The Fires of Torretta Read online

  “They’ll give you good value for every lira you give them,” Brent Stanton told her.

  She explained that she must now go back to the villa or the professor would be wondering where she had lost herself.

  “Naturally,” agreed Brent Stanton with a sardonic grin. “You’re a valuable part of his household set-up.”

  She paid no attention to that parting sneer. When she rejoined Stephen Holford, he was standing outside the front door of the villa, a bunch of keys in his hand.

  “Oh, there you are!”

  “Sorry I’ve been such a long time again,” she apologised. “At least I’ve discovered Tomaso and Maria this time.”

  He locked the front door. “Good. What are they like?”

  “Middle-aged, pleasant enough. I think we shall find them useful and willing.” She walked beside him up the path to the Villa Mandelli. “Stephen, there’s something you ought to know,” she began.

  “Yes?”

  “To start with, they’ve been living in the villa all the winter—and their little cottage, if you can call it that, is let to a young man, a Mr. Stanton.”

  Stephen stopped abruptly. “Let? Well, we weren’t told that by the agent.”

  “No. It was a kind of private arrangement between Tomaso and Mr. Stanton. In any base, he’s only there at week-ends.”

  “He’s English?”

  “Yes, I suppose so. He’s not Italian, although he speaks the language fluently.”

  “H’m. I don’t know whether I really wanted a close neighbour. What does he do? What sort of work?”

  Rosamund laughed. “I haven’t had an opportunity to ask him yet.” Inwardly she was amused at the kind of answer she would receive if she dared to pry into Brent Stanton’s business or professional interests.

  “Oh, well, we shall have to adjust all these matters later,” returned the professor. “Erica was not too disappointed with the villa, was she?”

  “No. I think she’ll adapt herself to the idea of living here.” Rosamund reflected that the presence of Niccolo Mandelli as a near neighbour might do much to compensate Erica for the loss of bright lights and a whirl of gaieties in a large city.

  Arrangements were made with Signora Mandelli that the Holfords and Rosamund would leave their Taormina hotel at the end of the week and stay at the Villa Mandelli while their own villa, Delfino, was made ready for occupation.

  Niccolo drove the three back to Taormina in the early evening. Outside the hotel, Erica alighted in a hurry, and murmured a quiet “See you later,” to Niccolo.

  She came to Rosamund’s bedroom while the latter was dressing.

  “I’m going out to dinner with Niccolo,” she announced. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  “I? Certainly not. But your father—?”

  “M’m.” Erica fidgeted with a hairbrush on the dressing table. “I thought you might perhaps explain to him for me.”

  Rosamund gave the other girl a sharp glance. “There’s no reason why you can’t tell your father straightforwardly. If he has to learn about it at second hand through me, he’ll quite likely suspect that you—or even Niccolo—have something to hide. It’s no good being so devious.”

  Erica flushed. “Well, he’s been so horrible and forbidding about Hugo that I—I’m a little bit afraid.”

  “Oh, nonsense!” snapped Rosamund. “You’re not afraid at all. Just cowardly. Now all you have to say to your father is that Niccolo has invited you out for the evening. You can make it sound like an old-fashioned Italian custom that after lunch at his house, he takes you out to dinner.”

  Erica smiled. “All right. But if Father turns nasty “He won’t. He’s in an excellent mood after being invited to stay with the Mandellis for a couple of weeks. He just can’t wait to be let loose in their extensive library. In any case, that’s another reason why you want to be on good terms with him. Niccolo may suggest other outings and you may want to accept them.”

  Erica nodded. “Yes, I see your point.” For a moment or two she stared across the room. Then she bent towards Rosamund and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “You’re a marvel, Rosamund. Always full of good sense—and what makes it better, you never seem to be jealous or mean.”

  Rosamund laughed. “Don’t try me too far. You never know when I might show my claws and scream with jealousy.”

