One Hot Summer (19 page)

‘
Very well. I’ll come. You’ll—you’ll stand by us, Jan? You’re so much stronger than I am.’

‘
My dear child, it’s no business of mine. I can’t poke my nose into the affairs of the Cellini family. Try not to lose that fierce Cellini temper. Keep calm, and stick to what you want.’

‘
Paolo promised me he wouldn’t. I wanted him to wait till I’d brought Marco round myself.’

‘
Paolo is a man, remember. And a man fights his own battles, if he’s worth having.’

Bianca nodded.
‘
I’ll come. If only Marco could understand what it is to be in love—’

‘
It would help,’ Jan agreed wistfully.
‘
But stand firm and you may be able to make him understand. Even if he doesn’t, at least he’ll know you mean what you say. The time for these old castles is over, child. You and I belong to another century, whatever the men say.’

CHAPTER VIII

Jan, Pietro and the donkey went back alone. Bianca had promised to play chess with her godfather before lunch, and would not disappoint the old man. She would say goodbye to him, she said, and leave when he had settled to his siesta.

Going uphill on the donkey was worse than going down. After a while Jan tired of the struggle not to slide backwards over the creature’s tail, and decided to walk. It was now very hot, the sun blazing on the exposed sections of the track, and the flies bothering Jan and the donkey. Pietro cared for nothing. He had his five hundred lire and jogged along on his hard little heels planning how to spend such a fortune. Jan knew she would have to pay his father for the hire of the animal, and hoped Pietro was wise enough to spend his tip before one or the other of his parents commandeered it.

The kitchen was in an uproar when the tired and dusty pair arrived; Maria-Teresa shouting at the top of her voice, and everyone else scuttled round at her orders, and adding to the commotion by a running commentary of his or her own. Jan was by this
time
accustomed to the colourful and passionate Italian way of carrying on a normal conversation, but this seemed more intense than the business of preparing the villa lunch warranted. So she asked, at the top of her voice, what was happening.

Maria-Teresa flung her arms above her head.
‘
Ma insomma!
Siamo fritti!
We have guests for lunch. Here already! And these good-for-nothings lazing about and the Signore wanting to put the best before his guests, and—’

Jan was not alarmed, knowing that Maria-Teresa
produced a perfect meal every day for her
employers,
and that all vacant space was piled high with food in the course of preparation. ‘Where is Francesca?’

‘
Dressing the Signora. And when you and the Signorina Bianca arrive, you are to go to your rooms by the side path, not through the garden or
you will
be seen. And to dress quickly in a good style for
im
portant people, please.
Santo cielo!
Where is
Sig
n
orina
Bianca?’

‘
Coming after the siesta.’

‘
Siamo fritti
!’
The cook clutched the bosom of
her
apron in horror, then rushed to the stove where
a pan
spluttered.

Jan left the kitchen to its crisis and, only too anxious to avoid important guests in her present state,
tiptoed
lightly along the side path and stole into Bianca’s bedroom without being seen. She showered quickly
and
dressed in the nicest dress she possessed, a trim
pink
linen. As she brushed her hair into its normal
sleek
ness, she wondered whether she was supposed to
join
the
family
and their obviously important visitor,
or
whether she should tactfully take lunch in her
room.
If only Francesca would come, and explain what
had
happened to set the kitchen in an uproar and
require
the Signora to be specially dressed. Who was
this
guest?

She was doing her eyelashes when the maid slipped in.
‘
Signorina!
You are here, thank God and his angels! Did you find the Signorina Bianca?’

‘
I did. And she is coming home when her godfather settles to his siesta. I heard in the kitchen we have a guest for lunch. If it’s someone terribly important, maybe I should eat here. Will you ask the Signora what I am to do, please? If you can, that is.’

‘
Too late. She is already with
him
.
Oh, if only Bianca had returned with you, all would be well. The Signore is so angry and so polite. He is like Vesuvius today, all fire deep down inside, and so pleasant on the outside. I pity him, I truly do. What will happen?’

‘
How can I say, until I know who the visitor is? Is it a business colleague, or one of the family, or what? Do stop wringing your hands and tell me.’

‘
Did they not tell you, in the kitchen? It is the Conte Alberghi.’

‘
Sounds impressive. And who is he?’

‘
Who is he?’ Francesca’s voice squeaked with astonishment.
‘
Does the Signorina not know? He is the betrothed of the Signorina Bianca.’

‘
What
!’
Jan’s heart raced. The palms of her hands were damp. Rafaello here, at the villa?
‘
When did he come? Did he arrive without warning?’

‘
I think not. He found himself in Naples on business, and telephoned to say he would hire a motorboat and come out. That’s what the Signore told Dino. Of course they went down to the harbour to meet him, and arrived back here ten minutes ago. The two
signori
are at this moment sitting on the
terrazzo
with cigars, and talking over their
w
ine.’

‘
What has he been told about Signorina Bianca?’

The girl shrugged.
‘
I don’t know.’

The aunt in Florence story, of course. With Bianca due to a
r
rive home within the next two hours, ready to do battle with her brother but completely unprepared to meet her
fianc
é
. In spite of all that had happened, the girl was still engaged to the Conte.

‘
Francesca,’ Jan said urgently,
‘
Bianca must not be allowed to walk into this without warning. Can we telephone the castle?’

‘
Not without the Signore hearing.’

She drummed her fingers on the marble top of the toilet table.
‘
Someone must go down. Not Pietro, he
’ll
be tired out. He’s only small. Is there anyone else who could take a letter?’

‘
Plenty. The kitchen is always full of empty minds and full stomachs. But we shall have to pay.’

Jan laughed shortly.
‘
That goes without saying
!
A thousand lire?’

The girl shrugged.
‘
It is hot now, and the messenger will lose a meal and miss the siesta.’

Jan hesitated. She was running short of Italian money unless she changed another travellers’ cheque, which she was loth to do at this juncture. She had enough for her journey, but little over.
‘
Three thousand, then. I can spare no more.’ It occurred to her that she could pay a good deal more and recoup it from Marco. His sister’s arrival, in the nick of time, would suit him well, but unless she was warned that Rafaello was here, she would walk straight into disaster. And Paolo was due to arrive this afternoon. Would it be possible to intercept him, warn him to turn back? With these volatile, quick-tempered Italians, in such an inflammable situation, who could tell what might happen?

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
fianc
é
. 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
w
hich 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
w
hom? 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 te
ll
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
o
nly 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.