One Hot Summer

by Norrey Ford

  She started towards him. ‘No, oh no, Marco! I didn’t mean you were unattractive, nor that your name and family meant nothing. Oh dear, I’ve handled this so badly, and been so unkind and tactless. Please believe me, I didn’t mean to hurt your pride so deeply. I’m honoured, greatly honoured, by your offer of marriage. I’m not even worthy of it, as far as money or family are concerned. We’re just ordinary, everyday people. I’ve no long pedigree or fortune, and I’m sure I’d have no dowry or anything like that. What I meant was something different. I—I can’t do what you wish, that’s all.’

  There was a long moment of silence. Then he bowed formally, turned and marched stiffly away. Jan, alone on the terrace, shivered with cold. She should go indoors and get warm, yet she was too disturbed in her mind to move.

  It was to this terrace he had brought her on the first day. Together, they had stood on this very spot, looking down at the sea, the headland, the old stone castle. Every day since then, her feeling for him had grown and grown. That he would ever propose had been beyond her wildest dreams. That she would refuse him would have seemed absurd.

  Yet she had done so, and sent him marching away stiff with rage and wounded pride. One thing was certain—he would never give her a second chance.

  If he had loved her, how different this moment would have been. But she could not marry on his terms. She wanted her marriage to be loving, sharing, giving each to the other, in trust and tenderness. None of the things he considered important really mattered. Not to her, though it was obvious they mattered tremendously to him.

  What would have happened to her, when and if he found the right kind of woman for his wife? His own countrywoman, rich and influential, of good family and estate. What of the little English nurse then? Or when his mother died, as in the course of time must happen—what then, when he had no more need of her?

  She had been right—right—to refuse him. But the loneliness rushing in on her, the emptiness, the sense of life to be endured without hope, was too much to bear. She buried her face in her hands and gave way to the dreadful grief which shook her.

  When the storm was over, she wiped the blinding tears away. She must go indoors, her flesh was cold as marble. But she could not resist one last look over the terrace to the moonlit path across the sea. And a light went out. The whole coast below her was now lost in velvet blackness. Yet a minute before, there had been a light. Where? Surely in the castle?

  She knew, with absolute certainty, where Bianca was.

  That was the knowledge which had been nagging at the back of her mind for days. On that first day, Marco had pointed out the castle, told her Bianca’s godfather lived there. Asked her to wave if the old man waved to her.

  She had never done so. Why?

  Because he had never waved to her. And he had not done so, because Bianca, his beloved goddaughter, was down there with him. So why should he wave to an unknown figure on a balcony?

  As she crawled, shivering, into bed, she examined the idea carefully. Why had not Marco asked at the castle? Perhaps he had done so, and been told a lie. What if the old man didn’t even know the girl was under his roof? It looked to be a big, rambling place where half an army could lie concealed—so why not one girl?

  What if the Signora had told the truth about taking tea with her daughter? Why not? She wasn’t wrong all the time. If Bianca had an ally in the Villa Tramonti, she could find out when the coast was clear and slip in to visit her mother. Someone had warned her, too, that the blue trouser suit had been missed. Francesca, without a doubt.

  Bianca must be fetched home, not later than tomorrow. Because tomorrow she, Jan, had sworn to tell Marco the truth about Paolo. And Paolo, if he was anything of a man, would arrive at the villa to announce that he loved Bianca, and to demand her hand in marriage.

  There would be fireworks. Bianca, cause of all the trouble, must be there with Paolo.

  Jan woke early. Today would be horrible, full of trouble. But at least Marco’s attention would be fully occupied, and she herself could tactfully keep out of the way. Most probably Paolo and Bianca would be marched into Marco’s study and interviewed there, in decent privacy and out of earshot of the servants.

  She would have to fetch Bianca herself, that much was obvious. She could not let the girl walk into trouble unprepared; nor let her remain down there, oblivious of what was happening at the Villa Tramonti. She did not doubt for a moment, even now in the light of day, that the castle was Bianca’s hiding place.

  She rang for Francesca and before she was out of the shower the girl was there. The child looked dark-eyed and harassed, as if she had cried a good deal lately.

