by Norrey Ford
They ate in silence for a while. Not a companionable silence, such as they had experienced on occasion. This was a stiff, uncomfortable meal. She wondered what was in his mind. Was he remembering the kisses he had pressed upon her, on this very, terrace, at dawn? Or was his mind far away in Rome, occupied with the business problems of the day just ended?
‘You are quiet,’ he said at last. ‘But then you must be tired. You sat up late with my mother last night. Believe me, I am grateful.’
‘I’m accustomed to night duty. Marco, I—’
Her throat dried up and she could not speak. He watched her, enquiringly.
‘Well? You were going to say something?’
‘Only that it seems imperative that your sister comes home. I think your mother is fretting more than appears on the surface. There’s a deterioration in her condition.’
‘Have you any ideas? I’m doing all I can.’ His tone was icy.
‘You know her friends. I don’t. But it seemed to me she might go to a young person, who would understand how she felt, and also have the facilities for sheltering her. I mean, a young married friend with a home of her own. Have you considered that?’
His eyes narrowed. ‘It’s an idea, and I confess it had not occurred to me. The difficulty is that one cannot telephone all one’s acquaintances and ask if they have a missing girl in the house.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because they will instantly telephone all their friends and relations and announce that Bianca Cellini has run away. In twenty-four hours the news would be all over Rome and beyond. A dozen women would have spoken to Rafaello’s mother and sisters, and Raf would be here demanding to know what had happened. And, probably, breaking off the engagement.’
‘He doesn’t love her,’ Jan said with a rush. ‘Oh, Marco, we’ve been talking about Bianca’s feelings all this time—whether she was in love with another man, why she didn’t want Raf, what made her run away. Have you never once thought of it the other way round? I confess I hadn’t. If this man truly loved Bianca, he wouldn’t give a damn for publicity, or whether she’d popped off to visit a friend without telling Mum, or what. In your heart, you know it. That’s why you’re afraid of letting this splendid match slip through your fingers. You know he doesn’t love her. He’s marrying her for your money!’
There was a tiny silver salt-cellar on the table, fashioned in the shape of a swan. Marco pushed it backwards and forwards, concentrating on it in tightlipped silence. When he finally looked at her, his eyes were hooded, not a flicker of expression in them.
‘That would make a difference? All the women of my family have always declared that love comes after a marriage; yes, even my mother’s, though her marriage was an idyll to the very end. Can they all be wrong?’
‘They could be lucky. If it worked for all of them, they were lucky. But haven’t you overlooked an important factor in this theory of yours? Didn’t they go into marriage with a man who loved them, who understood love and had the power to rouse it in them? Did your father love your mother? Were you told that?’
His dark eyes flickered. ‘He had adored her for two years. He first saw her as a schoolgirl and made up his mind to marry her as soon as she was old enough.’
‘There you are, then! He wanted to win her love. He did his courting after they were married, and was brilliantly successful. But Raf—does he want Bianca as badly as your father wanted the girl he loved? Will he woo her, gently and tenderly? Will she come first in his heart? It matters, Marco. It matters most terribly to a woman.’ She spoke urgently and with stirred emotions.
He gave her a dry, wry smile. ‘This is a change of tune on your part. Are you now prepared to say that a marriage could succeed if there was love on one side only? You have been so passionately against our way of arranging marriages up to now.’
‘If there is a courtship, from one who truly loves—yes, it could succeed after marriage as it often succeeds before. Fashions change, but women don’t change their basic needs. And one of those basic needs is for tenderness, for a touch of splendour, a little romance. A man who will give her that will win her heart for ever. She likes her love like champagne in a Venetian goblet, to show that she is valued. Once she’s sure of that one fact, she’ll be happy enough to share cocoa in a cracked kitchen cup.’ She added thoughtfully, ‘One could start off with the cocoa and the cracked cup, so long as there was enough loving to make believe it was champagne and crystal.’
‘And you think—without having seen him—that Raf is incapable of this?’
