The Santangeli Marriage

by Sara Craven

  There would be his baby…

  So she could hope—live for that instead. Because, she thought, as she turned over, burying her unhappy face in the pillow that he’d used, trying to find some faint trace of him, because she had no other choice.

  The Puccini aria with its theme of doomed love came to its plangent end.

  She should, Marisa thought, get up and choose another CD—one, maybe, without quite so many resonances. But she remained where she was, curled up once more in the corner of the sofa in her private salotto.

  Since she’d first arrived at the Villa Proserpina, three weeks earlier, the weather had remained unsettled, a mixture of sun and showers, with an occasional hint of thunder.

  More in tune with her mood than brilliant heat, but hardly conducive to spending her afternoons in the garden or by the pool, so she was glad of this room as a kind of sanctuary.

  At first she’d taken care to spend part of every day with her father-in-law, but now he’d begun to work in his study again, with his consultant’s wary permission, preparing to pick up the reins at the bank once more.

  ‘I hope he isn’t overdoing things,’ Marisa had said anxiously one evening after dinner, finding herself alone with Ottavia Alesconi, whose answering smile had been reassuring.

  ‘Better, I think, that he should work a little than chafe at his restrictions.’ She’d added meditatively, ‘Also, it is necessary for him to take an interest as Lorenzo is away so much.’

  Leaving Marisa to murmur an embarrassed, ‘Yes—of course,’ and hastily change the subject.

  Because the truth was he was never there. In fact, she’d hardly set eyes on him since the night of their quarrel, she acknowledged wretchedly.

  When she’d ventured downstairs the following morning, after a miserably restless night, it had been to discover that he’d already left for an appointment in Siena.

  ‘You could have gone with him, dear child, but he insisted you should be left to sleep,’ Guillermo had added, smiling, totally misinterpreting both Renzo’s apparent solicitude and the deep shadows under her eyes.

  He sees what he wants to see, Marisa had thought, stifling a sigh.

  And when she and Renzo had met at dinner, the cool polite stranger of their honeymoon had returned. So much so that Marisa had wondered whether she’d only dreamed the events of the previous night. Because there was surely no way in which she could ever have sobbed the rapture of her climax in this man’s arms.

  Later, she had waited tensely in her bedroom until she saw the light come on under the communicating door, then made herself go and knock.

  It had opened instantly to reveal Renzo, his shirt already half-unbuttoned and his expression wary.

  ‘Sì?’ His brusque tone did not encourage her either, nor the fact that he didn’t seem to notice she was once again wearing only a nightgown.

  Marisa held out a folded piece of paper. She said stiltedly, ‘I—I wrote down that—information that you wanted.’

  He took it from her, his face expressionless as he scanned the brief list of dates she’d provided.

  Then, ‘Grazie tante,’ he drawled, slipping it into his pants pocket. ‘You are all consideration, mia cara, and I shall try to follow your example. But to my sorrow, I shall not be able to keep our first appointment. I have to go to Boston on business.’ He paused, his wintry smile not reaching his eyes. ‘Unless, of course, you wish to accompany me, mia sposa, in order that the opportunity is not wasted?’

  ‘I hardly think so.’ She looked down at the floor, aware that this was not going as she’d dared to hope. ‘Emilio is still showing me the house—explaining my new responsibilities, how everything works. Besides, I really do need to buy some clothes before I go on any trips, and Ottavia has offered to take me shopping in Firenze.’

  ‘Then I shall count the hours until the next occasion,’ Renzo said too gently. ‘I must tell my secretary to mark it in my diary.’

  ‘Don’t,’ she whispered, still not looking at him. ‘Please—don’t.’

  ‘I think perhaps that should be my line, not yours,’ he said, and shrugged. ‘Tuttavia—non importa. Buona notte, Maria Lisa. Sleep well.’

  He’d stepped back, and the door had closed between them.

  But it wasn’t just the door, Marisa thought now, sighing as she picked up the book she was struggling to read. All other lines of communication had been shut off too. No phone calls this time. And no letters either.

  I miss him, she told herself, the breath catching in her throat. I miss him so terribly.