  After Erica had hurried away to finish dressing, Rosamund smiled at her own reflection in the mirror. Never jealous or mean? So far she had not been attracted to any of Erica’s acquaintances; Hugo was little more than a playboy in every sense of the word and Niccolo Mandelli could hardly be blamed for acting with courtesy towards a future guest. Yet there was no guarantee that Rosamund might be immune from the most bitter feelings of resentment of rivalry if the situation arose where she was one of the contenders, whoever the other girl might be.

  A fleeting image of Brent Stanton’s face appeared to her inward eye. Scowling, grimed with dirt, he was no Adonis and his hectoring, overbearing manner added nothing to his attractions. She wondered in a mild, but candid, enquiry why she had not so far mentioned the Englishman to Erica. Oh, well, there would be plenty of opportunity for Erica to meet the tenant.

  She dismissed the subject of Brent Stanton from her thoughts, finished her make-up and joined her employer in the hotel lounge.

  “Erica’s not dining with us,” he announced. “Evidently the young Mandelli invited her to go out dancing somewhere.”

  “Yes, she told me.”

  Stephen glanced at her with a teasing light in his eyes. “Why didn’t he ask you as well?”

  Rosamund lifted her head. “Three’s an awkward number for dancing.”

  “Except in ballet, I suppose. He could have made it a quartet. He must know any amount of suitable young men among his friends.”

  “A blind date! I don’t think I’d care for that. His friends may not speak English as well as he does and my Italian isn’t good enough for me to carry on conversations, amorous or otherwise, with young Italians.”

  Stephen laughed with good humour. “Well, anyway, I don’t want to lose you for a long time yet. You’re much too valuable.”

  “Poor Erica!” she murmured mockingly. “Don’t you care whether you lose her yet?”

  His face became more serious. “Yes, I do—very much. I want her to be happy. I feel I didn’t go quite the right way about parting her from that actor fellow, Hugo. If I’d left her to her own good sense, she’d have seen for herself that he was worthless. I made her feel martyred. So in a way, I’m glad she has a new friend in Niccolo. Perhaps if I don’t interfere with too heavy a hand like a Victorian father, she’ll learn to distinguish between the qualities of one man and another.”

  Rosamund nodded agreement. “Erica’s at the age where she resents authority, of course.”

  “I have good reasons for wanting to protect her,” he added, “and, apart from those, I know I can rely on you, Rosamund, to see that she doesn’t rush into dangerous situations.”

  “You’re not making me her guardian angel, are you?” she queried.

  He smiled. “Not exactly, but you’re level-headed and she responds to your influence.”

  They had finished their vermouth and she rose to accompany him into the restaurant. As the waiter showed them to their usual table, she chanced to gaze across the room, A man had just risen from a table, spoken to a waiter, then turned away to leave the restaurant. Was it, could it be Brent Stanton? If so, he had effected a remarkable transformation into this immaculately dressed man in dark suit, cream shirt, clean, well-shaven face.

  Really, she scolded herself, she was seeing images of Brent Stanton in too many places and she had been able to catch only the merest glimpse. A dozen other men could have appeared as tall, as English, as commonplace, perhaps, as the man who had just disappeared through the wide doors of the restaurant.

  She gave her whole attention to Stephen’s conversation, his plans, his rough ideas for working on his project.

>   “We can’t fix anything very definite until we see what the Mandelli library will offer us,” he said. “Then we shall be able to arrange visits elsewhere on the island, sort of business and pleasure combined.”

  After dinner she sat with Stephen in the hotel lounge and between casual conversation they played a desultory game of pinning fictitious identities to some of the other guests.

  “That man over there is undoubtedly a financier operating in the Near East.” Stephen indicated a short, tubby man gesticulating to his companions or emphasising a point with his cigar.

  “The lady with him is a secret agent,” offered Rosamund. “No. She had a dress firm which has gone bankrupt and she has fled here to escape her creditors. Now that man across there, what would you say?”

  Rosamund looked in that direction. Surely that was Brent Stanton, his face tilted up as he leaned back in his armchair and puffed at a cigar.

  “I’d say he’s a—” she began mischievously.

