The Fires of Torretta

by Iris Danbury

  Erica was annoyed at Brent’s withdrawal as soon as he had returned from Stromboli. “Of all the maddening men!” she burst out to Rosamund. “Why must he shut himself up in a stable like that?”

  “You’d better ask him—if you can make yourself heard when you shout through the cracks of the door.”

  But the same evening Erica was in a much happier state. She had seen Brent, she told Rosamund, and he had apologised for being so busy.

  “He says he has a week’s leave and is staying here all the time. He asked—oh, no, I’m keeping that to myself.”

  Erica’s face and her smile conveyed the impression that she had swallowed a large quantity of cream and thoroughly enjoyed it.

  Rosamund deliberately denied Erica the satisfaction of rising to the bait. Whatever Brent had demanded or requested, Erica would be sure to disclose such a secret in due course.

  She decided that as Brent was now occupying his cottage she had better ask for permission to use it as her darkroom studio.

  “I have one or two more prints to make. When will it be convenient for me to come?”

  “Any time you wish. Now if you like.”

  “No. I have work to do this morning, but perhaps this afternoon about three o’clock.”

  “Splendid. I’ll see that the little nest is tidy and if I had a strip of red carpet I’d put it down outside.”

  It was nearer four o’clock when she went across to the cottage. The door was open and she knocked and entered. Brent was sitting at the table, apparently working, for half a dozen books were open and pages of notes scattered everywhere.

  “Sorry. Am I disturbing you?” she asked. “I can come another time.”

  “No time like the present.”

  Yet she would have preferred to come when he was not in the room. His presence made her nervous and she fumbled with the frame that held the negative, mistimed the exposure for the print.

  “This one’s going to be a flop,” she muttered more to herself than him, as she placed the paper in the developing solution. She had not heard him move, but now he was at her side watching the image slowly take shape in the dish. The sky was dark grey and the land so dark that it had lost all detail.

  “No good,” she said savagely, hooking the print out of the dish and tossing it aside into a waste bucket.

  “Don’t be so impatient with yourself,” he said gently. “Try again.”

  The hot colour flamed into her face. She wanted to lash out that she could do better if only she were left alone.

  She controlled her voice. “I thought you might be busy out in the stable. Otherwise I wouldn’t have come and intruded.”

  With his hand on her shoulder, he turned her to face him. “Why should I go and shut myself in a stable? I might enjoy your intrusions.”

  She turned her head away. She had walked into a potentially dangerous situation and now did not know how she could extricate herself.

  “Let me get on with the task I came here to do,” she murmured.

  “I wish I could get on with the task I set myself,” he replied.

  She jerked herself free from his grasp. “Why blame me because you can’t get on with your books and your notes? I asked first if it was convenient.”

  “We’re not talking about the same tasks.” He took her face into his two hands. “Rosamund, why do you fight me?”

  “Fight you?” she echoed. “You don’t make it easy to get along with you.”

  “And Niccolo does?” His eyes taunted her.

  “Yes. At least I know where I am with him.” They were foolish words and she might have guessed that he would twist them to his own advantage.

  “Oh? And where do you stand with him?”

  “He’s a good friend.”

  “Nothing more?”

  “All right, if you want the truth, I’ll tell you. He imagines he’s a little in love with me, but it doesn’t go very deeply.”

  “With you or with him?”

  “With him.” She put up her hands and pulled his away from her face, but with a subtle movement, he still grasped her wrists.

  “A suitable match—if you pull it off.”

  “Pull it off! You’re insulting.” Her eyes blazed.

  “I hope so. Nevertheless, married to the eldest Mandelli, your future would be absolutely secure. Nice house, charming parents-in-law, all Sicily to explore and only Etna at your back ready to toss out fire and flame.”

  “I said nothing about marrying Niccolo. He hasn’t even asked me.”

  “Slow, very slow,” Brent murmured, and if Rosamund’s hands had been free, she could have slapped his cheek.