  After all, it was in this house that she’d first started to fall in love with him, even when she had been too young to know what love meant.

  But she knew now—knew it in all its aspects. And while she could stay busy by day, learning to be the mistress of the Villa Proserpina, her nights, whether she was awake or dreaming, were a continuing torment, her body on fire for an appeasement that never came.

  Her imagination tortured with the thought that by now he would have taken her at her word and be sharing his bed with another woman.

  Restlessly, she rose and walked across to the long windows, pushing them open and stepping out on to the loggia. The earlier rain had stopped, leaving the air filled with the scent of wet blossoms, and she stood, leaning on the balustrade, as she drew the fragrance deeply into her lungs.

  I could be so happy here, she thought. Whereas the most I can hope for is—acceptance.

  And she paused, tensing, as she heard in the distance the sound of a car approaching down the avenue.

  Oh, God, she thought, her throat tightening in mingled fear and longing. Renzo—it must be Renzo. No one else was due.

  She glanced down at her black cotton trousers and their matching shirt, her hand going to the clip confining her scraped-back hair at the nape of her neck. She was not going to meet him like this—not when she had cupboards full of new clothes, thanks to the good offices of Ottavia Arlesconi.

  She was pulling off her things as she ran to the bedroom. Seconds later she was in the shower, emerging breathlessly after a couple of minutes to dry herself and apply scented lotion to her skin, spraying the matching perfume on her throat, her breasts and thighs.

  She scrambled into her newest and prettiest white lace underwear and put on a straight linen dress, beautifully cut, in a soft misty green, sliding her feet into low-heeled pumps.

  She brushed her hair until it crackled, then applied a coating of mascara to her lashes and some soft colour to her mouth.

  It occurred to her that she’d not heard Renzo come up to the suite, or go into his room. No doubt he had stayed to talk to his father.

  She wanted to run, but she made herself walk calmly and sedately downstairs. There would be time later to demonstrate how eager she was to see him again, she thought, her pulses hammering.

  As she reached the entrance hall, Emilio was coming towards the stairs, carrying a travel bag and a briefcase.

  She took a breath. Tried to sound casual. ‘I thought I heard a car, Emilio. Has someone arrived?’

  ‘Sì, signora.’ He beamed, indicating the door of the salotto.

  Try and play it cool, Marisa adjured herself as she pushed open the door. But make sure you let him see that you’re—pleased.

  She walked forward and halted, her throat closing with shock and disappointment. For the room’s only occupant was Ottavia Arlesconi, seated on a sofa and glancing through a fashion magazine.

  She glanced up with her usual calm friendliness. ‘Ciao, Marisa. Come sta?’

  ‘Ottavia—how lovely.’ She forced herself to smile. ‘I didn’t know you’d be here this weekend.’

  ‘A last-minute decision.’ The other woman spread her hands. ‘Guillermo called me, and I could not refuse.’ She studied Marisa with a faint frown. ‘Are you quite well? You look a little pale.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ She took a seat, smoothing her skirt with nervous hands. ‘I—I thought it might be Renzo’s car.’

&nbs
p; The signora put down her magazine. ‘Renzo—here?’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t think he is expected.’ She paused. ‘But you have received a different message, perhaps?’

  There was a silence, then Marisa said quietly, ‘No. No message.’

  ‘Ah,’ said the signora. There was another, longer silence, then Ottavia said, ‘Marisa, you have no mother. I—I have no daughter, and maybe I am not qualified to speak, but I cannot stay silent when I see how unhappy you are.’ She hesitated. ‘It is no secret that your marriage has been troubled from the first. But when you returned here with Lorenzo we all hoped that you might find a life together.’

  ‘Not quite all.’ Marisa’s hands gripped together in her lap.

  ‘The woman is a witch,’ Ottavia said calmly. ‘We need not regard her. My concern is the words you spoke to her, and which Lorenzo heard. I saw him at breakfast the next morning and he looked grey—like a ghost. And when he left the following day he was alone.’ She looked steadily at Marisa. ‘As he has been, I think, since your marriage.’

