by Romy Sommer
An Innocent Abroad
by Romy Sommer
Chapter One
Isobel lifted her face to the glorious warmth of the sun. It pricked at her eyelids, impossibly bright after the damp chill of England. She opened her eyes to colours brighter and more exotic than any she’d ever seen. Pastel-washed houses clung to precipitous mountain slopes green as emeralds, that dropped into the azure Tyrrhenian sea. A world away from the grey, sullen seas of her childhood holidays, this sleepy fishing village seemed as unreal as an Impressionist painting, a landscape of emotion rather than form.
Positano slept in the midday heat and she was blissfully alone, with nothing to disturb her solitude but the shriek of a lone kestrel soaring high above. She sat at the top of a broad flight of stone stairs overlooking the beach, where fishing boats, their hulls faded by the sun, lay upended on the dark sand, and revelled in the sun’s kiss, breathing in the heavy, briny air and the stillness.
Thank heavens cousin Frances’ errand was taking so long. Isobel needed a respite from her overwhelming relatives. A week she’d been in Italy, staying with the American cousins she barely knew, and so far nothing had been as she’d expected. If Mother had known the sort of company they kept or the freedom the girls were allowed, Isobel doubted she’d have allowed her precious eldest daughter to make the trip.
Even if the Honourable Christopher Barrett was a house guest.
Isobel smiled. She had no intention of enlightening her mother. New as all these strange people and their even stranger mannerisms were to her, she was at least free here from the weight of Mother’s expectations for a few blissful weeks. Italy was a vast improvement on the damp wilds of Shropshire. Too soon the summer would be over and her Season debut launched. She sighed.
Distant voices, carrying across the water, disturbed her reverie. A fishing boat tacked into the bay, growing from a speck against the bright silver of the waves to a distinct shape. As her eyes grew accustomed to the glare of sun on sea, she became aware that she was not alone in watching them.
On the rough wooden pier stood a man as still and as silent as she. Isobel eyed him curiously. Dark-haired and dark-skinned, he seemed as exotic as an Arab from a paperback novel. Like many of the Italian peasants she’d seen, he wore shabby trousers and a dark blue pullover. Yet as he turned towards her, looking up to catch her stare, she knew there was something different about him that set him apart.
Perhaps it was the lazy grin that dimpled his cheek, or the easy grace with which he raised a hand in salute to her. He moved with a lightness noticeably absent in the natives of Campania.
Before she’d arrived in Naples, she’d had no idea how sheltered her life had been, how little she’d known of poverty and desperation. In one week she’d seen enough of both to fill her heart with tears.
She turned quickly away from the stranger, looking up instead at the village that sheltered in the cleft of mountain, finding solace in the beauty and tranquillity of the landscape. Whatever hardships the locals faced, at least they lived in paradise.
The majolica-tiled dome of the church glinted in the angling sunlight, rising above the jumbled buildings that seemed to be squeezed into every available space, rising in tiers up the steep slopes.
By the time she looked back, the boat had pulled alongside the narrow jetty and prepared to dock. The stranger on the pier caught the rope cast to him by the fishermen on board, and fastened it with the quick skill of years of practice.
Not wanting to be caught watching again, Isobel raised her face to the sun and closed her eyes. Behind her eyelids, she pictured Positano as a painting, its vivid colours captured on canvas, golden sunlight infusing the scene with the same sensual heat she basked in now.
Moments later a shadow fell across her. Frances at last.
Except it wasn’t. He stood over her.
Up close, he was magnificent, with eyes black as midnight, bright and expressive. But it was his dimpling smile that sent a shaft of unknown sensation shooting through her.
He addressed her in barely-accented English. “Buon giorno. You are a tourist?”
Even as she heard her mother’s reproving voice in her head, she couldn’t resist responding to that smile. “I’m staying with my cousins at the Villa del Monte.”
“Ah, the Gallaghers. That villa has an unrivalled view.”
“You know it?” But of course he did, this was a small community. After three summers her cousins would be well known here.
“Si. Today you are alone?”
“I’m here with my cousin Frances.” And where, oh where, was Frances now? Isobel squirmed, years of training warring with her instinctual feeling that she could trust this dark stranger. She should not be talking in this easy way to a common fisherman. Yet there was something in him too that compelled her to speak the truth. “She’s already been gone longer than she said. She should be back soon.”
His generous mouth curved into a smile filled with such warmth and vitality she felt herself melt. The dimple flickered again.
“I am Stefano.” He made a small, formal bow, a gallant gesture at odds with his casual workman’s attire.
“My name is Isobel Harrington.”
“Isabella.” He made her name sound like poetry, the kind of poetry that took her breath away. “While you wait for your cousin, may I invite you to join me at the taverna for a taste of our local speciality, limoncello?”
She cast a glance over her shoulder at the shuttered taverna before turning back to him, eyebrow raised. He laughed, a deep sound that sent ripples of pleasure through her. It was an odd sensation, unlike any she’d experienced before. What was it about Italy that brought her body to life in the strangest ways?
“I know the owner. He will open for us.” He held out a hand to her, and she stiffened, her whole body suddenly taut.