  “Then it seems,” Brent continued, “that I must make the most of what time I have. There’s a Sicilian wedding at a village not far from here. Would you like to come with me?”

  His cool invitation took her completely by surprise. For a moment or two she did not speak.

  Then she said slowly, “Is there no one else you wish to take?”

  “I asked you.” He stressed that last word.

  “When is it?” She wanted to refuse any kind of invitation he offered, yet the attraction of a real Sicilian wedding was not to be casually thrown away. No doubt he was trying now to make amends for his infuriating behaviour.

  “The day after tomorrow.” He was still holding her wrists and now he bent down and kissed her mouth. “An early start. Eight o’clock.” He released her. “Now we’ll make another print of the one you fumbled.”

  The change in the last few seconds astonished Rosamund. He could leap with quicksilver speed from a mood of bantering, tormenting questioning of her motives to a completely businesslike attitude of printing a photograph—albeit with a lightning kiss thrown in for good or ill measure. The problem was that he expected other people to fluctuate as rapidly.

  Under his guidance she succeeded in making several perfect prints of the photographs and clipped them up to dry.

  CHAPTER NINE

  For all her rankling resentment Rosamund looked forward to going with him to the village wedding and was up early that morning. When Lucia brought her breakfast, she asked the girl what went on at such a festivity.

  Lucia’s eyes shone. There was much dancing and food and wine and young men to snatch you and kiss you whenever there was a chance.

  Rosamund chose a simple white-and-fuchsia-patterned dress that would not be spoiled by a stain or two, put on fairly strong white sandals and took a lightweight jacket in case the evening might be chilly. She did not know how late Brent intended to stay.

  She had told Stephen last night that she would be out for the day, but would make up for lost time later.

  “Yes, of course you must go. I saw a Sicilian wedding when I was here some years ago and it’s quite a spectacle.”

  She went lightly down the main staircase and out of the front door to where she thought Brent’s car would be. The sight that met her eyes was astounding. Instead of his rather shabby, but roomy car, was a two-wheeled Sicilian cart, every inch of the woodwork painted with designs of roses, stars, fishes and leaves. The panels of the box-like cart were embellished with representations of scenes similar to those performed at the puppet theatre, knights in armour with turreted castles in the background. The horse already in the shafts was so caparisoned and bedizened with tasselled cloths and fringed apron pieces that the only clue as to its natural colour was provided by four black legs protruding from its sumptuous trappings.

  But more than this magnificent spectacle was the sight of Erica already seated in the cart. She wore a bright coral suit and her fair hair hung loose on her shoulders.

  “Isn’t it awful of Brent making me get up so early?” she complained with a smile that indicated that she would have risen at three o’clock if he had commanded her.

  Rosamund hesitated and was on the point of saying “Good-bye—have a good time,” then hurrying back to the house, when Brent himself appeared. Without ceremony he hoisted her into the cart, shut the door
, mounted the box seat in front and took up the reins.

  Tomaso who had been steadying the horse smiled and waved and shouted “Buon viaggio!” as Brent steered the horse round the corner and out into the drive.

  It was now Erica’s turn to look appalled. “I didn’t know—I had no idea—” she stammered.

  “Perhaps neither of us knew that Brent issues his invitations in duplicate,” Rosamund said quietly, but loud enough for Brent to hear.

  She knew now that this was the secret that Erica had been hugging to herself this past day or two.

  But Brent’s surprises were not yet over, for he turned in at the Mandelli villa gates and in a moment the whole family had come out to greet him, admire the horse and cart. Adriana came last, dressed in a traditional costume, and she, too, was lifted into the cart.

  To Rosamund this had now become a farcical situation, for evidently the Italian girl had believed she was to be the sole passenger. She was too polite to show her dismay, but her initial buoyancy had been momentarily quenched and she was again the sombre-faced, withdrawn girl that Rosamund had first known.

