by Iris Danbury
“Probably.” She gave him details of the books she required.
While he searched the shelves he talked of matters far removed from earlier civilisations. “I am very glad that Brent has gone away. I hope he stays away and does not come back.”
Rosamund smiled. “Has he done you an injury?” she queried lightly, but the words were ill-chosen. Niccolo scowled, his dark eyebrows almost meeting.
“Yes. Perhaps in two ways. First, he is a hated rival to me. You know how much I love you, Rosamund, and yet you seem to like the Englishman more.”
“How do you know that?”
He shrugged. “I know. Then there is my sister. When he was here he paid her a lot of attention, but was he sincere? If he were playing with her, then he would have me and my family to reckon with.”
Rosamund shook her head. “I have no means of knowing how Adriana regards him.” She remembered the snippet of gossip from Erica that Adriana had a new friend, but thought it wisest not to mention that.
He found the two books she needed and put them into her hands, but at the same time drew her close to him and kissed her as passionately as she would expect a Sicilian to prove his ardour.
When she extricated herself she mumbled, “No, Niccolo, please. I like you very much—but not love—”
“Why not? In time you will learn—”
“No. I’m not the type. I’m English—and probably cold-hearted and unresponsive. Besides, I have my career to think of.”
“With the professor?”
“Perhaps not always with him, but I am not yet ready to marry and keep house.”
Niccolo turned away in dejection. “If you loved me, you would be ready and eager to have a house of your own. My father would provide an elegant villa.”
“Please, Niccolo, don’t tell me any more. I want to marry a husband, not a villa, however luxurious. Let’s go on being friends.”
“It seems I must wait,” he said heavily as she smiled and went from the room.
As she walked down the path between the two villas, she reflected that no amount of waiting would bring her and Niccolo closer together.
One day Rosamund walked unexpectedly into the kitchen and surprised Maria in the act of reading a letter.
“Oh, that’s good. You can now read the letters from your son.”
But Maria hastily put the letter into the pocket of her apron, though not before Rosamund had caught a glimpse of the large printed characters, the kind that would make it easy for a child to read—or a woman who had been taught to read and write late in life?
Maria now smiled a little sheepishly and nodded agreement.
Rosamund did not pursue the subject, but later in the day when Lucia came out of the kitchen to water some of the pot plants on the window sills, the young girl said quietly, “No Marcolino. The English signore.”
“What about him?” asked Rosamund.
“Maria’s letters. Every week he writes to her.”
Then Lucia raised her face towards Rosamund and her eyes were filled with admiration, tinged with concern. “Signorina!” she began, then her face flushed and she turned away hurriedly, spilling the water from the pots.
Rosamund tried to encourage the girl to speak and finally, Lucia said in gabbled Italian, “It is not for me to speak, but always he asks if you are well. No, I must not say.” The girl ran towards the kitchen, leaving Rosamund perplexed.
Well, it was probably natural that if Brent wrote at all to Maria, he would ask after herself and Erica and Stephen. No doubt he wrote to Adriana and made polite inquiries about the rest of her family.
“I think we should visit the island of Panarea,” announced Stephen a few days later. “We’ve read up enough about it and we might be able to see some of these finds they’ve made of Mycenaean pottery and the Minoan influence.”
“Panarea. Off the north coast near Lipari.”
“That’s it.” Stephen opened the large map that Rosamund had bought months ago and she was sharply reminded of that day when Brent had accompanied her to the shop and supervised the purchase.
“We can go by hydrofoil to Lipari and then on from there to Panarea.”
“Anywhere to stay on the island?”
Stephen consulted a reference on the other side of the map. “Yes, it says one hotel. Not large or luxurious, but adequate enough, I think.”
Rosamund’s thoughts had already drifted with the map, for Panarea was not far from Stromboli. Now she regretted that she had not encouraged Maria to give her at least Brent’s latest address. Was he still in Stromboli or elsewhere?
