Autumn of the Witch

by Anne Mather

  An elderly woman stood at the top of the steps in the arched entrance to the castello. Dressed completely in black, she looked stem and forbidding and Stephanie faltered in her step. Was this the housekeeper Santino had mentioned? She looked positively forbidding.

  Santino walked past her at that moment and hailed the old woman. ‘Buona sera, Sophia,’ he called, raising a hand in greeting. ‘Come sta lei?’

  ‘Grazie, padrone, sto molto bene,’ Sophia answered, and went on to ask him in their own language whether he had had a good journey. This much Stephanie could understand and a feeling of panic overwhelmed her when she realized that to make herself understood here she would have to learn, the language herself. However, just then Santino seemed to remember that he was not alone, and turning, he put his hand to her elbow and propelled her forward up the steps, leaving Mario to deal with their luggage. The other car was just arriving, so there would be plenty of hands to handle it.

  Meanwhile, Stephanie had reached the old housekeeper and Santino was saying:

  ‘This is Signora Ventura, Sophia, my wife. She is English and speaks very little Italian. ’ He said this in English, enunciating carefully for Sophia’s benefit, and she frowned and nodded vigorously, shaking Stephanie by the hand.

  ‘Buona sera, signora,’ she said politely. ‘Welcome to the Castello di Strega.’

  Stephanie managed a faint smile and returned the woman’s greeting, supremely conscious of Santino’s eyes upon her. It was somewhat of a relief to know at least one other person spoke English, but somehow she sensed that Sophia was in no way pleased to welcome another woman into her employer’s home.

  Stepping back now, Sophia indicated that Stephanie should step into the magnificent hall of the building, and for a moment the girl was absorbed with admiration for the unexpected beauty of her surroundings. The darkness outside had served to enhance the grimness of the outer walls of the castello, but inside the crystal chandelier threw prisms of light into every corner of that awe-inspiring apartment. It mellowed the terrazzo tiling, glinted on the burnished intricacies of the sculpted alcoves, and shed an inviting patina on the polished marble staircase. To Stephanie, used to her father’s modest home, it was like some fabulous film set and she couldn’t believe she would ever get used to living there. Did a little girl really play on this gleaming surface; did she really carry her dolls up that imposing staircase? And was she ever allowed to run barefooted leaving sandy footprints to mark her progress? Somehow it seemed unlikely, particularly as Stephanie again encountered the critical gaze of Sophia Vascante.

  Santino was quite at home, however, throwing his coat across the gleaming surface of a chest and crossing the hall purposefully towards a room at its furthest side. ‘Come, Stephanie,’ he said as she hovered uncertainly by the door. ‘Sophia, we will have some coffee and sandwiches. The signora is not hungry. ’

  ‘Si, padrone. ’ Sophia gave a slight bow and after another moment’s hesitation Stephanie did as she was bidden and followed Santino into the lamp-lit intimacy of a small lounge. Here there was a soft Persian carpet underfoot and soft leather armchairs piled high with brilliantly coloured cushions. Damask-covered walls were white and hung with several small paintings that depicted typically Sicilian scenes of vineyards and orange groves, and the dazzling sun-kissed waters of the Mediterranean, while the curtains Santino drew across the tall windows were the colour of burgundy. In its way, the room was every bit as beautiful as the hall and Stephanie wondered who was responsible for its decoration.

  ‘Sit down!’ Santino indicated one of the low chairs, and Stephanie complied, sinking into the soft depths with a feeling of inevitability. She would have loved to have kicked off her shoes, but it was all so strange and in fact she had the distinct impression that she was asleep and dreaming.

  Santino unbuttoned the jacket of his suit and flexed his muscles, running a hand round the back of his neck rather tiredly. Stephanie, watching him, wondered whether the day had in any way been an ordeal for him, too. Somehow she always imagined he was without ordinary feelings. She looked away as his gaze flickered over her, trying desperately to think of something to say. After all, some kind of relationship had to be established and the less antagonistic it was the less emotional either of them was likely to become. However, as though aware of her thoughts, he said: ‘You need not watch me like an inexperienced trainer watches his animals! I am not about to spring upon you and demand my conjugal rights! When I asked you to marry me you were aware of the motives, and those motives have not changed so far as I am concerned, no matter what your vivid imagination may have led you to believe!’ He turned abruptly away. ‘I realize we have not had much chance to talk since -since the start of this affair, but time will remedy that. And quite honestly, I am not in the habit of having to make conversation with impressionable young women!’

