The Fires of Torretta

by Iris Danbury

  Now it was Adriana’s turn to be the centre of attraction for a few moments and Rosamund intercepted an inquiring glance that passed between the Mandelli parents.

  Perhaps they were already alarmed in case their daughter might be attracted to a foreigner.

  After dinner Rosamund was glad to escape to the small study next to the library on the pretext of working at Stephen’s book lists, but it was not long before Erica came sauntering in.

  Rosamund spoke first. “I didn’t know that Brent would be a passenger this morning, but he helped me over the heating business—and afterwards we had lunch together.”

  “That was nice,” murmured Erica in the tone of one who is only too eager to hear of another’s small pleasures. “And did he unfold his life story to you?”

  “No. Why should he? He told me a little about his work.”

  “Where does he live when he’s not staying here at Torretta?”

  “At Belpasso. It’s a town up on Mount Etna. He lives in a small cafe and has his meals there.”

  Erica peered at one or two of the books on Rosamund’s table, then moved away. As she reached the door she turned. “Niccolo is taking me to a puppet show soon in Palermo.”

  She was gone before Rosamund could reply. In Palermo? But that was at the other end of the island and a long day’s drive away.

  She dismissed the idea as unlikely unless Stephen was actually contemplating a definite tour of some of the rest of the island. The suggestion was probably Erica’s method of trying to get even.

  In the course of the next day Rosamund discovered that Stephen was planning some excursions.

  “As soon as we’ve settled into our own villa, we’ll visit some of the other cities. I’ve toured all round the island when I was here several years ago, but you two girls would enjoy a bit of sightseeing.”

  “Very much as far as I’m concerned. Palermo has some excellent puppet theatres, I’m told.”

  “Yes, indeed. Niccolo says we must go to at least one before the season is over.”

  Rosamund smiled. Erica could usually twist a vague suggestion to suit her own ends.

  In the middle of the week the young man from the garage to which Brent had taken her brought several more catalogues and leaflets concerning oil stoves, as well as a couple of sample stoves.

  He said that the English signore had instructed him to come.

  Stephen was all for giving a generous order, one stove for every room in the Villa Delfino, but Rosamund objected. “They’re not fixtures, they can be moved from room to room—and soon we shall need hardly any heat at all. Each day the spring becomes warmer.”

  Stephen grunted. “As usual, you’re perfectly right I still find it hard to believe that this weather will last. Conditioned to April hailstorms and May frost, that’s what we are.”

  “If there’s a small one available, I think we might offer it to Brent for the cottage. Apparently it’s very draughty at night.”

  Stephen was staring down at the coloured leaflets on the table. “Yes. We could manage that—and use it in the villa when he’s not there.” Then he glanced up with that habitual suddenness that often disconcerted people, as though he wanted to catch a transient expression on another’s face before the owner had been given time to compose or mask his features.

  “Do you like this man Brent Stanton?”

  The question startled her, but she tried not to show any reaction except that of momentary consideration of the query. She was experienced enough to realise that a too-glib “yes” or “no” would betray an inward bias one way or the other.

  “I hardly know him,” she said slowly. “I’ve met him only a few times. He was helpful over the heating and he took me to lunch a day or so ago, but I think that was more because he didn’t want to eat alone. Why do you ask? Have you reason to like—or not like him?”

  He passed a hand across his chin. “I suppose he’s honest, is he?”

  “Professionally, do you mean?” She laughed. “You don’t think he’s likely to burgle the villa?”

  He made a small grunt. “No, not that. I wondered if he were as genuinely enthusiastic about my project as he sounds.”

  “Or what else?”

  “He told me that he writes the accounts of his researches into volcanoes in the form of separate essays. I shouldn’t like to do most of a year’s work on my own theories and then find that he’d pipped me with his own publication.”

  Rosamund smiled. “Even your theories aren’t all that novel. The mystery of lost Atlantis has beckoned many explorers and writers. I don’t think Brent would act in an underhand way, but of course I know very little about him.”

