One Hot Summer

by Norrey Ford

Francesca seemed to think the sum adequate.

  ‘Write the letter. I will see that it is delivered.’ Jan scribbled, in both Italian and English, praying that between her limited Italian and Bianca’s schoolgirl English, the message would be clear enough. With the letter on its way, nothing more could be done.

  So Jan, subduing the panic which threatened to swamp her, went out to the terrace and took her place discreetly behind her hostess. Marco greeted her with evident relief, plainly thankful for some distraction.

  ‘Ah, our English guest! Jan, you at last meet my sister’s fiancé. I have been telling him how kind you are, to say with Mamma during Bianca’s visit to her aunts in Florence.’

  The trouble about visiting so many picture galleries in Italy, Jan thought at once, is that one is always meeting the originals, in modern dress. Rafaello Alberghi had the face of a typical Doge of old Venice; a proud head, eyes close together under high arched brows, a strong nose like a prow, a sensuous mouth. He bowed to her perfunctorily, as if assessing the English girl as unimportant. Then he spoke to Marco in a smooth, cold voice, full of quiet menace.

  ‘Florence, my dear Marco? I have just returned from Florence, and naturally paid my respects to my future aunt-in-law. I assure you Bianca was not there. The aunts had not seen her for many months. Is it possible you don’t know where she is, or with whom?’ There was a silence which quivered on the hot air. Marco’s expression was tense. The Signora’s hands were perfectly still. For a few endless minutes no one moved. Then Marco said: ‘Ah, she had moved on, then, to her cousin’s home in the country.’

  Jan knew she must speak, but was unable to break the spell that held them all dumb. So it was Rafaello who shattered the silence, though his voice whispered like sprung steel.

  ‘Does a young lady of your family come and go as she pleases, and with whom? My mother and sisters would not regard that as fitting conduct for a young girl, not yet of age, and unmarried. I shall require an explanation, please, and so will my mother.’

  Marco came to his feet like a wrestler, his movement smooth and full of menace. ‘Signore, are you suggesting that my sister’s conduct is less than honourable? If so—’

  As the angry men faced each other, it was not difficult to picture the half-drawn swords of another century. In the split second before disaster, Jan’s reflexes, trained to act in desperate emergencies, took over.

  ‘Signore, there is a telephone message from the Signorina Bianca. Forgive me, I did not wish to interrupt your conversation with the Conte. She will be here soon after lunch, from her godfather’s home. As you were engaged, I took the liberty of instructing Dino to meet her.’

  Not a muscle of Marco’s face moved. He must have had himself under rigid control from the minute the Conte set foot on the island. ‘Thank you, Jan. I was just about to tell the Conte, Bianca intended to finish her tour with a visit to her godfather. Naturally, he was impatient for news of her.’

  Rafaello, stiff and unrelaxed, smiled grimly. ‘Naturally. No doubt she will tell me about her extensive tour when we meet. It seems she has travelled rather faster than you expected, signore?’

  Marco shrugged. ‘No doubt. I trust my sister, Rafaello. I assure you I do not have time to check on her movements from day to day. This aunt, or that cousin, or her godfather—she is impulsive and young, and visits like a butterfly visits the flowers.’

  ‘The bloom of the butterfly is easily brushed off, signore.’ Rafaello’s inference was plain.

  ‘By rough handling only,’ Marco riposted.

  His mother clapped her hands gently, a soft sound like the falling of leaves. ‘Dear Bianca! How happy we shall be to have her home again, after her visits. She will have so much to tell us. Dear Raf, do sit down again and tell me all the news of your mamma. I long to see her again.’

  Out of courtesy to his hostess, Rafaello Alberghi began a long conversation in Italian too rapid for Jan to follow. She realised, for the first time, that her own progress in the language had been largely due to the care Marco and the Signora had taken to speak slowly and clearly for her benefit. Even when Marco was scolding me, she thought with an inward smile, he took care I should understand every word.

  Her mind was occupied with the problem of Paolo. If he failed in his promise and stayed away, it could only be because he was not man enough to face Marco and ask for Bianca; and that would be a tragedy for both of them. But if he arrived too early, before they had managed to get rid of the Conte Alberghi? She shivered with apprehension. As she worried about this, she felt eyes upon her, and looking up, met those of the Conte, studying her minutely. They were as cold and cruel as a serpent’s. Their searching stare chilled her spine.

