by Isobel Chace
For a long moment, Ruth stared through unseeing eyes at the piece of paper in front of her. How dared he! And how dared Pearl! She thought wildly how she could pay him back for his bland confidence that Pearl would rush to do his bidding. Well, the Arnolds were built of sterner stuff than he had imagined! And it would give her the very greatest pleasure to prove it to him! But how?
She put the letter down, ripping the envelope in her anxiety to discover what else it contained. There was a boat ticket, she saw, noting with a flicker of contempt that it was a first-class ticket, such as a man might be expected to get for the bird he was charming at that particular moment. There was also, Ruth found, a great deal of money. The enormous, crisp notes were of denominations that made her gasp. Even allowing for the fact that Italian lire came in thousands before they were worth anything at all, it was a very considerable sum of money indeed. The sight of it sent the colour flying to her cheeks. How dared he! she thought with considerable agitation. How dared he! Why, it was as if he had already bought and paid for Pearl just as he might any other commodity. Only he hadn’t bought Pearl yet, whatever he might care to think!
By the end of the morning a plan of action had formed itself in Ruth’s mind. Mario Verdecchio was an abomination and he would get no more than he deserved if his plans went awry! He might be able to charm Pearl into doing—anything, but she, Ruth, was a very different cup of tea!
The receptionist was pleased to see her when she went to the desk to ask for her passport.
“The letter, it was for you?” he asked her.
She nodded gravely. “Miss Arnold,” she confirmed.
“And here is your passport,” he smiled at her. “Will you take them both?”
Ruth was seized by a sudden doubt as to whether she was doing the right thing. “N-no,” she managed. “My sister won’t need hers. I—I have to have mine for the bank.”
“But of course,” the clerk agreed.
Ruth sighed with relief as she left the desk. It was all being so very much easier than she had expected. All she had to do was to behave quite normally for the rest of the day. It was so simple!
She had to admit that Pearl made it easier for her than she could have hoped for. The younger girl rushed into the hotel for a quick lunch, apologetically explaining that she had a date for the rest of the day. “That is,” she had said suddenly, “if there isn’t a letter for me. Did you ask at the desk?”
“There was nothing for Miss Pearl Arnold.”
“What a funny way of saying no! I suppose you got something?” It was typical of Pearl that she didn’t inquire any further. She was supremely uninterested in the affairs of anyone other than herself.
And then she had gone in a flurry. Ruth had almost called her back, but Pearl had only waved at her, running to meet the pale, black-haired youth who was waiting for her on the comer of the street.
Ruth packed her bag with care, wishing that she didn’t feel so guilty. What she was doing she was doing to help Pearl, and yet she couldn’t help feeling that Pearl wasn’t going to like it. Still, no matter what, she wasn’t going to allow Mario Verdecchio to get away with it easily. She would show him!
She was extremely nervous by the time the taxi arrived to take her to the ship. She paid her bill at the desk and left a note for Pearl, explaining to her what she had done. The few words that she had written to her sister had taken her most of the afternoon to compose, for there was no doubt about it, ’Pearl was going to be very angry indeed. It took all Ruth’s resolution to go through with the thing in the end. She was quite sure that Mario would do nothing to hurt her, that there was nothing to it really. All she had to do was to get on the boat and disembark at Palermo the next morning. By the next morning she would be back in Naples with the satisfaction of knowing that she had told Mario exactly what she thought of him.
The taxi drove through Naples at a great pace. Ruth took a last look at the numerous cafes that surrounded the Bay and the tall, dusty trees that gave them shade. For some reason she had the feeling that she would never see any of it ever again.
“That’s your ship,” the taxi-driver told her, pointing it out amidst the huge liners that crowded the dock on either side.
Ruth thanked him, giving him a handsome tip as he placed her luggage on the concrete beside her. He gave her a cheerful grin and disappeared, leaving her alone in a sea of strangers all gesticulating and shouting at one another as they pressed into the small office that dealt with their tickets and arranged for the cars to be taken on board by crane.
Ruth took her place in the queue with increased misgivings. She didn’t like the way the men stared at her and she wished, hopelessly, that she were not travelling alone, a fact which seemed to be more than enough to set them speculating about her. When at last her turn came an official glanced at her ticket, stamped it and gave it back to her.
“You may go on board, signorina,” he told her.
Ruth took a deep breath. It was too late now to turn back. She was on her way to Sicily!
There was another woman already in the double cabin when she went below decks to find her way round the ship. She was small, dumpy, and very dark, but she spoke English reasonably well and seemed friendly.
“Are you going to Tunis?” she asked Ruth.
“No, only to Palermo,” Ruth answered.
“I go to Tunis,” the dumpy little woman informed her. “But tomorrow I spend in Palermo. I visit my nephew there. The ship stays all day, so it is easy for me.
“I suppose you have been there often,” Ruth suggested as she unpacked the few things she would need for the night.
“Often and often!” The older woman gave Ruth a kindly look. “You travel alone?”
Ruth nodded. “I’m being met at Palermo,” she mumbled.