‘He may provide the Venetian glass, the diamonds, and the golden shoes, in a material way. I’m sure he would. Orchids, too. But I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about the heart, Marco. If you knew he wanted Bianca more than anything in the whole wide world—more than money, or status, or power, or a beautiful woman to grace his palazzo—you’d have sent for him the moment she disappeared. But you didn’t. It is you who have condemned him, not I.’
The guilt she felt at deceiving Marco about the appearance of Paolo had evaporated. She was wholly on the side of the young lovers, now she had understood about the unknown Rafaello. She was merely angry with him, and with Marco for being so blind.
‘Of course,’ she went on more quietly, ‘you yourself have never been in love, so you can’t possibly know.’
His mouth twisted into a half-smile, but his eyes were sad. ‘Why do you say that, with such confidence? With such arrogance, and such inaccuracy. I assure you I know what it means to love, and to have the woman I love completely out of reach.’
Colour suffused her face and throat. Without thinking, she touched his hand as it lay on the table beside the silver salt-cellar. ‘You are right to call me arrogant, Marco. I’m deeply sorry, believe me. I had no business to say such a stupid thing, even though I believed it true. Can you forgive me?’
‘Easily,’ he said briskly, sitting up straight and casting a glance over the table like an efficient host. ‘Now let us forget the whole thing. This is your holiday and you should not burden yourself with my troubles. You have given me an idea and tomorrow I shall carry it out. Bianca’s friend Gina is a young married woman and would have sympathy with her in this escapade. We shall go and call on her tomorrow. Luckily she lives on Capri, so if you will accompany me, I will show you the island as I promised. It will be a pleasant-expedition for you.’
She drew back, disappointed by his sudden change of tone. A moment before, she had been in his confidence and able to speak to him freely of what was in her mind. Now, the door was closed firmly in her face. She was on the outside, a visitor to be entertained.
‘There is no need to take me,’ she said stiffly. ‘I am enjoying my holiday here, at the villa.’
‘There is every need,’ he replied coolly. ‘You will provide the excuse for my calling on Gina. I shall ask her to show our guest her beautiful home and her special view of the Bay. You didn’t think I’d just ring her bell and ask for Bianca, did you?’
He needed help, and she knew now that he would never ask it. Rather, he would simply tell her what he wanted and expect her to conform. She laughed lightly to conceal her disappointment. ‘Stupidly, I did think just that. How have you managed all this time, Marco? In your search, I mean. Don’t tell me if you don’t want to.’
‘I’ve had private detectives—not those television types in old raincoats, but the best. The men who can move in exclusive circles without being noticed, expensive, highly-trained, discreet. Also I’ve visited aunts and cousins, second cousins and distant in-laws. For family, one doesn’t need an excuse, only a box of Zia Flavia’s favourite chocolates and some cigars for one's uncle. Believe me, I have been a dutiful relative lately, eaten more family meals, sampled more wine from family vineyards, listened to more family history, than I have done in the last twenty years. But not a sign of Bianca anywhere. Also, I hope and trust, not a suspicion of the true state of affairs.’
‘Poor Marco,’ she murmured softly. �
�You have suffered a great deal, and now I have hurt you.’
He gave her hand a quick, friendly squeeze. ‘And I have forgiven you, so let us forget it and get on with this excellent rib of beef.’
The discussion was over. From then on, Marco talked of many things, none of them personal. The history of ancient Rome, the luxury and degeneracy of the latter days of the empire and the emperors; Pompeii, the city which died and was preserved for posterity in one terrible day of fear and fire.
‘There is so much you haven’t seen yet, Jan. Yet you are determined to leave it all, at the end of the week?’
‘The week is racing away. The end is almost here. We ought to talk over my travel arrangements soon. May I show you the documents tomorrow? A bus is supposed to pick me up at the Rome hotel and—’
‘Tomorrow we go to Capri. This time we are really going. I’ve promised too often already, and you cannot leave the Bay of Naples without seeing all our jewels.’
Barini is enough for me, she thought, if you are here. But she put the thought firmly from her.