  She paused. ‘I do not count the foolishness with the Venucci woman,’ she went on, and held up a placatory hand as Marisa stiffened. ‘Nor do I condone it, believe me. But when a man is hurt and lonely he will sometimes find comfort in the wrong place. And you were hardly around to object,’ she added dryly.

  Marisa bent her head. ‘No,’ she said with constraint. ‘I stayed away because it’s never been a real marriage. Renzo never wanted a wife—and he wanted me least of all.’

  ‘Perhaps he was reluctant at first,’ Ottavia said slowly. ‘But after you became engaged that changed. He was quiet, thoughtful, when he returned from London, making plans for the wedding and where you would live. He wished everything to be perfect for you. He was also nervous, which I had never seen before.’ She smiled suddenly. ‘It made me like him better. And also think that he wished to be married to you very much.’

  ‘Because he needed someone to give him a son and not make demands on his time and attention that he could not fulfil,’ Marisa said tonelessly. ‘I—fitted the template.’

  ‘Is that why you are so determined not to love him?’ Ottavia asked gently. ‘Why you demonstrate to the world that he means nothing to you by leaving him for months on end? Why you even proclaim it aloud in front of him—treating him without kindness or respect?’

  She shook her head. ‘Dio mio, is it any wonder that he stays away?’

  Marisa said with difficulty, ‘There might be another reason. Something I practically pushed him into.’ She paused. ‘Ottavia—has he got another woman?’

  ‘I do not know,’ the older woman returned. ‘And if I knew, my dear child, I would not tell you. But I will say this,’ she added more robustly. ‘If I was a girl in love with a man as attractive as Lorenzo, I would not make the mistake of turning him out of my bed a second time. I would make sure I was always the one at his side when he slept.’

  ‘Because you’d know you couldn’t trust him?’ It hurt to say it.

  ‘No,’ Ottavia said with emphasis. ‘Because I could not bear to be apart from him. But if you cannot forgive his past errors with your whole heart, there is no more to be said.’

  Marisa said in a low voice, ‘Suppose he doesn’t want to be forgiven? That he’s had enough?’

  Ottavia shrugged. ‘That, cara, is a risk you will have to take. But in your shoes I would fight—and fight again.’

  I already did that, Marisa thought as she left the room. But it turned out to be the wrong battle. And now, heaven help me, I may never get another chance.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  SHE could, she supposed, follow Renzo to Rome, Marisa thought as she trailed slowly upstairs, her mind whirling. Try and talk to him.

  But what on earth was she going to say? And anyway, after everything that had happened between them would he even be prepared to listen?

  And suppose he wasn’t alone…

  Fight, Ottavia had said. But if it came down to that what kind of fight would it be? A stand-up, knock-down, hair-pulling, eye-scratching brawl with some glamorous Roman beauty, and Renzo as referee? That was a hideous prospect, she thought, shuddering inwardly. Besides, there was no guarantee she’d win.

  She walked back into the salotto and closed the door. Late-afternoon sun was pouring in, filling the room with real warmth. Maybe it was a good omen, she thought. Or perhaps she was going a little crazy in the head, looking for signs and portents in the weather. Because at this time of the year storms were never far away.

  She put on some more music—not Puccini, this time; not more love lost, love betrayed—but some lilting guitar and harp concertos.

  Curling back into the corner of her sofa, she looked down at her hands, twisting her wedding ring on her finger. Something Ottavia had said was forcing itself back into her mind. ‘When a man is hurt and lonely…’

  Hurt, she thought, trying the words for herself, as if she was learning a foreign language. Lonely?

  Hardly a description to apply to Lorenzo the Magnificent, who stalked through life, taking from it exactly what he wanted, making his own rules and expecting to be obeyed with one crook of his little finger.

  And the last man in the world that she should ever have fallen in love with, she acknowledged with a swift, unhappy sigh. Or tried to live without…

  She leaned back against the cushions, closing her eyes, letting the music soothe her, and the gentle golden heat permeate to the marrow of her bones, feeling relaxed for the first time in a long while.

