by Anne Mather
‘I know what you’re going to say, and I won’t accept it,’ the other girl stated fiercely, pushing back her chair. ‘Raf will listen to you, if he’ll listen to anyone. Please, Jaime, don’t let me down! You’re the only person I can trust.’
Jaime was relieved when Nicola told her she was going to rest after lunch. ‘I still feel a bit queasy,’ she confessed, although how she could after what she had just eaten, Jaime did not know. However, it did give Jaime the opportunity to have time to collect her thoughts, and when Nicola had gone upstairs, she stepped out into the blazing heat of the afternoon.
A somnolent haze lay over the castle. Even the birds’ song seemed muted in the still air, and the buzzing insects were the only active things that she could see. Across the river below her, cattle grazed lazily in the lush green pasture, and the occasional car that passed on the road to Vaggio seemed to be moving at a snail’s pace.
Jaime sighed. If only her thoughts could respond to their surroundings! Instead, her brain was whirling from trying to come to terms with her situation, and her blood still ran hotly after giving in to that bout of retrospection. It was no use telling herself that the past was dead when it still had the power to disturb her. Emotions were like embers; once stirred, they flared into faltering life, and she had to take care they did not consume her in their flames.
She prepared for dinner that evening with real reluctance. The memory of the scene between Rafaello and Nicola she had been forced to witness at lunchtime was still uppermost in her thoughts, and she dreaded another confrontation over dinner. Perhaps she could make some excuse for not joining them, she pondered, as she took a cooling shower, but the realisation of how futile this would be quickly doused her enthusiasm. After all, she had come here to help Nicola, not to shy away at the first obstacle.
She dressed in a pair of clinging silk pants that moulded her long shapely legs. To go with them there was a sleeveless tunic, with side lacings and a narrow gold belt that accentuated the full curve of her breasts. The colour, a deep shade of violet, flattered the faint tan that already glowed on her face and arms, and a dark mascara gave her eyes a silvery gleam. Her hair presented the most problems. It was too warm an evening to leave its weight loose about her shoulders, but she was bored with keeping it in its coil at her nape. Instead she secured the silken strands in a single braid, looping it behind her ear, where gold circles cast their own lustre.
It was a little after a quarter to eight when she went downstairs, her pulses quickening unwillingly at the sight of lamplight spilling from the open doors of the library. This was a scenario she had never expected to have to play out, and although she told herself it was only nerves, she was uneasy.
She halted at the doorway to the library, looking inside with some trepidation. Walls of books formed a backcloth for a heavy oak desk and two high-backed armchairs, but in spite of the tray of drinks residing on a polished cabinet, the room appeared to be empty. She was about to turn away when one of the armchairs turned on its axis, and as she watched, Rafaello rose from its worn leather depths and came towards her. In a dark red velvet dinner jacket, he was once again the detached individual who had met her at Pisa airport, and the muscles of her face stiffened as his chilling eyes appraised her.
‘Can I offer you a drink?’ he enquired, and accepting his unspoken invitation, Jaime stepped reluctantly into the room.
‘Campari, thank you,’ she acknowledged, linking her slightly damp fingers together.-’I—where’s Nicola? Isn’t she down yet?’
‘My wife will not be joining us.’ Rafaello put down his own glass to attend to Jaime’s requirements. ‘Would you like soda?’
‘Just a little.’ Jaime caught her lower lip between her teeth. ‘Er—is Nicola all right? She’s not been sick again?’
‘Not to my knowledge,’ affirmed Rafaello coolly, handing her a tall glass. ‘I am sorry if my undiluted company is a bore to you. I will endeavour to avoid any embarrassing topics.’
Jaime pressed her lips together, taking the glass from him but making no attempt to taste the liquid it contained. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said tightly. ‘It’s I who should apologise. I had no idea my coming here would cause so much unpleasantness.’
‘Did you not?’ Rafaello had retrieved his glass and now stood, resting his hips against the desk. ‘Oh, I am pretty sure you knew exactly how much unpleasantness your coming here would cause. And I wish you to leave as soon as possible.’
Jaime caught her breath. ‘Was that what you wanted to say to me this morning?’