“Brent said that these finds,” continued Stephen, “could easily lead to proof that at least some of the people of Thera, our lost Atlantis, gradually drifted to Panarea and perhaps other small islands as well as the mainland of Sicily.”
“And Erica?” Rosamund reminded him.
“M’m? Oh, yes, Erica. I doubt whether she would want to come with us. She can please herself. Stay with Maria and Tomaso to look after her. Or she might go up to the Mandelli villa and stay there for the few days we’re away.”
Erica’s decision was clear. “Not for me. Digging about in a lot of old ruins doesn’t interest me. Of course,” she added with a sly glance at Rosamund, “it might if there were a very interesting man doing the digging. Or even if Brent were to turn up. But I understand from Adriana that he’s already left Stromboli and gone to Crete, I think she said.”
“So he corresponds with her,” murmured Rosamund.
“Oh, yes,” agreed Erica. “She makes no secret of it and sometimes she makes Niccolo so wild because she won’t tell anyone what’s in the letters.” She giggled. “Once, Niccolo snatched the letter out of her hands, but she grabbed it back again and threw it in the swimming pool before he could read more than two words. Then she jumped in after it and rescued the letter. She was in her bikini and Niccolo was fully clothed, so he had no chance.”
The journey to Panarea was planned in a few days and Stephen and Rosamund drove to Messina in the extreme north-east of Sicily and the nearest town to the Italian mainland. From here a hydrofoil took them to Lipari first and then to Panarea.
This small island was apparently suffering from a dwindling population, for a number of well-built houses near the harbour were empty. With Stromboli only a short distance across the sea and eternally on fire it was perhaps easy to see the reason. As Brent had said, the crater flung out its wrath several times a day, and at night the plume of fire was spectacular.
“Real fireworks,” commented Stephen when he and Rosamund watched the volcano one evening from outside their hotel.
“Perhaps that’s how fireworks came to be invented,” she suggested.
“Yes, that reminds me. Adriana is meeting us in Messina when we return from here and she says you might like to go across to Calabria for a day. There’s apparently a special firework display for some festival or other.”
Four days appeared to be long enough to stay in Panarea and Rosamund packed up her photograph film of the various objects of pottery and Bronze Age finds, together with the copious notes and tape-recordings. When she and Stephen arrived in Messina at the hotel he had booked, Adriana was already there.
“You knew which day we were coming, then?” asked Rosamund.
“Naturally.” Adriana’s eyes sparkled and there was a radiance about her that Rosamund had never seen before. “I had my instructions.”
During dinner with Stephen and Adriana, Rosamund was puzzled by the Italian girl’s vivacity.
“You were allowed to come to Messina alone—unchaperoned?” she asked.
Adriana’s dark eyes were full of mischief. “Oh, yes, on this occasion certainly. I came by train.”
“Oh, I see. Niccolo didn’t drive you.”
A swift disappointment clouded the other girl’s eyes. “You expected Niccolo here?”
Rosamund shrugged and smiled. “I don’t know whom I expected. But I’m glad to see you.”
“Oh, we shall h
ave a most amusing day tomorrow. First we will go to the Cathedral and we must be there at noon to see everything happen.”
Rosamund already knew that various figures performed mechanically On the stroke of twelve midday, but when she was standing in the piazza next day she admitted to Adriana that she had never seen so many happenings. Near the top of the bell tower a gilt lion roared; below, the cock crew and two angels circled on their pedestals. On the lower stages the Virgin blessed, a small representation of the church rose as though to fly, a dove fluttered and the sun and moon turned.
“I should have brought my camera,” said Rosamund. Tourists at various points in the piazza were busily recording this noonday frolic. As the crowd dispersed she asked Adriana, “Is it possible to visit the Cathedral now?”
“I think we have not time today. Another visit perhaps. For now we must take the boat to Reggio.”
