by Ann Jennings
“Now that you’ve bought the land as well as the villa,” replied his father, “I can see I shall be forced to spend much more of my time here.”
“Come on,” said Greg, teasing his father, “don’t pretend you don’t like it. I know you love Italy just as much, if not more, than Mother.”
Abigail looked at Greg; his father’s words had slowly sunk in. “Bought the land?” she queried. “But I thought that was why Rupert came out here.”
“Oh, he did,” said Greg blandly, “but it came on to the market a little sooner than expected. However, I shall still need some help with tying up the legal side.”
Abigail looked at him suspiciously. She had her doubts. Did he really need Rupert to help with the legal side of things? Personally, she thought Greg seemed more than capable of sorting out anything for himself.
“As we shall conclude the business side of things much sooner than expected,” he continued smoothly, ignoring her questioning gaze, “we shall all be free to enjoy our holiday. I understand Rupert has already completed Sir Jason’s transactions satisfactorily.”
Abigail glanced at Rupert, seated at the far end of the table; but he was deeply involved in an animated conversation with Penelope and her father, and for all the notice he had taken of Abigail during the meal, she might just as well have not been there. It’s not his fault, though, thought Abigail loyally. Greg’s mother had arranged the seating, and Rupert had been placed away from her with the Orchards.
She looked back at Greg, to find his dark eyes surveying her with an implacable expression. She was certain he knew what she was thinking, that Rupert was paying more attention to Penelope than he was to her, his fiancée.
“Rupert has become very friendly with the Orchards,” he observed to her chagrin, adding in a low voice meant for her ears only, “You don’t mind, do you?”
She felt her cheeks colouring, and was angry with herself for giving her feelings away so easily. “Of course not,” she answered primly. “Why should I?”
Greg’s mouth twisted into a grin. “Naturally, I assumed you would be interested in Rupert’s affairs,” he said casually.
“Of course I am,” replied Abigail, equally casually, even though her nerves felt raw-edged at his deliberate play on words. “But there are affairs, and affairs!” Fixing a noncommittal blank expression on her face, she sipped her wine, although how she forced herself to swallow it she didn’t know. There was an uncomfortable lump at the back of her throat, which was threatening to choke her.
She was thankful when the meal had finished and she could get away from Greg’s subtle needling. Everyone retired to their rooms for a siesta. It was even hotter by now, and Abigail stripped down to her brief underwear and flung herself on the bed. The windows of her balcony were wide open, and a faint refreshing breeze blew in from the lake. It seemed a long time ago that Greg had picked her up at the cottage that morning, and as for the ENT ward—well, that might as well be in another lifetime. She smiled sleepily, wondering what Sue Parkins would say if she knew Staff Nurse Pointer was in Italy with the Orchards and their new consultant, Mr. Lincoln! Then the effects of the food and the strong red wine, plus the constant whirring of cicadas, took their toll, lulling her to sleep along with the rest of the household.
A discreet tap on her door awakened her. “Abigail.” It was Greg’s voice, “Abigail, are you awake?”
Hastily Abigail struggled to a sitting position; how long had she been asleep? The sun was still shining brilliantly across the faintly rippling waters of the lake, and the ever-present cicadas were still chirruping as busily as ever.
Greg repeated her name. “Abigail?”
“Yes, just a moment.” Hastily she snatched at her cotton house-robe which was lying across the top of the bed, and flung it on. Then padding across to the door in her bare feet, she cautiously opened it a crack and peered out. “What do you want?”
He laughed. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?” Slipping his hand through the open crack, he teasingly ruffled her hair, still tousled from sleep. “You look half asleep.”
“I would still have been asleep if you hadn’t woken me,” she confessed awkwardly, feeling unsure of his teasing, and distinctly at a disadvantage in her half-dressed state. It had been one thing dealing with Greg in the familiar environment of the hospital, but now in this place, in his villa, she was on strange unfamiliar ground.
“Well, can I come in?” he asked again, “or are you afraid of being alone with me?”
