One Hot Summer (17 page)

His voice was soft and deep, dangerously tempting. If he meant to exert all his charm to persuade her to stay, it would be so difficult to say no. Yet go she must. Nothing else was possible. Did he know, could he suspect, how his persuasions would tear her heart?

‘
Holidays come to an end,’ she forced herself to speak lightly.
‘
It is always sad. And then, after all, one is happy to be home again. It happens every year, Marco. Even when I was a child and went to Bridlington with a bucket and spade, I yelled all the way to the station. And next day I was playing with the kids next door quite happily.’

‘
Do we mean so little to you? You will forget us, in a single day?'

Not in a lifetime! She moistened dry lips and said smiling,
‘
You’ve given me a wonderful holiday and I shall reme
m
ber you all for a long time. I only wish I’d brought a camera, so I could show everyone what the villa looks like. You’ve reminded me that I should be packing, Marco. I ought to say goodnight, and thank you for a splendid day on Capri. The Blue Grotto and—’

He closed her mouth with a long, hard kiss. She felt the beat of his heart as her body relaxed against his. This was irresistible magic. The moonlight, the heady scents, the physical dominance of an utterly fascinating man. Slowly, her arms slid round his neck, and she gave her mouth to his.

After a long time, he released her. She was trembling with joy, completely relaxed, completely happy. There will be this to remember, her heart sang. Marco’s kisses were like champagne in her blood. But thrilling though it was, she felt a warning touch her like an icy finger.

Marco was not a boy, to be carried away by the urge of the body, the enchantment of night and music. He did nothing without calculation. So what did he want of her?

She did not dare to think that his embraces meant more than a momentary emotion sparked off by the thought of her imminent departure, a sudden physical urge born of the long day together, the sad yearning songs she had been singing; and perhaps of a sudden rejection, like her own, of worry and responsibility and anxiety. He was young too, and he had suffered much, these last days.

‘
You see?’ he said, almost laughing with triumph.
‘
You cannot resist me.’

‘Who could?’ she murmured, yielding to the pressure of his arm around her shoulder.
‘
You really are a fascinating creature when you try, Marco Cellini. And I am as susceptible to Italian enchantment as any other woman.’

‘
So you will not refuse to stay?’ He drew her close, found the tender spot below her ear and put his lips to it. His breath was in her hair.
‘
You will stay with us,
cara mia
?’

S
o he was only coaxing, like a child, with kisses! He could be a baby too, if he did not get his own way. She had known his granite hardness, the quickness of his Latin temper. Now he was trying the other way, the gentle approach.

Her soft laughter made him laugh too, and grumble. ‘You are laughing at me?’

‘
Of course I’m laughing at you. Don’t imagine all these kisses deceive me for a moment. You choose the time and place so perfectly.’

His lips in her hair, he whispered,
‘
You are not angry?’

‘
Not angry at all.’ She turned her face to his, to meet his mouth.
‘
Do I seem angry, in your arms and kissing you?’

‘
So you are not leaving the day after tomorrow?’

She drew away, and taking his face between her palms, looked into his eyes.
‘
Listen, Marco Cellini. We’ve had a lovely day, you’ve held me, kissed me—and I’ve kissed you. And we’ve both enjoyed every minute of it. But that makes no difference to tomorrow and the day after. This is tonight. This is Italian magic—an hour to remember, an hour out of time
.
It has nothing to do with reality.’

He gripped her wrists tightly. She could see the gleam in his eyes, the firm line of cheek and chin.

‘
It has everything to do with reality. It makes all th
e
difference to today and tomorrow. I am asking you to marry me,
cara mia
.’

Stunned with surprise, Jan could neither move nor speak. She felt a cool breath of air from the sea on her bare arms, a chill of regret that the minutes of their closeness were over so soon. But where she should have felt elation, joy, fantastic happiness, she experienced only a dull anger.

So he was prepared to go as far as that, to keep her for his mother? It would solve his problem so neatly,
would it not? One day soon, his sister Bianca would marry, go off to her husband’s home. And that would leave a problem on Marco’s plate. The beautiful Signora Cellini, mentally unbalanced after the tragic death of her husband, needing care and privacy. He would never be able to take her to his Roman apartment, for how could she live her gentle, harmless life out there? How could he, so proud, so touchy, ever allow his friends and acquaintances to know how unbalanced his mother was?

But an English nurse, who knew nobody in Italy and could not, therefore, gossip? What a splendid solution, leaving Marco to live his life free of worries!

A marriage without love. A marriage of convenience.
His
convenience.

The thoughts raced round and round in her mind for what seemed a long time.

‘Jan?’ His voice—that velvety voice full of enchantment—was asking her for the response she could not give.

She shivered in the wind off the sea. Why was it so cold suddenly? She pressed her hands over her eyes a moment.

‘
No, Marco. Don’t you see, you are asking the impossible?’