CHAPTER VI
In the early morning sunlight, the harbour at Barini looked quaint and charming, and Jan’s heart ached at the sight of it. It didn’t look ‘foreign’ at all. In some strange way, and in such a short time, Barini had become home, from which she was shortly to be exiled.
Dino had the boat ready, and Marco handed her in with a cheerful smile. He was wearing white shorts today, with brown leather sandals and a pink shirt. Jan had chosen the prettiest of her own dresses, a halter-neck lime green cotton, and tied a matching scarf round her hair. Marco approved when she handed him a white blazer, remarking that there was always a cool breeze on the water. The blazer Jan had been obliged to borrow from Bianca’s wardrobe, but she planned not to take it ashore at Capri.
A puzzling thing had happened before breakfast. The cornflower blue trouser suit she had worn on her first day seemed to be missing from the wardrobe. Francesca had disclaimed knowledge of it.
‘But you must remember, Francesca. It was here, next to the white blazer. I wore it myself. Did. you take it away to be washed, perhaps?’
The girl shook her head obstinately. Had she genuinely forgotten, or was that stubborn look her defence against being accused of making away with something, perhaps? Or did she know where the suit had vanished, and was determined not to tell?
‘I’m not cross about it, Francesca,’ Jan had said gently. ‘You’re not in trouble. These clothes are not mine. I’d like to know if it is safe, that’s all. Maybe you put it in another room?’
The girl burst into tears and said she’d always been honest, and her mother before her; that if she lost her job at the villa her family would starve. It took Jan ten precious minutes to stem the flood of tears and denials, and comfort Francesca with a handful of lire.
All the same, that sunny shade of blue had hung next to the blazer, and now was not there.
Marco seemed to have put all his troubles aside and to be determined to make the day a happy one. As the boat left the harbour, he began to sing and presently Dino’s voice joined his. Both men sang well, a lilting Neapolitan song with a refrain.
As he sang, Marco’s eyes met Jan’s, and they were laughing. This, she thought with quick delight, is the real Marco. Marco happy, unworried, not laden with the cares of everyday life. If only life could be like this', skimming over the smooth sea and singing! I am happy now, she reminded herself. This is happening to me, at this minute. Hold it, keep it in the memory. The laughing brown faces, the sparkle of sun on the water, and Marco happy as a boy.
Music when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory ...
But this music will have to do a great deal of vibrating, because memory is all I’m going to have of it. She blinked away the traitor tears which came without warning.
‘Sing again, Marco,’ she begged when the song was over. ‘Just one more.’
He laughed and shouted to Dino. But Dino shook his head and said the Signore must sing alone now, for the lady. So Marco sang a love song which started happily and ended on a sad note.
‘We can’t be sad on a day like this,’ he shouted to Dino. ‘Come on, you lazy creature, cheer the lady up!’ They sang another duet, a brisk and lively air which had Jan tapping her feet. Then Marco left the boat to the boy and came to sit beside Jan.
‘Enjoying yourself? I want you to have a good day. I’ve bothered you with my troubles too much, and I’m afraid you’ve found me short-tempered sometimes. If so, I apologise. It isn’t your fault my mother is sick, and my sister has chosen to make this odd demonstration. So if you can forgive me—’
‘Forgive you? Oh, Marco, you’ve been so thoughtful in so many ways. And I’ve been a bit tiresome at times, I admit. Let’s forgive each other, shall we?’
He looked at her closely, thoughtfully. ‘So you don’t find me altogether a bear?’
Impulsively, she laid a hand on his. ‘I find you a good friend and a good singer. This is really fun, and who knows, we may end the day by finding Bianca, too. I feel just a little guilty about your mother, though. Will she be all right alone?’
‘Dino is taking the boat on to Sorrento, to collect two nuns whom she knows. I telephoned the Mother Superior this morning. The sisters will enjoy the outing, and Mama will be happy playing hostess. They will keep her entertained without talking too much, and make sure she rests. Satisfied?’
‘Perfectly.’
There was also the question of what was to be done about his mother after Bianca married, but Jan did not ask it. It was not her affair, and Marco was capable of solving the problem in his own way when the time came. Today was to be a day when he relaxed and forgot, for a few hours, all his troubles. He had earned a holiday.
