The Fires of Torretta Page 15

  She had not seen until now this aspect of Stephen’s character, this self-seeking attitude to a potential son-in-law. Suddenly Rosamund was reminded of a conversation with Erica soon after their arrival in Sicily. Erica had been lamenting that her father had smashed up her friendship with the actor, Hugo. “He’d like to get me off his hands ... if I’d marry someone of his choosing ... a bank clerk, a teacher ... a sedate civil servant ... someone to yarn with ...”

  Brent was certainly no sedate civil servant and did not exactly match either of the other categories, but eventually he might degenerate into a sober academic such as Stephen had in mind.

  Rosamund wanted to laugh at the way Erica had foreseen Stephen’s plans for her future. The girl had more perception than Rosamund had credited her with.

  “Of course, I’m telling you this in complete confidence,” Stephen reminded her. “Naturally I wouldn’t want either Erica or Brent to have the slightest inkling.”

  “Of course not. You can rely on my discretion,” she assured him.

  “I suppose there’s nothing very permanent in her friendship with Niccolo?”

  Rosamund shook her head. “I don’t think so. She finds him congenial company, that’s all.”

  “That wouldn’t be a particularly suitable match,” he observed. “Different nationalities, totally different outlooks, religion, too. The Mandellis are a most charming family, but I wouldn’t like Erica to be thinking of any more permanent relationship there. Not that it would be as disastrous as her infatuation for that actor fellow, Hugo whatever his name was.”

  “Did you dislike him personally or was it his profession that you thought not suitable?” She had long been anxious to ask that question and now she considered it an appropriate moment to venture.

  “Actually I met him only two or three times. I thought he seemed conceited and arrogant, but I’d have let that pass. No, it was his profession. I couldn’t stand the thought of Erica being mixed up in that kind of association and suffering the way—my wife—” He broke off and sighed.

  Rosamund remained silent until he decided to continue or not.

  “Erica was only a small child, but my wife’s involvement with a crowd of theatrical friends brought us all a great deal of grief. Helen liked theatre-going and that was harmless enough. She had been in an amateur drama company before we were married. But when she began to be acquainted with a few actors and actresses, she became obsessed. There was hardly a play in the West End that she didn’t go to see because one or other of her friends was acting on it. There were parties at our house—we lived in Hampstead then—and almost anyone was at liberty to gatecrash. I couldn’t join in these affairs which seemed to me to verge on the rowdy, so of course I was ridiculed as an old sobersides, a wet blanket.” He paused for a few moments and gazed at the sea, but Rosamund knew that his mind was seeing other sights.

  “You couldn’t draw her away from these friends?” she prompted.

  Stephen shook his head. "No. I probably took the wrong line. I retreated into my books, my work, and let Helen go her own way and find her own enjoyment. It was a tragic mistake, I believe, although I’m not sure that anything I really did would have had a different end. Inevitably, she became infatuated with a particular man, an actor, well known, successful and undeniably handsome. Her friends—she thought them loyal—but they didn’t hesitate to let me know that Helen was constantly being seen in this man’s company. Then the day came when she wanted her freedom. His wife was willing to divorce him and if I would do the same, Helen could be happy.”

  He paused again and Rosamund began to regret that her own simple question had aroused these painful memories for him.

  “You must have been very grieved,” she whispered.

  “I was quite shattered. It had never occurred to me that such a possibility existed. I told her that I’d consider the situation. I needed time. I reminded her of Erica, who was then about ten or eleven, but Helen seemed to care nothing for either of us. Only this man existed. Even so, perhaps the whole tangled affair would have worked out better for everyone if this actor had not suddenly deserted Helen. He had found someone else, he told her in the most callous way, and although he wanted a divorce, he wanted to marry this other woman, a younger girl than either his own wife or Helen. I felt violent. I wanted to horsewhip him, but what good would that have done? The damage was too deep for that. Helen was very ill and I took her away, first to Switzerland, then to Cornwall. Then the last chapter came. I had to travel to Edinburgh for a conference and I left Helen in the cottage we had rented. I had engaged a village woman to live in and look after my wife, but while I was away, Helen walked by the shore in the rain until she was exhausted. The tide came in and she was almost drowned, but rescued by local people. After that—pneumonia—and she died. She had lost the will to live.”

