The Santangeli Marriage

by Sara Craven

  She put on her gloves and rose. ‘But this is far too lovely a day, and you’re much too young and pretty for any more sad stories about lost love. And I must get on with some work.’ She looked again at the sea. ‘However, this is a wonderful spot—especially to sit and think—and I hope I haven’t depressed you so much that you never come back.’

  ‘No,’ Marisa said. ‘I’d love to come and sit here—as long as I won’t be in the way.’

  ‘On the contrary, I think we can peacefully co-exist.’

  ‘And I have to say that it doesn’t actually feel sad at all.’

  ‘Nor to me,’ Mrs Morton agreed. ‘But I know some of the local people tend to avoid it.’

  Marisa said slowly, ‘You said, when you saw me, that you thought for a moment Adriana had come back. Is that what people think?’

  Behind her spectacles, Mrs Morton’s eyes twinkled. ‘Not out loud. The parish priest is very against superstition.’ She paused. ‘But I was surprised to see you, because so very few visitors come here. In fact, I always think of it as the village’s best-kept secret.’

  ‘Yet they told me?’ Marisa said, half to herself.

  ‘Well, perhaps you seemed like someone who needed a quiet place to think in the sunshine.’ As she moved away Mrs Morton glanced back over her shoulder. ‘But that, my dear, is entirely your own business.’

  * * *

  And co-exist, we did, Marisa thought, looking back with a pang of gratitude.

  It had been late afternoon when she’d finally returned to Villa Santa Caterina, and she had fully expected to be cross-examined about her absence—by Evangelina if no one else, particularly as she’d failed to return to the villa for lunch. But not a word was said.

  And no questions had been asked when she’d announced the following day that she was going for another walk, or any of the days that followed, when she’d climbed the hill to the house, passing her hours quietly on Adriana’s bench. She read, and sketched, and tried to make sense of what had happened to her and where it might lead.

  Keeping, she realised now, a vigil of her own.

  She’d invariably been aware of Mrs Morton’s relaxed presence elsewhere in the garden, and sometimes they had chatted, when the older woman took a break from her endeavours, having kindly but firmly refused Marisa’s diffident offer of help.

  Conversation between them had been restricted to general topics, although Marisa had been aware that sometimes her companion watched her in a faintly puzzled way, as if wondering why she should choose to spend so much time alone.

  Once, indeed, she’d asked, ‘Do your friends not mind seeing so little of you, my dear?’

  ‘No, not at all.’ Marisa looked down at her bare hand. ‘We’re not—close.’

  And then, in the final week of the honeymoon, all her silent questioning was ended when she woke with stomach cramps and realised there would be no baby.

  Realised, too, that she would somehow have to go to Renzo and tell him. And then, on some future occasion, steel herself to have sex with him again.

  Both of those being prospects that filled her with dread.

  She took some painkillers and spent most of the morning in bed, informing Evangelina that she had a headache, probably through too much sun.

  ‘Perhaps you would tell the signore,’ she added, hoping that Renzo would read between the lines of the message and guess the truth. That as a result she might be spared the embarrassment of a personal interview with him. But Evangelina looked surprised.

  ‘He is not here, signora. He has business in Naples and will not return before dinner. Did he not say?’

  ‘I expect so.’ Marisa kept her tone light. Let’s keep up the pretence, she thought, that this is a normal marriage, where people talk to each other. After all, in a few more days we’ll be leaving. ‘I—probably forgot.’

  In a way she was relieved at his absence, but knew that her reprieve was only temporary, and that eventually she would have to confront him with the unwelcome truth.

  By which time, she told herself unhappily, she might have thought of something to say.

  The business in Naples must have taken longer than Renzo had bargained for, because for the first time Marisa was down to dinner ahead of him. And when he did join her he was clearly preoccupied.

  She sat quietly, forcing herself to eat and making no attempt to break the silence between them.