“Of course not,” she countered defensively, swinging the bedroom door wide open just to show him she meant what she said.
“Oh, I was thinking that perhaps you might be.” His voice was teasing, and his eyes sparkling with wicked humour at her expense.
Abigail pulled the flimsy cotton robe tightly around her and tied the belt securely. Trying to appear unselfconscious, although her legs felt about as mobile as wooden stilts, she walked across to the balcony, and leaning on the balustrade, pretended to look at the view across the lake. In reality, however, the panorama swam in a misty haze, as all she could think of was that Greg was much too close.
He had joined her on the balcony, his arm lazily encircling her waist; she tried not to breathe in the heady smell of his skin with its distinctive musky perfume of aftershave.
“Where’s Rupert?” she asked, adroitly side-stepping out of reach of his encircling arm.
She wasn’t looking at him, but she heard his breath expelled in a long-drawn-out sigh as he replied, “Ah yes—Rupert.”
The sound of his footsteps retreated back across the floor of her room towards the door, and she turned; unaware of the lovely picture she made, framed on the rf4edxbalcony against the sunlit blue of the lake.
“I came to tell you we’re going out,” he said quietly. “Penelope is impatient to go, and she and Rupert are waiting in the courtyard. Do you want to come, or shall I tell them to go on?”
“Oh no, of course I want to come,” said Abigail quickly. “Tell them I’ll be five minutes.” She ran quickly across the room to close the door behind him. “I won’t keep them waiting,” she promised.
“I’ll tell them,” said Greg, disappearing along the corridor that led to the stairs.
Quickly splashing cold water on her face to freshen herself, Abigail took the coolest dress she could find from her wardrobe—a dark blue cheesecloth dress, loosely tied at the waist with a rope belt. She literally flung it on, then dragged a brush through her hair, not even bothering to stop and look in the mirror, just remembering to grab a pair of sunglasses as she was leaving the room.
She flew headlong down the stairs and arrived breathless in the sun-filled courtyard, only to find it empty. No sign of anyone, and only one car, Greg’s, standing in the shade cast by the pines. Abigail skidded to an abrupt halt, looking around the deserted courtyard in puzzlement. Surely they couldn’t have got tired of waiting? She had said five minutes, and in fact was sure she’d been even less.
Slowly she paced the uneven cobbles towards the shade by the wall, trying to contain her bitter disappointment that they hadn’t waited. Then suddenly she saw Greg, standing at the far end of the wall, in a dense patch of shade. He turned at the sound of her soft footsteps on the cobbles.
“Penelope wanted to go shopping in Perugia,” he said, indicating the empty courtyard. “I couldn’t face it, so Rupert very kindly offered to take her.”
“But what about me?” demanded Abigail, suddenly feeling angry. “I might have wanted to go shopping, did you think of that?”
“Rupert said you hated shopping,” he replied, raising his eyebrows at her indignation. “I thought as your fiancé, he ought to have an accurate idea of what you did or didn’t like.”
Abigail pursed her lips, unable to reply to the overt dig, knowing it was probably true that Rupert had said that. After all, she was always telling him
she hated shopping. “What’s so special about the shops in Perugia?” she asked at last, biting back the temptation to snap his head off with great difficulty.
“Nothing,” said Greg, smiling as he came to join her. “There’s a large department store, not large by our standards, just by local standards. Apparently there’s nothing Penelope likes better than to meander around foreign shops.” Courteously he opened the car door for her to get in. “I’ve arranged to meet them in Assisi tonight for a drink, I thought you’d prefer the sights of Assisi to a shopping expedition; I’m sorry I was wrong.”
Abigail felt foolish, it was all so reasonable, and of course she would much prefer to see Assisi rather than look at shops. What was she making a fuss about?
“Do Rupert and Penelope know where to meet us?” she asked.
“Of course,” replied Greg. “Penelope and Rupert know the bar well. It was Penelope’s choice, as a matter of fact. She’s been often with Rupert.”
