One Hot Summer (11 page)

There was a long silence. A bird cheeped as the light strengthened.

At last Jan asked quietly, ‘Why did she run away, Marco?’

‘We quarrelled.’ His voice was weary.
‘
She didn’t want to marry Raf.’

‘
And you insisted?’

‘Yes. She had accepted him. She had nothing against
him.
And we do not break promises. I put the whole thing down to a girlish whim and told her to behave herself. This is not just a fisher-lad and a village girl. Both families have great responsibilities—wealth and big estates. Bianca has been educated for such responsibilities. She can’t play childish games with such important matters. She understands all that, or I thought she did. She’s no f
o
ol.’

‘
If she’s no fool, she had her reasons. You didn’t listen?’

‘
She didn’t offer any reasons. She just said she wouldn’t marry him, and nothing I could say made any
difference.’

‘
That sounds as if you did all the talking. Did you, just once, shut up and let Bianca talk? Do you know what I’m thinking, Marco? She’s in love with another man. No, let me finish. You say she had nothing against Raf, and understood all that such a marriage entailed, so naturally she’d need to have the strongest of all possible reasons for wanting to break it off. And that could only be that she was deeply in love with someone else.’

He did not answer at once. The rim of the sun was showing above the horizon, and the angle of light revealed the hard masculine bone structure, the deep lines of anxiety.

‘
You’re a woman,’ he said at last.
‘
You should be able to read a woman’s mind. Do you think she is with him now? That they are married?’

‘
From what you have told me of Bianca, I’d say not. I think this is an effort to make you understand that she must choose for herself; and that she is prepared to give up everything, if she must, to marry the man she loves. Perhaps an attempt to make you understand that even old families like yours cannot live for ever in the past. But I don’t think she’d get married without your freely given consent, Marco.’

‘
So she is resorting to emotional blackmail?’

‘Weren’t you? Didn’t you twist her arm to make her marry the man you’d chosen for her? Not physically, of course, but emotionally. Honour of the family, the responsibilities of great estates, and all that? Fair’s fair in love and war. She is playing your game, Marco, and playing it well.’

‘
But if she’d told me—’

‘
Maybe she tried. Maybe she knew it wouldn’t be any good trying. He’s probably neither wealthy nor noble, but just a nice ordinary boy she loves. Find her, Marco. Get a message to her somehow, letting
her know you will listen to what she has to say. Because she’s going to win, whatever you say. You may as well accept that as a fact.’

He pushed back his chair, stood up abruptly.

‘
You’ve been up all night. Time I let you go and get some sleep. You’ve given me a lot to think about, and you may well be right. I don’t know how women think, and perhaps I didn’t handle the situation very well. It’s been—difficult. You see how my mother is—not really of this world any more. I did my best, but it wasn’t good enough, was it? You’ve changed your mind about leaving today?’

‘
If I’m forgiven for throwing things at my host, I’d like to stay.’

He held out his hand and after a brief hesitation she placed hers in it. His fingers closed over hers, and she was aware of the leap of her blood, the racing pulse, as she felt his warmth and strength. Then, without a word, almost without movement, he took her into his arms and there was nothing uncertain about the way he kissed her. Held closely in his arms, his lips hard on hers, feeling the warmth of his body and with the man-scent of him in her nostrils, it seemed as if her cup of joy was full.

Then the joy drained away, replaced by despair. The kiss had done nothing but deepen the feeling she had for him, the need of her body, the yearning of her heart. But there was no future in this love. How could he, with his rigid ideas of tradition, of the importance of wealth and estates in a marriage contract, ever think of marriage with a penniless working girl from another country, another culture?

And neither he nor she could accept anything less. She had perfect confidence that he would not cheapen her, although she must seem like beggarmaid to his king; nor would she cheapen herself.

The end of the holiday, the end of her time at Villa
Tramonti, could not come too soon. For her peace of mind, any hope
of happiness
she had in the future, it was imperative
she
should get away as soon as possible.

Yet every
remaining
hour was precious. They were all she would ever
have
of Marco’s presence. The next few days had to last
her
the rest of her life.

CHAPTER V

Jan woke slowly, drowsily aware of Francesca standing by her bedside with a tray; of a delicious smell of coffee and hot rolls.

‘
It is almost lunchtime,
signorina,
but the Signore said to bring coffee but not to disturb you if you were asleep.’

Recollection flooded back. Jan sat up.
‘
The Signora? How is she? She was not well last night, Francesca, which is why I did not get to bed till nearly morning. The Signore should have sent you to wake me hours ago.’