  But when the coffee arrived and he rose, quietly excusing himself on the grounds that he had phone calls to make, she knew she couldn’t delay any longer.

  She said, ‘Can they wait for a few moments, please? I—I’d like to talk to you.’

  ‘An unexpected honour.’ His voice was cool, but he stood, waiting.

  She flushed. ‘Not really. I—I’m afraid I have—bad news for you. I found out this morning that I’m—not pregnant after all.’ She added stiltedly, ‘I’m—sorry.’

  ‘Are you?’ His tone was expressionless. ‘Well, that is understandable.’

  She wanted to tell him that wasn’t what she meant. That, however it had been conceived, during the weeks of waiting to her own astonishment the baby had somehow become very real to her—and in some strange way precious.

  And that this had come home to her most forcefully today, when she’d had to face the fact that his child had never actually existed, and had found herself in the extremity of a different kind of pain.

  She said with difficulty, ‘You must be very disappointed.’

  His faint smile was as bleak as winter. ‘I think I am beyond disappointment, Marisa. Perhaps we should discuss this—and other matters—in the morning. Now, you must excuse me.’

  When he had gone, Marisa sat staring at the candle-flame, sipping her coffee and feeling it turn to bitterness in her throat. Then she pushed the cup away from her, so violently that some of its contents spilled across the white cloth, and went to her bedroom.

  She undressed, cleaned her teeth, and put on her nightgown, moving like an automaton. She got into bed and drew the covers around her as if the night was cold. The cramps had subsided long ago, and in their place was a great hollowness.

  It’s gone, she thought. My little boy. My little girl. Someone to love, who’d have loved me in return. Who’d have belonged to me.

  Except it was only a figment of my imagination. And I’m left with nothing. No one.

  Until the next time, if he can ever bring himself to touch me again.

  Suddenly all the pent-up hurt and loneliness of her situation overwhelmed her, and she began to cry, softly at first, and then in hard, choking sobs that threatened to tear her apart.

  Leaving her, at last, drained and shivering in the total isolation of that enormous bed.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  AND the following morning she had found that her honeymoon had come to an abrupt end.

  Her confrontation with Renzo had taken place, to her discomfort, in the salotto—a room she’d tried to avoid ever since…since that day, and where she’d managed never to be alone with him again.

  She had sat. He had stood, his face bleak, almost haggard. The golden eyes sombre.

  He’d spoken quietly, but with finality, while she had stared down at her hands, gripped together in her lap.

  As they were now, she noticed, while her memory was recreating once again everything he’d said to her.

  He had wasted no time getting to the point. ‘I feel strongly, Marisa, that we need to reconsider the whole question of our marriage. I therefore suggest that we leave Villa Santa Caterina either later today or tomorrow, as no useful purpose can be served by our remaining here. Do you agree?’

  She hadn’t wholly trusted her voice, so it had seemed safer just to nod.

  When he had resumed, his voice had been harder. ‘I also propose that we spend some time apart from each other, in order to examine our future as husband and wife. Clearly things cannot continue as they are. Decisions will need to be made, and some consensus reached.’

  He’
d paused. ‘You may, of course, take as much time as you need. You need not fear that I shall pressure you in any way. Therefore I am quite willing to stay at my apartment in Rome, and make our home in Tuscany available to you for your sole occupation.’

  ‘No!’ She had seen his head go back, and realised how vehement her negation had been. ‘I mean—thank you. But under the circumstances that’s impossible. Your father will expect to see us together.’ She took a deep breath. ‘So, I would very much prefer to go back to London. If that can be arranged.’

  ‘London?’ he’d repeated. He had looked at her, his eyes narrowing in faint disbelief. ‘You mean you wish to rejoin your cousin?’

  All hell, Marisa had thought, would freeze over first. But she’d glimpsed a chance of escape, and had known a more moderate answer might achieve a better result.

