The Santangeli Marriage

by Sara Craven

  Small wonder that she felt such grief, they agreed as they left, glancing back at the slim, hunched shape in the bed. For who would wish to disappoint such a husband?

  He had been sent for, of course. The Director had intervened personally, horrified that such information should have been given to Signor Santangeli’s young wife in his absence. And now he was on his way.

  But in the meantime the signora needed comfort, and who better than an older woman, a member of the family—her husband’s own grandmother, no less—who was at the Clinica, the Director had learned, visiting a friend.

  Which was why Marisa, having wept herself hollow, looked up from her soaking pillow as her door opened and saw Teresa Barzati advancing into the room.

  She said in a small, cracked voice, ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I came to visit the Contessa Morico, who is recovering from a hip replacement. And now I find I have another errand of mercy.’ The signora deposited herself in the room’s solitary armchair, her thin lips stretched in an unpleasant smile. ‘To bring you the consolation of a grandmother. Or should I keep that for Lorenzo, when he arrives from Zurich?’

  Marisa made herself sit up and push the damp strands of hair back from her white face. Made herself look stonily back at the last person in the world she wanted to see. ‘I don’t think Renzo will wish to see you any more than I do,’ she said. ‘After the trouble you tried to make for us.’

  The signora’s smile widened. ‘I doubt you have the right to speak for my grandson,’ she said. ‘Not any longer. And the trouble you find yourself in at this moment has quite eclipsed anything I could do. Because you have failed, signora. According to the rumours all over the hospital you are incapable of bearing children.’ She paused. ‘Or, by some miracle, are these whispers wrong?’

  Marisa thought with an odd detachment, as the older woman’s eyes bored remorselessly into her, that it was like being mesmerised by a cobra. That even though you knew the death blow would be delivered at any moment you still could not look away. Or move to safety.

  The stranger’s voice she’d heard earlier said, ‘No, they’re—not wrong.’

  Nonna Teresa nodded with a kind of terrible satisfaction. ‘And what a heavy blow that will be for the Santangeli pride.’ She paused. ‘For a while, anyway. Until they acknowledge the mistake they have made with you and move on.’

  She sighed. ‘Poor Guillermo. I almost pity him. This alliance—planned for so long, arranged with such care—totally in ruins. The delicate path that he and Lorenzo must now tread, so that they do not appear too heartless when they bring the marriage to its end.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘About you, Marisa. What else? About how Lorenzo will set you aside so that he can marry again. And next time, if he has sense,’ she added cuttingly, ‘he will choose some strong, fertile Italian bride who will do his bidding and know her place.’

  ‘That won’t happen.’ She’d thought that she was quite empty, devoid of all emotion. But she had not allowed for the power of a different kind of pain. The kind that cut so deeply that you felt you might bleed to death, slowly and endlessly. She rallied herself. ‘Lorenzo doesn’t believe in divorce. He’s always said so.’

  ‘Divorce, no. That would indeed be too shocking,’ Nonna Teresa said smoothly. ‘But there are always grounds for annulment to be found, if you have influence in the right places. And Lorenzo and his father are supremely influential.’ Her laugh was melodious. ‘A barren wife will prove small obstacle to their plans for the future, believe me.’

  Marisa stared at her in a kind of awful fascination. She said, ‘How can you do this, signora? How can you come here at a time like this and say these things to me.’

  ‘Because I almost feel sorry for you,’ Signora Barzati returned. ‘You were bought for a purpose, as you admitted yourself. And like most items that are damaged or otherwise unsuitable, you are about to be returned. But your departure will be cushioned,’ she added negligently. ‘You will not be dismissed as a pauper. Guillermo will make sure of that. In spite of this unsuitable liaison with the Alesconi woman, he still has sufficient respect for my late daughter’s memory to adhere to her wishes in that regard.’

  ‘I don’t believe one word of this.’ Marisa’s voice was shaking. She reached up to the bell beside her bed. ‘I won’t believe it. Now I’d like you to get out.’

  The signora stayed where she was. ‘But I am trying to be your friend, Marisa. To explain frankly what lies ahead for you. I thought you would be grateful.’

  ‘Grateful to be told that I’m going to be thrown aside by my husband like a piece of junk?’ Marisa asked hoarsely.

  ‘Hardly,’ Nonna Teresa said reprovingly. ‘That is not the Santangeli way. I am certain he will be kind to you. As long as you understand you no longer have any part in his life and accept your departure with grace.’

  She played with the ring on her hand.

  Another emerald, Marisa thought, her eyes drawn against her will to the green flash of the stone. And for the rest of my life I shall always hate emeralds.

  ‘Besides, this should be good news for you,’ the Signora went on musingly. ‘You never wished to be Lorenzo’s wife, and made your indifference to him quite clear. In front of him, too, as I recall. Now you will be single again, and he can find another wife, more to his taste.’ She smiled, her glance raking the tearstained face and slender body. ‘It should not be difficult. And then everyone will have what they want, is that not so?’

  The questioning silence seemed endless. Then she said softly, ‘Or perhaps not. Is it possible, my dear Marisa, that you have had a change of heart? Can you have mistaken my grandson’s performance of his marital duties for something warmer and been foolish enough to fall in love with him?’