  This was the Rafaello Bianca must have seen. This was what Marco could never see. The man was far from satisfied. Without a word, he made her understand that he thought her a liar. He would question poor Bianca mercilessly.

  I cannot talk to him, she heard Bianca saying in her eyrie over the sea in the grim castle. No wonder! Those chiselled features, those unfathomable eyes, would silence any woman. For the moment, Raf was exercising his charm. But how would a wife fare, under his disapproval? There was no tenderness in that face. He would take a woman in arrogance, as of right. I’d as soon be married to a basilisk, Jan decided.

  Luncheon was announced. Movement to the table eased the tension slightly. As Marco drew out Jan’s chair, he bent forward and breathed into her ear, ‘You’d better be right, whatever you’ve been up to! Heaven help you if you’re wrong!’

  She thanked Marco with a charming smile, but their eyes met and clashed. She was in for a bad quarter of an hour, when he was free to question her closely. The Signora played the hostess delightfully, though Jan watched her anxiously lest a lapse should unwittingly betray her wandering mind. Such a lapse would undoubtedly be chalked up against the Cellini family and used to discipline Bianca in the future. Was Marco so blind that he couldn’t see how terrible the young Conte must seem to a girl like Bianca? Young in years he might be, but centuries old compared with her fresh youth. Only this morning she had thought Marco right in choosing a man who could give his sister the cherished life of a rich contessa, and considered Bianca unsuited to the rough-and-tumble of marriage with an up-and-coming young executive. But far rather that, and the struggle for survival in a competitive world, than the cold torture of life with Rafaello Alberghi on his vast estates.

  They had finished lunch, and lingered over coffee, to the point where the Signora and Jan were about to withdraw for the siesta, when Bianca arrived.

  She was not alone. The casually dressed teenager of the morning had disappeared. Bianca looked superb in a simple white dress of impeccable cut, her hair piled high on her head which she held as proudly as a princess. Classically perfect as a figure on a cameo, she approached slowly, holding the arm of a tall old man with snow-white hair, the noble head and bold hooked nose of a classical Roman.

  Jan’s heart turned over. The men rose as the pair approached. This was a scene which could have happened any day amid the splendour of ancient Rome or the elegance of the fine city of Pompeii. The proud old man, the lovely girl, walking between the white columns and framed by the distant sea of lapis lazuli blue.

  Jan thought, whatever is going to happen in the next few minutes, this is a picture I shall never forget as long as I live. It must be that Rafaello and Marco were equally struck by Bianca’s entrance, for neither moved nor spoke, but waited for the pair to cross the marble terrace to the table as if under a spell.

  Then the magic was broken. The Conte was presented to Bianca’s godfather, Signor Bernini. He kissed his fiancée’s hand. Bernini kissed the Signora’s hand and then Marco remembered Jan standing discreetly at a slight distance. Everyone sat down and fresh coffee was ordered.

  But Signor Bernini waved coffee away. ‘I brought my goddaughter home,’ he said severely, ‘because she has something to say to the Conte Alberghi.’

  ‘But naturally,’ cried the S
ignora. ‘He is her betrothed. They must discuss the wedding. Raf has been telling me how much his mother and sisters look forward to welcoming the child at his palazzo.’

  Bianca cast a despairing glance at Jan, then looked down at her hands clenched tightly in her lap.

  There was a silence. Rafaello looked at Bianca.

  ‘Well, Bianca? You have something to tell me?’

  She lifted her head and looked him steadily in the eye. ‘It is between ourselves, signore. Not my mother or my brother—just you and me. As far as I remember, we have never spoken to each other alone until now. But if we may go indoors and be undisturbed for a while, I will tell you what I have to say. No, Marco, it is not your affair, but mine alone, so please let me say what I have to.’

  She rose with dignity and laid her hand on the Conte Alberghi’s proffered arm. Together, they disappeared into the house.

  ‘Sit down, Marco,’ said her godfather, in a voice which had to be obeyed. ‘You too, my dear Signora, if you will have the grace to listen to me.

