The Fires of Torretta

by Iris Danbury

  “Rosamund!”

  She stopped and turned expectantly.

  “You know I don’t have to be invited to dinner just because I’ve happened to come tonight.” His tone was quite gentle now and that infuriating gleam of amusement in his eyes had vanished.

  “Stephen would expect you,” she answered, her tone matching his in suavity. “And there are at least two other people who would welcome your presence.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief.

  “Huh! I can take it that you’re not one of them. Am I always to be the victim of your relentless tetchiness?”

  “Perhaps your cross-grained ill humour brings out my tetchiness, as you call it.” She looked into his face and laughed. “Dinner at eight and you needn’t wear a black tie, but—” She glanced dubiously at his leather jacket.

  As she turned to leave him, he caught her wrist and swung her hand gently to and fro. “But I’m expected not to disgrace the company? You do give the most charming compliments. Just the thing to encourage a man’s self-esteem.”

  A half smile curved his lips and his eyes were gleaming with amusement.

  “Are you so much in need of encouragement?”

  As soon as the words were out, she realised her fatal mistake. She felt the slight pull on her arm as he drew her towards him.

  Then she saw Erica at the foot of the stairs. Rosamund snatched her hand out of Brent’s grasp.

  “As I said. Eight o’clock.” She hurried past Erica and escaped to the refuge of her employer’s study.

  A lucky escape. Another second and she would have been in his arms. How long had Erica been standing there watching?

  The dining room at the Villa Delfino was decorated in turquoise and cream with coral dolphins, appropriate for the name of the villa. The windows opened on to a small stone-flagged terrace spacious enough to accommodate a dozen people for after-dinner smoking and coffee or for an out-of-doors meal.

  Rosamund blessed the absent owner for providing a beautiful walnut table, oval in shape so that seating was not a difficult problem. She had carefully placed Brent between Adriana and Erica, so she considered that such strategy should suit them both. She was sitting diametrically opposite him and gave most of her attention to Niccolo on one side and his father on the other.

  Maria served an excellent meal. Traditionally, she had advised, the main dish for Easter Sunday was the Pasqua lamb, so all the other courses were built around it and Stephen chose the wines with care.

  During the meal Brent concentrated on entertaining Adriana, whose lovely face glowed a delicate pink, no doubt, Rosamund guessed, in response to his compliments. The girl was looking at her most ravishing tonight in a dress of palest rose-pink satin, a colour that might have effaced many girls into lacklustre dimness, but Adriana had the advantage of a warm creamy-tinted complexion and contrasting glossy black hair which she had piled high and ornamented with a long jewelled pin.

  Erica tried vainly to engage Brent’s attention, but although he would turn politely towards her and exchange a few sentences, invariably he turned back to Adriana.

  When coffee was served on the terrace outside the dining room, Erica managed to sit next to Brent again while Adriana sat some distance away and chatted to Stephen.

  Rosamund, glancing across occasionally at Erica’s adoring attitude, hanging eagerly on every word that Brent condescended to utter, was irritated by Erica’s lack of pride. It was probably due to a long sequence of easy conquests that he had now acquired his arrogant and conceited attitude.

  She became aware that Niccolo was speaking to her. “I’m sorry,” she apologised quickly.

  He laughed and glanced in Brent’s direction. “One cannot always compete with Englishmen, especially if they are not particularly handsome. Or do you consider that he is good-looking?”

  “No,” Rosamund answered immediately. “You mustn’t judge all Englishmen by Brent. We have many quite handsome types.”

  “Fair and blue-eyed Saxons,” Niccolo agreed. “But Latins can beat your darker men.”

  He suggested that they might walk a little way around the garden, although it was dark and the moon had not yet risen.

  There was nothing further at the moment that she owed to the guests and naturally Stephen would look after them. The wry thought occurred to her, even as she walked through the dim scented garden, that somehow the duties of hostess had been thrust upon her. Erica was old enough now to act sometimes as her father’s hostess.

