by Romy Sommer
She had tasted her first kiss, and it had been magical and beautiful and life altering.
She touched her finger to her lips.
Only after the servants had cleared away the breakfast dishes, as they lingered over their tea, did she notice that Frances seemed a shadow of her usual self. Her vivacity seemed forced and she picked at her food, eating nothing more than dry toast and black tea.
While the Baron regaled the table with another of his lengthy tales, Isobel slipped into the seat beside Frances and reached for her cousin’s hand beneath the cover of the table. “Are you ill?”
Her cousin’s eyes seemed to stand out wide and over-bright in her pale face, but Frances shook her head. “It’s just the heat.”
But it wasn’t. Isobel was sure of that. She gave Frances’s fingers a small squeeze before releasing her hand.
“It’s a great honour to us, of course,” her aunt said, turning to Isobel with an expectant smile.
She flushed, wondering what she’d missed.
On her other side, Adam leaned close, mischief dancing in his gaze. He knew she wasn’t paying any attention to their chatter. “Our landlord is notoriously elusive,” he explained. “He doesn’t socialise much, and has pretty much left us alone the previous years we’ve stayed here, but Mother’s been trying to acquire his patronage all summer and he has finally accepted an invitation to dinner. It seems the presence of not one, but two, eligible young ladies at the Villa del Monte has finally caught his attention.”
“Don’t talk nonsense, Adam.” But his mother blushed. “It is only polite that we show our gratitude to the Conte di Cilento.”
“Only because he owns half the province.” Adam’s voice dropped low, his next words only for Isobel. “And he’s a bachelor.”
“When will he be here?” She forced the words out of a throat suddenly dry.
“Wednesday. The night after the Ferragosto re-enactment.”
She shivered in an unseen breeze. What would the descendant of that long gone heathen Conte be like? Would he be old and staid and dull like most people of noble birth, or would he be as fascinating as his ancestor?
Chapter Seven
Though it was not yet sunset, and the air was still bright with the evening sun, multi-coloured lanterns lit the Piazza. The laundry that had hung across the streets and alleys the last time she’d been here was cleared away, and in their place hung colourful flags and banners. On one side of the piazza a band of musicians in traditional costumes played a lively tune.
There were people everywhere, laughing, talking, dancing. More people than Isobel had expected. They must have come from far and wide for tonight’s festivities.
A surge of anticipation swept through her as she crossed the piazza and headed towards the seafront, where yet more lanterns decorated the promenade. The sultry air felt alive with possibility and excitement, and Isobel was ready for adventure.
“Let’s start with a drink.” Tom led them through the milling crowd towards the taverna. Even though the place was packed, with tables spilling out onto the pavement, a flash of bank notes guaranteed them the best table in the house: on the honeysuckle-bedecked verandah, with a view over the beach.
“There is one experience Izzy cannot leave here without.” Frances’ breathless voice reminded Isobel of the clandestine moment she’d spied upon. The image of entwined naked bodies flitted through her head. Though of course Frances couldn’t have meant that.
“I think we should introduce her to the delights of limoncello.” Frances winked at Isobel, and she was certain her cousin suspected her thoughts. Heat suffused her face.
The owner himself waited on them, pouring the icy liqueur into their glasses. As he deposited the bottle on their table he cast a swift, complicit smile at Isobel. She blushed again.
“To having fun,” Frances toasted, and the others raised their glasses.
Isobel savoured the cool, rich liquid, hoping they believed it was her first taste. There was no way she was going to tell them a handsome stranger had beaten them to it. A stranger who awakened in her more than a taste for liqueur.
Frances was even more restless than usual. “I want to dance.” She rose. “Tom, will you be a gentleman and dance with me?”
He led her down the steps to the paved piazza where a number of couples already danced. Isobel was not surprised when Adam took the opportunity to invite Beatrice to dance. Or that they left her alone without a backward glance.
