by Iris Danbury
He had put into words something of her own vague motives. Yet already she sensed the rumblings of a miniature Vesuvius which would erupt and involve her in disaster.
Kent chose a restaurant in one of the narrow streets leading from the piazza. Behind the tiny facade was a small courtyard with white walls covered in vines and morning glory and other trailing and climbing plants with fiery blossoms.
Although at the Villa Stefano Althea had been able to sample a wide range of Italian dishes which might not so easily have been discovered in the average hotel, the meal which Kent ordered was a revelation to her.
‘I take it that you haven’t an English addiction to the bistecca,’ he teased her when they studied the menu. ‘Even if you have, I’d advise you to avoid it and give the local food a chance.’
‘Signora Marchetti’s cook is most competent indeed and would never dream of serving a bistccca.’
‘Which wouldn’t be anything remotely resembling a beef steak as we know it. Now what about piccate? They’re little squares of veal in a Marsala sauce. Or we could begin with a nice varied hors d’oeuvre, then try some local fish like moscardim.’
‘I leave it all to you to choose,’ she said, ‘but don’t stuff me with too much spaghetti or I shan’t be able to eat anything else.’
This little restaurant evidently specialised in local Capri or Neapolitan dishes and Althea found herself eating through numerous courses of paper-thin ham with figs, spaghetti with mussels, followed by some unknown kind of mushroom cooked in vine leaves. At the end she decided against a sweet, but enjoyed the delicious stracchino cheese.
‘Did you like what you ate?’ Kent asked when they were finishing the dry white Capri wine.
‘It was all delicious,’ she assured him. ‘Thank you.’
‘I hope I’ve repaid the injury to your arm. Is it better now?’
‘It was only a graze in the first place.’
He ordered some liqueurs and lit a long thin cigar. ‘You wanted to know something about the opera—if I can call it that—which I’m working on.’
‘Only if you want to tell me.’
He grinned at her. ‘I think I’ll reserve it for some future occasion when possibly I could use it as a bribe.’
‘A bribe? How?’
‘I might want you to agree to something or other and I could use the description as a quid pro quo.’
‘I think it’s an unlikely exchange,’ she returned. ‘Perhaps Carla would respond better—or does she know all about it?’
‘She knows about the two previous ones I’ve done, but not this new one. The others were based on old stories, but this time I want to weave some of the local legends into a concoction. You know, of course, that several Mediterranean islands, Capri especially, were the original homes of the Sirens.’
‘Yes, I think I’ve read that.’
‘Mermaids, too. All these caves and grottoes must have been full of seductive witches only too ready to seize unwary sailors and other travellers. I haven’t worked out yet the exact lines of the story, but I shall come to that later.’
‘And have you promised to let Carla sing one of the parts if and when your opera is produced?’
He slanted a mocking glance at her. ‘I’m not sure if I care for that “if and when”. My previous operas have been presented, even though one was done by an amateur company in Liverpool and the other had a one-night stand as part of a bill in Birmingham. These places may not be in the same operatic league as Covent Garden or La Scala, but it’s something to get them staged at all.’
‘I apologise then for doubting your abilities.’ She judged him arrogant and lacking in modesty about his work, although as she had not freely mixed with the world of musicians and composers, she supposed they were probably all alike.
‘A most insincere apology,’ he commented. ‘You’d be glad to hear eventually that the new work was a flop. It would serve me right for being so ambitiously confident. It would carve me down to size.’
She could do no more than laugh at the exact way in which he read her thoughts, but even that made her uneasy. This was not the kind of man to whom one longed to be transparent.
He knocked the ash off his cigar. ‘They were both flops, those two earlier operas,’ he admitted. ‘Satisfied?’
‘Not particularly. But their failures may have taught you something so that you can make this new one a success.’
‘Diplomatically spoken! Oh, I can see, Althea—I hope I may call you by your very attractive name—I can see that you’re going to have a most restraining influence on me. Whenever I get over-excited or carried away by an aria with a thrilling top C, you’ll bring me down to earth.’