‘Why
impossible? If you mean, I haven’t approached your family, I can do that. As you see, I’m not a poor man, Jan. You like Italy, you could be happy here. There is much you could do on the island, as my wife. I admit I've neglected it. So did my father. He had other interests, and so have I. But you—so full of ideas—’

That too? She was to be his conscience on the island. Stay here, as isolated as in a convent, play the great lady and look after his tenants, while he—?
What
other interests?

‘
Please stop, Marco. I’ve said I won’t marry you,
and that’s the end. You had no right to ask me, in this way. You’re not the only one who has other interests. Have you forgotten I have a career?’

As if that would have mattered, if he had said
Jan,
I
love you
!

He brushed his hand across his forehead.
‘
I do not
u
nderstand this
career.
What is it, but nursing the sick? Is that enough for a woman, for her whole life? Don’t you want marriage, a home, children and grandchildren around you? What sort of a woman are you, Jan? I thought I knew you. I thought when you kissed me so passionately just now—yes, you did—I felt the warmth of a real woman. But you are still so cold, so dedicated. How can I reach you?’

‘
Not by offering bribes,’ she said coldly. She had not known she could be so angry. So she was to provide him with the children every Italian coveted? No doubt to an Italian girl in her position, the marriage he offered would be irresistible. Money, a splendid villa, children, a fine estate. And a husband who conveniently lived in Rome and did not bother her too much. But it was not Jan’s own idea of what a marriage should be, and she could never be content with second-best.

‘
I’m sorry, Marco,’ she said again, to his silence.

As he moved away from her, the moonlight fell full on his face, and she felt a surge of wild hope as she saw disappointment there, which was almost longing. His hands came out to her, but did not reach her. Pride came into his face, something of anger, something of the patrician reserve which was so typically Cellini. His hands dropped. For him, an episode had ended. That was plain to see.

‘Now I know you are not a real woman. When I offer you everything a woman is supposed to want, you call it a bribe. What sort of talk is that? Is my name nothing? My family? Can I offer you no position in
Italian society, no
proper home?
Do
English girls
think of these things as bribes? Well, I
shall
offer no more bribes. If I am so undesirable
that
I have to
offer
bribes to get a woman to marry
me,
I shall remain a bachelor for ever. Any man has his pride, and I shall keep mine.’

She started towards him.
‘
No, oh no, Marco! I didn’t mean you were unattractive, nor that your name and family meant nothing. Oh dear, I’ve handled this so badly, and been so unkind and tactless. Please believe me, I didn’t mean to hurt your pride so deeply. I’m honoured, greatly honoured, by your offer of marriage. I’m not even worthy of it, as far as money or family are concerned. We’re just ordinary, everyday people. I’ve no long pedigree or fortune, and I’m sure I’d have no dowry or anything like that. What I meant was something different. I
—
I can’t do what you wish, that’s all.’

There was a long moment of silence. Then he bowed formally, turned and marched stiffly away. Jan, alone on the terrace, shivered with cold. She should go indoors and get warm, yet she was too disturbed in her mind to move.

It was to this terrace he had brought her on the first day. Together, they had stood on this very spot, looking down at the sea, the headland, the old stone castle. Every day since then, her feeling for him had grown and grown. That he would ever propose had been beyond her wildest dreams. That she would refuse him would have seemed absurd.

Yet she had done so, and sent him marching away stiff with rage and wounded pride. One thing was certain—he would never give her a second chance.

If he had loved her, how different this moment would have been. But she could not marry on his terms. She wanted her marriage to be loving, sharing, giving each to the other, in trust and tenderness. None of the things he considered important really mattered. Not to her, though it was obvious they mattered tremendously to him.

What would have happened to her, when and if he found the right kind of woman for his wife? His own countrywoman, rich and influential, of good family and estate. What of the little English nurse then? Or when his mother died, as in the course of time must happen—what then, when he had no more need of her?

She had been right—right—to refuse him. But the loneliness rushing in on her, the emptiness, the sense of life to be endured without hope, was too much to bear. She buried her face in her hands and gave way to the dreadful grief which shook her.

When the storm was over, she wiped the blinding tears away. She must go indoors, her flesh was cold as marble. But she could not resist one last look over the terrace to the moonlit path across the sea. And a light went out. The whole coast below her was now lost in velvet blackness. Yet a minute before, there had been a light. Where? Surely in the castle?

She knew, with absolute certainty, where Bianca was.

That was the knowledge which had been nagging at the back of her mind for days. On that first day, Marco had pointed out the castle, told her Bianca’s godfather lived there. Asked her to wave if the old man waved to her.

She had never done so. Why?

Because he had never waved to her.
And he had not done so, because Bianca, his beloved goddaughter, was down there with him. So why should he wave to an unknown figure on a balcony?

As she crawled, shivering, into bed, she examined the idea carefully. Why had not Marco asked at the castle? Perhaps he had done so, and been told a lie. What
if the old man didn’t even know the girl was under his roof? It looked to be a big, rambling place where half an army could lie concealed—so why not one girl?

W
hat if the Signora had told the truth about taking tea with her daughter? Why not? She wasn’t wrong all the time. If Bianca had an ally in the Villa Tramonti, she could find out when the coast was clear and slip in to visit her mother. Someone had warned her, too, that the blue trouser suit had been missed. Francesca, without a doubt.