  The professor dropped the subject.

  When the heating stoves were delivered during the following week and Tomaso was shown how to maintain them, Rosamund chose the smallest and asked Tomaso to take it to the cottage for the English signore.

  Tomaso was highly delighted with all these new toys, especially as Rosamund had included one for his and Maria’s use.

  She suggested that he and his wife might move out of their cramped quarters in the store room and occupy one of the vacant bedrooms on an upper floor.

  “Grazie, signorina,” he thanked her. Then he added that he hoped the English signore would come again soon. “He did not come last Saturday,” Tomaso said in Italian.

  Even Rosamund’s poor grasp of the language was enough for her to understand Tomaso’s regret at Brent’s non-appearance last week-end. She had carefully avoided visiting the villa or the cottage and outhouses in case Brent might imagine that she was determined to chase him.

  Now she wondered if his absence had been deliberate or merely unavoidable, caused by his work or another engagement. She smiled to herself. Possibly his line of reasoning was that a couple of new girl acquaintances, Erica and Adriana, might learn more from his irregular absences than from regular and expected visits. Except where he might be helpful to the professor, Rosamund was indifferent to Brent’s comings and goings.

  At least, that was what she was telling herself as sternly as she could. If Erica and Adriana found Brent attractive and were drawn towards him, then she was certainly not going to respond to that magnet.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  During the next week-end, Stephen arranged to leave the Mandelli villa and set himself up in his own, Villa Delfino.

  Rosamund and Erica collected their belongings and Niccolo and Seppi were helpful in loading up the suitcases in one of the cars, and driving down to the Delfino.

  “We are quite sorry that you must leave us,” Signora Mandelli told Stephen, “and you must regard our home as always open to you.”

  Tomaso and Maria had already been forewarned that the professor and his two signorinas would now reside in the Delfino and had tidied and polished the whole house.

  Rosamund had inspected most of the rooms and ensured that there was adequate heating.

  Erica had already chosen which of the bedrooms she would prefer, but after Tomaso had carried up all the trunks and suitcases, the boxes and bags, she grumbled at Rosamund that the view from the windows was commonplace.

  “Commonplace!” echoed Rosamund in disgust. “You call that superb view commonplace? The garden and, beyond that, the sea, the hills sloping down on the other side of the bay. What else do you want?”

  “Surely I could have a room with a view of Etna.” Rosamund laughed. “Darling Erica, you’ve no sense of direction! There is no room in the villa from which you can see Mount Etna. We’re too far down this hillside. You can see it from the terrace at the Mandellis’ because they are that much higher.”

  Erica sat on the bed. After a few moments Rosamund said, “Will you have this room at least for the time being? If there’s another one you want, apart from your father’s, then I expect it could be arranged.”

  “I’ll look at some of the others first.” Erica rose and went quickly from the room, leaving Rosamund standing there puzzled as to this sudden change of mind.


  Rosamund left all Erica’s possessions in the room and went elsewhere to deal with the arrangement of Stephen’s books. An hour or so later .she saw Erica emerge from a small bedroom on the first floor next to Stephen’s.

  “Too small,” Erica said briefly, and marched along the corridor to the room she had first chosen.

  Rosamund watched her, then peeped into the rejected room. The window overlooked part of the garden, the garages and outhouses and, by craning one’s neck slightly, the cottage rented by Brent.

  She smiled as she realised that Etna was now a link with Brent and Erica apparently wanted to be reminded every day that somewhere on the slopes of the volcano Brent lived and worked. A view of his cottage here was perhaps a poor substitute, but Erica would have the advantage of knowing when he was staying there.

  Rosamund was now filled with compassion. Erica imagined herself in love with Brent—or at least infatuated with him, yet she needed material pointers such as a view of Mount Etna or his cottage to sustain her romantic fancies whenever he was not present.