She didn’t mind. She sipped the limoncello, tasting once again the sunlight and spirit of Italy in liquid form. Her foot tapped beneath the table as she watched the twirling couples.
Amidst the squalor and poverty she’d glimpsed, the Italians still managed to find the joy in life. Festive music and laughter flowed around her, so unlike anything she had experienced before that she was perfectly happy to do nothing more than sit and soak it in.
Compared to the English, the Italians expressed every emotion. The artist in her itched to sketch the faces that swirled around her, to capture every shade and nuance of their animated expressions. The other part, the newly awakened side of her, wanted to join them, to be one of them and share their exuberance. She didn’t want to hide from her emotions as she had been taught, but to express them.
But what she wanted, and what she was able to do, were still worlds apart.
“You have acquired a taste for limoncello I see.” The deep, warm voice sent a delicious tingle of pleasure down her spine. She turned in her seat to look up at Stefano, smiling at the sense of déjà-vu.
The first thing she noticed was that his eyes had lost the hardness she’d last seen in them. It was more than she’d hoped for.
The next thing she noticed was how rugged, how darkly dangerous, he looked tonight. He was dressed all in black, in a rough fabric she did not recognise, and he hadn’t shaved. The stubble made him look like an adventurer – or a pirate.
“Yes, thank you.” She hated that her voice sounded so formal, so polite. So English. She had imagined this moment in intense detail and now that it was here, her mouth was dry and she could think of nothing to say.
“You are not dancing?”
She shook her head. “I don’t mind.” Even more now that it allowed her the chance to set things right between them. Her heart fluttered shamelessly.
“May I join you for a moment?”
She cast a glance to the open space before the taverna. Her companions were too engaged in themselves to pay her any attention. “Please.” She gestured to the empty chair beside her.
His glance followed hers. “They are fools to leave such a beauty as you unchaperoned.” He sat, pulling his chair closer so that she caught the trace of his scent, an earthy, masculine fragrance that suggested lemons and the sea, and everything else that was Italy.
“I’m not the beauty. My cousin Frances is.”
He picked Frances out of the crowd with ease, and shrugged. “The simple frescoes of the medieval masters are very different from the elaborate Baroque ornamentations of the duomo in Amalfi. But both are beautiful.”
This time she at least tried to fight the threatening blush.
“I am glad you are here tonight. I wanted to see you again.”
“I wanted to see you again too.” Spoken out loud the words sounded wistful. She lifted her chin. She would not let him see her as the awkward schoolgirl she still felt herself to be.
He leaned across her to reach for the limoncello, topping up her glass then pouring a splash for himself. He handed her a glass and she took it, fighting back the wave of desire that crashed over her as his fingers grazed hers. She knew now how quickly her desires could spiral out of control. Which was no doubt why her whole life before now had been one long lesson in subduing the wildness.
“Saluté.” He raised his glass, cheeks dimpling as he smiled, and her breath caught. When he smiled it was as though there was no-one else on earth but the two of them.
She swallowed a mouthful and
the liquid fire slid down her throat, smooth and golden. It leant her courage. “I’m sorry for what I said in the chapel the other day. It’s not that I don’t want to know more about you. I do. It’s rather that…what happened between us shouldn’t have happened.”
“Are you sorry I kissed you?”
His eyes, so darkly perceptive, glittered. As though he saw her deepest desires and understood them. She couldn’t resist the smile that tugged at her mouth as she shook her head. “Nor am I sorry I kissed you back. But it’s not that simple.”
Stefano took her hand where it lay on the table. “Yes, it is that simple.”
He leaned closer, his intensity radiating through their joined hands. “This is a new world we live in, a world in which anything is possible. The old rules no longer apply. You can be, and do, anything you want.”
She pulled her hand away. “I don’t know yet what I want. And even if I did, I don’t know that I’m brave enough to go after it.”
Something sparked in his eyes. “You are brave enough.”