  She’d shaken her head. ‘She’s moving to Kent very soon, so the question doesn’t arise.’ She’d paused. ‘What I really want, signore, is a place of my own. Somewhere just for myself,’ she’d added with emphasis. ‘With no one else involved.’

  There had been a silence, then Renzo had said carefully, ‘I see. But—in London? Do you think that is wise?’

  ‘Why not?’ Marisa had lifted her chin. ‘After all, I’m not a child any more.’ Or your tame virgin, who has to be protected from all predators but you, her eyes had said, and she’d watched faint colour burn along his cheekbones.

  ‘Besides,’ she’d added, her voice challenging. ‘If you have an apartment in Rome, why shouldn’t I have a flat in London?’

  Renzo had spread his hands. He’d said, almost ruefully, ‘I can think of a string of reasons, although I doubt you would find any of them acceptable.’

  ‘Nevertheless, that is my choice.’ She’d looked down at her hands again. ‘And as we’ll be living apart anyway, I don’t see what difference it can make.’

  There had been another pause, then he’d said quietly, ‘Very well. Let it be as you wish.’

  For a moment she’d felt stunned. She had certainly not expected so easy a victory.

  Unless, of course, he simply wanted her out of sight—and out of mind—and as quickly as possible…

  For a moment, her feeling of triumph had seemed to ebb, and she’d felt oddly forlorn.

  Yet wasn’t that exactly what she wanted too? she’d rallied herself. So why should she care?

  She had looked at him. Forced a smile. ‘Grazie.’

  ‘Prego.’ He had not returned the smile. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, there are arrangements to be made.’ And he’d gone.

  After that, Marisa recalled, things had seemed to happen very fast.

  Renzo, it appeared, only had to snap his fingers and a firstclass flight to London became available. Arrangements were made for a chauffeur and limousine to meet her at the airport, together with a representative from the Santangelis’ UK lawyers. He or she would be responsible for escorting her to a suite at a top hotel, which had been reserved for her as a temporary residence, before providing her with a list of suitable properties and smoothing her path through the various viewings. Money, of course, being no object.

  In fact, she found herself thinking with a pang, as her plane took off and she waved away the offered champagne, what wouldn’t Renzo pay to be rid of the girl who’d so signally failed him as a wife?

  Because this had to be the beginning of the end of their marriage, and his lawyers would soon be receiving other, more personal instructions concerning her.

  And she would be free—able for the first time to make a life for herself as Marisa Brendon. Answerable, she told herself, to no one. Least of all to her erstwhile husband, now breathing a sigh of relief in Rome.

  Her only regret was that she hadn’t had time to pay a final visit to Casa Adriana and say goodbye to Mrs Morton. But perhaps it was better this way.

  Those warm, quiet days in the garden had begun to assume a dreamlike quality all their own. Even when she had been entirely alone there, she thought, in some strange way she had never felt lonely.

  She did not believe that Adriana’s ghost had ever returned, but perhaps love and hope still lingered somehow. And they’d been her comfort.

  Once established in London, she had not expected to hear from Renzo again, so his phone calls and letters had come as a distinct shock. A courteous gesture, she’d told herself, that she needed like a hole in the head and could safely ignore.

  And now here he was in person, suddenly and without warning. Back in her life, she thought with anger, because in reality he’d never had the slightest intention of letting her go.

  Her ‘breathing space’ was over and there was nothing she could do about it.

  Because he clearly had no intention of giving her the divorce she’d been counting on, and she had no resources for a long legal battle.

  The first of many bitter pills she would probably have to swallow.

  Besides—she owed him, she told herself unhappily. There was no getting away from that. Morally, as well as fiscally, she was obligated to him.

  And now, however belatedly, it was indeed payback time.

  Was this the so-called consensus he’d offered that day at Villa Santa Caterina? she asked herself bitterly, then paused, knowing that she was banging her head against a wall.

  What was the point of going back over all this old ground and reliving former unhappiness?

  It was the here and now that mattered.