  Rosamund considered that if she herself were in love with anyone, she would never need these aids to keep the man’s image in mind or heart. As she stood there musing, she was shocked to find that her consciousness had already dispensed with such aids. She needed no reminders to conjure up Brent’s features, his untidy hair or the sardonically arrogant expression so often in his eyes.

  Maria had prepared a delicious, although fairly simple, evening meal of baked pasta followed by small fish fritters, then a pork dish with aromatic stuffing. Finally, a sweet like a small doughnut. When Rosamund asked Maria the name, she was told “strufjoli”.

  Maria beamed with pride when Stephen complimented her on her cooking and she promised to make many Italian and Sicilian dishes for the signore and his ladies.

  “Heavens!” exclaimed Erica when Maria had withdrawn from the room. “If I have to eat meals like that every day, I shall put on no end of weight.”

  Rosamund laughed. “Same here. We shall have to ask Maria to cook a little less for us—treat us as small children.”

  The next day, Sunday, Rosamund was aware that Erica made several casual strolls in the garden, always being careful to pass Brent’s cottage, but apparently he was not there.

  The two girls accompanied by Niccolo and Seppi spent the afternoon down on the beach at Torretta. The sun was warm enough to encourage lying on the long canvas chairs that Niccolo had thoughtfully brought down from the house, but he warned Rosamund that the sea was still probably too cold for swimming.

  “It’s likely to be as warm now as our own English shores are in August,” she told him. “Still, I think I can wait a month or so.”

  “There is always our swimming pool at Mandelli,” he suggested. “You and Erica are always welcome there.”

  Seppi was poking about on the beach looking for shells and presently he brought a small collection to Rosamund.

  “Tell me the names of these,” he demanded.

  “I can’t identify the particular species. I don’t know enough about them except that they are seashells.”

  She held several in her hands. Delicate pink or some with brown stripes and bands, one with sharp points at odd angles. She smiled at the boy. “I’m very ignorant, Seppi.”

  He squatted on the beach at her side. “No doubt the Englishman could say,” he suggested. “He digs up the volcano so perhaps he knows about the sea.”

  Erica raised herself on one elbow. “Brent, you mean? If he were here, I’m positive he’d know, but since Rosamund has frightened him away, he doesn’t come now.”

  “I? What have I done to frighten him away?” demanded Rosamund.

  “You terrified him with your sharp orders and your demands, so now he’s afraid to show his face.”

  Rosamund made a derisive little noise to indicate her disbelief. “It was more like the boot on the other foot. He bullied me to treat Tomaso and Maria well—as though I would have treated them badly—”

  “But he took you to lunch and then you must have offended him,” continued Erica.

  Niccolo and Seppi followed this conversation with interest, the young boy because he wanted to listen to every English phrase, the older one possibly for more obscure reasons of his own.

  “It would be more helpful if he did not come here too often,” commented Niccolo.

  “Yes, indeed,” added Seppi. “When he is here, I do not get attention from Rosamund, so my English will not improve.”

  “Don’t you like him, Niccolo?” asked Erica, her blue eyes wide with innocence.

  Niccolo shrugged. “He does not fit in with us. We invited him to our villa for the sake of your father, so that they could discuss their subjects.”

  Rosamund wondered whether Niccolo was finding excuses for a touch of jealousy or was his apparent dislike due to snobbishness? Brent worked not only in a laboratory, but with his own hands, delving and boring to explore the mysteries of the earth’s surface. She had not so far discovered if Niccolo were engaged in any kind of business or profession. Vague references to business calls were occasionally made by Signor Mandelli, but Niccolo seemed to have any amount of free time, so she supposed his family were wealthy enough to avoid any semblance of working for a living.

  Rosamund changed the subject. "We’re going up Mount Etna tomorrow. Stephen is hiring a car to take us, but after that he’ll buy or hire a car of his own while we’re here.”

  The two young men turned surprised glances towards her.

  “Tomorrow?” exclaimed Seppi. “You cannot do that. Not tomorrow. It is St. Joseph’s Day.”