‘I doubt if I shall be around to serve that purpose,’ she answered drily.
‘Why? Are you leaving Capri soon?’
‘No. Not as far as I know, but if you’re not a welcome visitor to the Marchettis’ villa—’
‘You’re welcome at my house. Bring Carla with you if you feel the need of a chaperone, although I have an old crone to cook a meal or two for me. But don’t let Carla persuade you into midnight visits.’
‘D’you think she would?’ she queried.
‘That girl is ripe for any lark,’ he murmured darkly.
‘Then don’t encourage her by promises you might not want to keep.’
‘Such as?’
‘Singing in your operas, for instance. It’s doubtful whether her mother would allow her to go off on that kind of career. Signora Marchetti refuses to let Carla go to Naples for singing lessons.’
‘M’m,’ he murmured. ‘Come on, let’s go.’ He paid the bill and walked with her out to the narrow streets and towards the piazza.
‘We may be too late,’ he muttered.
‘Too late for what?’ she queried, hurrying to keep up with his long stride.
‘Seeing the sunset from the terrace at the piazza.’
They threaded through the jostling crowd and came out in the irregular square as the sun was sinking and the island of Ischia was silhouetted against a blaze of glowing colour.
‘One of the most lovely sights this island can produce,’ Kent murmured. ‘It never fails to fascinate me.’
Althea stood in silence beside him, unwilling to utter some triviality, yet uncertain as to whether he saw only the natural beauty before him or was viewing its magnificence in terms of theatrical backcloths.
The moment passed swiftly and the orange sun dipped into the bay. Kent turned and leaned his back against the parapet. Almost immediately a voice exclaimed, ‘So here you are, and we have found you!’
Carla and her cousin Cristo stood in front of Althea, and the glances they bestowed on Kent Sanderby were mocking and malevolent.
‘You have been here all the time?’ asked Carla.
‘I came to do some shopping and I met Mr. Sanderby,’ she explained casually.
‘Your father told us that you were dining with a friend,’ put in Cristo. ‘I am sorry that—’
‘And have I your permission to count myself a friend of Miss Buckland?’ Kent’s tone held an undercurrent of anger.
‘You behave strangely, Althea,’ Carla complained. ‘You told me you did not like the Signor Sanderby, but when he asks you to dinner, you are willing.’
Althea, aware of Kent’s interested gaze, spoke hastily. ‘I’m sure your impression was wrong. I’ve met Mr. Sanderby only twice before this evening. It would be rash if we all made up our minds to like or dislike on so short an acquaintanceship.’
‘Oh, do go on!’ broke in Kent. ‘It’s delightful to hear oneself talked about like this, as though I were not here.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Althea apologised immediately. ‘I didn’t mean to discuss you, but—’
‘But you had to defend yourself against Carla,’ he finished for her. ‘I understand. As for you, Carla,’ he swung round to address the girl. ‘Be very careful you don’t offend me in any way or I shall refuse to support you over those singing le
ssons in Naples. Don’t rely on me to persuade your mother when she says “No!” ’
Carla was immediately all contrite smiles. ‘Oh no, Kent. You must not threaten me so. That would be cruel.’
‘I can be very cruel,’ Kent said sternly. ‘As cruel as any of those Roman emperors who lived here and devoured little boys, so they say.’
Carla shuddered delicately. Her large dark eyes gazed at Kent with unaffected adoration.
Cristo interposed briskly, ‘Why don’t we all go somewhere and dance?’
‘Oh, that would be marvellous!’ exclaimed Carla, linking her arm in Kent’s.
‘D’you want to dance, Althea?’ He emphasised her name, and she knew he was trying to goad Carla and perhaps Cristo, too.
‘Not particularly,’ she replied quickly. ‘I ought to be going back to my father and, anyway, I’m not dressed for dancing.’
‘Oh, that son of thing doesn’t matter here,’ Carla assured her. ‘And your father can do without you for an hour or two.’
