The Fires of Torretta Page 2

  Erica watched the car drive away, then turned to Rosamund. “Well? So at least one of them was tall, dark and handsome, just as you said.”

  “And Papa wasn’t really the old crock you expected.”

  “I wish I’d worn something more exciting than this old purple rag,” Erica murmured as she entered the hotel foyer. “You had more sense and togged up a bit.”

  “Perhaps togged up too much,” Rosamund confessed. “I looked as though I expected to be taken dancing in a palace full of mirrors and chandeliers.”

  Stephen now caught up with them and put his arm around his daughter’s shoulders. “Oh, this was an excellent evening. I have carte blanche to go any time I like and browse in Signor Mandelli’s library.” He glanced down towards her. “You looked very charming in that dress, my dear. Is it a new one? Mandelli complimented me on my beautiful daughter.”

  Erica gave Rosamund a hopeless smile. “I can’t win,” she muttered.

  Stephen was no longer listening. His mind was full of his projected research and the help he would undoubtedly receive from Signor Mandelli.

  In Niccolo’s car next day Erica chattered lightheartedly to him as he drove, while Rosamund sat with Stephen in the back.

  The Villa Mandelli was, as Rosamund had expected, large and handsome. Its cream stone walls, flower-decorated balconies and carved traceries above the windows gave it an air of welcoming charm and dignity. The gardens were laid out in no straightforward fashion, for around a clump of ilex trees one came to a hidden lawn with a fountain and a stone bench, or a winding path led to a stone balustrade from which there was a view of the bays of Taormina and Giardini, with the snow-capped cone of Mount Etna against a sapphire sky.

  Signora Mandelli received her guests graciously and apologised for her faulty grasp of English. “But soon we shall eat, and food speaks all the languages,” she said.

  The daughter, Adriana, appeared to be unduly quiet and submissive. During lunch Rosamund regarded the Italian girl’s striking beauty of face. Dark eyes like those of her brother Niccolo, but without his humorous sparkle; dark hair worn smooth over the ears and twisted into a knot; delicately-modelled features and a clear skin like the petals of a creamy rose. Rosamund could hardly take her gaze off this lovely young creature, yet wondered why there was such an air of lifelessness about her. Perhaps Adriana was shy at meeting people for the first time.

  After lunch Stephen and the two girls were escorted on a tour of the villa and when he came to the large, book-lined library he exclaimed with enthusiasm.

  “Marvellous! More than I could dream of finding here in the island.” He was examining the spines, grunting occasionally with pleasure when he recognised a familiar title or author.

  After Erica and Rosamund had seen some of the other rooms, Erica returned to where her father was engrossed in a large volume.

  “Come along, Father,” she urged. “We have to look at this villa you’ve insisted on renting.”

  “Yes, of course.” He shut the book and joined the rest of the party.

  Rosamund who had been near Erica then was pleased and relieved that the girl was at last showing some interest in staying in Sicily, even if that interest had been sparked off only by the possible proximity of Niccolo as a near neighbour.

  “There is a road for cars,” explained Niccolo as he led the group through the garden, “but this way is quicker.”

  The path was steep and winding, but not unreasonably rough or overgrown and soon Niccolo opened an iron gate set in a hedge of hibiscus.

  Stephen had a set of keys and opened the main door.

  “Gloomy!” was Erica’s verdict.

  The rooms were dark because the heavy blinds were drawn and the furniture was shrouded in covers, but Rosamund remembered from her earlier lightning visit that she had gathered the impression that the villa would be comfortable to live in.

  “It will be sunny enough when it is put in order for you,” Niccolo told her.

  “You will perhaps require some heating at nights,” pointed out Signor Augusto. “You understand that the owner does not come here in the winter or spring, but only for a few weeks in the summer.”

  “Yes, I shall have to look into that.”

  “There is electricity, so you could have some fires,” suggested Niccolo.

  “Perhaps there are electric fires stored away somewhere,” put in Rosamund. “The caretaker would know about that.”