“Sicily is beautiful. To me it is going home!” The Italian woman sighed. “Now, I live in Tunis with my husband, but I cannot return to Sicily too often. You are fortunate to be staying there.” She glanced at the label on Ruth’s luggage. “Miss Arnold? I am Signora Verdecchio.”
Ruth felt distinctly weak at the knees. “Did you say Verdecchio?” she asked weakly.
“You have heard the name before?” the Signora demanded sharply.
Ruth nodded.
The Italian woman sparkled. “You must know my nephew!” she explained in triumph. “It is Mario, is it not?” Ruth nodded again. “Dear Mario! Do you go to meet him in Palermo?” Mario’s aunt added by way of an appalled afterthought.
Ruth nodded a third time, quite unable to speak. “Mario?” The Italian woman blinked at her. “You plan to marry him?”
“Oh no!” Ruth was glad to be able to sound quite positive about something. “I hardly know him.”
Signora Verdecchio looked confused. “Then why do you go to Sicily? Is it—is it that kind of an arrangement?”
Ruth could feel herself blushing. “No, it’s nothing like that!” she protested.
“No?” The Italian woman sank on to her bunk. She gave Ruth a long searching look and apparently decided that she was telling the truth. Ruth was pretty enough, but she certainly wasn’t flamboyant enough to appeal to Mario, that much was obvious!
“I think,” she said at last, “you had better tell me all about it, no?”
Ruth did not relish the prospect, but Mario’s aunt had a very determined expression and she was reasonably sure that she meant to have the story either from herself, here and now, or from her nephew in the morning. On the whole the former seemed the preferable course, and so she stammered out the whole story.
“So,” the Signora said when she was finished. “It was this Pearl that Mario invited to Sicily.” Her eyes danced with sudden amusement. “And he paid the ticket, you say?”
“It came to me because I am the elder,” Ruth explained uncomfortably.
“But of course it came to you!” Mario’s aunt agreed firmly. “And now you are not to worry your head any further about it tonight!” She choked on her own la
ughter. “But tomorrow—tomorrow we will give Mario a nice surprise, no?”
Ruth hung her head. “I don’t think he will be very pleased,” she said.
But the older woman only laughed again. “It will be very amusing for all of us!” she insisted. “And you need not worry about Mario! I will manage him!” And she looked so determined about it that Ruth very nearly believed her.
CHAPTER TWO
WHEN Ruth awoke in the morning the engines were already still. Ruth looked over to where Mario’s aunt had been sleeping, but she had already dressed and gone up on deck. Ruth hurried into her clothes and re-packed the few things she had needed during the night. Through the porthole she could see the sunlight dancing on the water and she was more than a little excited at the thought of seeing a new place and one that she had always wanted to visit.
Signora Verdecchio greeted her gaily when she went up on deck.
“Can you see Mario?” she asked her. “He always comes to meet me when I pass through, but I can’t see him anywhere.”
Ruth’s spirits sank at the mere mention of his name, but she obediently studied the waiting figures on the dock, looking for the tall, arrogant form of Mario Verdecchio. However, there was no sign of him anywhere.
“I expect we’ll find him at the bottom of the gangway,” the Signora said comfortably. “I have to get a ticket to come back on board this evening and then we’ll get ashore.” She went off to look for the steward, waving her passport back and forth in front of his nose.
Ruth stood in the background while the wave of excited Italian broke over her. It seemed to her that both the Signora and the steward were extremely angry about something, and she hoped that it wasn’t anything to do with her.
“It is Mario!” the Signora said with extreme annoyance when she had finished with the steward. “The steward had a message for me from him. I shall have to travel to Messina to see an old friend who has fallen sick—”
“So you won’t be seeing Mario?” Ruth broke in, feeling slightly sick.
“I’ll look in on my way back,” the Signora promised. “There’s nothing to get upset about. Whatever Mario has planned, he can hardly do anything to you before this evening.”
“N-no,” Ruth agreed uncertainly. She wished she hadn’t come.
“I’ll see you tonight,” the Signora smiled gently, her eyes anxious as she thought of her friend. “You have nothing to worry about!”
Ruth watched Mario’s aunt trip lightly down the gangway and turn and wave to her. She waved back, annoyed with herself, for she was afraid she was going to cry. She forced herself to look at what she could see of the island. The city shone white in the morning sun and it was possible to hear the hum of noise that came from the streets clearly from the ship. It was not, perhaps, quite so beautiful as Naples, but Ruth found it infinitely preferable. The heat was as unbearable and oppressive as the Italian summer could make it, but whereas in Naples the noise and confusion merely added to the heat, here she could feel a soft breeze and there was a faint smell of lemons to encourage her.
The steward brought up her luggage and hurried her ashore, anxious not to lose his tip to any of the porters who might have come streaming aboard if anyone had wanted them. Ruth stood uncertainly at the bottom of the gangway, wondering what she ought to do next. There was still no sign of Mario.
A long time went by and still no one had approached Ruth. She began to think that she should make enquiries as to where Mario Verdecchio lived, but she could think of no way of making herself understood, so she abandoned the idea. She was just picking up her suitcase and walking away from the ship towards a cafe she could see about a hundred yards away, when a uniformed man came up to her, his black eyes full of apology.