Very gently Kent disengaged his arm from Carla’s entwined fingers. ‘You two go and enjoy yourselves,’ he said kindly, almost paternally. ‘I’ll take Althea up to the villa.’
He gave the other pair little chance to argue, for he almost dragged Althea away by the wrist and marched her towards the place where taxis waited.
‘Ciao, Carla,’ called Althea over her shoulder. ‘Ciao, Cristo.’
In the taxi she was mainly silent on the drive up the winding road to Anacapri.
She was reflecting that every time she met Kent Sanderby trouble followed. To veer her thoughts away from the scene which would surely follow when Carla had her first opportunity, Althea asked, ‘D’you think Carla’s mother will allow her to go to Naples for lessons?’
Kent made a slightly derisive noise, then grinned. ‘I find this business of lessons in Naples a useful stick to beat Carla when she’s naughty. You’re the more likely one to persuade Signora Marchetti.’
‘How could I do that? I know nothing of the singing masters in Naples.’
‘It might do you a power of good to meet a few of them.’
‘I haven’t much of a singing voice.’
‘I wasn’t talking about singing,’ he retorted.
By now they were almost outside the Villa Stefano. ‘This is probably the wrong moment to come in,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave you just outside the gate.’
She stepped out of the taxi. ‘Thank you for a delicious dinner,’ she said.
‘If you get into too much hot water over it, telephone for me,’ he said airily, and drove off.
Althea hardly knew whether to laugh or be very angry indeed with Kent Sanderby. She was convinced, however, that her best plan was to steer clear of him as much as possible in future. She found him interesting, but all her instincts cried out that to develop a friendship with him would be extremely unwise.
CHAPTER TWO
Althea approached what she called the ‘gingerbread house’ at the Villa Stefano and let herself into her apartment. She needed a few moments to compose herself before meeting Signora Marchetti.
As her father was not in their own rooms, Althea guessed that he was in the salon. The sitting-room at the villa was always designated the ‘salon’ rather than ‘il salotto’ and Althea considered that the room with its beautiful proportions, its high, painted ceiling deserved this rather exalted title.
It was, perhaps, over-furnished with large easy chairs upholstered in blue brocade, a sofa and half a dozen rosewood chairs with seats covered in pale golden satin; there were innumerable occasional tables, some beautifully inlaid, and glass-fronted cabinets held a variety of china and glass ornaments. At one end of the long room a grand piano was placed at an angle so that the light from three full-length windows fell on the keyboard. Beyond the windows a wide stone terrace gave a breathtaking view of the whole sweep of the Bay. Whoever had designed and built the villa had shown considerable acumen in securing such a vantage point.
In the salon Lawrence and Signora Marchetti were playing a card game. He was apparently trying to teach his Italian hostess the game of cribbage.
Lawrence spoke fluent Italian as well as French, for he had applied himself to the languages for the sake of his business visits, and Signora Marchetti’s knowledge of English was reasonably good, although she was less fluent in speaking than her daughter, but now she found it impossible to grasp the odd phrases in the game.
‘One for his nob?’ she was saying as Althea entered the room. ‘What is the nob, Signore Lorenzo?’
Lawrence leaned back in his chair and laughed as he translated for her benefit.
‘Am I disturbing you both?’ Althea asked.
‘Not at all. Signora Emilia has beaten me, old hand that I am.’
‘But he had to help me count the cards,’ Signora Marchetti admitted.
‘I like the game,’ remarked Althea. ‘Father and I have played it for many years, but you must be sharp, signora, to outwit him. He always knows what to keep and what to throw away.’
After a moment, her father asked, ‘Had a good evening?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Did you see Carla and Cristo down in Capri?’ queried Signora Emilia.
There was no wriggling out of that question. ‘Yes, I met them near the piazza.’
There was a lengthy silence. Mr. Buckland’s attention was fixed on lighting a cigar. Signora Marchetti idly played with the cards. Then she glanced up suddenly and gave Althea a piercing look of interrogation.
