The Honeymoon

by Violet Winspear

  The words seemed to bounce back and forth against the walls of the room, loud in Jorja's head, but not quite so loud as the sudden rap on the bedroom door and the entrance of Torrence. 'Begging your pardon, sir, but you are wanted at once in the Contessa's room. The poor lady is very unwell --'

  Renzo had departed almost before Torrence had ceased speaking, and Jorja rapidly asked the butler if the doctor had been sent for. He shook his head. 'We thought it best that the signore ‑'

  'It's all right, Torrence.' Jorja went to the telephone in the sitting-room and dialled the number which she had memorised days ago, just in case of an emergency. It was the home number of Sir Ronald Jarmon and thankfully he was there, a sigh of resignation in his wife's voice when she said they had been about to take dinner. She called him and he came on the line, and Jorja repeated that her mother-in-law was feeling unwell.

  'I'll come at once.' There wasn't any hesitation in his voice, and Jorja felt a sinking feeling inside her. She cradled the receiver and when she turned from the telephone, Torrence was still hovering in the doorway.

  'We were all hoping, madam, that the Contessa would keep up her strength until tomorrow,' he murmured, and no longer did he regard Jorja as on the day of her arrival at Hanson Square, as if she were young and callow and unused to responsibility.

  'I was praying for it,' she rejoined. 'With her heart in such a shaky condition she can't afford setbacks --' Jorja broke off as Cosima came hurrying into the room, her face greatly distressed as she caught Jorja by the arm.

  'You must come,' she said distractedly. 'The Contessa wants you—come!'

  Jorja barely remembered her arrival in the Contessa's bedroom, where her mother-in-law was propped up by pillows, her lips the violet colour of the dress she had worn at teatime. Renzo was beside her, holding and chafing her hands as if to warm them, and when Jorja came quickly to the bedside he gave her a look she wouldn't forget—the agonised look of a man who found himself in a situation he couldn't control.

  'Cara Mia.' A little light flickered in the old lady's eyes when she caught sight of Jorja, and with an effort she withdrew a hand from the clasp of Renzo's hands and reached out to her. The feel of the tremulous, icy-cold fingers almost made Jorja cry out. No! Madre had to hold on so the operation could take place. It would make her well again and she wouldn't have these seizures which left her fighting for breath.

  'Spare yourself, madre,' she pleaded. 'The doctor is on his way to you a-and soon you'll feel better --'

  'With no more hurting, eh?' The Contessa had her eyes fixed upon Jorja's face, her breath dragging back and forth among the words she wanted to say. 'It was good we talked—contento, cara. Contento.'

  Jorja felt her throat closing up with tears, and silently she nodded and allowed her hand to be drawn in the direction of Renzo's. She could see that his mother had now gone beyond speech but in this way she asked Jorja to contend with the difficulties of loving him, the son who had always been more aloof than Stelvio but who was with her now. Her final awareness must have been of their three hands meeting, then came a groan of protest from Renzo, and the sound of Cosima weeping distractedly.

  It was over and Jorja stood there in the throes of painful memory, her hair haloed by the lamplight as she leaned down and kissed the Contessa's cheek, the fine skin already cool beneath the touch of her lips, the far distances of death between them.

  'I loved you, madre. I'm glad we met.'

  When she raised her head she met Renzo's eyes and they were like diamonds set deep in a pitiless pain.

  'Leave me alone with my mother,' was all he said, and taking Cosima by the arm, Jorja did as he asked.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Jorja realised that it was deep-felt anger with his brother which made Renzo decide to have his mother buried in an English cemetery.

  'To the devil with Stelvio!' he said furiously. 'He repays madre's love by being elsewhere when she had most need of him. Well, it's over and now I'll see to it that she is laid to rest in this country. Here, where I make my home!'

  He chose a beautifully kept cemetery at Richmond and set about making his arrangements for the funeral while his mother's body lay in a chapel of rest, her casket blanketed in gorgeous white flowers, those blooms which she had always loved so much. They filled the small chapel with their scent, the tinted light of the chapel windows softly colouring them.