“I shouldn’t …”
But again he gave that irresistible smile. “No tourist to this coast should leave without sampling limoncello.”
She shouldn’t. But why not?
There was no-one here to see, no-one to report on her behaviour. She was in Italy to broaden her mind, and limoncello was as good a place to start as any. What harm could come to her in a public piazza within view of the fishermen unloading their catch onto the pier?
She picked up the postcards that lay discarded beside her, and slowly, not entirely reluctantly, held out her other hand to accept his. His fingers were rough against hers, strong and supple. His hand enveloped hers with unexpected tenderness.
She’d never held a man’s hand before, not like this. Dozens of faceless footmen didn’t count. This man, so warm, so alive, was a different creature altogether.
She allowed him to pull her to her feet and lead her across the piazza to the taverna. He didn’t let go of her hand as they walked, nor did she pull away as she should have. The warmth that radiated through her from his touch was as sensual as the sunshine had been only moments before.
Stefano knocked on the door of the taverna, the sound echoing off the neighbouring buildings. Footsteps sounded within and the door swung open to reveal the owner, a stout man with a thick mop of dark hair and a scowl that turned to a smile as he saw Stefano. He broke into voluble Italian that Isobel had no hope of following.
The owner seated them at a table on the verandah, beneath a fragrant canopy of honeysuckle. The limoncello was served chilled, in small ceramic cups.
Then they were left alone.
Isobel’s chest tightened. Not the tightening of fear at being alone in the presence of a strange man, but a strange breathy sensation she couldn’t name.
“Is limoncello like lemonade?” she asked.
“This is alcohol!” she gasped.
“Italian lemonade with a twist.” Then concerned, “you are not used to alcohol?”
She wasn’t used to much of anything. Neither a prestigious English boarding school nor a French finishing school had prepared her for this new world she was uncovering. But she didn’t want him to know how ignorant she was. She wanted this man to think well of her. She wanted him to look at her as a woman of eighteen, not as the silly schoolgirl she felt herself to be. The admission tightened the knot in her chest.
Tentatively, she took another sip.
“Not so bad?” he asked.
“I like it.”
“Good. There is much in Italy to like.”
She smiled. “I love it here.”
“Then you should find yourself a nice Italian husband and stay.” He was teasing her, and even though she knew it, something rather like hope flared in her.
She bit her lip, a sharp reminder of her reality. “That’s not possible.”
“Anything is possible. If you want it enough.”
She shook her head. “My parents wouldn’t approve.”
Stefano leaned forward on the table, resting his chin on his hands as he contemplated her. She resisted the urge to squirm beneath the intensity of his gaze.
“And you do everything your parents wish?”
“Of course. Don’t Italian girls obey their parents?”
He laughed, the sound like the sunlight on the waves. “Not always. But you are right, we expect our daughters to behave with modesty and obedience. I thought that English girls were different. For example, you have no chaperone with you.”
Her back stiffened. Being unchaperoned was a new sensation, and suddenly the freedom she’d relished a half hour ago loomed terrifying. Was this why he was being so friendly – he thought English girls were easy? Just because Frances had abandoned her did not mean he could assume she was wanton. And where was Frances anyway?
She set her glass down on the table, prepared to do battle to defend her reputation. But Stefano only leaned back in his chair and smiled disarmingly. “I have offended you. I apologise. I did not mean to suggest that English girls do not behave with propriety. Only that they have more freedom than Italian girls.”
She sighed, letting go of the momentary anger. The anger wasn’t for him, anyway, but for all the strictures that had kept her from experiencing life for so long. “You are right. In England young women have more freedom than ever before. But that doesn’t mean we can do as we please. Most of us still choose to fulfil our family’s expectations.”
“What does your family expect of you?” His soft voice embraced her, as intimate as the questions he asked.
She should end this now. This was not a conversation to have with a stranger. A man in rough clothing with eyes as deep as night.
Yet something inside her wanted to answer him, and to answer honestly. Maybe it was those penetrating eyes. Maybe it was exactly because he was a stranger, a man whose judgment didn’t matter. Shouldn’t matter.
She took another sip of the golden liquid, to brace herself. “My mother would like me to marry a man from a good family and with a good fortune.” Preferably a man with a pedigree dating back to the Conquest, as Mother herself had done.
“And your father?”
“Father would like me to be happy. But he has little say in these matters. Mother always gets what she wants.” And right now what she wanted was Christopher Barrett, heir to a Viscountcy and sufficiently wealthy to meet Mother’s other requirement.
“What do you want?”
Isobel sipped at the limoncello. Slumberous warmth radiated through her limbs. What did she want? She didn’t know.
The only thing she was sure of was that, awkward though her stay with the Gallaghers had been, she was not yet ready to return to England. Her gut wrenched at the thought. Her return would herald her social debut. The expense of it, the new clothes, the house in London that had to be hired. And Mother’s constant reminders that it was her responsibility to repay the debt by marrying well. And she hadn’t even had the chance yet to discover what she wanted. Who she was.
She smiled at Stefano. “I’ll let you know when I find out.”