  ‘First,’ he said when they had re-seated themselves, ‘I do not like that young man. Nor, which is more important, does Bianca. The child has been in my house for the last ten days and—’

  Marco interrupted, ‘Why did you not tell me, sir? I have been out of my mind with anxiety, trying to find her without creating a scandal. Surely I, as her proper guardian, should have been informed?’

  Signor Bernini shot a glance under his bushy white eyebrows. ‘And why? As her proper guardian, you engaged her to a man she detested, and would not listen when she tried to explain her feelings. If you have suffered, Marco my boy, I can only say it serves you right. You deserved it. Bianca saw to it that her mother saw her from time to time, especially after she received the Signorina Jan’s message. She came for a few minutes almost every day.’

  Marco buried his head in his hands. ‘I am surrounded by traitors! Did everyone on the island know, except me? Jan, you too?’

  ‘I guessed, Marco. But not till last night, after you—after we—well, late last night. This morning I went down and asked for Bianca, and there she was. I told her to come home.’

  ‘Thank you for that, at least.’ There was a touch of sarcasm in his tone. ‘But your message? Who took that?’

  She shrugged. ‘No one. I just mentioned, here and there, that the Signora was fretting. Wrote it on a leaf, as you might say. Leaves flutter to the ground, in time.’

  ‘Mamma?’ He turned to his mother. ‘Did you enjoy seeing me worry? My visits to the police, the private detectives I engaged? The visits I paid to our relatives, trying to find her without admitting she was missing? Was that amusing, when I am supposed to be at the head of a big business concern, earning the money to keep this place going? I came to the castle, signore.’

  ‘You came. And had you shown the slightest concern for your sister’s true happiness, I would have told you then.’

  ‘Why am I accused?’ He looked furiously from one to the other. ‘I did my best for her. The Conte is young, handsome, charming, rich and of good family. Any girl, surely, could learn to love a man like that.’

  ‘Never!’ Jan said loudly, then clapped her hand over her mouth. This was not her quarrel and she had no business to be present, even. She apologised at once, and said she would wait indoors until the discussion was over.

  ‘You’ll do nothing of the sort. You are involved in this. Sit down. Now tell me why you said Never! just now. You’ve only seen the man for an hour.’

  ‘Half an hour is enough. I’d rather be kissed by a codfish! Marco, he’s like one of those Pompeiian stone bodies, dead for centuries encased in molten rock. Only in his case, the living body is on the outside, the hardened rock is inside. For myself I’d rather die than marry such a man.’

  ‘She agreed to the betrothal.’

  Signor Bernini nodded his great head ponderously. ‘She admits that. She was excited by the wedding of her friend last year, and the other bridesmaids were talking of their engagements. It was in the air, she said. And you presented the whole thing, Marco, in such glittering terms, and Alberghi, one must admit, is an imposing figure of a man. Oh yes, she agreed. It was not until afterwards she discovered she could not talk to him.’

  ‘Is that all? That’s shyness. A girl overcomes that when she is married. Shyness is natural to a young girl.’

  Jan laughed shortly. ‘Grow up, Marco.’

  His eyes darkened. ‘I seem to be doing so, very rapidly. I’m considered a successful man by a good many people. Those closest and dearest to me think that I am a complete failure as a brother and the head of my family. What is Bianca saying to the Conte in there?’

  ‘She is breaking off the engagement.’

  Marco’s temper flashed. ‘Ma insomma! She has no right to do that. She should have left that to me. This is not just a boy and girl romance, it is a proper betrothal, and a lot is involved—the dowry, settlements, a certain amount of land, even business contracts. Signore, you are an experienced man of the world, you must have seen many such arrangements in your lifetime. I am sure your own marriage was arranged by your parents and your future wife’s. You know this cannot be broken off simply by a girl’s say-so. She should have consulted me first.’

  ‘She did, but you wouldn’t listen. You said it was nerves, and she’d get over it. So she naturally turned to her godfather. We gave you a little time to think matters over, and I agree with Bianca entirely, you are too stubborn and self-centred to think of this as anything but a business arrangement. Yes, I’ve seen arranged marriages and I’ve seen broken hearts. And now I’m old, I don’t intend to go to my grave knowing my little Bianca is unhappy. I am rich enough to recompense you for any benefits you personally may lose, Marco.’