  The casket looked so tiny to Jorja, who went alone to the chapel to pray for madre, and to remember her own mother. As she knelt there on a red cushion, she breathed in the atmosphere of the place and felt in no awe of death. Despite Renzo's anger with her that last day of his mother's life, she was glad that she and madre had talked of things important to them.

  Perhaps without knowing it they had both felt a premonition of what was going to happen, the evening of that sunlit day. Jorja was thankful that it had been a lovely day, and even more deeply thankful that the Contessa had not suffered for hours. The attack had come quickly, Cosima had told her. The Contessa had been combing her hair at the dressing-table while Cosima laid out her dress for dinner. All at once she had risen from the dressing-stool and had started across the room ... she had cried out something Cosima couldn't remember, then in the act of falling had been saved by her companion, who carefully lowered her to the floor. Thinking that a drop of brandy would revive the Contessa, Cosima had rung for Torrence, who after taking one look at the collapsed woman had fetched Renzo to her.

  It was Renzo who had carried his mother to the bed and propped her among pillows in an effort to ease her rapid breathing. It had all been over within half an hour, and later Sir Ronald Jarmon had confirmed heart failure.

  Jorja approached the open casket and gazed down at the peaceful face of the woman whose friendship she would have valued so much. She was far away now, sleeping the long, unbroken sleep there among the white flowers, her lovely, chiselled head resting upon an ivory satin pillow.

  Snapping off the head of a white carnation, Jorja placed it in her handbag. She had pleaded with Renzo to try and get in touch with Stelvio, but with a jaw like iron he had refused to make the effort. According to Monica, who would be arriving from Italy in a few hours, Stelvio was somewhere in the Adriatic, cruising on the yacht of a friend and, obviously, still in the company of Angelica.

  'I told you,' Renzo's eyes had not lost their diamond hardness, 'I wish him in hell before I'll lift a finger to beckon him to madre's funeral. I thank the saints she never found out about his philandering, and so far as I'm concerned he can go to the bottom of the sea with his puttana.'

  Jorja had to leave it there, for it was hopeless, trying to reason with Renzo in his present state of mind. His mother's death had affected him deeply and he didn't want to listen to anyone. His mind was made up. The Contessa was going to be buried in England instead of the old family vault in Italy, and when Jorja pointed out that it might have been her wish to be with her husband, Renzo made a curt gesture with his hand.

  'He died long ago; his body was ashes when recovered from the wreckage of his plane. He had a woman with him! Her name was never known and her ashes mingle with his in the family vault, so you can spare me your sentimental idea that madre should repose there!'

  Jorja walked through the small park near the chapel and was waiting to hail a taxi to take her home when a steel-grey Porsche drew into the kerb beside her. She gave the car a startled glance when the passenger door was opened. 'Jump in!' a voice invited. 'You remember me, don't you? I'm the chap who handed you over to another man.'

  'Bruce!' She couldn't keep a note of warmth and relief out of her voice, and no longer hesitant she slid into the car and relaxed into the seat at his side. 'How nice to see you.'

  'I'll second that.' He ran his eyes over her face, which showed some of the strain she had been feeling for the past few days. 'I was sorry to hear about Renzo's mother. She was a gracious lady.'

  Jorja nodded. 'I knew her for only a short while and just as we were becoming friends
, and we were all so hopeful about the operation, she collapsed.'

  'When I heard the news from Flavia and phoned Renzo to offer my condolences, I could tell how hard it had hit him.' Bruce started the car and drove into the stream of traffic. 'I asked if he was flying his mother's casket home to Italy and he informed me that the funeral is taking place at Richmond on Friday.'

  'He's quite determined,' Jorja said quietly, 'and it's no use trying to reason with him because he doesn't listen to me. He's made no attempt to contact his brother and refuses to even try. I'm afraid when Renzo sets his course, nothing short of a cyclone stops him.'

  'True,' Bruce murmured. 'I happen to know what the bone of discord is between him and Stelvio; I know it's to do with your sister.'

  'I—I'm rather glad that you know,' Jorja admitted. 'It makes things easier.'

  'Between us, Jorja?'

  'Yes.' For the first time in days Jorja felt some of the tension easing out of her system. Being in Renzo's presence had been like waiting for Vesuvius to erupt; grief, anger and bitterness smouldering in him like hot lava that might at any moment reach boiling-point.