The two girls took a taxi to the dockside, Adriana bought the boat tickets and conducted Rosamund along the covered passageways to the next ferry boat due to sail.
“This is a good place to sit?” Adriana indicated places along the rail in the forward part of the ship. “Or do you prefer the shade?”
“No, this is all right,” agreed Rosamund. “There’s one thing that puzzles me. If the fireworks are in Reggio tonight, how shall we come home? Do the ferry boats run late?”
“Oh, that is all arranged. Have no fear that you will be stranded—is that a proper word? I mean left behind.”
“Yes, stranded.”
Adriana was apparently looking for someone and frequently glanced at her watch. “I have to meet a friend who will accompany us,” she explained. After a few minutes, she added, “Please excuse me while I see—” She hurried off towards the gangway.
Rosamund strolled a few paces on the deck. These ships, she realised, were as large as English cross-Channel ferries. In fact, the one which went across to Villa San Giovanni carried two or three whole trains full of passengers from or to the mainland. She explored the two decks, the saloon and found several refreshment bars. When she returned to the spot which she and Adriana had first chosen, several other passengers had taken the places.
It did not matter at all, for there was plenty of space elsewhere and she turned to search for Adriana. Then she saw Brent coming towards her, smiling, confident, his dark hair lifting in the breeze.
“Buon giorno!” he greeted her.
She stared beyond him, seeking Adriana. So the situation was now very clear indeed. She was to accompany Brent and the Italian girl to Reggio di Calabria as chaperone. This was really the reason for Adriana’s visit to Messina. Whoever the new friend might be, she had chosen Brent, and Rosamund was to be a witness to this joyous reunion and share in the celebration.
“No, thank you,” she said aloud, unconscious that she had uttered the words.
Brent’s expression changed. “No what?”
“I’m going ashore,” she said desperately, then realised that the ship had already cast off and was backing out of the harbour. “Where’s Adriana?”
“I heard you were in Panarea for a few days. Let’s find a sheltered corner and you can tell me all about your visit.”
He had taken her elbow, but she pulled it roughly away. “Don’t be so patronising! If you wanted to meet Adriana here, you could surely have arranged it without involving me.”
“It was difficult to arrange at all. Don’t tell me I’ve planned it all for nothing.”
"That’s your problem!” she snapped.
Imperceptibly he had drawn her away towards another part of the deck below the bridge. He practically forced her down on to a bench and sat beside her.
“Still fighting me? When will you learn?”
The sudden softness in his voice took her by surprise, but when she glanced at him and saw the expression in his eyes, she turned her head away sharply. Why should she be fooled?
“Why have you come?” she demanded. “Adriana and I could have done without you. Or at least, I could, if not Adriana.”
“The trouble was that I couldn’t do without my girl.”
“Then for heaven’s sake why don’t you go and find Adriana and leave me in peace?”
He began to laugh quietly. “Too far to swim. Adriana went ashore.”
“Ashore? She didn’t come on the boat?”
“No. You’ll have to make do with me as a substitute.”
“Oh, no. I don’t have to do anything of the kind,” she retorted. “I’m the one you want as a substitute because Adriana isn’t here, although why she went ashore I don’t know. But you can’t have both of us just to fill in the time.”
“Who said I wanted both of you? One’s enough, especially if she’s such a fiery piece as you.”
His words took a little time to sink into her consciousness. “Then it isn’t—you mean you don’t—” she stammered hopelessly.
“Let me show you a photograph of this girl, this thorny jade who makes me wonder why I chase after her like a lunatic.”
He fished inside his jacket, brought out a wallet and showed her the snapshot of herself with the cat Whisky-soda draped about her neck.
“Remember? I printed these for you when you first used the camera. I saw no reason not to print an extra one for myself.”
“And how many other girls’ photographs have you got stowed away in your wallet?” she wanted to know.
He shut the wallet with haste and tucked it away in his pocket. “A question that I may not choose to answer. Perhaps in due course I might give you the right to rifle my pockets and see what you pick up.”