‘
The Signora is well. She had breakfast in bed, and is now in the garden. She—’ the girl hesitated, then burst out with what she wanted to say.
‘
My mistress is sick,
signorina.
She remembers nothing one tells her. And she is sad because Signorina Bianca is not here.’

‘Where is Signorina Bianca?’ Jan put the question sharply, with a vague idea that the young girl might know, or suspect, where another young girl had sought refuge.

The girl shrugged expressively. Jan
w
as beginning to learn something of the infinite variations of Italian shrug, and interpreted this one as meaning
How should
I
know
? But, she noted, Francesca did not come out with the stock answer that Bianca was visiting her aunt in Florence.

Jan narrowed her eyes, watching the girl. Maybe she knows something. Maybe everyone but Marco knows. The servants, especially the women, must have known of the battle of wills going on between Bianca and her brother.

Jan poured her coffee. ‘Is the Signorina Bianca beautiful? I’d like to see a photograph of her. There
must be one somewhere.’

‘
Si, si.
Have you not seen it? A big coloured picture, where she was bridesmaid at the wedding last summer? There is one in the Signore’s room. I will fetch it to show you.’

‘
No, Francesca, wait! Do not disturb the Signore. Perhaps Signora Cellini has one in her room.’

The girl shook her head. ‘Signore Cellini took them away when his sister went. If there are no photographs, she does not remember to ask for her daughter all the time, only sometimes. The Signore has gone to Naples with Dino. I can fetch the picture. He will not be back all day.’

The wedding picture showed the bride and four bridesmaids. The bridesmaids wore long-sleeved, high-waisted dresses in deep cream silk with brown velvet sashes, and carried sprays of cream roses. Jan drew a deep breath.

‘She’s beautiful, Francesca. One day she’ll be a bride herself.’

‘
Si signorina
.’
Expressionless. Not the voice of a girl talking weddings.

When the girl had disappeared with the photograph, Jan buttered her rolls absently, thinking. A young married friend? The other bridesmaids could be dismissed. Obviously daughters living at home and, however sympathetic to romance, not able to shelter a runaway. But the bride? There was a possibility.

How am I so sure that Bianca has not eloped, and is not now married to her sweetheart? Is it because I am living in her rooms, wearing her clothes, am supposed to look
something like her, that I imagine I can feel as she does? She loves her mother and brother, she doesn’t want to hurt them permanently, or bring disgrace on the family. Of that I’m sure. So this is a protest only, a cry for help.

Pushing the tray aside, Jan pressed her fingers to her temples. Think, think! Somewhere there must be a clue to the girl’s mind, if only I could read it. No one disappears entirely without trace. Especially—

She sat up straight, startled by a thought. Especially if she really wants her protest to be noticed. What’s the good of a demonstration if no one sees it? If only Marco had told me the whole story at the beginning, we might have found the solution by now.

She was still puzzling over the problem as she dived into the pool and swam lazily. When she floated, she reflected that the all-over golden tan she had acquired would be the envy of her friends, and that the tan would fade long before the memories of last night; of all the hours she had spent in Marco Cellini's company.

Signora Cellini was in her favourite spot on the terrace overlooking the sea. She had her needlework in her lap, but her hands were folded over the delicate silks, and she stared out to sea like a blind woman. Jan stood unnoticed, watching the older woman, and the change in her overnight caught at her heart. The Signora seemed to have shrunk since yesterday. The frail bones showed clearly through the thin black dress; shoulderblades and vertebrae.

Enough is enough, Jan thought. She’s had all she can take. Bianca must come home. Marco must forget all his scruples about publicity. If he doesn’t find his sister soon, his mother will slip through his fingers.

She went forward and knelt beside the old lady, who lifted heavy lids to look at her. The disappointment in the sharp old eyes brought a lump to Jan’s throat.

‘
You’ve finished the passion flower,’ she said gently, touching the embroidery, noting the skin of the long narrow fingers was thin as paper.
‘
Is it for Bianca? It’s a screen, isn’t it?’

She had a theory which she half feared to test. But now, if ever, was the time. The matter of Bianca’s
return was urgent.

The fine brows drew together, as if an effort to remember was being made.
‘
A screen, for a
salone
.
My daughter is to have a splendid establishment, you know. She is to be a countess, and live in a
palazzo.
She must take many beautiful things with her.’

‘
Of course,
signora.
’
Jan moistened dry lips.

‘
Where is she now,
signora
?’

Again that knitting of the brows,
‘
I don’t remember.’

‘
But she did tell you where she was going?’

‘
Oh yes, of course. Bianca tells me everything. I am her mother.’