  'In need of a confidant?' Bruce asked. 'I can be an understanding chap, so don't hesitate to make use of me. Look, I'm on my way to a lonely lunch so how about joining me? You don't have to hurry home, do you?'

  'N-no.'

  'That's great.' He sounded so pleased that Jorja found herself glancing at him in surprise. He was an attractive man and she felt certain the women in his life were the stunning and exotic actresses whom he directed. She wondered how well he had known Angelica, and whether he was aware of the more sensational aspects of her career.

  'I can't imagine you eating a lonely lunch,' she said.

  'Can't you?' He turned the Porsche into a side road leading away from the heavy traffic. 'Do you think I'm always surrounded by glamorous film stars?'

  'A lot of the time, I bet.'

  'Too much of the time,' he said wryly. 'Put a man in a hothouse among orchids and it isn't too long before he's panting for fresh air and clover. From seven onwards I've been trying to shoot a scene with Amanda Miles, and believe me it's been hair-raising. On screen she looks heavenly, but everything she's got is on the surface and she can forget her lines quicker than a seal can eat sardines. Believe me, Jorja, being with you is like peace after chaos. The very look of you in that cool grey suit is soothing.'

  A smile dented Jorja's mouth, and then was gone. She felt sure that most women would like to be told that they looked exciting, but she understood what Bruce meant. Her spirit had been in something of a turmoil and she felt soothed by his company.

  'Where are we going to lunch?' she asked.

  'At a favourite restaurant of mine, The Silk Lantern in Chelsea. I favour good cuisine rather than gilt cupids and palm trees and the sight of corporation bosses fishing for business, like the merchants in the temple. You'll like where we're going.'

  'I'm sure I shall.' She traced with a fingertip the crocodile markings of her handbag. 'Are you coming to the funeral, Bruce?'

  'Yes, I'd like to attend. In a way, I don't really blame Renzo for choosing her place of rest in England. He's here more often than he's in Italy, and it's comforting to be able to take flowers to a memorial stone. Is Monica Talmonte attending?'

  'She's arriving from Italy today.' Jorja bit her lip in thought, hoping there wouldn't be too much constraint in meeting Stelvio's estranged wife. She was leaving their little girl at home with her governess and intended to stay at Hanson Square for only a couple of days. Jorja looked forward to the meeting, but sensed that it wasn't going to be an easy one. She, after all, was Angelica's sister.

  'Are you feeling apprehensive?' Bruce asked.

  'I'm afraid so.'

  'You mustn't, you know, feel too responsible for other people's feelings, Jorja. You'd be surprised how basically tough and resilient most people are, and I don't think it altogether wise to be over-sensitive, least of all where love is concerned.'

  'That sounds rather cynical, Bruce, yet I don't think you are a cynic.'

  'Let's say I'm cautious,' he rejoined. 'I live and work in a world where love is lucky if it lasts a week, and I've been part of that world since I was sixteen. I'm the boy who worked his way up from odd-jobbing to being the guy who calls the tune, and on my way I've met a variety of characters, some of them charming, others monstrous, and most of them ambitious. Be guided by me, keep a picket fence around your heart and be a little more detached about people. It pays off and the dividend is that you don't get hurt.'

  'It's probably sound advice, Bruce, but a little late in my case.' And a little too late to recall a remark which, as he parked the car, had him turning in his seat to look at her intently.

  'Is Renzo hurting you?' he wanted to know.

  'Not intentionally—at least, I don't think so.' She forced a smile but could see he wasn't fooled. 'He—shuts me out, emotionally, and I suppose I've always believed that marriage means communication on all levels.'

  'Why did you marry him?' Bruce asked, and he leaned a little nearer to her. 'No bride ever looked as you did, as if everything that was happening was unreal—Renzo most of all. I handed you over to him, but I should have snatched you out of that church before the vows were spoken and he put that ring on your finger.'

  Bruce took hold of her left hand and studied the gemmed ring. 'He applied some kind of pressure, didn't he? Ah, I know you won't tell me, but I've always been aware that there's a devilish side to Renzo, and a girl like yourself wouldn't be any match for him if he used fascination or force. Which was it?'