  She laughed again, contemptuously. ‘I do believe it is so. What a truly pathetic child you are if you imagine you have ever been more to Lorenzo than a willing body in his bed. One of so many.’ She examined a nail. ‘And although he may have been assiduous in his attentions while he thought you might provide the Santangeli heir, now that he knows the truth he will no longer have to pretend. And how will you like that?’

  Marisa felt naked under the scorn in those inimical eyes. The fact that her heart was breaking was not enough for this monstrous woman, she thought, fighting sudden nausea. Every last shred of pride and dignity had to be stripped from her too.

  She said slowly, ‘You’ve always hated me. And you didn’t like my mother. I can remember things you said when I was small, and Zia Maria being upset about them.’

  ‘You are quite right,’ the older woman agreed. ‘I detested your mother, and wished my daughter had never met her. My husband was a fool, and worse than a fool to insist that she should go to a school where she could make such friends—betray me and all I held dear. I never forgave him for it. However, I made sure that my child, my beloved Maria, married well—only to find she intended to contaminate the Santangeli blood with that of an outsider, an enemy.’ She brought a clenched fist down on the arm of her chair. ‘Dio mio—that she could do such a thing.’

  ‘But I never wished to be your enemy, signora.’ Marisa was shaken by the older woman’s furious vehemence. ‘And nor did my parents.’

  ‘You? You think I ever cared about you? It was what you were—you and all your family.’ Signora Barzati’s voice rose. ‘You were British—part of the cursed nation that caused my most beloved brother, noble in every way, to die as a prisoner of war in North Africa and to be buried in some unmarked grave in the desert. To know that you were destined for my grandson was an insult to his glorious memory.’

  Oh, God, Marisa thought, dry-mouthed. This is crazy. The war’s been over for more than sixty years. Teresa was little more than a child when it happened. And yet to carry such a grudge—to hate all this time. It beggars belief. But it explains so much, too.

  She said quietly, ‘But there has been peace for a long time, signora. And forgiveness
.’

  ‘Virtues you admire, perhaps?’ Signora Barzati had herself under control again, leaning back in her chair. ‘And soon you will have a chance to practise them, if you choose. Will you do so, Marisa? Will you let Lorenzo think that you spoke nothing but the truth when you said you did not love him and did not care about your marriage? Will you sign the annulment papers and leave peacefully, taking your sad little secret with you?

  ‘And when you are living alone in England, without even the illusion of Lorenzo’s love to comfort you, will you forgive him for not caring for you in return—and for letting you go so easily? You could do all that and earn some goodwill on your departure, if you wished. Even a little respect.’

  She paused. ‘Or you could make more trouble by attempting to remain where you are not wanted—and of no further use. By embarrassing Lorenzo with your protestations of devotion. Nothing will prevent you being sent away. But you have a choice in the way it is done.’ She smiled. ‘In your shoes I would go of my own accord. I would jump, as they say, before I was pushed. But the decision, naturalamente, is yours.’

  She rose, smoothing the skirt of her dark dress. ‘I say this for your own good, you understand. There is no sense in making a bad situation worse, and I am sure you see that. That you are not such a fool as to…hope. Because the Santangeli family will do as it must, and you can either survive—or be crushed.’

  She walked to the door, then turned, her voice throbbing with sudden emotion. ‘And if you think I have been cruel, imagine how you would feel, holding out your arms to the man you desire more than all the world and watching him turn away. Knowing that he will never want you again. If you still do not believe me, try it when Lorenzo comes here. Reach for him—if you dare.’

  And she was gone.

  By the time she heard the faint hubbub in the corridor signalling that Renzo had arrived, Marisa had prepared herself. Made sure she was under control. That she would not weep. Would not beg.

  And that she would not take the risk of reaching for him and being rejected. That most of all.

  After the signora had left she had lain, staring into space, with eyes that burned and saw nothing.

  With a mind that had heard only the ugly, corrosive words that had told her what she’d already known in her heart. That the doctors’ verdict had not simply passed sentence on her hope of a baby, but also on her marriage.

  That Teresa Barzati, however uncaring and malign, had spoken only the truth. If she could not fulfil the purpose for which she’d been married she would have to step aside. She would have no choice.

  Therefore she must try not to think of these last rapturous months with Renzo. Must remember only that he would have seen them ultimately as a means to an end. That an eager and cooperative wife was much to be preferred to a girl who received his advances with sullen resentment.

  But that sexual passion, however skilful and generous, did not equate with the kind of love that could weather all the storms that life sent.

  It would be so much easier for me now, she thought with dull weariness, if I’d let myself go on thinking that I hated him. That I didn’t want any part of marriage to him.

  If I hadn’t let myself love him, and hope that one day he would tell me that he loved me in return.

  Yet he never did. Even in our most intimate moments he never said the words I longed to hear. And now he never will. And that, somehow, will be the worst thing I have to bear.

  Because I need his arms round me. Need to feel the shelter of his warmth and strength.

