A Fever In The Blood

by Anne Mather

  'Well?' he said after a moment, the edge to his voice an indication of his turmoil. 'What do you want?' He paused. 'I'm going out this morning, and I'd like to make an early start.'

  'Going out?' she echoed, sinking into the chair op­posite him, and gazing at him with anxious eyes. 'You mean—out? Or away? You're not going back to Florence! Oh, please, you can't.' She bit her lip. 'I won't let you.'

  Ben sighed and, realising that if he wasn't careful Cass would raise her voice and waken his mother as well, he explained, 'I'm not going to Florence. Though,' he felt obliged to add, 'if that was my destination, I doubt that you could stop me. But, as it happens, I'm going to Verrazzino. My grandmother has been unwell and I'm going to visit her.' He shrugged. 'I'll probably be back tonight.'

  'Take me with you!'

  Resting her arms on the table, she was gazing at him appealingly, and Ben felt that stirring sense of guilt reas­sert itself. 'I can't.'

  'Why can't you? You've never taken me to see your grandmother, and you know I'd like to meet her. Oh, please!' She stretched her hands across the table. 'Don't leave me here again.'

  'Cass!'

  His use of her name was a rebuke, and her shoulders sagged. 'Well,' she mumbled defensively, 'I won't spend another day lying in the sun. If you won't take me to Verrazzino, I'm going down to the cove.' She hunched her shoulders and then added her final thrust, 'I half wish someone would show up. At least that way I'd have someone to talk to.'

  Ben felt his nerves clench. 'Don't be a fool!'

  'What's foolish?' Cass gave him a resentful look. 'You've spent the last three days avoiding me, haven't you? The only company I get is at meal times, and then your mother makes sure she dominates the conversa­tion.'

  Ben sighed. 'You're not a child.'

  'No, I'm not.'

  'So you shouldn't need constant entertainment.'

  'Constant entertainment?' She snorted. 'I don't get any entertainment!' She caught back a sob. 'I sometimes think you hate me. You obviously wish you'd never brought me here.' She sniffed. 'What's the matter? Has Daddy been getting on to you? Has he told you he holds you responsible for me leaving Roger? Well, if that's so, perhaps I ought to go back to London and be done with it. I've got to go sooner or later, and there's obviously no reason for me to stay here—'

  'Calm down. Calm down!' With a feeling of help­lessness, Ben captured the balled fists she was hammer­ing soundlessly against the table, and smoothed his fin­gers over them. Then, with a weary sense of resignation, he added softly, 'I don't want you to go back to London. And—I definitely don't hate you.'

  Slate-grey eyes, sparkling with unshed tears, gazed at him half disbelievingly. 'Don't you?'

  'No.' Ben was certain about that. He regarded her steadily for a moment, and then gave in to an emotion stronger than himself. 'All right. Will I prove it if I take you to Verrazzino with me? Can you be ready in fifteen minutes? I'll buy you breakfast on the way.'

  Cass's expression was incredible. 'Do you mean it?' she exclaimed. She was staring at him with her heart in her eyes, and he had to look away.

  'I mean it,' he assured her roughly, withdrawing his hands from hers, and with a little cry of excitement she bounded to her feet.

  'Just give me ten minutes,' she told him, touching her damp hair with an anxious hand and catching her lower lip between her teeth. 'And—thank you,' she added hus­kily, pausing at the entrance to the villa. 'I promise you, you won't regret it.'

  Ben wished he could be as sure of that as he changed out of frayed denim shorts and a cotton vest into black jeans and a collarless shirt. He was doing something he had sworn he would never do, and he was perfectly aware of the risks he was taking. He knew Sophia would never forgive him, but some things just had to be done. Even if he had to spend the rest of his life living with her condemnation, he had to take Cass to meet Nonna. She deserved to know the truth, and he needed that ab­solution.

  When Cass reappeared, she was sedately dressed in a button-through cotton dress and heeled sandals. Her hair had been dried and hung silky soft to her shoulders, the pale ends brushing the straps of the lemon yellow sun­dress. The tan she had acquired over these weeks had given her skin a golden luminescence, and only her eyes had received her attention: a dusky brush of umber mas­cara to darken the sun-bleached tips of her lashes.