  “He’s English—or perhaps Scottish,” broke in Stephen. “He’s a bridge-builder and has come here to explore the possibilities of the bridge they’re always talking of putting across the Messina Straits.”

  “I wonder!” she murmured. “Actually, I believe he’s your tenant. The little cottage at Torretta.”

  Stephen was immediately interested. “Really? Then we must invite him over and talk to him.”

  Rosamund was immediately annoyed with herself for suggesting the man’s identity. Why hadn’t she kept her mouth shut? Supposing it wasn’t Brent Stanton at all. How foolish she would appear!

  But already Stephen was scrawling a message on the back of one of his cards and beckoning a waiter to take it across.

  “Oh, he’s leaving!” Rosamund said quickly with only thinly disguised relief. “Perhaps he wasn’t the same man after all.”

  As she watched him walk out of the main entrance she considered that if he were Mr. Stanton, there would be no lack of opportunities in the future for her employer to meet him. If he were someone else, then his exit had saved her from making a fool of herself. In any case, she did not want to be the obvious means of introducing him to Stephen. He might conclude that she was eager to establish a firm acquaintanceship with him.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Erica was only too eager to leave the hotel in Taormina and take up temporary residence in the Villa Mandelli.

  “They have a swimming pool,” she recounted to Rosamund the day after she had spent the evening with Niccolo. “He says we are welcome to use it whenever we want to—even when we’re living in our own villa.”

  “Our villa is not far from the sea,” pointed out Rosamund. “When the water warms up in the summer, you could also bathe there.”

  “I know, but the pool is heated and that makes quite a difference now and for several months. Niccolo tells me he has a younger brother, Giuseppe—who’s called ‘Seppi’ for short. He’s only seventeen.”

  “Any more sisters?” queried Rosamund.

  “No—and thank goodness for that. Adriana is so beautiful with those dark eyes and hair that she makes me feel insipid, a wishy-washy English girl.”

  “Unless she’s very shy, her manner is rather sober. Perhaps she’s not strong or has been ill recently.”

  “Maybe.” Erica shrugged. Then she whirled round towards Rosamund. “Niccolo is taking me out again tomorrow night—and if it reassures you, I’ve already told Father. He seemed quite amiable about it and didn’t raise any objection.”

  “Why should he?” After a slight pause, Rosamund asked quietly, “What about Hugo? Have you forgotten him already?”

  Erica laughed. “If I kept talking about Hugo, you’d tell me to stop lamenting and forget him. Now you’re the one to remind me!”

  Rosamund smiled. “All right. I hope the reminder isn’t too painful. I don’t really expect you ever to answer a straight question with a straight answer.”

  “I must go out and look at the shops, I think,” Erica decided. “I need a new evening dress.”

  “You’ve brought at least six or eight with you. Why don’t you run through those first on your excursions with Niccolo? Then you can surprise him with something new.”

  Erica came towards the table where Rosamund was typing letters. “There are times when I think you must have had a vast experience with men, and then I come to the conclusion that you’ve got it all out of books.”

  Rosamund laughed, then made an exclamation as she saw a typing error. “There! Look at that! All wrong!” she reached for an eraser. “And what sort of books do you think I’ve studied? “The Young Woman’s Guide to the Successful Alluring of Men”?

  “Perhaps you have a natural know-how,” retorted Erica. “Have you ever been in love?”

  “It’s too early in the day for a discussion on my affairs of the heart. But the short answer is ‘No’. One or two warm friendships, perhaps. Nothing else.”

  Erica drifted out of the room, probably wrapped in a misty dream of tomorrow’s date with Niccolo. Rosamund leaned her elbows on the table and pondered the other girl’s question.

  Well, it was the truth. She was not like Erica, who imagined that she was deeply in love with the latest presentable acquaintance who paid some attention to her.

  Rosamund wanted more than that. Yet she knew that perhaps she might be demanding more than the future would give her. Why shouldn’t a firm friendship flower into a lasting love?

  She shook her head, gazed with distaste at the half-typed letter in the typewriter and ripped it out to start afresh.