  And she couldn’t escape the fact that she’d gone into their marriage with her eyes open, knowing that he did not love her and recognising exactly what was expected of her.

  So, in that way, nothing had changed.

  This was the life she’d accepted, and somehow she had to live it. And on his terms.

  But now she desperately needed to sleep, before tomorrow became today and she was too tired to deal with all the difficulties and demands she didn’t even want to contemplate.

  And this chair was hardly the right place for that.

  With a sigh, she rose and crossed to the bed. As she slipped back under the covers it occurred to her that this might be one of the last nights she would spend alone for some time.

  Something else, she told herself grimly, that she did not need to contemplate. Yet.

  And she turned over, burying her face in the pillow, seeking for oblivion and discovering gratefully that, in spite of everything, it was waiting for her.

  She awoke as usual, a few moments before her alarm clock sounded, reaching out a drowsy hand to silence it in advance. Then paused, suddenly aware that there was something not quite right about this wakening.

  Her heart pounding, Marisa lifted her head and turned slowly and with infinite caution to look at the bed beside her. And paused, stifling an instinctive gasp of shock, when she saw she was no longer alone.

  Because Renzo was there, lying on his side, facing away from her and fast asleep, his breathing deep and even, the covers pushed down to reveal every graceful line of his naked back.

  Oh, God, Marisa thought, swallowing. Oh, God, I don’t believe this. When did he arrive, and how could I not know about it?

  And why didn’t I spend the night in that bloody chair after all?

  A fraction of an inch at a time, she began to move towards the edge of the bed, desperate to make her escape before he woke too.

  But it was too late, she realised, freezing. Because he was already stirring and stretching, making her vividly conscious of the play of muscle under his smooth tanned skin, before turning towards her.

  He propped himself casually on one elbow and studied her, his eyes quizzical. ‘Buon giorno.’

  ‘Good morning be damned.’ She found her voice. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  He had the gall to look faintly surprised. ‘Getting some rest, mia cara. What else?’

  ‘But you said—you promised that you’d sleep on the sofa.’

  ‘Sadly, the sofa had other ideas,’ Renzo drawled. ‘And I decided that I valued
my spine too much to argue any longer.’

  ‘Well, you had no right,’ she said hoarsely. ‘No right at all to—to march in here like this and—and—help yourself!’

  His brows lifted. ‘I did not march, mia bella. I moved very quietly so I would not disturb you. And I did not, as you continued to sleep soundly.’

  He paused. ‘Besides, as a good wife, surely you do not begrudge me a little comfort, carissima?’ He added softly, ‘After all, despite considerable temptation, I made no attempt to take anything more.’

  ‘I am not a good wife.’ Totally unnerved by the tone of his voice, and the look in his eyes, she uttered the stupid, stupid words before she could stop herself, and saw his smile widen hatefully into a grin of sheer delight.

  ‘Not yet, perhaps,’ he agreed, unforgivably. ‘But I live in hope that when you discover how good a husband I intend to be your attitude may change.’

  Marisa realised his eyes were now lingering disturbingly on her shoulders, bare under the narrow straps of her nightdress, and then moving down to the slight curve of her breasts revealed by its demure cotton bodice.

  Her throat tightened. I have to get him out of here, she thought. Not just out of this bed, but this room too. Before I make an even bigger fool of myself.

  ‘But as we are here together,’ he went on musingly. ‘It occurs to me that maybe I should teach you what a man most desires when he wakes in the morning with his wife beside him.’

  He reached out, brushing the strap down from her shoulder, letting his fingertips caress the faint mark it had left on her skin. It was the lightest of touches, but she felt it blaze like wildfire through her blood, sending her every sense quivering.

  Suddenly she found herself remembering their wedding night, and that devastating, electrifying moment when she’d experienced the first stroke of his hand on her naked breast.

  Dry-mouthed, she said, ‘No, Renzo—please.’ And despised herself for the note of entreaty in her voice.