  “Yes, I thought he might be here to meet us, but he may not know we are here,” replied Stephen.

  “I’ll go and see if I can find him or his wife,” Rosamund offered.

  The cottage, if it could be called that, was behind the villa, screened by a vine-covered trellis. It was small, one-storey and probably contained only a couple of rooms. The door was open and she knocked lightly on the wood. Coming out of the bright sunlight into the dark interior, she could discern only the vague outlines of table and chairs, a dresser holding a few pieces of crockery and a pile of books.

  She called out softly, but there was no reply and diffidently she entered another room containing a bed, a chest of drawers and a ragged armchair. As she stepped outside the cottage she could now hear the sounds of someone clanging a piece of metal and she walked towards an outhouse close by.

  In her best Italian she asked the stooping figure if he were the caretaker.

  He swung round so quickly that she stepped backwards and almost tripped over a piece of iron on the floor. He gave a questioning grunt that might have been Italian or any language.

  She could not see his face and she timidly repeated her question, adding that perhaps he was the gardener. Probably she had used the wrong word for “caretaker”.

  Now he moved closer and she saw his features were those of a young man, although at this moment smeared with dirt and grease.

  “Wouldn’t it be better if you spoke in English and told me exactly what you want?”

  Relief mingled with annoyance as she realised that at least he spoke English.

  “Evidently you’re not the caretaker of the villa, but perhaps you could tell me where I can find him.”

  “Isn’t he about somewhere? What do you want him for?”

  “We want to know if there are any electric fires in the villa.”

  By now she had stepped outside the shed and he accompanied her, still holding what looked like a large old-fashioned brass lamp. He frowned and the smears of dirt on his face made him look positively Satanic.

  “Why?”

  She had no idea who this tall English-speaking man might be, but if he adopted that pugnacious attitude, she could match it.

  “For the simple reason that we shall need heating at nights.”

  “We? What does that mean?”

  She schooled herself into a patient attitude. “I don’t know who you are, but I must explain that we—that is, Professor Holford and his daughter have taken the Villa Delfino for a year.”

  “A year! You’re renting it? Coming here to live?”

  “I’m sorry if that displeases you,” she said coldly. “Or are you the owner?”

  “No. But I should have been told about that.”

  “The documents were only signed yesterday, so perhaps there wasn’t time. Does it matter very much to you?”

  “It matters a great deal,” he said tersely. “I’ve rented that little hut along there and paid six months in advance.”

  “The estate agent didn’t mention the matter. He said that a couple lived in the cottage and would look after the garden and the wife would do the cooking.”

  The man smiled. “Tomaso and Maria! They’ve been living in the house for months.”

  “Oh!” Here was a situation that Rosamund had not expected. “What do we do now?”

  “That’s for you and your father to decide, but—”

  “He’s not my father,” she corrected him. “I’m only—”

  “I’m not in the least concerned with your relationship,” he retorted,
“but I can assure you that I’m not being turned out.”

  “We have not yet suggested that.” Her tone was icy. “No doubt we shall be able to come to some arrangement. If you can tell me where I may find Tomaso, I won’t detain you any further from your—work.”

  He laughed. “Don’t be so contemptuous about my present task! I’m trying to make this old lamp work. You realise, of course, that the cottage has no electricity and only one small oil lamp. Otherwise, I use candles.”

  “No, I didn’t know that.”

  “Come, Miss—Whatever-it-is—and I’ll show you over my palatial little country residence. Then perhaps you might understand why Tomaso and Maria prefer to live in the villa.”

  He walked towards the cottage and after a moment’s hesitation she followed him.

  “Since we are to live here for a year, I would prefer you to know my name, Mr. Whoever-you-are. It’s Rosamund Earle. With an ‘e’,” she added.

  He swung round towards her. “Mine’s Stanton. Brent Stanton.” His eyes held a glint of humour. Then he frowned. “Did I hear you say you’d be here for a year?”