Althea made up her mind to plunge for the truth. ‘I hope you won’t be offended, Signora Marchetti, but I had dinner with Mr. Sanderby. I met him quite by accident in Capri. It was really through Dr. Fortini who came and spoke to me and then Mr. Sanderby joined us.’
The older woman frowned. ‘No, I am not offended,’ she said slowly. Then suddenly her round face changed its expression. ‘So you were also with the doctor?’
Althea knew it was prudent not to let any misunderstanding arise over that. ‘No. Dr. Fortini left us after a short time. Then Mr. Sanderby asked me to dine with him at another restaurant.’
Again the Signora frowned heavily, her dark eyebrows almost meeting in the centre. Then she nodded. ‘Of course I understand. English girls have much more freedom than our girls. You are accustomed to going about with men.’
Signora Marchetti made ‘going about with men’ sound like one of the deadly sins, thought Althea. So she added, ‘Mr. Sanderby brought me up to the villa by taxi, but I did not invite him to come in, signora, I knew you would not wish me to do that.’
Signora Marchetti pursed her lips and appeared to reflect on the situation. ‘Thank you. That was most kind.’ She gave a sudden smile as she glanced at Althea. ‘But perhaps I am mistaken and he is not so bad after all. He is English and so different from Italian men, and I do not understand him. Lorenzo, what do you think?’
The Marchettis had translated ‘Lawrence’ into ‘Lorenzo’ soon after his arrival, but Althea’s name was more difficult and they usually called her ‘Al-tay-a.’
Having now maintained a most discreet silence while the conversation between Signora Marchetti and Althea took place, he looked up. ‘I thought he was a very decent chap. I don’t know much about him, but he seems all right.’
The Signora beamed at Althea. ‘Then that is settled. I make no objection if you want to go out with him. That is not the business for me. But you may also bring him here sometimes. Not too often, please, for I do not trust him yet with my Carla.’
While she courteously thanked Signora Marchetti for this co-operation, Althea hid her secret smiles. In the first place, she was not at all sure that she wanted to go out very frequently with Kent Sanderby. Secondly, trying to discourage any association between Carla and Kent was hardly the most effective way for the Signora to extinguish what might be only a passing infatuation on the young girl’s part.
Mr. Buckland shuffled the cards again. ‘One more game, Signo
ra Emilia. Then my dragon daughter will order me to bed.’
‘Without doubt,’ agreed Althea, as she picked up a magazine.
A few minutes later this peaceful scene was shattered as Carla erupted into the room, with Cristo following close behind her.
‘Mamma!’ she cried angrily. ‘Do you know where Althea was tonight? She was with that man!’ Then she broke into a flood of such rapid Italian that Althea could not follow the words but only the general gist of the matter, and that indicated that Carla was almost frenzied with indignation.
Her mother answered just as rapidly and Carla stopped in mid-sentence. ‘She already told you!’ she said in English. ‘Oh, but that was clever, very clever. She tells you first before I arrive home.’
‘Carla, you must not insult our English guests!’ broke in her mother. A further spate of Italian followed between the two, the Signora obviously lecturing her daughter on lack of manners and Carla justifying herself that she had reason to be angry.
‘Come, Althea, we will say goodnight to Signora Emilia,’ suggested Mr. Buckland.
Althea was only too glad to escape and in the sitting-room of their apartment, Mr. Buckland relaxed in an armchair.
‘That was quite a scene,’ he remarked, with a twinkle at Althea. ‘What have you been doing to upset Carla so much? Stolen her young man?’
Althea laughed. ‘Not exactly. Carla is rather impressed with Kent Sanderby, mostly, I think, because he’s a composer and dabbles in opera and it all sounds very romantic.’
‘And what about him? Is he attracted to her?’
‘I wouldn’t know. I just think it would be a bad thing for Carla if she built up her hopes too high. She imagines he’s going to let her sing in his operas. Well, that might come off, but more likely she’d be one of the chorus.’