  'I'm ready,' she said, viewing his appearance with a disturbing candour, and Ben took a deep breath.

  'So I see,' he allowed, indicating that she should pre­cede him out of the door.

  'I look all right, don't I?' she asked doubtfully, glanc­ing back over her shoulder, evidently not sure what to make of his rather ironic comment, and he nodded.

  'Most suitable,' he assured her drily, wondering what his grandmother would say when she discovered he had brought Guido Scorcese's daughter with him. 'Did you tell anyone where you were going?'

  Cass looked discomfited. 'No.' She frowned. 'Do I have to?'

  'I've told Maria,' Ben declared flatly, suddenly aware of his own duplicity. He should have told Sophia, he conceded with a pang. But that would have to wait. Right now, he needed to hang on to the conviction that what he was doing was justifiable. If Sophia had been involved, he might not have been able to sustain the will to defy her.

  They drove south and west from Calvado, using the main autostrada to Livorno, before taking to less civil­ised roads. Ahead of them, the Apennines rose towards the deepening blue of the sky, while in the river valleys fields of corn and the silver-fringing of olive trees pro­vided a striking contrast. The luxuriant landscape was dotted here and there with farms and villages, and ter­races of vines climbed up the hillsides to medieval towns that looked like fortresses.

  There was a certain timelessness about the area; a feeling that the people who lived here didn't much care what went on in the outside world. Life moved more slowly; there was time to appreciate good food and fine wine; the family was still the most important social fac­tor, and the preponderance of children they saw in the villages seemed to signify their determination to perpet­uate the custom.

  Ben had stopped at a service area on the motorway so that Cass could get some breakfast, and he stopped again at a small ristorante overlooking the valley of a winding river soon after twelve o'clock.

  'We're about thirty miles from Verrazzino,' he told her, after the waiter had seated them on a terrace over­looking the gorge. 'But I think it's wiser if we don't arrive until after lunch. If Nonna has been ill, she doesn't deserve to be troubled by two extra mouths to feed.'

  'Of course not.' Cass gave him a rather uncertain smile. 'You're not regretting inviting me, are you?'

  Ben's mouth turned down slightly at the corners. 'I thought you invited yourself,' he remarked teasingly, and saw the becoming colour enter her cheeks at his words.

  'You know what I mean,' she murmured, taking an inordinate interest in the raffia place-mat, and he had to smile.

  'No,' he said, causing her to glance up at him a little doubtfully. 'No, I'm not regretting inviting you. It can be a lonely drive.'

  Cass relaxed. 'Well, you haven't said much on the way here,' she remarked with more confidence. And then, as if realising her words could be misconstrued, she added hurriedly, 'Not that I mind. I've been fasci­nated by the scenery.'

  'Yes.' Ben lay back on the wooden bench. 'It is beau­tiful, isn't it? When I was younger, I used to wish we lived here.'

  Cass frowned. 'But—both Daddy and your mother came from this area, didn't they?'

  'Oh, yes.' Ben breathed a little heavily. 'As a matter of fact, the Scorceses used to own a lot of land around here. Guido was the local—what would you say?—squi­re's son? Whereas Sophia's origins were much less grand. My grandparents used to work in the Scorcese vineyards.'

  'Did they? You never told me that!' Cass arched brows that were several shades darker than her hair. 'How romantic! Do you think they were very much in love?'

  Ben shook his head abruptly, half wishing he hadn't
started this, and the arrival of the waiter to take their order gave him the opportunity he needed. But after their spaghetti had been served, and a carafe of house wine was sparkling on the table between them, Cass turned again to the subject of his childhood. Short of being rude and alienating her once again, he had little choice but to answer her questions.

  'Doesn't it surprise you that you were an only child?' she ventured, and, looking into her eyes, he wondered what she was really thinking. She must know, as well as he did, that their relationship had gone far beyond the bounds of sibling affection, and asking him about his family was only a precarious diversion.

  But it was safer to keep their conversation in these fairly impersonal channels, and, applying himself to his spaghetti, he said casually, 'I might say the same of you.'