‘Among other things,’ conceded Rafaello bleakly, bowing his head. ‘However, you chose not to listen to my feelings in the matter. Consequently, I am forced to tell you in the plainest words possible.’
Jaime felt suddenly angry. Here she was, trying to make excuses for being here, to a man who was treating her as if she had wanted to come. Rafaello should at least respect her honesty. Or had he become so immured to lies, he couldn’t recognise the truth when he heard it?
‘I think you’ve said quite enough,’ she exclaimed, steeling herself to face his wrath. ‘I don’t like being here any more than you like my company. I can think of a dozen things I’d rather be doing right at this moment!’
‘And with someone else,’ Rafaello interrupted her scornfully, so that Jaime completely lost her temper.
‘Yes, if you must know,’ she retorted hotly. ‘I’m used to being treated as an equal, not as an inferior. You may get away with that with Nicola, but you won’t get away with it with me! No wonder she came to me, begging for my help and my support. My God, you’re an anachronism, do you know that? You stand there, laying down your laws, and expect everyone else to fall over themselves to obey you!’
Rafaello’s features were rigid, and for a moment she feared he intended to do her some physical harm. He took an involuntary step towards her, froze into an attitude of dark menace—and then, as if compelled by some inner force, he turned away.
‘Another drink?’ he offered stiffly, careless of the fact that she had not even tried the Campari that she held, and Jaime expelled the breath, she had unknowingly been holding, to shake her head.
‘No. I mean—this is fine,’ she muttered, finally making an effort to swallow the liquid. ‘Thank you.’
The maid’s arrival to announce that dinner was ready was hardly a diversion. Seated in the dining room, alone with Rafaello at the table, Jaime wished she had known Nicola would not be joining them. But apparently the other girl had no qualms about leaving her husband and her friend together, and it was left to Jaime to wonder exactly what she expected her to say. Whatever it was, Jaime knew she had little hope of appealing to Rafaello’s better judgment this evening. She had successfully destroyed what little chance she might have had of convincing him of her impartiality, and looking at him now, she wondered how Nicola had ever expected she could.
When the plates containing the main courses had been removed and a dish of fruit and several varieties of cheese had been set before them, Rafaello chose to break the uneasy silence between them.
‘This cheese is produced not far from here,’ he declared, forking a creamy-white cube on to her plate. ‘Cheese is an important part of an Italian meal, as witness its addition to soups and pastas, and of course, as it is now, with good wine and—good conversation.’
Jaime cast a wary look in his direction. ‘You’re joking, of course.’
‘You do not find the wine to your taste?’ His dark eyes were enigmatic. ‘It is from our own vineyards, a vintage I have long been fond of.’
‘I wasn’t talking about the wine, and you know it,’ said Jaime unsteadily. ‘Oh, what am I supposed to say? That I’m sorry? That I was rude? I was, I know it. But you get me so—so—–’
‘Angry?’
‘Frustrated,’ declared Jaime helplessly. ‘You won’t listen to reason. You make your own interpretation of the situation, and you refuse to be moved from it.’
‘So—–’ Rafaello poure
d himself more wine, and then raised the glass towards her. The lamplight glinted on cut glass and dark red wine, and cast shadows over his taut features. ‘We will call a truce, hmm? You may keep your secrets and I will keep mine. But for now, we will forget our differences and discuss the impersonal things that two people who have not seen one another for so many years might discuss.’
Jaime expelled her breath. ‘Can we do that?’
‘We can try,’ he averred, his tone hardening slightly. He swallowed his wine. ‘Come, we will have coffee in the library, then Maria can clear the table.’
Ensconced in an armchair in the library, Jaime felt no less on edge. The truce, such as it was, was a fragile thing, and she couldn’t help remembering how violent Rafaello’s anger could be. She could only hope to divert him from their differences, for tonight at least, and tomorrow, if Nicola was still adamant, she would have to think of some new way to approach him.
In fact, the remainder of the evening was not unpleasant. Released from the necessity of finding ways of combating Rafaello’s hostility, Jaime found it increasingly easy to talk to him. With the barriers of the past put aside for a few hours, it was not difficult to discuss her work and the cosmetics industry in general, touching briefly on their plans for the future, which included Martin’s idea of promoting a line of clothes to complement their product.