  By Saturday everything was packed and the Holfords with Rosamund were ready to leave the hotel. Niccolo arranged for a second car to take the luggage up to the villa, while he drove the passengers.

  Rosamund had not realised the size of the Villa Mandelli on her previous brief visit. Now she saw that indeed there were numerous rooms and extra wings that had probably been added. Her own room was on the first floor with a stone balcony and a superb view across the bay towards Taormina and just above the shoulder of the hill a glimpse of snow-tipped Mount Etna. The furnishings were luxurious with a colour scheme of pale green and apricot, huge mirrors and tall windows curtained with glowing velvet. Gilt cornices embellished the intricately-carved ceiling and the bed-head was satin-upholstered, an inviting temptation to lounge in idleness.

  After lunch, Stephen and Rosamund spent the afternoon touring the villa in which they were to live.

  “If we’re having points put in for electric fires, there might be one or two other adjustments we could make,” Stephen suggested.

  Notebook in hand, Rosamund accompanied him from room to room.

  “Perhaps we could ask Tomaso to help us,” she said after a while. “He at least knows about the house.”

  She found him in the kitchen. At first he looked apprehensive as though he feared some sort of punishment might fall on him, but she smiled and spoke coaxingly in her few scant phrases of Italian and he followed her to one of the bedrooms where Stephen was thoughtfully studying the arrangement of the furniture.

  “If the wardrobe and the chest of drawers changed places, there’d be more room over here.”

  “Well, that can probably be attended to when you decide on whose room it’s going to be,” suggested Rosamund. “The occupant may have ideas.”

  When they inspected the bathrooms, Stephen asked Tomaso about the hot water supply. The professor’s Italian was reasonable for tourist purposes and Tomaso evidently understood the question, but the man’s answers and gestures were entirely incomprehensible to Stephen.

  “I’m no use either,” admitted Rosamund. “I shall have to learn Italian fast, although probably Tomaso speaks a Sicilian dialect.”

  “M’m,” muttered Stephen. “Well, we can settle the matter when we go downstairs. There’s sure to be some sort of boiler or water heater of some kind.”

  Rosamund sincerely hoped so. Her private opinion was that Stephen had jumped rather too eagerly at the tenancy
of the Villa Delfino without examining more closely the defects and disadvantages.

  Tomaso was trying to explain again. Then he broke off, asking them to wait a few moments and he would be back.

  “So he’s the caretaker,” murmured Stephen when the man had gone. “Where do they sleep, he and his wife?”

  Rosamund smiled. “In a kind of cubbyhole oil the kitchen. You can understand that a room up here—even a small box-room—would be cold in winter.”

  “He’s rather older than I thought he’d be,” continued Stephen. “What about the wife?”

  “Fiftyish, I should think. A little younger than her husband, perhaps, although sometimes the women look older than they really are.”

  In a few minutes Tomaso was evidently returning, but there were voices on the stairs, so obviously he had brought someone else with him.

  Rosamund went out to the landing and saw that behind Tomaso came the taller figure of Brent Stanton. Today he wore a dark blue shirt and light jacket and trousers and at least his face was clean.

  “Evidently, I understand, you need an interpreter,” he greeted Rosamund brusquely.

  By now Stephen had come along the corridor. There was no alternative for Rosamund but to introduce the two men.

  “Mr. Stanton rents the small cottage in our garden,” she explained.

  He gave her a steely smile. “Better not let Tomaso hear you refer to ‘your garden’. He tends it and regards it as his own.” He turned towards Stephen. “Now how can I help you?”

  Stephen explained some of his problems. “There are hot taps, so there must be some means of heating. I’ve asked Tomaso, but I couldn’t understand his answers.”

  “I don’t know much about the plumbing of the house,” replied Brent Stanton. “I’ve been in it only three or four times and that was only in the kitchen to have a meal with Maria and Tomaso. But I’ll look downstairs and see what’s there.”

  Stephen, evidently seizing the opportunity to ask a few more questions about the villa and its amenities or lack of them, soon found his own ideas scorned and derided.