They talked little for the rest of the journey, but their silence was a friendly, companionable one, easy as an old shoe. When they put into the harbour at Capri, he gave Dino orders to fetch them at six, then hurried Jan along the quayside, dodging at top speed through the crowd of tourists.
‘Where are we going?’ she demanded, breathless.
‘To the Blue Grotto, of course. What are those nurses going to say, if you admit to being on Capri and not seeing our grotto? Mind you, it’s much exaggerated in my opinion, but it is definitely a grotto, and undeniably blue. We have to catch the sun at precisely the right angle, which is why—’ He shouted and waved, whereupon a boat just taking off waited a moment for him to swing Jan aboard.
Soon they were chugging along, close in to the steep cliffs of the island, in a flotilla of motorboats carrying excited holidaymakers. ‘We shall have to queue,’ Marco said gloomily.
Jan did not care. The expedition might last all day, as far as she was concerned. She was with Marco, who seemed happy to be with her, and the day was wonderful, a day of silver and golden lights, of singing and gaiety and pure happiness.
Marco was right. At the entrance to the grotto, the boats had to wait for the smaller boats, as light and unstable as scallop shells, which collected passengers four by four, and disappeared under the low arch of the grotto. But at last their turn came.
'Into the bow,’ Marco ordered. ‘And lie down.’ He followed her deftly, pulled her down low in the rocking boat, and laid his arm across her. ‘Don’t peek up till I tell you, or you may get a nasty bump on that attractive head of yours.’
The boatman pulled his craft along by a dripping iron chain overhead, and then, suddenly, they were in complete darkness. ‘Wait, now,’ Marco breathed in her ear. His breath moved her hair. To be so close to him, to be held so tightly, crouched low in this cockleshell, made her heart thump so hard that she feared he might hear it.
Then someone started singing, and the sound echoed round the cavern. ‘I can’t see a thing,’ Jan whispered.
She felt rather than heard him chuckle. ‘Now look!’
They had turned to face the exit, and now at last she saw the breathtaking cerulean blue as the sun struck into the c
ave and lit the seemingly bottomless water, which danced with the movement of the boat.
‘Oh, it’s lovely, lovely!’ she breathed.
He kissed her ear. ‘So are you! Today suits you. You’re wearing it like a new dress.’ He chuckled again, and she knew the kiss meant nothing, only the irresistible temptation to kiss any fairly attractive girl when one’s arm was round her, one’s lips an inch from her ear. One did not attach importance to the odd kiss now and again, a light and delicate touch at a moment of special loveliness.
All too soon, the tiny boat emerged into full sunlight and made its way back to the parent craft. ‘How on earth do they remember which one?’ Jan wondered. ‘There must be a hundred people here.’
And at least half the girls, she decided, had been kissed there in the convenient darkness of the grotto. It is probably a tradition, and unlucky the girl who doesn’t find an arm round her, and a kiss for good measure. Well, I don’t care. It is one more thing to remember. One more treasure in my jewel box.
One thing making it harder to forget Marco, she reminded herself sternly. One more thorn to pierce your heart, you fool!
Back at the harbour, Marco took a taxi up to the old town of Capri, and found a table at the restaurant in the tiny piazza. ‘A pistachio ice, if I remember correctly? A large one, as it isn’t nearly time for lunch.’
They lazed half an hour away, as Marco pointed out the curious arches of the church roof, the crowds constantly moving up and down the curved steps, the little shops.
‘Decide what you would like for a souvenir,’ he ordered. ‘I intend to buy you a thank-you present for all you’ve done for Mamma.’
She smiled at him. ‘This is my present, Marco—this day. The boat, and just sitting here, and this enormous ice, and—’ she sighed contentedly. ‘Everything. This is what we think of, back in England when we say Italy. Colour, warmth, flowers, fine old churches, and people. Like that old priest with the white beard, and the woman in black with the basket of bread.’
‘You’ve been happy with me?’