  “Why does that stop us?” Erica demanded.

  “Because it is a public holiday,” explained Niccolo. “The roads up Etna and everywhere else will be crowded with motorists. You will be disappointed to find you are in a jam.”

  “Oh, I see,” said Rosamund. “Then we’d better tell Stephen tonight or he’ll make definite arrangements.”

  “You can go another day—later in the week,” suggested Niccolo. “Then we could come with you. Then also there would be no need to hire another car. I can be your chauffeur.”

  “So I am left out,” grumbled Seppi.

  “Oh, you have been up Etna dozens of times,” retorted his brother. “It is not a new excursion for you as it is for Erica and Rosamund.”

  No definite arrangements were made, but Rosamund told Stephen before dinner that evening of the difficulty.

  “Pity. I’ve fixed up a car and driver. I suppose I can cancel it and make another date.”

  “You might even prefer to hire your own car,” suggested Rosamund.

  He was thoughtful for a few moments. “Yes, that’s true. We’ll go to Taormina in a day or two.”

  “Erica will like that.” Rosamund suspected that the professor had not thought of consulting his daughter about cars.

  “Oh, I hadn’t intended to let her advise me. If she’s at my elbow, I shall come out of the garage with a gold-plated monster with mink upholstery, a huge affair that I shan’t ever be able to park anywhere.”

  In spite of her more serious disquiet, Rosamund was forced to laugh at this almost accurate description of Erica’s probable choice.

  “Besides,” Stephen continued, “I don’t know whether she’s going to welcome a car of our own. She won’t have the excuse of riding about in Niccolo’s.”

  Rosamund had already foreseen that aspect, but she privately considered that Erica would soon transfer her allegiance from Niccolo and his car if there were the slightest chance of riding in Brent’s less smart vehicle.

  Rosamund now dropped the subject. While she could offer the most candid advice on many subjects to her employer, she could not dictate to him.

  Maria provided special fritters and shortbread biscuits as a sweet for St. Joseph’s Day. Rosamund gathered that these were traditional titbits for the festival, comparable to mince pies at Christmas.

  It was only the next day that Rosamu
nd discovered that Maria could not read or write. Rosamund went to the kitchen with a list of household linen.

  “Will you check the list with me, Maria?” she asked. Then she noticed the array of prepared vegetables. “No hurry if you’re busy with the cooking.”

  But Maria wiped her hands and accompanied Rosamund to the large linen cupboard.

  “Since we’re responsible to the owner for what we use, we might as well see that it’s-all accurate,” said Rosamund. “What do you think this item is?” she pointed to a crossed-out line in the inventory and a scrawl over the top.

  The woman reddened under her tanned face. “I cannot read, signorina,” she muttered in Italian. Then she brightened. “But Tomaso—also he can write.”

  Rosamund was angry with herself for having so clumsily forced Maria to this confession, but she smiled. “How do you read the recipes for the cooking, then?”

  That wasn’t necessary, Maria told her. She learned them all from her mother when she was a young girl.

  “No school?” queried Rosamund.

  Maria nodded. “A few years, but then I have to help in the house with the children. After that, I go to work in other houses until Tomaso marry me.”

  Rosamund put her hand comfortingly on the other’s shoulder. “I will teach you to read, Maria,” she promised. “And to write.”

  Maria’s face lit up with pleasure. “That will be good. Then I can also read Marcolino’s letters from Milan.”

  Marcolino was their son, and Rosamund realised how much more the young man’s letters would mean to Maria if she could decipher his actual written words instead of having Tomaso read them aloud.

  When she and Maria returned to the kitchen, it occurred to Rosamund that there was really far too much work for the woman to do. Coping with the laundry, the cooking and cleaning was imposing an unnecessary burden on her.

  In her careful Italian Rosamund asked what happened when the owner came usually in the summer months and brought a houseful of friends.

  “Is there someone to help you?”

  “Perhaps. Sometimes a niece of Tomaso. She lives in Torretta in the village.”