Bianca must be fetched home, not later than tomorrow. Because tomorrow she, Jan, had sworn to tell Marco the truth about Paolo. And Paolo, if he was anything of a man, would arrive at the villa to announce that he loved Bianca, and to demand her hand in marriage.

There would be fireworks. Bianca, cause of all the trouble, must be there with Paolo.

Jan woke early. Today would be horrible, full of trouble. But at least Marco’s attention would be fully occupied, and she herself could tactfully keep out of the way. Most probably Paolo and Bianca would be marched into Marco’s study and interviewed there, in decent privacy and out of earshot of the servants.

She would have to fetch Bianca herself, that much was obvious. She could not let the girl walk into trouble unprepared; nor let her remain down there, oblivious of what was happening at the Villa Tramonti. She did not doubt for a moment, even now in the light of day, that the castle was Bianca’s hiding place.

She rang for Francesca and before she was out of the shower the girl was there. The child looked dark-eyed and harassed, as if she had cried a good deal lately.

‘
Please bring my breakfast in here. I won’t eat out of doors this morning. And Francesca—’

Startled eyes flicked a
glance up at Jan, then the lids lowered.
‘
Si,
signorina
?’

‘
After breakfast I am going down to the castle. Is there a path down the cliff?’

‘
The castle? Oh no,
signorina.
The cliff path is terribly dangerous. You could fall and break your neck, or go straight down into the sea.’

‘
Is there another way?’

‘
By the road.’

‘
That is too far.’

The
girl nodded in agreement, and pleated her apron.
‘W
hy are you going,
signorina
?’

‘I
think you know. I am going to fetch the Signorina Bianca home.’

The dark eyes, huge in the pale face, opened wide.
‘
Does—does the Signore know?’

‘
No. And I shall never tell him, Francesca, so you can tell me if you helped. You did, I think.’

‘
Not me. But I knew about it. She and her brother, they quarrelled terribly. They have the Cellini temper, both of them. We, the servants that is, felt sorry for
the
girl—well, the younger ones did, because we know
what
it is like, to be in love, and we had seen her meeting the beautiful young man on the beach. But the older ones, Maria-Teresa and old Guido, wanted to tell the master. They said he was right, and that she should marry the man she was betrothed to.’

‘
So what happened?’

The girl shrugged expressively.
‘
She ran away. Only to make the Signore understand she was serious—and only for a little time. But now—we are frightened,
signorina.
It made a difference, your coming. We never expected you.’

‘
What sort of difference?’

‘
The Signore could save his pride. We knew, when we saw you wearing her things, that he meant us to believe his sister was here. Not the servants, of course, but the people on the island. His kind of people.’

So what do we do now, Francesca? I have to go home to England tomorrow. The Signora will be alone. Bianca is needed now. Are you going to help me fetch her home, or not?’

The Italian girl bobbed a funny little curtsey.
‘
I will bring your breakfast, and I will ask downstairs what is to be done. You swear you will not tell?’

‘
I have already sworn it.’

Left alone, Jan finished
dressing and filled in the time by doing some of her packing. She needed to keep her hands occupied, to prevent herself thinking too much about last night.

The whole thing seemed too impossible to be real. Had she been in his arms, kissed and kissing; feeling the beat of his heart close to her, feeling his breath in her hair, hearing the soft murmur of his voice?

Could it be true that she had refused to marry the man she loved? And in such terms as would make it certain that she was never given a second chance?

I
’m crazy, she thought. Stark, raving mad. Life is tough for a girl on her own. I’ll never marry anyone else—and even if I did, what sort of life would it be? Struggle all the time. Finding a house, getting a crippling mortgage, bringing up children in to-day’s tough world. People do it, and survive, even enjoy it, but it isn’t easy. Two weeks in a villa like this would be the fulfilment of a lifetime’s dream for any of the young marrieds I know.

And I could have had all this, and Marco too. The rich life of big cars, yachts, travel, clothes bought on the Via Veneto. He’s generous, he’d have denied me nothing material. Given me a free hand to make a few improvements on this island, asked little besides looking after his mother, whom I love anyway.

And bearing his children. He had not meant his marriage of convenience to be lacking in any of the marital duties. Who knows, in time he might have
come to love me?

She snapped the locks of her suitcase. No regrets, Jan Lynton, she told herself sternly. There is only one sort of marriage, and that is to marry the man you love because he loves you. And if I can’t have that sort, I’ll have none. Nursing is a good career and women don’t have to marry nowadays, in order to live a full and satisfying life. So that’s that.

Just then Francesca came back with the breakfast tray. A tall glass of frosted orange juice, hot coffee and a big jug of cream, and rolls piping hot from Maria-Teresa’s oven.

‘
There is a donkey,
signorina.
It knows the way down to the road and is sure-footed. My little brother Pedro is here. He brings the fish. He will
show you.’ A donkey!
Jan caught Francesca’s eye and laughed. After a moment’s hesitation the girl laughed too.