  Stephanie stared at the back of his head. His words were as cold and chilling as the words he had used to her that night in the Italian restaurant when he had sprung his initial suggestion upon her. And while she was still living in a state of suspended animation so far as this marriage was concerned, her innate femininity rebelled at the heartlessness of his rejection.

  ‘I do not have a vivid imagination!’ she denied indignantly, getting unsteadily to her feet.

  ‘Indeed!’ His reply revealed his boredom. ‘I would question the absolute truth of that statement. You are a woman, Stephanie, and as such you tend to believe that emotion plays a part in every man’s action. I must tell you that this is not so. At least, it is not true of the kind of emotions you believe in. I have been aware almost from our first meeting that you have regarded me with a mixture of curiosity and interest, and while you may not yet be aware of it yourself, you have been subconsciously searching for some deeper motive for my activities if only to satisfy your feminine desires to be attractive to me!’

  ‘How - how dare you!’ Stephanie was horrified.

  Santino turned slowly regarding her intently, and a prickle of fear ran along Stephanie’s spine. ‘You deny it?’ ‘Of course. ’ Stephanie twisted the strap of her handbag tortuously, hating the derision she saw in his face. How dared he imagine she was interested in him, a man who deliberately attempted to ruin her father, and moreover a man who was without human feelings? She supposed other women might find his overwhelming masculinity attractive, but she looked beyond superficial sensualities. ‘You may be interested to know that the only man whose opinion I value is in England - not here, in this - this uncivilized place!’ She straightened her shoulders determinedly. ‘He is a man of culture, not a - a barbarian!’

  Her choice of words was perhaps unjustified, but at that moment all she wanted to do was wipe that scornful amusement from his face and she succeeded. The tautening of his features revealed that she had annoyed him and she was glad until an uneasy silence stretched between them and apprehension took the place of contempt.

  Relief came with the sound of Sophia’s footsteps as she crossed the hall, and her fingers tapped at the opened panels of the door. ‘Vene!’ Santino called abruptly, and glared broodingly at the housekeeper.

  ‘The coffee, signore, ’ murmured Sophia politely, and he gestured to a low table by the couch.

  ‘Put it there, Sophia,’ he commanded shortly. ‘You are retiring now?’

  Sophia folded her hands. ‘Do you wish me to show the signora her room, padrone?’

  Santino’s brooding gaze moved over Stephanie, and a cruel smile tugged at the corners of his mouth suddenly. ‘No, no, Sophia. That will not be necessary. I will show the signora where she is to sleep.’ He glanced at the housekeeper as Stephanie sank down weakly into her seat, overcome with a trembling unsteadiness at his mocking words. ‘You have carried out my instructions?’

  ‘Si, padrone. Just as you told me. ’

  ‘Bene, bene, Sophia. You may go.’

  The housekeeper turned to the door. ‘Si, padrone.’

  ‘A moment.’ Santino halted her with a wo
rd. ‘Where are the others?’

  ‘They did not think you would want them tonight, signore. Signor Bastinado e Signor Franciscus have gone. Signor Vecchi is in his room. ’

  ‘Ah, so.’ Santino nodded. ‘That is good. Grazie, Sophia.’ ‘Grazie, padrone. Buona notte, signora.’

  ‘Oh!’ Stephanie pressed a hand to her throat. ‘Oh, good night, Sophia. ’

  The old housekeeper nodded dourly and left them, and after she had gone Stephanie rose again.

  ‘Dio mio, sit down!’ said Santino impatiently. ‘Have some of this delicious coffee, so different from that watery concoction you prepare in your country. Instant coffee!’ He grimaced and bent to the tray. ‘Cream and sugar?’

  Stephanie quivered. ‘Just - just cream, thank you,’ she stammered.