His arm had crept about her waist and he pulled her nearer to him. “Rosamund! Rose of the world! How was I to know that when I found an old oil lamp and started rubbing it up that you would appear? Aladdin didn’t have half the shock I had.”
“A shock, was it? That was the first time we met.”
His cheek was close to hers. “So you also remembered.”
“You were quite a shocking sight yourself, your face streaked with dirt and grease.”
“And you stood there with your red hair framing your face and your green eyes full of contempt. Fool that I was, I fell for you at that instant. I, who have always kept women out of my life, because with my profession I thought there was no place for them.”
“No place?”*she echoed. “You were attentive to Erica and Adriana and goodness knows how many others in Belpasso and elsewhere!”
“I kept telling myself that you were definitely not the one for me, so I had to cover up with Adriana, just to make you believe that I had no real intentions.”
She laughed. “Niccolo is out for your blood. He thinks you’ve been leading Adriana on for no good purpose.”
Brent chuckled. “He can sleep easy and put away his stiletto. Adriana is practically engaged to a young man who lives in Messina.”
“But you’ve been writing lots of letters to her.”
“Of course. Didn’t I have to find out everything connected with you when I wasn’t there? What Adriana couldn’t tell me, Maria did. That was an excellent idea teaching her to read and write.”
“So you constantly spied on me,” she accused, but her heart was filled with peace.
“Of course. My hardest choice was to go away from Torretta for a while and leave you to make up your mind.”
“Why didn’t you tell me—that night when we came home from the Sicilian wedding—?”
“Tell you what?” he demanded. “That I was willing to crawl to you if only you would give me some hope? That I was your slave of the lamp, so hopelessly loving you that I couldn’t work up on Etna and couldn’t keep away from Torretta?”
She relaxed against his shoulder. “I wasn’t very happy after you’d gone,” she admitted. “I tried not to give in.”
“What a pair of fools! Why did we waste so much time?” His grasp tightened around her. “But I promise that in the future we shall waste not a single minute.”
“The
future? Am I going to be tied to a roaming geologist?”
“You certainly are. Anyway, you’ve learnt something from Stephen, how to research, take photographs and not muff them. You can do all those things for me in future.”
“You’ll prove a much more arrogant boss than ever Stephen is,” she complained. “In any case, I can’t desert him yet. Not until he finishes his planned book.”
“We’ll settle all those problems later. In the meantime, we’ve arrived on the toe of Italy and we’ll go ashore.”
When they walked along the quay and up the streets to the town she remembered the firework display. “If we have to wait for the fireworks until it’s dark tonight, how shall we get back to Messina?”
He stared at her. “Fireworks?”
“Adriana told me there was a special display here for a festival.”
“Darling Rosamund, she probably thought the firework display would be between us, and certainly you nearly sent me up in flames. We’ll go back on the last boat to Messina.”
“I’m cheated,” she grumbled. “I’d have liked to see a few cascades and rockets of fire.”
“You may probably see all the fireworks you desire when you fail to obey me,” he prophesied grimly.
“I can provide my own, too,” she threatened.
“I’m aware of that!”
In the town he suggested that instead of a late lunch at an hotel, he would buy food and wine and they could have a picnic meal in a little park he knew.
On a stone bench they shared the ham and rolls, sausage and tiny pastries he had chosen at a small cafe. Most of the shops were closed for the midday siesta, but he had found a wine shop open and obtained a glass tankard from which they drank the strong Sicilian local wine.
When they walked in the shade of a magnolia grove, he took her in his arms and kissed her with an intensity that she had longed for. As they roamed through the park her steps felt as though they did not touch the ground.
“It’s the wine!” she muttered. “Gone to my head—and left my feet like feathers.”
“Only the wine?” he queried with mischief in his eyes.
“Of course. What else?” But she knew that she was intoxicated by happiness.