  ‘Please bring my breakfast in here. I won’t eat out of doors this morning. And Francesca—’

  Startled eyes flicked a glance up at Jan, then the lids lowered. ‘Si, signorina?’

  ‘After breakfast I am going down to the castle. Is there a path down the cliff?’

  ‘The castle? Oh no, signorina. The cliff path is terribly dangerous. You could fall and break your neck, or go straight down into the sea.’

  ‘Is there another way?’

  ‘By the road.’

  ‘That is too far.’

  The girl nodded in agreement, and pleated her apron. ‘Why are you going, signorina?’

  ‘I think you know. I am going to fetch the Signorina Bianca home.’

  The dark eyes, huge in the pale face, opened wide. ‘Does—does the Signore know?’

  ‘No. And I shall never tell him, Francesca, so you can tell me if you helped. You did, I think.’

  ‘Not me. But I knew about it. She and her brother, they quarrelled terribly. They have the Cellini temper, both of them. We, the servants that is, felt sorry for the girl—well, the younger ones did, because we know what it is like, to be in love, and we had seen her meeting the beautiful young man on the beach. But the older ones, Maria-Teresa and old Guido, wanted to tell the master. They said he was right, and that she should marry the man she was betrothed to.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  The girl shrugged expressively. ‘She ran away. Only to make the Signore understand she was serious—and only for a little time. But now—we are frightened, signorina. It made a difference, your coming. We never expected you.’

  ‘What sort of difference?’

  ‘The Signore could save his pride. We knew, when we saw you wearing her things, that he meant us to believe his sister was here. Not the servants, of course, but the people on the island. His kind of people.’

  So what do we do now, Francesca? I have to go home to England tomorrow. The Signora will be alone. Bianca is needed now. Are you going to help me fetch her home, or not?’

  The Italian girl bobbed a funny little curtsey. ‘I will bring your breakfast, and I will ask downstairs what is to be done. You swear you will not tell?’

  ‘I have already sworn it.’

  Left alone, Jan finished dressing and filled in the time by doing some of her packing. She needed to keep her hands occupied, to prevent herself thinking too much about last night.

  The whole thing seemed too impossible to be real. Had she been in his arms, kissed and kissing; feeling the beat of his heart close to her, feeling his breath in her hair, hearing the soft murmur of his voice?

  Could it be true that she had refused to marry the man she loved? And in such terms as would make it certain that she was never given a second chance?

  I’m crazy, she thought. Stark, raving mad. Life is tough for a girl on her own. I’ll never marry anyone else—and even if I did, what sort of life would it be? Struggle all the time. Finding a house, getting a crippling mortgage, bringing up children in to-day’s tough world. People do it, and survive, even enjoy it, but it isn’t easy. Two weeks in a villa like this would be the fulfilment of a lifetime’s dream for any of the young marrieds I know.

  And I could have had all this, and Marco too. The rich life of big cars, yachts, travel, clothes bought on the Via Veneto. He’s generous,
he’d have denied me nothing material. Given me a free hand to make a few improvements on this island, asked little besides looking after his mother, whom I love anyway.

  And bearing his children. He had not meant his marriage of convenience to be lacking in any of the marital duties. Who knows, in time he might have come to love me?

  She snapped the locks of her suitcase. No regrets, Jan Lynton, she told herself sternly. There is only one sort of marriage, and that is to marry the man you love because he loves you. And if I can’t have that sort, I’ll have none. Nursing is a good career and women don’t have to marry nowadays, in order to live a full and satisfying life. So that’s that.

  Just then Francesca came back with the breakfast tray. A tall glass of frosted orange juice, hot coffee and a big jug of cream, and rolls piping hot from Maria-Teresa’s oven.

  ‘There is a donkey, signorina. It knows the way down to the road and is sure-footed. My little brother Pedro is here. He brings the fish. He will show you.’ A donkey! Jan caught Francesca’s eye and laughed. After a moment’s hesitation the girl laughed too.

  ‘But it is a very nice donkey, signorina. Better than walking. Pedro will wait and bring you back. Or if the Signore does not want the beach-buggy, Dino will come and collect you.’