‘Mary Quant did it,’ she explained, ‘and other manufacturers have followed suit. What we would hope to achieve is a Helena Holt image; clothes, make-up; hair, too, if we can manage it. There’s even talk of moving into masculine territory, with a range of clothes and cosmetics suitable to Helena Holt’s male counterpart.’
Rafaello shook his head. ‘Paris Holt,’ one would assume,’ he remarked dryly, and Jaime looked blank. ‘Helen of Troy,’ he explained mockingly. ‘It was Paris who eloped with her, wasn’t it?’
‘Oh—–’ Jaime gurgled with laughter. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. But no. Somehow, I can’t see boys going for the Paris look! I thought something more like Knight-errant or Paladin. Paladin, preferably. Something short and recognisable, and totally masculine.’
‘Why not Stag or Toro—they are short enough for you, are they not?’
‘But not very subtle,’ said Jaime ruefully.
‘No.’ Rafaello bent his head. ‘Subtlety was never my strongest suit.’ His dark eyes flickered briefly over her face. ‘Can I offer you another drink?’
‘Oh—no, thank you.’ With a determined effort Jaime got to her feet, stepping back abruptly when he followed her example. ‘I think—I think it’s time I went to bed. I am rather—tired. It’s been a—-long day.’
‘An unusual day,’ conceded Rafaello, with a tight smile. ‘I have enjoyed our conversation, Jaime. It is obvious why you are so successful in your job, why you like it so much. I doubt any man could hope to compete.’
But lying awake much later Jaime wondered why what he had said no longer seemed so entirely convincing. She did enjoy her work, she was proud of her achievements, and until coming here, she had had no self-doubts.
She sighed. Perhaps it was not so unnatural that she should question her convictions here, when she had been thrown into the company of the one man who had ever threatened her beliefs. There was little use in labouring the point that if she had known what Nicola had expected of her, she would not have come. Nicola had been desperate, and suicidal. How could Jaime have ignored her appeal, in whatever terms it was couched? Rafaello’s involvement had seemed inevitable, but no way could she have guessed exactly what had gone wrong with their marriage. She pushed her fist into the pillow in an effort to make herself more comfortable, and determinedly prepared herself for sleep. Tomorrow, she thought, with grim resolution, tomorrow she would find a way to broach Nicola’s demands …
But she didn’t.
When tomorrow dawned, warm and sunny and full of expectation, it brought with it a message from Rafaello, inviting her to a tour of the vineyard. ‘If you are interested,’ the note Lucia delivered ended, and Jaime guessed he half expected her to refuse.
‘Er—vorrei venire,’ she told the maid, groping for the few words of Italian she had picked up from a phrase book. ‘Grazie.’
‘Di niente, signorina.’ Lucia smiled and departed, and Jaime hastily scrambled into her clothes.
Downstairs, the smell of freshly-brewed coffee drew her to the dining room, but as on the previous morning, it seemed she was to breakfast alone. Only Maria hovered about the table, putting the finishing touches to a neatly-folded napkin and adjusting the gleaming silver cutlery to her satisfaction.
‘Ah, buon giorno, signorina,’ she greeted Jaime with some warmth. ‘Il conte says you will eat something before you leave. You wish anything more?’
Jaime surveyed the table helplessly. With a dish of rolls warming over a flame, and curls of creamy butter residing beside some of the delicious conserve she had tasted the day before, she could think of nothing she would enjoy more.
‘This is fine, Maria,’ she affirmed, smiling at the old woman. ‘Molte grazie.’
‘Prego, prego,’ Maria assured her with evident relief, and Jaime couldn’t help wondering how Nicola could have alienated these friendly people.
‘Count di Vaggio?’ she queried, as Maria made for the door. ‘He—won’t be joining me?’
‘Il conte, he have breakfast an hour ago, signorina,’ Maria replied apologetically. ‘Salute.’
Jaime did enjoy the meal. It had been the one period of the previous day when she had been allowed to eat in comfort, without the ever-present awareness of her hosts, and she did not fool herself that today would be any different. In consequence, she was still sitting over her second cup of coffee when Rafaello appeared, but for once he did not greet her with his usual aggression.