  ‘If you were a younger man, I would take offence at that. I am not bartering my sister for benefits to come.’

  ‘Stop shouting at each other!’ The Signora spoke firmly, as if to children. ‘No one has asked me what I think, and I am the girl’s mother. I do not like the young man, so that seems to be four to one, Marco. You are in the minority, and after all, it is not you who will have to live with him for the rest of your life. And since we are speaking the truth for once, I detest his mother and his sisters. His mother was a cat when we were children together, and I am happy to say I once scratched her face. If my daughter is now engaged in scratching her son’s face, I must say I am proud of her courage.’

  They all stared. ‘Mamma!’ Marco gasped. ‘Why didn’t you say all that long ago?’

  ‘I can’t imagine! Perhaps because we were all taught to be polite and say nice things about one another. Perhaps because our dear Jan brought a breath of fresh air into the garden and blew away some of the gossamer. Perhaps, my dear boy, because you make me cry sometimes.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, you. Bianca will be safe enough. She has a warm nature, she can love. She is so like her father. But you are too reserved, you keep yourself too strictly guarded. You have a heart, but no one has yet found the key to it. Once, before your father died, I thought you were different. I envied the woman you would love some day. Now I pity her, and you, because she may never find the key to open your heart to the sun and warmth, and happiness.’

  Tears sprang to Jan’s eyes. The gentle voice, so full of tenderness, was hurting Marco with its relentless baring of his mother’s feelings. A muscle moved in his jaw and she ached to comfort him for the pain. Oh, my darling, my darling, all this is hurting you so much, and I have no shadow of right to help you. I, too, envy the woman you love, whoever she may be. She will have none of you, my dear, and I will have none of you because I want too much. I want your love as well as your name and money. If you could offer me that—!

  Marco stood up, thrust his chair back. ‘If I am hard it is because of the responsibilities I have had to carry. Don’t forget that, Mamma, when you think I keep too strong a guard on my feelings. Outside these walls I live in a hard and ruthless world, where a man c
annot afford to be soft. But don’t imagine I don’t know how to love, because I do. There is a girl who could have made a human being out of me again, as I used to be; but she will have nothing to do with me, and that is a hard fact I have had to accept, Mamma. If I show nothing, for God’s sake don’t get it into your head that I feel nothing. But all this didn’t start with me, it started with Bianca. We are all concerned for her happiness, and if she doesn’t want the Conte Alberghi, she doesn’t. All I am trying to find out is why she didn’t say so outright, instead of running away and creating all this trouble.’

  The old man put a thin but still powerful arm round Marco’s shoulder. ‘We all make mistakes, my son. The fatal mistake is not to admit it.’

  As if goaded beyond endurance, Marco turned on him. ‘All right, I made a mistake—I admit it. It is not too late to put matters straight. Better now than on the wedding day—or after. But the blame is not entirely mine. It is partly yours, Mamma, for not telling me you disliked Raf and his family. Partly yours too, Signor Bernini, for not coming to me immediately my sister took refuge with you. I am a reasonable man, and—’ He swung round to Jan and pointed an accusing finger. ‘What you are grinning about?’

  ‘Your description of yourself as a reasonable man. Of all the unreasonable creatures I’ve ever come across, you take the palm!’

  ‘Unreasonable—!’ Marco exploded.

  But just then Rafaello and Bianca came out into the garden together, and they all turned to face the newcomers.

  Rafaello was the first to speak. He drew himself up before Marco and Signora Cellini, clicked heels together and bowed stiffly. ‘Bianca tells me she has changed her mind, and has asked me to release her from our engagement. I have told her most young women feel like this at some time during an engagement, and that she is suffering from a nervous crisis. However—’ he stumbled, cleared his throat and went on, ‘it appears her mind is made up. So I shall not hold her to the contract. I would have preferred some warning from you, signore, or from the Signora. But the girl has been honest enough to tell me, herself, which I appreciate. Our family have no wish for an unwilling bride. Now, if you will forgive me, Signora Cellini, I will go. Thank you for an excellent lunch.’ He kissed the Signora’s extended hand formally, bowed again to Marco, and marched off, head erect, without another word to Bianca.