will forget us, in a single day?'

  Not in a lifetime! She moistened dry lips and said smiling, ‘You’ve given me a wonderful holiday and I shall remember you all for a long time. I only wish I’d brought a camera, so I could show everyone what the villa looks like. You’ve reminded me that I should be packing, Marco. I ought to say goodnight, and thank you for a splendid day on Capri. The Blue Grotto and—’

  He closed her mouth with a long, hard kiss. She felt the beat of his heart as her body relaxed against his. This was irresistible magic. The moonlight, the heady scents, the physical dominance of an utterly fascinating man. Slowly, her arms slid round his neck, and she gave her mouth to his.

  After a long time, he released her. She was trembling with joy, completely relaxed, completely happy. There will be this to remember, her heart sang. Marco’s kisses were like champagne in her blood. But thrilling though it was, she felt a warning touch her like an icy finger.

  Marco was not a boy, to be carried away by the urge of the body, the enchantment of night and music. He did nothing without calculation. So what did he want of her?

  She did not dare to think that his embraces meant more than a momentary emotion sparked off by the thought of her imminent departure, a sudden physical urge born of the long day together, the sad yearning songs she had been singing; and perhaps of a sudden rejection, like her own, of worry and responsibility and anxiety. He was young too, and he had suffered much, these last days.

  ‘You see?’ he said, almost laughing with triumph. ‘You cannot resist me.’

  ‘Who could?’ she murmured, yielding to the pressure of his arm around her shoulder. ‘You really are a fascinating creature when you try, Marco Cellini. And I am as susceptible to Italian enchantment as any other woman.’

  ‘So you will not refuse to stay?’ He drew her close, found the tender spot below her ear and put his lips to it. His breath was in her hair. ‘You will stay with us, cara mia?’

  So he was only coaxing, like a child, with kisses! He could be a baby too, if he did not get his own way. She had known his granite hardness, the quickness of his Latin temper. Now he was trying the other way, the gentle approach.

  Her soft laughter made him laugh too, and grumble. ‘You are laughing at me?’

  ‘Of course I’m laughing at you. Don’t imagine all these kisses deceive me for a moment. You choose the time and place so perfectly.’

  His lips in her hair, he whispered, ‘You are not angry?’

  ‘Not angry at all.’ She turned her face to his, to meet his mouth. ‘Do I seem angry, in your arms and kissing you?’

  ‘So you are not leaving the day after tomorrow?’

  She drew away, and taking his face between her palms, looked into his eyes. ‘Listen, Marco Cellini. We’ve had a lovely day, you’ve held me, kissed me—and I’ve kissed you. And we’ve both enjoyed every minute of it. But that makes no difference to tomorrow and the day after. This is tonight. This is Italian magic—an hour to remember, an hour out of time. It has nothing to do with reality.’

  He gripped her wrists tightly. She could see the gleam in his eyes, the firm line of cheek and chin.

  ‘It has everything to do with reality. It makes all the difference to today and tomorrow. I am asking you to marry me, cara mia.’

  Stunned with surprise, Jan could neither move nor speak. She felt a cool breath of air from the sea on her bare arms, a chill of regret that the minutes of their closeness were over so soon. But where she should have felt elation, joy, fantastic happiness, she experienced only a dull anger.

  So he was prepared to go as far as that, to keep her for his mother? It would solve his problem so neatly, would it not? One day soon, his sister Bianca would marry, go off to her husband’s home. And that would leave a problem on Marco’s plate. The beautiful Signora Cellini, mentally unbalanced after the tragic death of her husband, needing care and privacy. He would never be able to take her to his Roman apartment, for how could she live her gentle, harmless life out there? How could he, so proud, so touchy, ever allow his friends and acquaintances to know how unbalanced his mother was?

  But an English nurse, who knew nobody in Italy and could not, therefore, gossip? What a splendid solution, leaving Marco to live his life free of worries!

  A marriage without love. A marriage of convenience. His convenience.

  The thoughts raced round and round in her mind for what seemed a long time.

  ‘Jan?’ His voice—that velvety voice full of enchantment—was asking her for the response she could not give.

  She shivered in the wind off the sea. Why was it so cold suddenly? She pressed her hands over her eyes a moment.

  ‘No, Marco. Don’t you see, you are asking the impossible?’

  ‘Why impossible? If you mean, I haven’t approached your family, I can do that. As you see, I’m not a poor man, Jan. You like Italy, you could be happy here. There is much you could do on the island, as my wife. I admit I've neglected it. So did my father. He had other interests, and so have I. But you—so full of ideas—’

  That too? She was to be his conscience on the island. Stay here, as isolated as in a convent, play the great lady and look after his tenants, while he—? What other interests?

  ‘Please stop, Marco. I’ve said I won’t marry you, and that’s the end. You had no right to ask me, in this way. You’re not the only one who has other interests. Have you forgotten I have a career?’

  As if that would have mattered, if he had said Jan, I love you!

  He brushed his hand across his
forehead. ‘I do not understand this career. What is it, but nursing the sick? Is that enough for a woman, for her whole life? Don’t you want marriage, a home, children and grandchildren around you? What sort of a woman are you, Jan? I thought I knew you. I thought when you kissed me so passionately just now—yes, you did—I felt the warmth of a real woman. But you are still so cold, so dedicated. How can I reach you?’

  ‘Not by offering bribes,’ she said coldly. She had not known she could be so angry. So she was to provide him with the children every Italian coveted? No doubt to an Italian girl in her position, the marriage he offered would be irresistible. Money, a splendid villa, children, a fine estate. And a husband who conveniently lived in Rome and did not bother her too much. But it was not Jan’s own idea of what a marriage should be, and she could never be content with second-best.

  ‘I’m sorry, Marco,’ she said again, to his silence.

  As he moved away from her, the moonlight fell full on his face, and she felt a surge of wild hope as she saw disappointment there, which was almost longing. His hands came out to her, but did not reach her. Pride came into his face, something of anger, something of the patrician reserve which was so typically Cellini. His hands dropped. For him, an episode had ended. That was plain to see.

  ‘Now I know you are not a real woman. When I offer you everything a woman is supposed to want, you call it a bribe. What sort of talk is that? Is my name nothing? My family? Can I offer you no position in Italian society, no proper home? Do English girls think of these things as bribes? Well, I shall offer no more bribes. If I am so undesirable that I have to offer bribes to get a woman to marry me, I shall remain a bachelor for ever. Any man has his pride, and I shall keep mine.’