  “Subject to your objections, of course.”

  “Good grief! How many of you?”

  Rosamund smiled frostily. “You need not be alarmed. There are three of us, the professor and his daughter and myself. I am—”

  She was about to disclose that she was Stephen’s secretary, but decided that her professional status was no concern of this stranger. In any case, he had now pushed open the cottage door and waited for her to enter.

  The two rooms were poorly furnished, as she had gathered from her first hasty glimpse. Stone floors, rough wooden table and chairs, small, uncurtained windows did not exactly add up to a degree of comfort.

  “No heating,” he said. “I intend to bring an oil stove. The nights can be quite chilly. That was one reason why Tomaso decided to move his quarters. His wife, Maria, was ill all last winter and for part of the cold months that have just gone. So he thought it was wasteful to have the whole of the villa standing idle most of the year.”

  “What part do they occupy? We saw no signs of anyone.”

  Brent Stanton chuckled. “They probably made themselves as scarce as possible when they found you were coming. But they’re a good couple and they’ll have done no damage, I assure you. Tomaso takes a pride in the garden and his chief concern is the health of his wife.”

  “Well, I shall have to sort out the situation,” Rosamund decided. “Probably we can arrange for them to stay in the villa. There’s plenty of room.”

  “I’m told that the owner of the villa usually likes to stay here a month or two in the summer. What then?”

  “That’s not happening this year. Everything has been arranged. But—may I ask, without undue curiosity, why you are living here in such discomfort?”

  “Oh, I don’t live here all the time. This is just a week-end retreat and a place where I can bring my work for a few days and be undisturbed. At least, that’s what I thought it was going to be. Apparently I’m now mistaken.”

  “Have no fear, Mr. Stanton, that any of us will disturb you at any time. Now I must go and see if I can find Tomaso or Maria. Buon giorno.” She walked smartly away towards the villa, but was aware that he was watching her from the door of the cottage.

  After a moment she heard him call out “Arrivederci”, but she refused to return that parting salutation. His presence, even if only for week-ends, set a problem that had not been foreseen and she had no wish to meet him more often than absolutely necessary.

  Stephen and the rest of the party were outside the front door when Rosamund returned.

  “You’ve been an age!” greeted Erica. “We thought you’d gone down to the beach to sample the bathing.”

  “And are there any electric fires anywhere?” Stephen’s query was more to the point. “Did you find the caretaker?”

  “No,” muttered Rosamund. In her encounter with the unexpected extra tenant, she had completely forgotten the purpose of her visit to the cottage. “He’s probably in the villa somewhere,” she added.

  “It does not matter at this moment,” put in Niccolo. “There are no power points for the fires. We have looked in the rooms.”

  “That means we shall have to consult the agents and ask the owner’s permission to have points put in,” Stephen said. “Unfortunate delays all the time.”

  “Perhaps it won’t take too long,” pointed out Rosamund.

  “Does that mean that we can’t move in here soon?” asked Erica.

  “I don’t know. I’ll have to think out the position,” her father replied.

  “There is an easy way out,” suggested Niccolo, with an oblique glance at Erica. “You could all come and stay in our villa while the alterations are being done. In that way, the professor would lose no time if he wanted to work on his studies.”

  Rosamund caught a glimpse of Erica’s delighted expression. The brief acquaintance with Niccolo had evidently worked wonders in changing the girl’s attitude towards a prolonged stay in or near Taormina.

  “Well, I wouldn’t want to trespass on your hospitality,” began Stephen, but Signor Augusto clapped him on the shoulder.

  “Think no more of it. We have far more rooms than we need most of the time unless we have birthday parties or other celebrations. You are most welcome, all of you, to stay as long as you like.”

  Stephen and the rest of the party drifted back to the Mandelli villa, but Rosamund stayed behind to make another search for the caretaker couple. “They may be away for the day,” she told the professor, “but I’ll look again and see if I can find them. In any case, we ought to know exactly what sort of duties they will undertake for us and when they are prepared to start.”