  Niccolo spoke vaguely about various journeys and tours that Stephen ought to arrange, besides the projected one to Palermo. “Our island is very rich in antiquities, ruins of Greek temples and Roman theatres.”

  “Yes, I know,” she agreed. “And I’m looking forward to spending some of the time sightseeing, but of course Stephen is also here to gather material for his book, so it can’t all be free time.”

  They had now arrived on the wide terrace that went round three sides of the drawing room on the opposite side of the villa.

  “Would you be warm enough to sit here for a while?” he asked.

  Rosamund said, “Yes, for a few minutes. Then I must go indoors and see that everything is all right. Stephen gets involved in conversations and is likely to forget he has other guests.”

  Niccolo laughed quietly. “This is something I find so charming about you, Rosamund. You are always concerned to look after others.”

  “I suppose working for Stephen has had an effect on me. He lost his wife some years ago and Erica is still only young.”

  “And you, I suppose, are a very old woman and must take her responsibilities? No, sometimes you must think of yourself.”

  “Oh, I do, I assure you!” she laughed. “I’m most concerned about my own welfare.”

  But he did not join in her laughter. His voice was suddenly serious. “Rosamund, I have become very fond of you.”

  She was startled by his intensity. “But—but—you hardly know me.”

  “I have thought about you many, many times, and perhaps I am beginning to be in love with you.”

  “But surely—Erica? I thought you were attracted to her.”

  He gave a careless little laugh. “Erica is very pretty and all men are glad to be seen with her and to take her about. But you with your dark red hair and your kind smile—you are much more attractive.”

  For a moment she was silent. “You mean that although I’m not as pretty as Erica, I have other virtues?”

  “Oh, no, no!” he broke in hastily. “Not that at all. You have only to look in a mirror to see that is not so. You see, we are accustomed to many tourists who come here, not only English, but Scandinavian, and they have lovely fair hair and blue eyes. To Sicilian men, that is different from our own girls. But to me, I am not so fond of the golden hair and blue eyes. Your eyes are sometimes green and your hair is touched with fire.”

  “Dear Niccolo,” she said softly. "You mustn’t fall in love with me because I seem to be slightly different from the usual run of English tourists. Let’s try to keep friends.”

  “Then you do not think I am serious?” he demanded.

  “Oh, indeed I do,” she assured him hastily, lest he try to convince her in more ardent fashion.

  “Then there is someone else, perhaps. The Englishman?”

  “With my hand on my heart I can declare that the Englishman is not the ideal I might be seeking some day.” She had suited her dramatic words to an equally dramatic gesture and Niccolo bent his head to kiss her hand as it rested on her heart.

  At that moment a stream of light from the drawing room flooded the terrace and shone directly on Rosamund and Niccolo as they sat on the stone bench. Niccolo raised his head hastily, although he still retained Rosamund’s hand.

  Silhouetted against the window of the drawing room she saw the unmistakable figure of Brent, his shadow cast across the paved terrace.

  “We must go indoors,” she murmured, regretting that she had not said those words a few minutes earlier. But did i
t really matter if Brent or anyone else had witnessed that tender little tableau? Niccolo’s dark head would have been easily seen against her pale amber dress.

  When she and Niccolo returned to the drawing room, Rosamund caught the sharp critical glance that Erica gave her. She merely smiled amiably in return. When the Mandellis finally left with compliments and thanks for a delightful evening, Niccolo pressed Rosamund’s hand with extra warmth and his dark eyes expressed a tender soulfulness that disquieted her.

  Brent stayed a little longer, apparently in no hurry to leave, especially, as Stephen was anxious to discuss details of visits to parts of the east coast down as far as Syracuse.

  “I thought we were going to Palermo,” observed Erica.

  “We’ll go to all the interesting places in good time,” her father replied. “But I really must get started on some evidence of what I’m hoping to prove. That means the east coast first.”

  Brent spoke of places along the cliffs where the various rock strata could be easily seen and photographed. He turned towards Rosamund. '‘Have you used your beautiful camera yet?”