He reached again for her hand, brushing the sensitive pulse at her wrist with his rough fingers. This time she did not pull away. “Look again at those sketches you showed me at Montepertuso. Maybe in them you will find the woman I see when I look at you.”
He gave her fingers a gentle squeeze and released her hand. “I must go.” He downed the last of his limoncello.
“Ciao, Isabella.” With a last dimpling smile, he rose and disappeared swiftly into the crowd.
She gazed after him for a long while, her heart thudding against her ribcage. Though she would never see him again, she felt lighter than she had in days. This was a better farewell, perhaps more than she deserved.
She was no longer content to sit on the sidelines and watch. Stefano’s magic touch had sparked the flame within her. Her feet itched to join in the dancing and merriment.
Her changed mood must have been apparent to her companions, for on their return to the table, Adam invited her to dance. But as they joined the impromptu dance on the piazza, a commotion before the church brought the music to a halt. Raised voices carried through the air, and though she could not understand the words, the highly-charged emotions were clear.
Isobel craned her neck for a better view. On the steps of the church a lone man stood above the crowd to speak. His ringing voice had been submerged and generally ignored in the disordered merriment, until a gang of black-shirted men began to heckle him. As the music died around them, all heads turned to the fracas, and the crowd stilled.
She shivered at the anger in the men’s voices, frozen into inaction, but when the hecklers surrounded the speaker and pulled him to the ground, she cried out in shock.
She wasn’t alone. The crowd roared, anger catching fire. A mass of bodies surged forward and involuntarily, Isobel followed.
But Adam held her back, his arms tight bands across her chest.
“Don’t get involved, Izzy,” he warned. “It’s not our concern.”
Over his shoulder, she watched, helpless, stirred to anger herself as the black shirted men kicked at their fallen victim, pummelling him with their heavy boots and their fists, until he lay unmoving, blood spattered across his face and his shirt. The crowd yelled abuse, but no-one stepped forward to end the senseless violence, too scared to take on the hecklers. The crowd that moments ago had been united in joy, was now united in fear and fury.
The black-shirted men moved away, carving a path through the crowd as people hastily stepped aside for them.
Slowly the crowd began to drift apart. She and Adam stood in the centre of the piazza and watched as a group of men carried the beaten, unconscious speaker’s body away.
Isobel turned her back to them, sickened by the sight of the blood spattered on the church steps. “But why?”
“Those are the squadristi. They don’t need a why, they’re bully boys. The first summer we came to Italy, they were idealists who wanted to restore order after the chaos of the war.” As he spoke, Adam led her away, gently turning her towards the taverna where the others waited. His cool, matter-of-fact voice calmed her. “But they’ve grown powerful, and now all they do is intimidate anyone who opposes the fascists.”
“But who was that poor man?”
Adam shrugged, not particularly interested. “A socialist. Their lot are not much better than the fascisti.”
“He should still be free to have his say,” Isobel protested. She thought of the hungry-eyed beggars of Naples and the barefoot children of Montepertuso. They had so little, no choice, no control over their own destinies. Was it too much to ask that they at least be free to voice their opinions?
They reached the taverna, and she pulled away from her cousin, composing herself. She would not let the others see her weak and afraid. Or angry.
“What’s going on over there?” Frances asked. She stood on the edge of the taverna’s verandah, craning in the direction of the church.
“Nothing you want to see,” her brother reprimanded, his voice sharp. “Christopher was right. We shouldn’t have brought you girls here. This is Italy, after all.” He directed a speaking look at Tom over his sister’s head.
But Isobel wasn’t having any of that. No matter what she’d witnessed, she wasn’t prepared to tuck tail and run. “No,” she said, her voice firm and clear.
She spoke up so seldom that the others all turned to her in surprise.
“I won’t let a handful of bullies spoil our fun. We’re safe enough here, so let’s drink and wait for the re-enactment.”
Tom grinned. “That’s the spirit!” He gestured for the landlord. “Vino, per favore.”