  'A combination of both,' she found herself admitting. 'There was no way I couldn't marry him even though I knew he still—wanted Angelica.'

  'My dear girl ‑' Bruce's fingers tightened on hers. 'It's no situation for you to be in, not in this day and age. Not if Renzo keeps you with him out of sheer perversity.'

  'Oh, there's more to it than that.' She could feel herself flushing and looked away from him, avoiding his eyes. 'I'm longing for my lunch —shall we go in?'

  He held her hand a moment longer, then released it. 'I didn't know,' he murmured, 'that girls like you could still be found. I had begun to believe that they were all wrapped up in tinsel and self-interest.'

  'I—I suppose I'm old-fashioned.' Jorja slid from the Porsche and after Bruce had locked the car, they went across the road to where the restaurant stood two storeys high on a corner, the aroma of good food greeting them as they entered. Bruce had a regular table on the second floor, above stairs that curved around into a large, vintage dining-room where the silk lanterns cast a soft orange glow over the spotless tables.

  'This is nice!' Jorja exclaimed.

  'I certainly think so.' This time Bruce captured her gaze as they were seated at his table beside a window. 'What would you like to drink?'

  'May I have a tawny port?' A smile crept into her eyes. 'Old-fashioned, as I said.'

  'I'll join you in your choice.' He turned to the waiter. 'Mario, this is a rare young woman who refuses to be swept back and forth by the changing tides of what is in vogue. Tawny port for both of us.'

  The waiter inclined his head and handed them their menus. 'We have a particularly fine blend, Mr Clayton, which I feel sure the young lady will enjoy.'

  'She needs some solace as well, Mario, for there's a bereavement in her family.'

  'Ah, my commiserations, madam!'

  'Thank you, you're kind.' Once again Jorja decided that she liked this place and its atmosphere, and was glad she had run into Bruce. Yes, it was nice to receive solace, and much as she had tried to give it to Renzo, he had turned a hard, aloof shoulder and made it difficult for her to approach him.

  'Now what do you fancy?' Bruce was studying the menu. 'The Dublin Bay prawns are always delicious, like lobster tail-meat. Or how about fillets of trout with a parsley sauce?'

  'What are you having, Bruce?' She felt like being a little helpless today, indulging the loneliness which h
ad come over her in the past few days.

  'I'm inclined to go for the prawns.' He glanced at her over the menu-card, a smile touching his mouth but leaving an intent green light in his eyes. 'With a green salad and black pepper, eh?'

  She nodded, and studied the main dishes. 'Pot-roast chicken,' she murmured. 'I haven't had that since I—I left home. Daddy and I would make a fuss of ourselves if one of his parishioners gave him a chicken. I love it with dumplings and carrots.'

  When Bruce didn't reply, she glanced at him and saw a look on his face which made her eyes widen with enquiry. 'Do you think I'm terribly naive?' she asked. 'Still the girl from the rectory whom Renzo finds boring?'

  Bruce slowly shook his head. 'If Renzo doesn't appreciate your charm and candour, then let me take over,' he said deliberately. 'Why didn't I ever ask Angelica to introduce us?'

  Jorja's fair skin couldn't hide or control a blush. 'If she mentioned me at all, then she probably made me sound like the typical spinster, content with her lot. It wouldn't be cattiness on her part, because I was unstirred by men. Even after she brought Renzo to the rectory, I didn't realise until later that he had—got under my skin.'

  'Too deep for removal?'

  Her fingers clenched the menu-card. 'We shouldn't be talking like this ‑'

  'Perhaps we were meant to talk like this from the moment we met.'

  'No.' She denied him with a shake of her head. 'You're Renzo's friend—I'm Renzo's wife—and you were there in church when we took each other for better or worse.'

  'And you'll stand by that, even though you know how he still feels about your sister?'

  'I knew how he felt on the day he proposed to me.' The old pain, and some of the rebellion darkened her blue eyes, and for a few moments they sat in silence while their port was poured. Then almost in unison they lifted their glasses and drank from them. The port was warming, wending its way through Jorja as if seeking to carry that warmth to her heart.