  Santino poured her coffee and handed the cup to her. She took it carefully, avoiding his fingers and also avoiding the brilliant eyes which seemed to find her nervousness so satisfying. ‘I should have thought several spoonfuls of sugar might have restored your apparent lack of stamina,’ he remarked dryly. ‘For all your protestations, Stephanie, it seems manifestly easy to disconcert you!’

  Deciding it was useless to attempt to verbally fence with him at this moment, Stephanie did not answer, but sipped her coffee and kept her eyes averted. When she was finished she placed the empty cup on the tray and shook her head when he offered more. Finishing his own coffee, he too put his cup on the tray and straightened, stretching lazily. Stephanie was supremely conscious of him, of the lean strength of his body and the disturbing awareness of the power she had given him over her, and suddenly the castello became a terrifying prison and this man her jailor. Panic rose in her throat and she was shaking so much she didn’t think she would be able to stand.

  Santino seemed to become aware of her terror and he looked down at her with something akin to compassion in his dark eyes. ‘Dio, Stephanie!’ he exclaimed huskily, ‘do not look at me like that! I am not a primitive, no matter what you may think!’ He turned away and walked towards the door. ‘Come! I know you are tired. I am tired also. ’

  Stephanie managed to get to her feet and walked with as much composure as she could muster towards him, passing him and beginning to cross the hall. Santino closed the door of the lounge, switching off the lights, and subdued the brilliance of the chandelier before following her up the lamplit staircase.

  Stephanie scarcely noticed the delicate filigree of the ironwork on the balustrade or appreciated the precision with which the alcoves which mounted with them had been cleverly sculpted to form a fitting background for small alabaster figurines depicting the various saints inherent to this part of the island. At the head of the flight of stairs she found there was a long gallery which overlooked the hall below and here there were oil paintings of dark-browed men and magnolia-skinned women, who might or might not have been Santino’s ancestors. Certainly none of them possessed a greater degree of hauteur and arrogance than her husband, Stephanie thought tremulously.

  Santino went ahead of her as they penetrated the west wing of the building, and halted before a tall, white, panelled door. Opening it, he indicated that she should precede him inside and she entered what must be the master bedroom of the castello. It was a massive apartment, dominated by a huge four-poster bed that would not have looked out of place in an eighteenth-century palazzo. Everything in the room seemed on a scale that was larger than life; the many-mirrored dressing table, the carved escritoire, and the capacious width of the wardrobes. Underfoot a soft white carpet was the only concession to the twentieth century and Stephanie wondered faintly whether she was really expected to sleep in that bed -alone.

  She turned and looked at Santino, who leaned negligently against the door jamb. Suddenly he looked disturbingly attractive, or maybe it was simply that she no longer wanted to be left alone. Not here!

  ‘Am I - am I expected to sleep here?’ she asked softly.

  Santino straightened. ‘Of course. This is the master bedroom of the castello. Naturally you will sleep here. It is the bed that is used by all the mistresses of the Castello di Strega.’ His eyes narrowed slightly. ‘I myself was born in that bed.’

  Stephanie swallowed hard. ‘Then - then surely - you—’

  ‘Do not be alarmed, Stephanie. I shall not be sleeping here also. I have never used this apartment. Relax! I told you there was no need to worry. ’

  Stephanie glanced round the huge, shadowy room. The only illumination came from lamps by the bed and they simply were not enough to banish a sudden sense of foreboding. ‘But - but it’s so big!’ she protested. ‘I - I would rather use a smaller room - a smaller bed. ’

  His eyes darkened and he made an impatient exclamation. ‘Stephanie, several minutes ago you were tired and you wished for the seclusion of your bedroom, and yet now I sense that for some reason you do not wish to be alone!’ He raked a hand through his hair. ‘Go to bed, Stephanie! This is no time for arguments. We will discuss the matter again in the morning. ’

  Stephanie pressed her hands together. ‘Where - where are you going?’ she couldn’t help asking.

  He loosened the knot of his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. ‘I shall not be far away,’ he replied shortly. ‘By the way, your bathroom is through there.’ He indicated a second door, and as he did so Stephanie noticed a third one.

  “Where does that lead to?’ she asked, turning back to him.

  Santino sighed. ‘To the dressing room next door,’ he answered briefly. ‘It is kept locked. No one ever uses it.’