  Maybe she should spend her nights here on the sofa, she thought wryly, rather than in that big bed with all its memories. All its bitter regrets.

  Perhaps, too, she would sleep without dreams she didn’t want to remember in the morning. Or even no dreams at all.

  And yet, as the weariness engendered by so many restless nights finally overcame her and she slept, she dreamed she was sinking down into a field of golden flowers, stretching around her as far as the eye could see. And as she turned her head, trying to capture a breath of their faint, elusive scent, she felt the blossoms brush her hair and the curve of her cheek.

  The next instant the field had gone, transformed into an ordinary sofa again, and she was sitting up, eyes wide open and her heart pounding, wondering what had woken her.

  She heard, not too far away, the soft sound of a closing door.

  Rosalia, she thought. Coming as usual to ask what the signora wished to wear for dinner. Except it was much too early for that, as one startled glance at her watch confirmed.

  It might have been Ottavia, of course, checking that their conversation earlier had not upset her. But the older woman would never visit this part of the house without an invitation, and neither would Guillermo, she was sure. They would both regard it as an invasion of privacy, whether Renzo was there or not.

  Renzo…

  With sudden shock, she remembered the subtle fragrance she’d encountered in her dream, and knew why it had seemed so strangely familiar—and so enticing.

  It was his cologne, she thought, the one he always used, understated and expensive. As much a part of him as the colour of his eyes and the texture of his skin.

  And it could only mean that he was here—somewhere. And that, however briefly, he’d been close to her. Maybe—touched her.

  But it also meant that he’d found her asleep, slumped inelegantly, and, in a worst-case ever scenario, possibly even snoring—with her mouth open.

  ‘Oh, God,’ she muttered as she scrambled off the sofa, pushing back her dishevelled hair from her face, trying to straighten her creased dress, searching for and then abandoning her kicked-off shoes. ‘Not that—please.’

  She flew barefoot along the passage to her bedroom, but it was empty. She halted, a hand going to her mouth like a disappointed child.

  Only to realise that the communicating door was standing half-open for the first time in weeks, and someone was moving around in the adjoining room.

  Marisa walked across a
nd pushed the door wide.

  Renzo was there, crossing with an armful of shirts to the leather suitcase lying open on the bed.

  She said his name quietly, almost tentatively, and he turned immediately, his brows lifting.

  ‘Marisa.’ He might be casually dressed, in blue pants and a matching half-buttoned shirt, but that was where the informality ended, because his tone was polite to the point of bleakness. ‘I disturbed you. La prego di accettare le mie scuse.’

  ‘There’s no need to apologise,’ she said quickly. ‘I was just dozing in the sunshine.’ She swallowed. ‘I thought—I understood you wouldn’t be here today.’

  ‘I did not intend to be.’ He began to put the shirts into the case. ‘But I find I now have to go to Stockholm, then on to Brussels, and I need some extra things for the trip.’ He paused. ‘But you need not worry,’ he added coolly. ‘As soon as my packing is done I shall be returning to Rome.’

  ‘You mean—tonight?’

  ‘I mean in the next half-hour.’ His tone was brusque.

  ‘But you haven’t been home—to stay—for quite some time.’ Which I could itemise in days, hours, and minutes.

  ‘And that is a problem?’ His mouth twisted. ‘I thought it would be a relief.’

  ‘But not for your father, certainly. He—must miss you very much.’

  ‘If so, it is strange that he did not mention it when I spoke to him on the telephone this morning. As I do each day.’

  But you’ve never asked to talk to me, she thought, pain slashing at her anew. Or even sent me a message…

  She said slowly, ‘I—didn’t know that.’

  ‘Certo che no. Obviously not. However, there is no need for you to concern yourself on his behalf. He understands the situation.’

  ‘Then perhaps you’d explain it to me.’ Marisa lifted her chin. ‘I thought I would see you—at least sometimes.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said softly. ‘On the occasions you were good enough to list for me, no doubt?’ He shrugged. ‘Unfortunately I have quite enough meetings and agendas in my working day, mia cara. I find, therefore, I have no wish for them to invade my private life.’ And he resumed his task.