  After Brent had driven off and reached the road, Rosamund said gently to Adriana, “What a beautiful costume! Is it the Taormina district?”

  “Yes, it is our local one.” She fingered the lace flounces of the elaborate apron and held out the pink skirt with its pleated flounces for the other two girls to see. The bodice of black velvet was laced in front and under it a white blouse with long full sleeves gathered in to a cuff.

  “You see that one must wear the headscarf that matches the apron embroidery,” Adriana explained. “This is red roses and leaves, but other districts have red or blue aprons with yellow flowers.”

  She carried a tambourine with coloured ribbons and, on the parchment face, a picture of a couple dancing.

  “Also we must wear a coral necklace.” She fingered the long string of coral beads around her throat. “This is to prevent the bad luck.”

  Rosamund knew how much coral jewellery was treasured in all the south of Italy as well as Sicily. Every girl from Naples southwards possessed a necklace in addition to a collection of brooches, rings or hair ornaments.

  Along the main road, the cart with its trio of girls caused some interested glances from car-drivers and people walking. “Did you hire the cart?” asked Rosamund of Brent.

  “No. It’s mine.”

  “Oh? Since when?”

  “Since a month or so. I bought it in a village in the mountains, but it needed quite a bit of repair.”

  “Oh, I see it all now,” said Rosamund. “This was why you and Tomaso were secretly hammering and banging away in the stable. But I didn’t see you bring it in.”

  Brent chuckled and the horse pricked up its ears and broke into a trot. “Of course you didn’t. Tomaso and I fetched it from a lorry one very dark night and stowed it in the stable.”

  “And the horse? Is that also yours?” asked Erica.

  “Well, not at the moment. I’ve hired him—or rather Tomaso secured him for me.”

  “I wonder he can move at all with the weight of all those ornaments on him, apart from three girls and a man,” observed Rosamund.

  “Nonsense!” contradicted Brent. “Horses love being dressed up. Look at the way they caper around in circuses.”

  As though the horse knew he was being discussed, he now tossed his head several times and the towering mass of cocks’ feathers tipped with red or blue and surmounted by long feathery plumes went up and down. A similar collection of plumes was fixed to the middle of the saddle cloth, but this also included a large bunch of pink roses.

  Brent now turned off the main road to the left and the horse slowed a little as the narrow road climbed. Along this road several carts equally decorated and containing lively parties of people overtook Brent. Rosamund noticed that every horse was costumed differently and some of the plumes at a distance looked like pink or green candy floss.

  “I’ve seen several carts along the roads,” she said to Brent, “in different parts, but none so handsome as these.”

  “Well, they deck them up specially for a wedding, naturally.”

  It was nearly eleven o’clock before they arrived at the village where apparently the wedding was to be held. The whole place was en fete, the houses in the main piazza flower-decked, and the carts were directed to a field.

  “Sicilian cart-park,” giggled Rosamund.

  “Horses must be cared for more than the bonnet of a car,” returned Brent severely.

  Suitably censured, Rosamund dismounted with the other two girls and spent a few minutes admiring some of the other elaborate carts.

  Cars which had dared to intrude into this festival were relegated to a side street.

  “The wedding will take place at noon in the church,” Brent informed Rosamund. “The couple have already had the civil marriage performed yesterday.”

  Rosamund was surprised at this news. “I thought it always happened on the same day, preceding the church ceremony.”

  “In many other parts of Italy and in other countries, but not here. Oh, there’s a long rigmarole that goes on before the bride and groom eventually get to this point. But here are Maria and Tomaso.”

  “Have they come in another cart?” queried Rosamund.

  “No. Sicilian carts are no novelty to them, but a ride in a luxurious car pleases them much more.”

  “And you provided it?”

  He nodded. “Maria and Tomaso are my good friends. In fact, they told me about this wedding. The groom is a distant connection of Maria’s family.”