  She made no mention of the information she had already acquired. In any case, that was secondhand and she preferred to approach the couple direct.

  She searched the kitchens again. Everywhere was scrupulously clean and tidy. She opened cupboards that held stacks of crockery and glassware; in one there were small amounts of food; flour, sugar, oil and coffee. She tried another cupboard door that was either locked or unduly stiff. Finally she wrenched it open and gave a low whistle of surprise. In this small room, probably intended for stores of one kind or another, was a bed, covered with a thick rug, a tiny table with a mirror and a small crucifix, and a couple of wooden chairs.

  Rosamund smiled. So this was the hideout of Tomaso and Maria. With all the villa to choose from, they had shown sense in opting for a place close to the kitchen and likely to be warmer than anywhere else.

  But where were Tomaso and Maria? What had happened to them? Were they so frightened that they had temporarily run away? There was probably only one way to find out, and she did not relish the task of approaching Brent Stanton a second time.

  She went to the outhouse where he had been working on the brass lamp, but the door was now shut. She decided to try the cottage and if no one was there, she would slip away as quickly as possible.

  But the door opened almost immediately to her knock and, as she had expected, he was standing there. His face was rather cleaner than on the first occasion, but she thought he had done no more than rub a rag over to take off the worst of the oil and dirt streaks.

  “Ah! Miss—er—Earle. Is there something I can do for you?”

  His dark grey eyes challenged her.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you again, and I’m not asking for favours. I’m still trying to find Tomaso and his wife.”

  He now pulled the door wide open. “Come in—and meet them.”

  He spoke a couple of rapid Italian sentences to the couple who sat apprehensively at the small table. Then he introduced Rosamund.

  Tomaso and Maria both rose, the man nervously holding a cap in his hands, the woman curtseying in acknowledgement.

  “Now, Miss Earle, I’m not going to have you badger these two. They’re entitled to decent, proper quarters in the house and shouldn’t be expec
ted to rough it in a place only fit for—”

  “Fit for someone like you?” she queried.

  His mouth curved in a half-smile. “I was going to say fit for temporary occupation, but you can supply other phrases if you choose.”

  “Thank you. I don’t make hasty judgements—fortunately. Let me make it clear that I—or we—have no intention of badgering or bullying Tomaso and his wife. They’re welcome to remain in the house, even though we may have to offer them different rooms, but we’ll arrange about that later.”

  “You seem to be very much in command. Does the professor give you authority to cope with the domestic details? I should have thought his daughter might have had some say in the matter.”

  “For all you know,” she retorted, “his daughter might be only a child of ten or twelve, and whatever her age, it’s none of your business.”

  “Agreed.” He bowed his head in mock humility.

  Tomaso and Maria were looking anxiously from Brent Stanton to Rosamund, unable to grasp the gist of this conversation.

  “Signore—” broke in Tomaso.

  Brent Stanton put a hand on the man’s shoulder and spoke soothingly.

  “Well? What do you want them to do?” he now asked Rosamund.

  “Apparently we have to arrange with the agent and the owner about electric heating, so we may not be able to move in for a few days at least, possibly even a week or two. Could you tell Tomaso and Maria that they’re welcome to live in the room they have been occupying?”

  At the mention of their names, the couple glanced from Rosamund to Brent Stanton, anxious questions in their dark eyes.

  Brent Stanton apparently reassured them and they smiled with relief. Tomaso clasped Rosamund’s hand in both his own and thanked her.

  “There’s one other thing,” said Brent Stanton. “Tomaso is worried about the money—he means the rent for letting this little hovel. I’ve told him it doesn’t matter. In any case, his wages as gardener and caretaker in the owner’s absence are scarcely enough to keep body and soul together.”

  “I’ll discuss that with the professor,” Rosamund promised. “Naturally, we expect to pay Tomaso and Maria for their services when we’re living here.”