  Rosamund could not speak. She could only put her hand over Stephen’s in sympathy for his tragic loss.

  “So you see now why I’m not a theatre-lover—even though I may be merely prejudiced—but I couldn’t let Erica suffer in the way Helen did.”

  “Does Erica know all this?”

  “Oh, yes. Not at the time, of course, but when she was older. It didn’t make any difference, though, when she met this Hugo, and I have no regrets about separating her from him, however sincere or loving he might have been.”

  Rosamund now understood why he was so anxious to see his daughter settled in life with a man who would remain “Steadfast and true”, as Erica herself had phrased it. But was Brent that man? Rosamund realised that she might be judging him harshly. She believed that if and when he found a girl he really wanted to marry, then he would be as reliable as even Stephen could desire. But it might be too much to hope that eventually she would be that girl.

  She and Stephen walked back to the harbour. Both of them remained silent, each busy with individual thoughts and it was not until they met Brent and Erica by the quay that Rosamund, for her part, recovered a more normal frame of mind. She had been unutterably saddened by Stephen’s account of his personal sorrow, but now she adopted a lighter manner.

  “And did you buy the jewellery?” she asked Erica.

  The other girl laughed. “No. Brent told me not to waste my money—or my father’s—on rubbish. We went to another shop—and he bought me this.” Erica held out a little box which she opened and displayed a necklace of beaten silver leaves and tiny coral fruits.

  “Oh, that’s charming,” Rosamund said sincerely, yet at the same time the thought niggled in her mind that perhaps this small, obviously inexpensive present was made to Erica more to find favour with Stephen than his daughter. Another idea flashed through, one tinged with irritation, that Brent had no business to give Erica presents of even insignificant value if all he intended to do was give her a false impression of the strength of his feelings towards her.

  Brent did not accompany the other three back to Torretta, but apparently returned to Belpasso in his own car. As Stephen drove home, Erica was in a highly delighted mood.

  “Wasn’t it sweet of him to buy me the necklace?” she cooed. “You should also have come with us, Rosamund. He might have bought you one.”

  “Oh, don’t tell me he distributes necklaces to just any girl who happens to be handy!” Rosamund replied as lightly as she could, but even so she was aware of Stephen’s sharp turn of his head as though she had criticised Brent’s reputation.

  She concentrated next day on developing and printing the photographs, following the instructions meticulously. Tomaso had made wooden screens to fit over the windows of Brent’s cottage and she had brought a heavy curtain as a shield in case someone inadvertently opened the door.

  During the printing process she was fascinated to watch the image develop gradually and build up into a coherent picture. When the prints were fixed and dried, she took them into the villa to show Stephen.

  “At least I haven’t made a double exposure this time,” she told him with some satisfaction.
On the previous occasion when she had tried out the camera on Maria and Lucia and the cat called Whisky-soda, she had forgotten to operate the film winder and one of the prints that Brent had sent her showed a ghostly composite of Lucia and the cat along with herself and Maria.

  “Two for the price of one!” Brent had written in his note.

  “I think I can improve on the next set of prints,” she now told Stephen. “These are a little too dark.”

  “Yes, I think we’ve made good progress,” he said, examining the prints. “Good progress in all directions.”

  As Rosamund typed notes and photo captions, she wondered about that last phrase. The present that Brent had given Erica? Did Stephen believe that the relationship he hoped for was already consolidating between his daughter and the man he was trying to choose for her husband? Rosamund shivered at the prospect.

  After another week’s work Stephen declared that it was time for a rest.

  “What about a visit to Palermo?” he suggested to Erica one lunch time. “You said you wanted to see the puppet theatre.”