Jan’s heart turned over. As she thought! The Signora knew but had forgotten. Somewhere in that lost mind lay the information so sorely needed. Questioning would not help. The Signora would only become more confused if pressed. Jan pulled a cushion towards her, tucked her legs under, and spoke casually of this and that, always leading the talk back to travel, to Bianca’s friends, to the wedding picture which the Signora remembered well, and talked about in an animated way. Till suddenly she fell silent and began that unseeing stare at the blue horizon again.

The gate to the cliff path was unlocked. Jan’s gaze came back to it again and again. Had Bianca gone that way? But it led nowhere, except to a beach and though Ma
r
co had admitted it was possible to swim round the headland, it seemed an unlikely journey for a girl bent on leaving home and presumably wanting clothes with her.

How did Bianca get off the island?

Jan sat up straight, ignoring her hostess, who had started on a long tale about the Cellinis of long ago. Why hadn’t I asked Marco that? No doubt he took it for granted, as I did, that Bianca had slipped on board the once-a-week boat which brought supplies, mail, and
a few visitors to Barini. He would have questioned the local boatmen. A few smart white yachts put in, from time to time, but the harbour was too small for anything ambitious.

One should never accept the obvious. Bianca might have gone some other way. Someone might have fetched her, perhaps from the beach below. It would be easier to make a secret getaway from one’s own garden than to walk on to the supply boat carrying a suitcase. Fifty people could have seen her, noticed that Signorina Cellini had luggage, speculated on her destination. In a peasant community it was likely that no member of the Cellini family left the villa for any purpose, without being noticed and discussed.

The beach, then? The only place a Cellini could leave unnoticed. Jan promised herself that as soon as the villa settled to the afternoon siesta, she would go down and look around, even if it meant braving that sheer ladder alone.

Before lunch, when she went to tidy her hair and add a skirt to the brief swimsuit in which she had spent the morning, Jan riffled through the long fitted wardrobe, wondering not for the first time what Bianca had taken with her. If there were gaps, they were not evident.

She looked again at the pretty beauty box full of make-up. Bianca liked experimenting, that was obvious. Shoes and sandals? Dozens of them. Whatever the girl had seen fit to take, it had not made much impact on her ample stock of lovely clothes. She had travelled light. Why? She did not seem like the simple-life type.

Somewhere in these two rooms lay the clue to their owner’s whereabouts; a clue, that is, to her thinking and planning. Marco would not know. He was too much of a man to know much about a woman’s clothes.

Francesca? It was too near lunchtime now to ring
for the girl, but at the next opportunity Jan resolved to question her. Meantime, the beach.

When all the villa was sunk in the silence of the afternoon siesta, Jan crept down the path to the hidden beach. Tight-lipped, she tackled the ladder. Once on the rungs, her face turned towards the rocks, it was not too bad. She fought the temptation to look down, and so was surprised when her groping foot touched sand instead of iron. She blew out a sigh of relief.

The sand was warm and soft. The sea turquoise in the shallows, emerald over the rocks and seaweed farther out; and then that intense, brilliant blue that only the Bay of Naples can be. But it was empty. The tiny bay, cupped between tiny headlands, was silent except for the sibilant whisper of the water among the rocks.

Could a boat land? She paddled along the white ruffles of foam, head down, thinking hard. Thinking herself into another girl’s mind. Then inevitably, her thoughts came round to Marco Cellini and her own imminent departure for home.

It was her own choice to go. She had only to say the word, and this life in the sun was hers. Marco could be generous about salary. The duties would not be onerous. And she would be within sight and sound of the man she loved, for as long as she chose to stay.

So why go back to an English winter, the long hours in the wards, the examinations still to come?

Luxury, ease, sunshine, and a good salary were hers for the taking. So why not say yes? Why not take a chance that one day, sooner or later, Marco Cellini might fall in love with her? Stranger things had happened. The man was not indifferent to her—his kisses proved that.

True, they had quarrelled. But they had also made up their quarrels, and grown a little in understanding
by doing so. They had been good companions on occasion; talking, exchanging ideas, arguing, laughing. Such beginnings could blossom into love.

Whereas if she took the long tiresome train and ship journey home, there would be no chance at all for her. Why be such a fool, Jan Lynton?

Ankle-deep in creaming foam, she had almost reached the rocks at one side of the bay. Shading her eyes, she scanned them carefully for a cranny where a boat might be concealed. Nothing. The rock went sheer into the water, the cracks in it big enough to grow a clump of valerian or broom, no more.

Turning, she kicked up a small shell and stopped to pick it up. The small, exquisitely sculpted thing lay on her palm, outside creamy white, the lining rosy and lustrous as a pink pearl. As she examined it with delight, a pair of strong male arms clasped her tightly; a man
’
s voice, certainly not Marco’s, poured out a flood of rapid Italian. She could feel his breath in her hair.