Abigail glanced at him quickly, as he motioned her into the car. She knew, of course, that Penelope and Rupert had been thrown together, but the way Greg had said “often” caused a jagged barb of doubt to strike suddenly at her heart. She had never seriously doubted Rupert before, indeed she’d never had any cause to. He had always been so reliable; it was always Rupert who had been the strong one, comforting her whenever doubts had assailed her. But now, suddenly, he no longer seemed the firm anchor of strength she had come to rely on. Although she told herself she was being quite ridiculous to read so much into one little word.
Greg swung the car round the courtyard, its tyres shrieking in protesting squeals on the shiny cobbles, and then they were off, down the steep hillside leading from the villa to the road running along the side of the lake. Abigail’s thoughts were chaotic, all her long-submerged worries suddenly surfaced; her own attitude to Greg, who managed to infuriate her most of the time, and yet at the same time remain so maddeningly attractive. And now the worry that Rupert might have become infatuated with Penelope. She sighed, not knowing what to make of it, and suddenly wished she was back in the familiar routine of the ENT ward, rescuing Sue Parkins from some disaster. At least there everything was clearcut, the course of action needed was always obvious…but here, that was another matter!
Greg looked across at her. “Why the sigh, Abigail?” he asked. “Don’t you like Italy?”
“I like it very much, at least what I’ve seen of it so far,” answered Abigail, glad to be able to speak the truth about something. But she couldn’t possibly tell him why she had sighed, couldn’t tell him what a muddle her thoughts were in, because he was inextricably mixed up in it all. Although thank goodness he didn’t have an inkling of the effect he had on her, even if he did have his own suspicions about Rupert and Penelope.
“It’s nothing,” she muttered at last, and turned to look out of the window.
“Why don’t you just sit back and relax and enjoy the holiday? Take advantage of whatever comes your way, and leave it at that,” he suggested. “You’re much too intense, you know, much too serious.”
“I can’t help the way I am,” said Abigail, knowing that he spoke sense, but not wanting to listen. “It’s my nature, I can’t change.”
“You could always try,” he said with a smile. “Come on, Abigail, the ENT ward is far behind you. Enjoy yourself, instead of looking as if you’re personally shouldering all the troubles of the world!”
Suddenly he pulled the car to a halt at the side of the road, beneath the overhanging boughs of a huge white oleander. The branches quivered, cascading the fragrant petals like confetti down on to the windscreen. Reaching across, he caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger.
“Smile,” he commanded decisively.
His dark eyes had laughing glints in their depths, as he gazed down into her troubled grey ones, and against her will Abigail found herself smiling back. “That’s better,” was his verdict. Then he gently brushed her lips with his, in a strangely passionless way. “Now stop worrying. Surely you can be happy here, in this lovely place.” He ran a finger down her cheek.
Abigail felt strangely comforted by his gentle gesture. “Yes, I should be,” she admitted, “but Rupert and I…”
“I’m not going to pry into your affairs,” Greg said quietly, but very firmly. He started up the car engine again. “You and Rupert have your own lives to lead, only you two can do that.”
After that, the tension between them eased, and Greg proved to be an interesting and knowledgeable companion; pointing out the many places of interest as they drove along. Finally he pointed to the outline of Assisi itself, sprawled on the slopes of Mount Subasio, basking in the clear sunlight of Umbria.
As they drew nearer, Abigail exclaimed in delight. The shape became clearly defined into a mass of houses, towers, streets and belfries, the great Basilica of St Francis dominating everything. The rocks and stones of the building were a delicate warm, pinky grey, the colour of the ancient crustaceans that once lived there, millions of years before.
Greg smiled at Abigail’s cries of delight. “Better than shopping?” he asked softly.
“Much better,” Abigail agreed happily.
Chapter Nine
The treasures inside the Basilica of St Francis were absorbing, and by the time Abigail allowed herself to be persuaded to leave, albeit reluctantly, the warm pink dusk of evening had suffused the hilltop town, the buildings glowing in the last remaining rays of the dying sun.
“Oh, goodness,” Abigail exclaimed guiltily, “I didn’t realise I’d taken so long!”