  Stephanie shivered apprehensively, and he turned and walked to the door. As he took the outer handle in his hand, obviously preparatory to leaving her, she took a step forward. ‘If - if I need you—’ she began awkwardly.

  Santino halted, his eyes bleak. ‘You will not need me, Stephanie,’ he replied grimly, and went out, closing the door with a purposeful click.

  Stephanie stopped still, listening for a moment, but she could not hear anything except the low murmur of the waves on the rocks below the castello. Swinging round, she went to the window, and pushing wide a French door stepped on to the balcony outside. In the moonlight she could vaguely discern the ragged rocks below her and the sound of the sea was much louder here than inside. She leant for a moment on the rail, looking down into the depths, and then went back inside, closing the door and drawing the heavy curtains. A huge moth, disturbed by her action, flew straight at her and she stifled a scream, beating it off with her hands. It fell to the floor, and she put her foot on it heavily, closing her eyes as misery overwhelmed her. Suddenly it didn’t seem to matter that Santino was responsible for her misery; she just wished he was there and she was able to forget everything in the force of his personality...

  CHAPTER SIX

  Despite everything, Stephanie slept soundly and dreamlessly in the huge bed, her tired body responding to the softness of the mattress which moulded itself to her. Before getting into bed she had washed in the adjoining bathroom and found it to be just as imposing as the bedroom in its own way. But in spite of its rather old-fashioned appearance, the plumbing was amazingly modern and the towels on which she dried herself were thick and fluffy and warm from the radiator. Certainly someone had taken the trouble to make the Castello di Strega as comfortable as possible. It was not the antiquated pile she had expected after consideration of English castles, but then the castello was not as big as an English castle and its owner was no impoverished member of the aristocracy.

  She was awakened quite early by the distinct impression that someone was in the room. Sunlight streamed through the drawn curtains even though it was only a little after seven o’clock and Stephanie propped herself up sleepily on her elbow, brushing the long silky hair out of her eyes.

  Frowning, she looked about the room and then gave a start of surprise as she saw a small figure hovering uncertainly by the door. Wrapping the bedclothes about her, she sat up and looked across at the little girl who stood there in her dressin
g gown, her long silky dark hair tied back with a crumpled satin ribbon.

  ‘Hello,’ said Stephanie softly. ‘Are you Lucia?’

  The little girl stared at her for a long silent moment, and then she said: ‘Dov ’e Papa? ’ in a puzzled voice.

  Stephanie translated the words and felt the colour run up her cheeks as she realized what the child was trying to say. She had obviously expected to find her father here. Speaking carefully in phrase-book Italian, Stephanie said: ‘Your father is in his own room, Lucia. ’

  Lucia regarded her curiously. ‘Non capisco, signora,’ she said, reducing Stephanie’s poor attempt at her language to nothing.

  Stephanie sighed. Then, with an exclamation, she slid out of bed, wrapping the dark blue housecoat she had left on the end of the bed about her. Lucia took a hesitant step towards the door as though afraid of what Stephanie intended to do and with great care Stephanie bent down beside her and said: ‘My name—’ she pointed to herself, ‘my name is Stephanie. Ste-phan-ie! You say it, too. Stephanie!’

  Lucia regarded her with some of the brooding concentration of her father. Shaking her head from side to side she repeated: ‘Non capisco!’ her lips visibly trembling now.

  Suddenly there was a light tap at the door and Stephanie straightened as the door opened softly to admit Santino. Obviously he had expected Stephanie still to be asleep and he looked impatiently at them both as he saw his daughter in the corner. As Lucia uttered a squeal of delight and brushed past Stephanie to fling herself into Santino’s arms Stephanie stepped back a pace, running a helpless hand over the tumbled mass of her hair. Although Santino was only wearing a silk dressing gown over blue pyjama trousers, he at least looked presentable, while she felt absolutely terrible. However, although Santino allowed Lucia’s baby arms to twine themselves round his neck he still did not look pleased.

  ‘I am sorry, Stephanie,’ he said stiffly, ‘but Lucia has obviously been given a different explanation of our sleeping arrangements.’ He glanced at his daughter’s face. ‘It appears that Sophia has gone into some detail as to what