He returned her smile with one so dazzling her limbs turned to jelly. Though that might also have been the effect of the limoncello.
Then he downed his drink and rose. “I must leave you. Please feel free to wait here for your cousin and enjoy the beautiful day.”
She suppressed a stab of disappointment.
He took her hand in his and bent to kiss her fingers. His lips brushed her skin, sending tingles through her. “Arrivederci, Isabella.”
Until we meet again. Not likely.
She watched him walk away, admiring the assured confidence with which he carried himself. Not an ordinary fisherman, that was certain. Fishermen did not speak such beautiful English.
She sipped the last of her limoncello and had to admit the taste was appealing, full of the intoxicating richness and vibrancy of Italy itself.
Beside the quay, the fishermen finished unloading their boat and disappeared up the narrow streets, leaving her alone at the waterfront. Gentle waves lapped against the pier and the honeysuckle wove mesmerising patterns about her, so that when Frances at last appeared she wondered for a moment if she had dreamed Stefano.
Frances fanned her flushed face, breathless with apologies. “I am so sorry I left you alone for so long, darling. I hope you don’t mind awfully.”
“Of course not,” Isobel replied politely. Especially not since it had given her the opportunity of so much more than a breather from her boisterous cousins.
Frances glanced up the hillside, to the Villa del Monte above the town, conspicuous on its rocky outcrop. “The siesta will be over soon. We need to get back.”
Isobel rose and followed in Frances’ wake, inordinately grateful that her cousin had not noticed the two empty cups on the table. She clutched her postcards close to her chest as she trailed Frances up through the twisting narrow alleys of the town.
This news, the best news of all, could not be written. She would have to commit the memory of a pair of laughing eyes to memory another way.
Chapter Two
The Villa del Monte perched on a rocky ridge amid tier upon tier of lemon groves, narrow vineyards and twisted olives trees. Behind the villa the land rose up perpendicular towards the great peak of Monte San Angelo. Still higher up the mountainside lay the hamlet of Montepertuso, clinging to the slopes, inaccessible except on foot.
“We’re nearly there,” her cousin Adam called encouragingly over his shoulder to Isobel.
She didn’t mind the distance or the exercise of the hike, but she wished she could slow down and enjoy the sweeping views rather than keeping up with the others’ pace.
Montepertuso sat atop a spur of land, surrounded on every side by magnificent views of sea and mountain. It consisted of a handful of stone houses, more than half of which appeared abandoned and crumbling beyond repair, and a surprisingly elegant church at the village’s highest point.
Their path into the village was blocked by a herd of goats, wandering aimlessly on the narrow track under the watchful eyes of two barefoot urchins, who shooed the goats aside for them to pass.
In the piazza, a couple of men lounged under the awning of a shuttered taverna, smoking pipe tobacco as they leaned over a game of chequers, and an old woman sat on a stool in the doorway of her house, shelling peas.
“The path is that way.” Adam gestured with his arm, and Isobel looked up. There indeed was the cavity they’d come to see, the pertuso the village was named for, a dramatic hole carved by nature in an arch of rock in the side of the mountain. It was spectacular – but she’d much rather stay right here in the village.
&n
bsp; “I’ll wait here for you,” she called ahead.
“It’s not that far. Only another fifteen minutes’ brisk walk.”
Isobel shook her head and held up her sketch pad. “I’d like to draw some sketches.”
Adam smiled tolerantly, shrugged, and led the rest of the party away up the path. They didn’t understand her need to put every thought and impression on paper, but she didn’t care. She’d much rather be seen as the eccentric, artistic cousin, than as a mawkish schoolgirl tagging behind.
The others disappeared into the cool, shady forest that rose up the mountainside, and Isobel turned back to the piazza.
“Buena sera.” She smiled a greeting at the old woman.
“Buena sera.” The woman’s face crinkled into a hundred lines as she smiled back.
In the shade of a tree in front of the church, Isobel found a rickety bench leaning up against a low stone wall. She sat and opened her sketch book, flicking through the pages. She paused briefly at one she’d sketched only a few days ago, a pair of laughing eyes in a face with strong lines and a dimpling smile. She turned to the next clean page and began to draw. Her first sketch was of the church with its clean lines and gabled front.
The calls of the goat boys broke her concentration. She looked up to see that the goats had wandered into the piazza. One of the boys, a round-faced cherub with big dark eyes, came hesitantly closer. She smiled, and his face broke into an impish grin.
The boy held out his hand to her. “Nocciole?”
He opened his palm to reveal a fistful of hazelnuts, already shelled. Isobel dug a few pennies from the pocket of her skirt and dropped them into his palm. “Grazie.”
Across the piazza, the old woman’s face again collapsed into a fan of deep lines as she smiled.
Isobel nibbled on the nuts as she watched the boys herd the goats across the piazza and out the other side, disappearing from view between the bougainvillea-bedecked buildings.
Then she returned to her sketch book. Her charcoal pencil flew across the paper, memorising the lines of the old woman’s smile. She was so absorbed in the drawing that she failed to notice the presence beside her until a shadow fell across her page.