  ‘What? Is Dino in this too?’

  ‘But of course. We all are.’

  ‘Dino is supposed to have searched the whole island.’

  The eyes were merry now. ‘He did. But he could not search inside the castle, could he?’

  Jan put on an expression she hoped was a true copy of Sister Tutor’s. ‘What is the Signore going to say to you all, when he learns all about the tricks you’ve been up to?’

  ‘Signorina! You promised!’

  ‘He won’t learn from me. But he is a remarkable man, Francesca. Don’t be too sure he will not find out, some day. I wouldn’t like him to be truly angry with me. Aren’t you scared?’

  The girl bit her lip and studied the polished floor. ‘Yes, I am. He will find out—he always does. He will tell my father to beat me. But the Signorina Bianca will pay me well, so I shan’t mind the beating. The money will go towards my marriage.’

  ‘Who shall you marry? Do you have someone?’

  ‘My father hasn’t decided yet.’

  ‘Is there someone special you’d like your father to choose?’

  ‘Oh, yes, yes, there is. His name is Filiberto, but his parents own a ristorante down on the harbour side, so he would need a good dowry, and my father has so many children. It is difficult, signorina, for a girl like me. My money is needed at home.’

  ‘Surely Signor Cellini would help with a dowry?’ Jan thought how little the money would mean to Marco, how vast the amount must seem to plump little Francesca. ‘Why don’t you speak to the Signora about it?’ The girl blushed crimson. ‘But I dare not. Besides, he will be so angry when he finds out what I have done that he may send me away and I shall have no work and no wages for a long time. There is much unemployment on the island.’

  ‘But why do you allow all this to happen? You’re too old to be beaten, and there must be plenty of employment on Capri or in Naples.’

  ‘Naples? That nest of robbers! I wouldn’t go there for a million lire. But Capri—I never thought of going to Capri. What could I do?’

  ‘What you do here. Or you could come to England. Do you know, people in England would pay almost anything you cared to ask, for the sort of help you give here in the villa? In a year, you’d save enough for a good dowry.’

  The girl drew in a deep, excited breath. ‘You would take me?’

  ‘No. You must think about it first. Don’t do anything in a hurry. But if you decide to come, I will help all I can. See, I’ll leave you my address. Now, where’s this famous donkey of yours?’

  ‘Wait! No one must see you go. I’ll look round the terrace to see where the Signore is.’

  In the few moments the girl was gone, Jan had time to regret her impulsive invitation to England. Francesca would be happier here, unspoilt and with her own people around her. She was too young, too innocent of life, to survive the rough and tumble of a big city. If she found work, it would have to be in some quiet country place, or by the sea. There are flowers which will not transplant happily.

  Was it true that Marco would tell her father to beat her? Perhaps it was part of the feudal way of life which seemed to obtain in Barini. And if so, did that not also include providing a dowry for the girl too?

  If only I could see her happy with her Filiberto, Jan thought regretfully. It was so easy to put aside a pretty nightdress and the Indian slippers Francesca admired. But someone ought to see about her future, or she’d be at the mercy of that work-shy father of hers.

  The girl reported that Marco Cellini was working in his study, and led Jan towards the kitchen quarters of the villa, where she had never set foot before. Here, things were very different. The kitchen was dark, untidy, and seemed to be full of people all talking at once. Strings of onions hung from hooks in the plastered walls; the huge kitchen table was piled high with food—chickens, baskets of tomatoes, aubergines gleaming purple. A generous red enamel coffee pot stood among all this richness, from which Maria-Teresa, the cook, dispensed hospitality to all and sundry. It looked, Jan decided, like an enormous oil-painting by one of those old masters, and ought to be hanging on the walls of a gallery, garlic smells and all.

  Maria-Teresa was rolling pasta on a cleared space—for ravioli, she called out to Jan in a dialect so strong that Jan could hardly understand. Who on earth were all these people? Surely the villa did not have so many on the staff?

  Francesca pulled out little Pietro from the crowd. He was up to his ears in melon, and grinned up at Jan with sticky lips. His eyes twinkled like bright buttons.