  'Oh—' She grimaced now. 'Mummy couldn't have any more children after I was born. Or that's her story, anyway. But, Sophia didn't have that problem, did she? It would be rather a coincidence if she did.'

  'No.' Ben considered his words before continuing, 'No, she didn't have any problems that I know of.' He hesitated a moment, and then proceeded evenly, 'And I do have lots of cousins. An occupational hazard of this area, I'm afraid.'

  Cass caught her breath. 'I wouldn't call it a hazard.'

  'Wouldn't you?' Ben spoke without expression, not trusting himself to look at her.

  'No.' Cass took another deep breath. 'As a matter of fact, I'd like to have children. I think it must be lovely to have lots of brothers and sisters.'

  Ben concentrated on his spaghetti. 'With Roger?' he enquired tightly, and he heard her shivering sigh.

  'No. Not with Roger,' she told him definitely. And then, 'I probably won't ever have a family. I've no in­tention of getting married again.'

  Ben despised himself for the sense of relief he felt at her words, but he forced himself to make one final com­ment. 'Not all men are like Roger,' he stated flatly. 'You can't possibly know you won't meet a man some day who you will want to marry, and then—'

  'I do know,' she interrupted him tremulously, her voice an octave higher than it was before. Then, as if realising she was attracting attention, she lowered it again before saying, 'You know I won't marry anyone else. I shouldn't have married Roger in the first place.'

  The conviction in her voice was unmistakable, and Ben cursed himself anew for the satisfaction he felt at hearing her denounce her marriage. She was so intense, so passionate, yet so innocent in some ways, in spite of the years she had lived with Fielding. Imagining her with that insensitive oaf inspired an almost primitive rage in­side him. He would have liked nothing so much as to beat Roger to within an inch of his life. And it didn't help to know that at least half his anger came from his own sense of impotence, the knowledge that it was his own frustration tearing him apart as much as the other man's existence.

  They were silent for a while and Ben, finding some difficulty in swallowing his own food, discovered that Cass was having a similar problem. However, he re­frained from commenting on the obvious, and after pour­ing her more wine he began to tell her a little about the history of his country. It was a subject with which he was infinitely more familiar, and he made his words as entertaining as possible. He told her about the hill town of Volterra, with its medieval palaces; he described the tiny republic of San Marino, situated in rocky splendour on Monte Titano; and he recounted the tale of the church built over St Francis's oratory at Santa Maria degli Angeli, where the roses in the gardens were said to be thornless, ever since a famous act of penance by the saint.

  By the time their coffee was served after the meal, the atmosphere between them was considerably lighter, and Ben was able to lean back and enjoy Cass's com­pany without the gut-wrenching pull of emotion. He was almost able to convince himself that he had just brought her along for company, but not quite. In the deeper re­cesses of his mind, he knew it wasn't true. His purpose was just as sharp as ever.

  It was nearly half-past two when they reached Verrazzino. The final phase of their journey had been much slower because of the narrower roads, and Ben knew Cass would have liked to stop on the way and explore more of the countryside. Wooded slopes, thickly spread with gorse and heather, gave way to a gentle val­ley where the river they had seen from the terrace of the ristorante meandered lazily through fields of ripening com. There was a smell of pine and citrus, and the lake, where Ben told her he had once swum as a child, opened into its cypress-shaded basin, as green and inviting now as it had been all those years ago.

  There were children playing among the trees and splashing in the water, and Cass propped her chin on the arm she was resting on her open window, watching them enviously as they drove by. The sleek flash of their brown bodies must have reminded her of when Ben had caught her swimming three days ago, and, giving him a teasing look, she said, 'Didn't you wear a bathing suit either?'

  But Ben didn't rise to the bait. 'Bathing suits were in short supply in Verrazzino,' he replied indifferently. 'By the time I was old enough to notice, Guido had gone to live in England, and my mother never came here again.'

  Cass's white teeth imprisoned her lower lip for a moment. 'But why?' she exclaimed. 'I would have thought—that is—well, that she would have needed her family.'