Greg smiled. “It seemed a pity to dampen your enthusiasm,” he said, “but don’t worry, we’re not late. I daresay Rupert and Penelope are a drink ahead of us. I can’t see Penelope waiting.”
It seemed a crime to hurry. So they dawdled in the velvety evening air, meandering through the cobbled streets. The house-martins and swallows dived and screamed overhead, snatching at small insects rash enough to fly before the shafts of sunlight. The wrought iron street lamps cast their yellow glow on the uneven cobbles, and beneath every lamp sat a group of women knitting; always surrounded by a crowd of noisy children and a motley assortment of dogs.
“This is an enchanted place,” whispered Abigail, almost afraid to speak too loudly in case she broke the spell.
“You think so?” said Greg. Then he smiled gently, and taking her hand in his held it loosely. “I think Italy has already begun to weave its magic spell over you,” he observed. “Already you seem much more relaxed.”
Abigail laughed, her grey eyes sparkling. She didn’t remove her hand, it felt comfortable in his, and for the moment she felt ridiculously happy. But it was only a moment, a few seconds later that moment was shattered as Greg pointed towards a little bar in the main piazza.
“There, what did I tell you? They are one drink ahead of us.” Abigail looked in the direction of his pointing finger. Then she saw them, sitting very close together, a single candle in a glass holder illuminating their faces, which even though she was some distance away, she could see were animated and very intimate. She hung back, not wanting to break into the circle of intimacy that surrounded them; but Greg continued to walk and there was no alternative but to accompany him.
As they drew nearer, she could hear their low voices laughing and talking, and it was only a long time afterwards, almost towards the end of the evening, that she realised Greg had discreetly let go of her hand the moment they had seen Rupert and Penelope. Not that she had attached any importance to that, there was nothing romantic about the way he had held her hand, it was just a friendly gesture, like that of a brother. And anyway, at the time she had only been conscious of the rapt expression on Rupert’s face as he listened to his companion.
It was Penelope who saw them first. She waved gaily, and broke into her tinkly laugh, breaking the peaceful serenity of the piazza. At least, so it seemed to Ab
igail’s sensitive ears.
“We’ve had an absolutely fantastic time,” she said, as Greg pulled out a chair for Abigail and they joined the two of them at the table. “Have you?”
“Yes,” Greg answered for them both, then turned to Rupert. “Hope you didn’t suffer too much. Being dragged around shops by a woman is my idea of hell on earth!”
“He loved it,” said Penelope firmly, laying a well manicured hand possessively on Rupert’s arm. “And I dare you to say you didn’t.”
“I did love every minute of it,” replied Rupert, grinning, then suddenly, as if he’d just remembered Abigail’s presence, he smiled at her too, adding hastily, “I thought you’d enjoy sightseeing better. I hope you didn’t mind.”
“As it happens you were right, but I would have preferred to have been asked!” Abigail replied, a touch of acerbity tinged her voice, and she noticed a guilty expression flicker across Rupert’s face.
“Shall we order a drink?” interrupted Greg, as Rupert opened his mouth to reply. Not waiting for an answer from the others, he called a waiter over to their table. “Campari and soda for me,” he said. “What about you, Abigail?”
“I’ll have the same,” she answered, noticing how grateful Rupert looked for the interruption. She wondered whether Greg had done it on purpose, or whether it was just fortuitous that he happened to speak at that moment.
“I’ll have a small beer,” said Rupert quickly, keeping his gaze averted from Abigail’s clear grey eyes.
“And I’ll have an enormous gin and a little tonic,” said Penelope. She slid her arm around Greg’s neck, and kissed him on the cheek. “You will buy me an enormous gin, won’t you?” she purred provocatively.
“I’ll buy you anything you want,” said Greg with a laugh, appearing to enjoy her attention, “and I’m sure that goes for Rupert too.”
Penelope giggled delightedly. “I’m lucky to have two such attentive men, but I mustn’t be selfish. You must spoil Abigail too.”