  “Yes, I do. Niccolo told me about it.”

  Rosamund was surprised. Here was Stephen who abominated anything concerning theatres and drama for his own personal reasons, suggesting a visit to Palermo for that purpose. Was he now so sure of Brent’s intentions towards Erica that he had no fear that she might be influenced by the theatrical background? But then she realised immediately that the actors were puppets, dressed in armour, responding to the operators who pulled the strings.

  Stephen suggested that Rosamund might telephone Brent and ask if he would like to join the party.

  “When are you planning to go?” she asked.

  “Oh, let’s say next Tuesday, shall we?”

  She did not particularly relish the task in case Brent imagined that she was over-keen for his company, but when she spoke to him at the café where he lived in Belpasso, he said he was unable to come.

  “I have to go over to Stromboli and I shall be away at least a week or ten days. Tell Stephen how sorry I am to miss it. By the way, are you taking an interpreter? You won’t understand the dialogue otherwise.”

  “Oh, yes,” she replied. “Niccolo and Adriana are coming.”

  “Good. Tell Adriana, too, that I’m sorry to miss the outing.”

  “Oh, indeed. I won’t forget!” she assured him.

  “Ah, dear Rosamund, your tone sounded just faintly cutting.”

  “Not at all! I will give your message in the most honeyed voice.”

  “How were the photographs at Acireale?” He adroitly changed the subject!

  “Not too bad. A little over-exposed, I think.”

  “Yes. Over-exposure is bad for us all. Next time use a smaller stop on the lens. The light here is stronger than you imagine.”

  After she had put down the telephone she pondered on that sentence “Over-exposure is bad for us all.” She noticed that he had tendered apologies to Adriana but made no mention of Erica. Is that what he meant by “over-exposure”? That he did not want to be too obviously or too closely associated with Erica? So he was going to Stromboli to make his absence noticeable.

  Rosamund gave it up. Long ago she had ceased to weary her brain trying to fathom Brent’s actions or speeches. If he chose to be deliberately unpredictable, that was his affair.

  Yet the thought recurred. If Stephen’s plan to bring about a marriage between Brent and Erica succeeded, how could Rosamund continue to work for Stephen? She would surely be forced to find some valid excuse for leaving Sicily. In some other place she might in time forget her own heartbreak, but to be closely involved in a day-to-day association with Brent and Erica engaged or married, that would be insupportable.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  It had been decided after discussion with Niccolo that the Palermo party would stay for three or four nights and he booked accommodation at a suitable hotel.

  “Niccolo suggested taking only one car, his own,” Stephen told Rosamund. “But I think two cars would be better. After all, if I know anything of you three girls, there will be suitcases and bags and all kinds of paraphernalia.”

  Inevitably Erica accompanied Niccolo while Stephen drove his car with Rosamund and Adriana as passengers.

  “You can drive part of the time,” Stephen observed to Rosamund with a chuckle. “You can cope with the mountain roads and the sharp bends.”

  “No fear. Adriana and I will lounge in the back, admire the scenery and treat you as our hired chauffeur.”

  Niccolo had explained the route he was taking from Taormina, skirting Etna to Randazzo, then over the mountains and through the valleys to join the north coast at Cefalu.

  “We could go via Messina and the coast road, but my way is I think more interesting and we have plenty of time. No need to hurry.”

  Rosamund was glad that a leisurely pace had been agreed, for there was opportunity to see the forests of sweet chestnut, ash and maple that clothed some of the hillsides. On the lower slopes lemon and olive groves patterned the terraces and the road hedges were brilliant with wild geraniums, roses and tall marguerites. In the small towns the gates and railings of villas were festooned with wistaria.

  Rosamund delighted in the jacaranda and judas trees that were so showily in bloom.

  “You saw the almond blossom in the spring?” queried Adriana.

  “Yes. From a distance the orchards looked like a great mass of pink sugar icing.”

  “They are over now. The blossom does not last long.”