‘You ride?’ he enquired, after offering a formal salutation, and Jaime was too bemused to prevaricate.
‘A little,’ she admitted, realising that was the meaning of his casual attire, and Rafaello expelled his breath with satisfaction.
‘Then—if you are ready?’ he invited, gesturing towards the door, and smoothing her palms down over the seams of her narrow-legged jeans, Jaime acquiesced.
The animal Rafaello had chosen for her to ride was called Elsa. She was a beautiful chestnut mare, long-limbed but docile, he assured her, springing into the saddle of the black stallion Lorenzo had told her about the day before. An elderly groom had held the mare’s head while Jaime swung herself on to its back, and she was relieved that the arrogant chauffeur was not a knowing witness to her ineptitude.
‘Relax,’ said Rafaello, as they moved out of the stable yard. ‘You are holding the reins as if you expected them to be torn from your grasp. I have told you, Elsa will not alarm you. She is too old to—how do you English say it?—learn new tricks, no?’
Jaime grimaced. ‘I’m not sure whether I like that or not,’ she exclaimed, allowing her knees to relax their grip only fractionally, and Rafaello’s lazy smile appeared.
‘What? Would you have had me mount you on Raffica or Diabolo?’
‘If Diabolo means what I think it means, then no!’ declared Jaime fervently. She looked about her with more confidence. ‘How far is it to the vineyard? Do you always go on horseback?’
‘Sometimes yes, sometimes no,’ he admitted, allowing Primato his head. ‘Come, we go this way. I will show you the land my ancestors fought and died to retain.’
The morning passed much too quickly. It was years since Jaime had been on a horse, and although she suspected she might feel stiff the next day, she soon lost all feeling of nervousness. In no time at all she was encouraging Elsa into a canter, and fretting a little impatiently when the placid creature refused to respond as energetically as she could have wished.
In the woods below the castle, the air was still sharp and crisp, but out on the slanting hillside, the sun soon disposed of the dew sparkling on the grass. A track led through the woods and down to where terraces of vines formed a livi
ng shelter for their juicy burden. Acres of the grape-producing plants spread their mantle over the sloping ground, tended by a handful of workers, whose job it was to ensure that no pest or plant disease struck the vines before harvesting could take place.
‘Did you know it is the carbon dioxide in the air that penetrates the leaves of the vine and ultimately provides the sugar from which wine is derived?’ Rafaello asked as, after tethering their horses, they walked along the rows of growing plants. ‘See,’ he added, pointing to the burgeoning fruit on the stem, ‘it is important that the grapes are not permitted to absorb too much sugar before they are picked. To be successful, it is necessary to keep a constant check on the levels of glucose, and something called fructose, in the fruit. Nowadays, thank goodness, it is possible to use modern technology to achieve the required result. It was not always so easy.’
Jaime was intrigued. ‘I suppose you don’t tread the grapes any more either,’ she teased, as they emerged near the storage sheds, and was rewarded by Rafaello’s attractive smile.
‘Regrettably not,’ he conceded, looking down at his booted feet. ‘But if you were here at harvest time, I might be able to—–’
Jaime looked away from the sudden, and unidentifiable, emotion that darkened his eyes as he broke off. The moment was charged and dangerous, and to escape the unwelcome racing of her pulses, she went into the nearest storage shed, wrinkling her nose at the stale atmosphere. The shed was empty at present, a few empty casks all that remained of the previous year’s vintage, and she took a few deep breaths to dispel a more bitter image.
‘We should go back.’
Rafaello’s voice behind her brought her round with a start, and she put an involuntary hand to her throat as she glimpsed his harsh expression in the gloom. ‘What you mean is—we shouldn’t,’ she responded, pushing past him, and for once the brilliant sunlight did not have the strength to warm her.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘So what did you talk about?’
It was later that day, and Nicola had cornered Jaime after lunch and insisted she accompany her on a shopping trip into Vaggio su Ravino. Now, they were seated in the little tea-rooms overlooking the small square of the town, and Nicola was presently forking the last morsel of Jaime’s unwanted pastry.