  'No.' Ben shook his head, and then, glimpsing her troubled expression, he smiled. 'Don't look so worried. Sophia didn't need their support. Your father took care of her financially, and pride did the rest.'

  'But—you must have missed your cousins.'

  'I suppose I did.' Ben was philosophical. 'Perhaps that's why I worked harder at the academy. I didn't have the distractions of other boys my age.'

  'Oh, Ben!'

  Cass's eyes were full of sympathy now, but Ben chose to ignore them. 'We're almost there,' he said instead, and to his relief she turned back to the window.

  Verrazzino was typical of the villages of the area. There was the inevitable church, with its gothic bell-tower; a neat little inn, advertising the wholesome Italian food it served; and a cluster of cottages around a flower-strewn piazza, where children and dogs played with a distinct disregard for traffic.

  'Is this it?' Cass was impressed. 'Isn't it pretty?'

  'Pretty primitive,' remarked Ben drily, parking the car in the square, and hoping one of the ubiquitous footballs that were flying around wouldn't dent the Porsche's bodywork. 'We can walk from here. It's just a few me­tres.'

  Cass slid out eagerly, her pale beauty immediately drawing attention to their arrival. When Ben thrust open his door and got out, too, he was instantly hailed by at least half a dozen people who recognised him, and were curious about his companion, and he responded to their come stas and come vas with rueful resignation.

  'Have you come to see your grandmother?' asked one enormously fat woman who came ambling across to them, and Ben nodded.

  'That's right, Marina. Is she any better?'

  'She will survive,' replied the woman carelessly, her attention focused on Cass's sun-warmed face. 'Who is this, Benvenuto? Your betrothed? Or your wife? She is very beautiful. And she looks at you so adoringly!'

  Ben could feel the heat invading his own face at that moment, and, realising Cass could understand at least a part of what Marina was saying, he knew he had to re­ply. 'Er—this is Cassandra—um—Scorcese,' he intro­duced her stiffly. And then, in English, 'Cass, this is Marina Pisano. She is married to my cousin Luigi.'

  'Molto lieta, signora,' Cass murmured politely, giving Ben a curious look, and Marina's thick fingers encased her hand.

  'Buona sera, Cassandra,' she murmured, surveying the girl with a speculative gaze. 'Welcome to Verrazzino.'

  'Thank you. I mean—grazie.'

  Cass was looking embarrassed now and, sliding his fingers around her wrist, Ben intervened. 'You will ex­cuse us, won't you?' he averred smoothly. 'We want to see Nonna, and we have to drive back tonight.'

  'You are not staying?'

  Marina was evidently loath to waste her opportunities, but
Ben began to walk away, taking Cass with him. 'Not on this occasion,' he assured her firmly. 'A piu tardi. Ciao!'

  'Why didn't you tell her I was your sister?' Cass asked as they turned into a narrow lane off the square, where the cottages opened directly on to the pavement. She coloured. 'Because she said I was in love with you?'

  'She didn't say that,' retorted Ben tersely, halting in front of a narrow house, with tubs of fuchsias and geraniums flanking the open door. 'Anyway, here we are. This is my grandmother's cottage.'

  It was just three rooms really, with an attic room up­stairs, where they stored food, and blankets for the win­ters, which could be cold in this part of Tuscany. But it was spotlessly clean. Ben knew his grandmother had borne nine children in these small rooms, two of whom had died, and seven who would likely live to survive her. He used to love coming here, playing with his cous­ins, pretending he was one of them. It was strange really, because he actually had belonged here, but it was years before he knew it; and by then it was too late.

  Lucia Pisano was sitting in a high-backed chair in the room that served as a kitchen, and was situated at the back of the house. In spite of the heat of the day, she had several shawls draped about her shoulders, and al­though she was evidently in some pain her eyes were as indomitable as ever.

  'Benvenuto!' she exclaimed when he appeared in the doorway, and casting her shawls aside she tried to get out of her chair.

  But Ben forestalled her, striding quickly across the floor to kneel at her feet, taking her gnarled hands be­tween his strong palms, and raising his face for her kiss. 'Nonna,' he said, his smile for her warm and tender. 'It's so good to see you again.'