  “No. I didn’t think Stephen would want me to waste film on snapshots in the garden.”

  “But that’s exactly how you’ll learn to handle the equipment. You must take Maria sitting outside peeling potatoes and Erica looking decorative gathering flowers.”

  She wanted to add, “And you? Gaping smugly at the camera in your most arrogant mood?” But she did not aim at open warfare in the presence of Stephen.

  “Very well,” she said quietly. “I’ll read the instructions and practise with an experimental roll of film.”

  “Certainly. If you spoil the whole lot in developing, you can easily take your subjects all over again.”

  She left it to Erica to accompany him to the hall when he finally left.

  Stephen went up to his room and Rosamund switched off the lights of the downstairs rooms and went along to her own. In a matter of moments, Erica came eagerly into Rosamund’s bedroom. Her eyes were shining and her lipstick smudged.

  “I was so cross with him because he let Adriana monopolise him,” she burst out, “but—”

  “But now he gave you a tender good-night kiss and all is forgiven,” Rosamund supplied when Erica hesitated.

  “Yes. But how did you know?”

  “Take a look at your face—and imagine how much of your lipstick you’ve transferred to him!” Rosamund giggled.

  “Well, you’re a fine one to talk! You were out in the garden all those hours with Niccolo.”

  “But I came back with my face in perfectly good order.”

  “H’m. That’s your tale,” jeered Erica.

  “And I’m sticking to it,” retorted Rosamund, smiling. Then she became more concerned. “Erica, don’t take Brent too seriously. A few kisses here and there mean nothing to him, so you’d better deal in the same coin.”

  “You say that because you’re jealous!” Erica accused.

  “No. Only anxious that you shouldn’t get hurt.”

  Erica paced about the room. “I know he was only teasing me tonight by his attentions to Adriana. Trying to make me jealous.”

  "And he succeeded, didn’t he?”

  ‘‘I suppose he did,” admitted the other girl in a subdued voice.

  “Then don’t let him see it,” advised Rosamund. “For heaven’s sake, Erica, bring your pride into action. You’re not as unsophisticated as a twelve-year-old schoolgirl. You know how to act indifference.”

  Erica’s eyes filled with tears as she faced Rosamund. “When you love, you can’t have pride.”

  That pathetic little sentence pierced Rosamund’s attempt to bolster up Erica’s self-respect and induce her to display less undisguised admiration towards Brent.

  “All right.” Rosamund kissed Erica’s wet cheek. “Fall in love with him a little bit, but don’t let yourself get hurt.”

  Erica dried her eyes. “You’re sweet, Rosamund, but I don’t understand why you’re so hard-boiled. Did some man once hurt you?”

  Rosamund played with a silver-handled shoe-horn on the dressing table. “I thought once that I’d given my heart, all my love, to a shining knight in armour. Then I discovered that he was a sham and he had nothing to give me in return. So I determined then that I’d be more careful in future.” She laughed a little at her reflection in the mirror. “I was seventeen at the time.”

  Erica smiled, too. “Good night, dear Rosamund.” When she was at the door, she turned. “I’m glad you came to work for my father. You’re a great help.”

  Rosamund remained still and thoughtful after Erica had gone. Snippets of the conversation milled about in her mind. “A great help”. To Stephen or Erica? But, of course, for different reasons. That small echo “You say that because you’re jealous” repeated itself—and rankled. Jealous? Of Adriana or Erica or both? There was no foundation for that, she told herself fiercely. She was anxious to save Erica from misery. As to Adriana, the Italian girl must be guided by her parents.

  Yet Rosamund was now consumed with a raging envy of that lightly given kiss that Erica had so obviously received from Brent. Her thoughts returned to that incident in the corridor before dinner. Why couldn’t she have allowed herself to be given the same treatment, instead of thinking about “lucky escapes”? She curled her lip with contempt. Too dangerous. Too cheap.

  At first it seemed that Brent had tried to give the impression of a kind of hermit living on the slopes of Etna and dedicated to his task of comprehending the vagaries of the volcano. On later acquaintance that had proved quite untrue, for he seemed ready to flirt with almost any girl who roamed within his fairly wide circle.