  “No, but others follow. The peach orchards.” She indicated the misty shimmer of deep pink of an extensive orchard on one side of the road.

  “Our spring is very lovely,” said Adriana. “Primavera Siciliana, it is called.”

  It took only an hour’s drive for Rosamund to realise that Niccolo’s leisurely pace was a good deal faster than Stephen’s.

  “I’ve lost him long ago,” Stephen declared as he drove through Randazzo. “Now the right fork here, I believe, or we shall be going round and round Etna.”

  Some time later Rosamund noticed a signpost. “I don’t think it matters, but we’ve just passed a sign that said to Sant’ Agate di Militello.”

  “Where’s that? What are we doing? Going round in circles? Here, Rosamund, you’d better take the map.”

  “The place is near the coast,” put in Adriana, “but you can go along the coast road to Cefalu. It won’t matter.”

  “As long as Niccolo doesn’t stop somewhere and wait for us to catch him up,” murmured Stephen grimly.

  In the little town of Sant’ Agate at a pleasant hotel in the main street they stopped for coffee and pastries and Rosamund suggested that they could possibly spare ten minutes or so to explore part of the town.

  “I’ve been told that the women here wear their special local costumes every day, not only for festive occasions.”

  This seemed to be true, for most of the women shopping were clad in long black pleated mantles and as they walked the flash of a red or blue embroidered apron could be seen over a black dress.

  “There are many small towns in Sicily where all the costumes can be seen,” Adriana remarked. “But now the young ones do not like to wear the old-fashioned clothes, but only up-to-date styles. It is a pity, I think.”

  “So do I,” agreed Rosamund. “Have you a local costume?”

  “Oh, yes. I am proud to have one for Taormina.”

  “You must wear it some time. I should like to see it. I always feel so disappointed that at home we have so little in the way of English native costume.”

  “The Scots have the kilt and the Welsh women their stovepipe hats,” put in Stephen, “but all we seem to have is a kind of Farmer Giles’ smock and a dairymaid outfit for women.”

  Rosamund giggled. “Some countries are under the impression that all our farmers still go about in smocks and gaiters.”

  She took the wheel when they resumed the journey. “I can hardly go wrong with the sea on one side
and the land on the other.”

  When they approached Cefalu, Adriana pointed out the great rock rising behind the town. “You see it is shaped like a head lying down for sunbathing. That is why it has that name.”

  Rosamund saw the resemblance, a huge rose and mauve rock, its sides jaggedly vertical and then superimposed on top the enormous profile of a head.

  “Any idea where we might meet Niccolo?” she asked.

  “Not exactly,” answered Stephen. “Drive along the main street and see if there’s a car park. He’ll probably be there.”

  “Do we know where we’re to have lunch?”

  “He spoke of a restaurant called the Flying Fish, so we ought to be able to find that.”

  Erica and Niccolo were in fact waiting near the car park.

  “We thought you were lost in the mountains!” exclaimed Erica.

  Niccolo’s face showed concern. “We were worried,” he said quietly, addressing Rosamund. “We thought perhaps an accident had happened.”

  “No. I merely took the wrong turning,” explained Stephen. “But here we are and I’m famished for a morsel of lunch.”

  Niccolo conducted the rest to the Flying Fish, a restaurant adorned outside and inside with ludicrous representations of all kinds of fish with wings.

  Afterwards, Niccolo led them through narrow streets paved in patterns of different colour stone, sometimes small diamonds or octagons or fish. The Cathedral of pinkish-cream stone stood in a piazza flanked by feathery palms and was approached up a three-sided flight of stone steps.

  “It is a Norman church,” explained Niccolo, “built when the Normans were our masters in Sicily.”

  “They left a good legacy,” murmured Stephen.

  Rosamund noticed that the tall towers on either side of the main entrance were not exactly identical; there were differences in style in the top turrets and in the moulding of the decoration.

  “Was one built at a later date?” she asked Niccolo.