  Maria was dressed in a handsome grey silk dress, over which she wore her traditional embroidered apron and draped a light blue shawl around her shoulders.

  Tomaso wore his black suit usually kept for Sundays, but he sported a wide red tie and a black forage cap with a small white cockade in front.

  Rosamund noticed that many men wore black knee-breeches and jackets with white stockings and criss-crossed ribbons. A red sash tied on the left with long ends and, of course, the red tie for Garibaldi.

  Maria and Tomaso chatted for a few minutes with Brent, then went off to greet their numerous relatives and friends.

  “Poor Lucia,” murmured Rosamund. “She’s been left at home. I didn’t think to ask her. Well, I didn’t know exactly what we were coming to.”

  Brent took her arm and then pointed to a group of young people. “Poor Lucia! Left at home like Cinderella.”

  Rosamund’s face showed immense pleasure. “Oh, I’m glad. I hope she’ll enjoy herself here.”

  After a moment another thought occurred to her. “I suppose we should all be saying ‘Poor Stephen!’ but he could have come if he had chosen.”

  “He won’t starve, if that’s what you’re worried about. He’s off to the Mandellis’ to spend the day—and be fed.”

  Lucia, too, was wearing a pretty little local costume, a red skirt and a white frilly apron, with a white, full-sleeved blouse.

  But now the bridegroom and his parents and friends arrived in decorated carts, but the bride and her attendants, determined not to be kept waiting there by a dilatory groom, came half an hour later.

  Erica and Adriana had managed to squeeze themselves into the crowded church, but Brent suggested that he and Rosamund should stay outside. “The marriage ceremony is not all that different from elsewhere, I believe, but when they come out, we shall be in a better position to follow the procession.”

  “How many of these festivities have you attended?” she asked him with a grin.

  “This is the first, but I know some of the customs, although many are now dying out. Most modern couples get married and go off to Naples or Rome for a few days’ honeymoon. It’s only in these more remote villages that the old habits survive.”

  “Then tell me about the traditions while we wait.” She found a chair vacated by someone who was inside the church, and sat attentively.

  “Before the engagement is announced,
the two mothers make a list of all the goods the bride and bridegroom are to bring to each other. Then the day before the wedding, yesterday, that is, the girl’s dowry must be valued at her home publicly. The bedding, the table linen, sheets, curtains, that sort of thing, I suppose, and the value must correspond to the list drawn up originally by the mothers.” Brent broke off to chuckle. “I can imagine what a rumpus there would be if the values differed!”

  “Who does the valuing, then? Anyone could say that the tablecloths were worth less.”

  “No. They have a woman who specialises in these things and she brings a clerk with her and whispers the value of each article to him. At the end, the values are read out and now the goods are given to the guests to carry to the new home of the bride. This is a great honour.”

  “As long as they don’t drop the precious ornaments or break the china, I suppose?”

  “You are a calamity Jane, aren’t you? Always looking for trouble.”

  “And what about the bridegroom? Does he have to submit to a similar public estimation?”

  “Not quite to the same extent. All the goods he has undertaken to provide must be taken to the new home and the two mothers will inspect them.”

  After about half an hour, the crowd outside the church door became excited. The bridal pair were coming out, the photographers pushed and jostled for positions and in a few moments, the procession began, led by the couple, with their attendants following, and preceded by the oddest band that Rosamund had ever seen. A trumpet, several mandolins, a violin, two guitars, ocarinas, tambourines and drums and a few other instruments unknown to her, but the medley made a fine noise, accompanied by dozens of girls all banging their tambourines as they followed in the procession.

  Brent and Rosamund watched the procession pass by, but then he seized her hand and hurried her along, squeezing past the walkers. There was an abrupt halt, but Brent pulled her along until she was near the head of the procession.

  “This is the house of the bride’s parents, apparently,” Brent explained. “Both the mothers meet the newly-weds.”