“Are you Miss Arnold?” he asked in English.
She turned in relief. “Yes. Yes, I am,” she admitted.
He smiled, showing a glint of gold in his teeth. “I am to drive you to Signor Verdecchio’s house,” he said.
He grasped her suitcase and strode over to a large black limousine. Ruth had never seen such a car before. It had a green window in the front to make driving in the hot sun more bearable, and blinds that effectively hid the occupants inside from the rear and sides. The chauffeur opened the door for her and ushered her into the spacious, extremely comfortable rear seat.
“Signor Verdecchio told me to expect a very fair lady,” he went on apologetically. “That is why I didn’t immediately recognise you. I am very sorry.”
Ruth thought wryly that it was hardly his fault if he had not recognised her from a description of Pearl. Ruth was fair too, but she had none of the fragile, ashen-blonde look of Pearl. Ruth was taller and stronger and, in her face lacked Pearl’s prettiness, her features were firmer and full of character.
The chauffeur drove straight through Palermo, heading for the hills beyond. Ruth peered out at the narrow streets, full of tall buildings where everyone seemed to live on their balconies, even doing their shopping by shouting down to the vendors in the street.
“Do the people sleep on the balconies as well as everything else?” Ruth asked the chauffeur.
He laughed. “Everything is sub coelo in Sicily,” he told her. “It is too hot indoors. Even the hens prefer the balconies in this weather! And why not?”
Ruth smiled. “It looks a bit crowded,” she commented.
The chauffeur shrugged his shoulders. “It is convenient. The women can gossip, the men can watch the world go by. What more do you want?”
There was so much to look at that Ruth had to lean right forward to see everything. Some main roads had been cut right through the old city to take the main burden of the traffic and which looked much the same as any of the other main roads she had seen in Milan, Turin, or any other big centre. But away from these main roads, the city was just as it had always been. The houses were peculiarly foreign to Ruth’s English eye. They were solid and compact, all of them painted in pale colours, and without either chimneys or spires on the churches. In those houses of which she got a glimpse as they passed, there were tiled floors, and every window seemed to be equipped with Venetian blinds. The whole atmosphere was one of cheerful business which Ruth found extremely attractive.
The Verdecchio house was out in the country. They came to a small village that lay between rich vineyards and drove the whole length of the small street that separated the houses of the people. At the far end were some heavy wrought-iron gates that had been left open. They swept through the gates and up a lengthy tree-lined drive that was covered with yellow dust and a few straggly weeds that fought for a poor living in the shade of the trees. The house stood far back from the road. It was large with painted shuttered windows and a great deal of wrought-iron work round the windows and doorways. Huge, colourful bushes spread themselves over some large flower beds in front of the house and a few citrus trees thrived at the other end of what was meant to be a lawn, but which actually had little in common with its vivid green English equivalent.
The chauffeur drew up outside the front door and held the door of the car for her to get out. Ruth stood on the drive and looked about her. There was no sign of anyone anywhere.
“I suppose they are expecting me?” she said nervously.
“I will ring the bell!” the chauffeur answered. He did so, pulling on an ancient knob that let loose a grand peal somewhere in the depths of the house.
“Giulia will look after you now,” he said with satisfaction. He placed her suitcase beside her in the doorway and saluted smartly. “Signor Verdecchio will have left instructions,” he added.
Ruth wondered if there was anyone there to answer the bell. She pulled at the knob as the chauffeur had done, but the only answer was silence. When she had satisfied herself that no one was coming, she decided to walk round the house to see if there was any other entrance. A like house in the depths of the English Countryside, she thought, could always be approached from the rear sooner than from the front: perhaps in Sicily it was just the
same?
The house was even larger than she had imagined. There were some stables set at right angles to the main building in which she could hear some horses moving restively and a donkey braying. A small dog came running out to greet her. He was of no known variety, small and button-eyed, with a proud tail that he waved behind him like a flag. Ruth bent down to say hullo and the animal graciously allowed her to approach and to tickle the back of his head.
“Are you a Verdecchio too?” she asked him.
The dog waved his tail and led the way round the house to the back door just as a large woman emerged from the vegetable garden.
“Giulia?” Ruth exclaimed in relief.
The woman stared at her crossly. She ripped out half a dozen questions in Italian, so fast that Ruth had no hope of understanding her.
“Signor Mario Verdecchio?” she asked patiently.
The woman nodded, her whole face breaking into smiles. She beckoned to Ruth to follow her into the house, chattering away as they went. Signor Verdecchio had had to go away, but he had left instructions about the English lady who was to come to Sicily. She was to be made welcome and a bedroom was to be prepared for her. She, Giulia, was to serve her with food and to see to her comfort. And so she would, for there was no one within a hundred miles for whom she would rather work than for the Signor. He was a man!
Ruth looked so doubtful that the Italian woman was sure that she hadn’t understood her properly. She gave Ruth a sly nudge in the ribs and laughed. The English lady probably knew more about Signor Verdecchio than she did, wasn’t that so?