  ‘My nephew,’ Maria-Teresa introduced with a flourish of her rolling-pin. ‘And that is my aunt, in the corner. She brings the lemons, and oranges. She needs coffee, poor soul, after the long walk.’

  Jan understood. The villa staff were feeding most of their friends and relations at Marco’s expense. Tramonti had long lacked a real mistress, Bianca being too young and untrained, and the Signora so vague and unaware.

  The brown donkey was so small, its legs so thin, that Jan hesitated to mount. But Pietro slung a scarlet cushion over the wooden saddle and patted it invitingly. So Jan hoisted herself up, and Pietro dragged the animal into movement by a rope.

  It was a steep path down to sea-level, but not as dangerous as Francesca had at first pretended. Jan was content to jog down in a leisurely way, under the shade of shrubby trees whose names she did not know; through tangles of herb-scented weeds that sometimes scratched her dangling legs. Far below the brilliant sea appeared and disappeared between the twisted trees like a mosaic bright with diamond patches of sunlight. Green lizards flicked into crevices as they passed, and iridescent insects came and went like winged jewels.

  It was not easy to keep one’s seat with the donkey picking its way down the broken path, stumbling sometimes and always with its hind legs well above the level of its forelegs. When, in addition, it put its head down unexpectedly to crop some favourite plant, Jan was in imminent danger of sliding forward over the creature’s pretty head. She was thankful when at last they reached the road, reasonably near the castle entrance.

  ‘I’ll walk now, Pietro.’ She slid off, and stamped a few paces to ease aching muscles. ‘Why don’t you ride?’ She gestured to the saddle, not sure whether it was lack of understanding or shyness which had kept the boy so quiet this far. But Pietro shook his head, preferring to walk and haul the donkey along behind him. His bare brown feet had suffered no damage on the rocky, thistle-strewn descent.

  Jan now became concerned about how she was going to get into the castle. Castles, she had often noticed, did not seem to have front doors, and bells which a visitor could ring for admittance. They had moats, and a portcullis; or huge grey-weathered doors big enough to admit an army and studded with iron
bolts; chains, and metal spikes. Admittance, in her experience so far, was gained by paying at the entrance. But this was a private castle, lived in by an elderly owner who might not welcome visitors at any time.

  She was worried, too, about her appearance. She was hot, dusty, and untidy after the ride. To pay such a call as she intended, one should arrive cool, soignee, and dignified. Looking like somebody, her mother would have called it. Jan was only too well aware she was going to arrive at the castle looking like nobody at all.

  On the way they passed two women, balancing flat bundles on their heads, and swaying gracefully as they walked. Both had a word for the little boy, who was vocal enough in reply. Then, to Jan’s enormous delight, came a wooden cart laden with oranges, drawn by a yoke of two white oxen.

  And then the castle.

  ‘Wait for me,’ she impressed on the boy. To make sure of her return transport, she showed him a five-hundred-lire note, promising him it when she returned. She guessed the amount, small as it was, to be larger than anything Pietro had had for himself in his whole short life. By the brightness of his chocolate eyes, she knew he would wait for it.

  Now for the castle. It dated from the Crusades, so she had been told, and staring up now at the high stone walls, the narrow barred windows, the cruel battlements, she could well imagine it occupied by armed men, caparisoned horses, and all the panoply and glitter of mediaeval warfare. How many prisoners had died in its dungeons, or eaten their hearts out in long imprisonment behind its ramparts?

  Entry was not, after all, difficult. The low archway cut through the walls, which were at that point ten feet thick—maybe more, she thought—led into a sunny courtyard round which the inhabited portions of the castle formed a hollow square. There was a well in the middle, in the shadow of which a great white dog slept. A few hens picked about the cobblestones, and a man crossing the yard glanced across, put down a bucket he was carrying, and came to greet her.

  ‘Per favore, I should like to speak with the Signorina Bianca Cellini,’ Jan said in her best Italian, and with less confidence than she displayed outwardly. The fingers of her right hand were crossed. What if the man said no such person was in the castle? Well, what? A wasted journey, no more. He couldn’t eat her. The dog had stirred and now came towards her, but sank into a sitting position at a word from the man, who invited Jan to follow him.