  But it wasn’t only the loss of his lovemaking—those moments when he lifted her up to touch the stars—that she would mourn. There were all the small things—her hand in his when they walked together, the private smiles across a table or a room. The conversations about everything and nothing as they shared the sofa in the salotto, or lay wrapped in each other’s arms, all passion spent.

  Learning, she’d thought, to be husband and wife, just as he’d once suggested. Forging a bond that could never be broken.

  And now, because of nature’s cruellest trick, her dreams of the future lay in pieces.

  And somehow she had to find the strength to walk away and build a different kind of life. Without him.

  A withdrawal that would have to begin as soon as he came through that door.

  She had done what she could to look calm and in control, even if her emotions were like shards of broken glass. She’d washed her face, and put drops in her eyes to conceal the worst ravages. She’d changed into a fresh nightgown and brushed her hair. Even added a touch of lipstick to her pale mouth.

  He came slowly into the room, closed the door and leaned against it, staring at her, his eyes shadowed, his mouth a bleak line.

  Marisa realised she’d been holding her breath, praying silently that he would come across the room and take her in his arms. That he would somehow do the unthinkable—the impossible—and make it all right.

  But her prayer was not answered, and instead she heard herself say quietly, ‘Have the doctors told you?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I now know everything.’

  She looked down at the edge of the crisp white sheet. ‘I—I’m so sorry.’

  ‘And I am sorry too,’ he said. ‘That you did not tell me of your concerns. That you chose instead to bear this alone, so that I had to be…summoned to hear these things. Why did you do this?’

  ‘Because I didn’t want to worry you,’ she said. ‘Not if it was all in my imagination, as Dr Fabiano originally thought.’

  ‘But later,’ he said. ‘When it became more than a suspicion. You still let me walk away—leave for Zurich without you.’

  ‘It might still have been just a glitch.’ She could hear the pleading note in her voice and suppressed it. ‘Something easily put right. And life goes on.’

  But not life inside me—life that you put there…

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Life goes on.’ He was very still for a moment, then he sighed, and straightened. ‘I have been told that I must not stay too long. That more than anything you need rest. Accordingly, the consultant has recommended that you remain here for another day. So I will come for you tomorrow, after I have spoken with my father, and then we must talk, you and I.’

  ‘Couldn’t you do that now?’ she said. ‘Say what you have to say?’

  ‘It is too soon,’ he said. ‘I have to clear my mind—to think. But tomorrow it will be different. And then we will speak.’

  ‘Until tomorrow, then.’ With a superhuman effort she managed to say the words without her voice cracking in the middle.

  He looked at her, and for a moment she saw the faint ghost of his old smile. ‘Until then,’ he said. ‘Maria Lisa.’

  She watched the door close behind him, and the breath left her body in a shaking sob.

  Yes, she thought, tomorrow would indeed be different…

  Amalfi looked even more beautiful with the approach of autumn, although Marisa still wasn’t sure why she’d decided to return there, when the obvious course had been to fly straight back to England. After all, she was co-owner of a gallery in London, so there was work waiting for her. And everyone said that work was a solace—didn’t they? So if she worked hard enough and long enough the pain might begin to subside.

  Except that she wasn’t working. She was sitting under a lemon tree in a garden, looking at the sea. The wheel had turned full circle, and she was back at the beginning, more alone than ever.

  Leaving the Clinica had been much easier than she’d expected. After all, she’d hardly been a patient needing medical sanction to be discharged. So she had simply woken after a sedative-induced night’s sleep, dressed and walked out, moving confidently, her head high. Bearing, she’d hoped, no resemblance to the broken, weeping girl of yesterday.

  She’d taken a taxi to the Villa Proserpina—a quick phone call having ascertained that Signor Lorenzo had left very early that morning to visit his father the Marchese in Milano, and that therefore the coast w
as clear.

  No one at the house had seemed anxious about her absence, probably because they thought she’d decided to follow Renzo to Zurich after all.

  Once in their suite it had been the work of minutes to pack a bag and retrieve her passport. And a second’s pause to leave the letter she had struggled to write the previous evening on the mantelpiece in the salotto for Renzo to find on his return.

  She had kept it brief, stating only that it was impossible, under the changed circumstances, for their marriage to continue, and that she would sign whatever was necessary to obtain their mutual freedom as soon as her lawyers received the papers. Adding that she wished him well.

  Then she’d gone downstairs, walked out into the sunshine, got into her car and driven away.

  It was better this way. Better to take the initiative, as she kept telling herself, even though leaving like that, without a proper word to anyone, like a thief in the night, had torn her apart. But it had been infinitely preferable to the anguish of an interview with Renzo—hearing from his own lips that her brief shining happiness had to end.

  And Signora Barzati had said he would be generous, therefore he would hardly begrudge her the car he’d given her, or the money she would need to spend in order to remove herself from his life.

  Not that she’d spent that much. Just petrol, her meals, and payment for the past three nights in a simple room above the trattoria in the village. No five-star luxury for this trip, she thought. Not that it had ever mattered to her. For her, the greatest luxury of all had always been the man she loved, lying beside her in the night.

  But she wouldn’t be staying long in this place where she’d once found a kind of peace, because, to her astonishment, the Casa Adriana had been sold.