Chapter Eight
The fresh, fruity red wine dissipated Isobel’s tension. She even smiled as she drank. Her parents would be horrified to know the quantity of alcohol she’d consumed during this Italian holiday – or how much she enjoyed it.
As if the commotion on the promenade had never happened, the music picked up where it had left off and people began to dance again.
“How can they act as if nothing happened?” Frances asked.
Tom shrugged. “That’s Italians for you.”
He made it sound like a bad thing, but secretly Isobel thought they had it right. There was enough misery in life; one had to take joy wherever it could be found.
The sky deepened to a magical shade of blue as the sun slipped downwards, turning into a ball of flame on the horizon. The music that floated in the heavy twilight faded away, replaced by a stirring drum roll. Isobel sensed the crowd’s heightening expectation as a quiver on the sea breeze. It exhilarated her, and the last lingering traces of the violent scene she’d witnessed dissipated.
“Let’s get a good vantage spot,” said Adam, rising from his seat. “We don’t want to miss the show.”
They joined the crowds now lining the shore front. In the distance, spreading along the edges of the bay, the flare of bonfires leapt up.
“Every year, Positano celebrates its victory over Saracen invaders by re-enacting the event which took place right here on this beach hundreds of years ago,” Adam whispered in her ear. “The bonfires warn that the invaders have been sighted, so the women and children can escape to safety in the hills.”
Against the spectacular backdrop of the setting sun, a flotilla of small boats sailed into the mouth of the bay. At sight of them, a cry rose up in the watching crowd, a cheer that echoed back from the surrounding cliffs.
The air trembled with the tension of rolling drums as the boats slid into the bay, their shapes growing more distinct as they drew nearer. These were the same fishing boats she’d seen drawn up on this same beach barely a week ago, but now they were decorated for the occasion, bright with flaming lanterns. The sailors on their decks wore costumes, dressed up as fierce Saracen pirates.
“Where did they come from?” she asked Adam.
“From the beach at Fornillo, past that headland.” He pointed towards the treed peninsula jutting out into the sea
, where a squat watchtower stood shadowed against the darkening sky. She shivered.
“The whole village joins in preparing the boats. People come from miles around to be a part of this.”
The sun dipped beneath the horizon, stripping the scene of colour as it disappeared. The boats drifted in towards the shore, sails furling, and the drum roll became a thunderous roar. Another shout rose up from the audience, a battle cry.
Beneath her on the beach, a band of men separated from the crowd and strode forward to meet the incoming boats. Isobel gasped. At their head was a commanding figure, the tall, athletic frame of a man dressed all in black she could not fail to recognise.
Stefano.
No longer a simple fisherman. Silhouetted against the setting sun, his presence drew every eye. His stance was that of the warrior, seemingly at ease but ready to strike, and he held in his hands a long, gleaming sword, not a fake sword, but the real thing, heavy and ancient and deadly.
A hush fell over the watching crowd. The drums stilled. As the boats crunched onto the black sandy beach, the defenders surged forward to meet the invaders. The Saracens descended from the boats, curved blades glinting against the darkening sky. Stefano wielded his sword with practised ease and rushed to meet the first of them.
Isobel’s heart pounded. She watched in fearful fascination as the mock battle began. Weapons clashed, the sound of metal against metal rang out. The melee seemed all too real.
The crowd shifted and sighed, now booing, now applauding, even more caught up in this drama than they’d been in the real life one not an hour since.
A small band of invaders tore away from the fighting, heading for the church. The audience parted, clearly expecting them. Soon the band returned, carrying between them an icon taller than themselves, a life-size image of the Madonna, its gilded edges glinting in the light of the lamps and the torches held high above the crowd. Stefano’s men surrounded them, and the scuffle seemed so real that Isobel’s heart caught in her throat. Though she knew that the skirmish was rehearsed, an irrational fear that Stefano might get hurt assailed her. In the commotion, she lost sight of him.