  Flirt was the word, rather than any show of real interest. But now she felt particularly bitter that he had shown a callous disregard for Erica’s vulnerability. A brief good night kiss meant nothing to him, but it was enough to raise Erica’s hopes of a more permanent relationship.

  “... because you’re jealous.” The phrase repeated itself remorselessly. Rosamund .tried to look critically into her own heart and sturdily declare that such jealousy did not exist, but it was of no avail. Every look, every small caress Brent gave to another girl became a torture.

  It was only when she had undressed and was in bed that she remembered Niccolo’s assertion that he was falling in love with her. He was another of Erica’s kind, ready for mild infatuations and just as prepared to drop them when another attraction appeared. Was there much essential difference between him and Brent? She decided that there was a distinction. Niccolo at least imagined that he was sincere at the time, while Brent obviously did not even pretend more than a passing diversion.

  What a fool I am, thought Rosamund, to care two straws about him. Yet Brent not only occupied her waking thoughts, but invaded her dreams.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Rosamund spoke to Stephen next day about Brent’s suggestion to use the new camera on a few ordinary subjects.

  “It might be a good idea to have a practice run,” he agreed.

  So after lunch when she judged that the sun was in a good position she arranged Maria in a chair outside the kitchen door, with one of the reading books in her hands.

  “Look as though you know the words,” she counselled Maria.

  But the older woman laughed nervously and just when Rosamund operated the shutter, Maria screwed up her eyes and turned her head away.

  “All right. We’ll try again.” Patiently Rosamund posed her sitter in various positions.

  Then it was Lucia’s turn and she took several of the young girl alone or playing with the cat that had originally wandered down from the village and chosen the Villa Delfino as its home.

  Rosamund was especially pleased with one shot of Lucia cuddling the cat, a black creature with four white paws, and hoped it would come out well.

  She would have taken several studies of Erica but for the fact that the latter had gone up to the Villa Mandelli swimming pool.

  Sudd
enly Brent emerged from behind the vine-covered trellis that screened his cottage.

  “Having fun?” he asked airily.

  “Yes. I was.”

  His grey eyes glinted fiercely at her. “You mean you were until I came out here to spoil it?”

  “It’s dangerous to imagine always what I might have added.”

  He took the camera from her hands. “Now let me take you with Maria.”

  Rosamund wondered how long Brent had been standing there hidden by the trellis and observing her amateur efforts.

  He now posed her and Maria in what he called “The Reading Lesson”, then included Lucia. Finally he finished the spool on one of Rosamund alone, but with the cat draped over her shoulder.

  “We’ll call that one ‘Rosamund and friend’ and let people guess which is which,” he said.

  “You’ve carefully left none available for me to take one of you,” she pointed out—“that is, if I wanted to.”

  “Oh, I’m a bad subject. I put a jinx on cameras. Strange ghost-like figures appear in the background and black patches come where my face ought to be.”

  She laughed in spite of her resentment of his treatment of Erica last night. “Well, you know best. After all, Stephen spent a lot of money on the camera and I need to be rather choosy how I use it.”

  He gave her a piercing look. “I’m suitably cut down to size,” he remarked. “Have you fixed up a darkroom yet?”

  “No. I wasn’t sure exactly how it ought to be fitted.”

  “Then if you can be civil to me for half an hour, you might show me which room you can spare and I’ll ask Tomaso to fix up a bench and black-out screens and so on.”

  “Certainly, if you can spare the time. Now?”

  “Now is the moment. I’m on holiday anyway today. You’ve forgotten it was Easter Monday?”

  “No, but I didn’t think such public holidays occurred in Sicily or Italy.”

  “Oh, have no fear of that. Continentals have their innumerable saints’ days, but they’ve long since acquired all the English bank holidays as well.”

  She led the way up the main staircase and along the corridor to a small end room which Stephen had agreed could be converted into a photographic darkroom.