The Fires of Torretta Page 4

  “No good having points in every room like that,” commented Brent Stanton. “It’ll cost you a fortune in wiring and another costly bill for repairs to the walls and so on. Now, let’s take it room by room.”

  Rosamund followed the two men with Tomaso in the background and soon found that every page in her notebook was altered and amended to conform with Brent Stanton’s ideas.

  “Have you arranged with electricians yet for the job?” he asked Stephen when they were downstairs in the main drawing-room.

  “Not yet. First I have to consult the agent and he in turn has to inform the owner, so it will be a few days. But I thought I ought to have some idea of the work involved, so that they can give me a proper estimate. I’m most grateful for your help.”

  Brent laughed. “I hope you get adequate heating before the summer months. You’ll most likely get the job finished about July.”

  “Surely you need not be so happily pessimistic about the work to be done,” protested Rosamund. Her tone of voice rebuked him, although her face expressed no more than casual interest.

  He gave her an appraising glance before replying, “Perhaps I believe in being realistic.”

  He and Stephen went next to the kitchen and Rosamund followed them after a few moments. She was certainly not going to trail after Brent Stanton and be at his elbow to hang on every word he chose to utter.

  Maria was offering coffee or wine if the gentlemen preferred.

  “You’ll find Maria a very good cook,” explained Brent. “That is, of course, if you’ll provide her with reasonable materials. During the owner’s absence, she and Tomaso have to make do on very little money.”

  “Oh, have no fear of that,” Stephen answered promptly. “I shall see that we’re all well fed and that they have an adequate income. Please tell them both.”

  Brent translated and Tomaso and Maria beamed with satisfaction.

  “Perhaps you should inspect the small cottage that Mr. Stanton rents,” suggested Rosamund. “He might need extra facilities of some sort.”

  She did not accompany the two men when they went out, but stayed with Maria and Tomaso and laboriously tried to hold a conversation with them. She was pleased with herself when she managed to elicit the information that they had a son who was twenty-five, but worked in the north of Italy near Milan. Sometimes, when he could afford it, he sent a little money to his parents, but not often, because living was costly where he worked and soon he hoped to be married.

  Stephen returned alone. “I didn’t realise that he was working here at week-ends. I apologised for disturbing him. He tells me he’s studying volcanoes and he lives halfway up Mount Etna.”

  “You mean Mr. Stanton?” Rosamund queried.

  “Of course. We had quite a long conversation about geology and so on.. Actually, he might be quite useful. After all, it was earthquakes and volcanic eruptions that altered all the history of the Mediterranean peoples.”

  Maria offered Stephen more coffee, which he drank gratefully.

  “I think you might advance Tomaso and Maria a little money,” suggested Rosamund. “They ought to be paid as though we were living here, even if we’re staying at the Villa Mandelli.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. I’ll do that.” He took some notes out of his wallet and counted them out to Tomaso. “We shall have to find out exactly what we’re supposed to pay.”

  “Didn’t the estate agent tell you?” asked Rosamund.

  “No. But we can find out what’s a fair and reasonable sum from that chap Stanton. You can ask him next time you see him. By the way, I told him that you believed it was he that we saw in our hotel, the Domenico, a few nights ago.”

  “And was it?”

  “He said he was there, but he didn’t remember seeing either of us.”

  “Well, he didn’t know you,” retorted Rosamund, “and he’d seen me only once. I doubt if I made a world-shaking impression on him.”

  Stephen chuckled. “I told him that we imagined he built bridges in distant parts of the world, but we were evidently wrong.”

  “You imagined him a bridge-builder. I didn’t,” she contradicted. She regretted that Stephen had disclosed the trivial incident of their make-believe game.

  When they left the Villa Delfino to return to that of their hosts, Brent Stanton was not anywhere to be seen. Perhaps he had shut himself up in his shack, making it obvious that he did not wish to be disturbed again.

  Rosamund and Stephen had already been allocated a room where they could work, a small room on the ground floor, close to the library and overlooking the garden.

  “I’d better tidy these notes,” she told Stephen, as she uncovered her typewriter. “You’ll need them in plain language if you’re to get estimates for the wiring and so on.”

  “No need to do them now,” Stephen assured her. “We can take our Saturday afternoon off, I think.”

  Rosamund smiled, but otherwise paid no attention. By this time there was not much of Saturday afternoon left, but she never objected to working at all odd hours, for her employer was generous with free time. For almost the last month she had been on part-holiday with only correspondence to attend to and the preliminary visits to inspect various villas.

  She had now almost finished typing the various schedules and particulars of electrical work when Erica came into the room. Excitement radiated from her and her words spilled out incoherently.

  “The most astonishing—I mean, you’d never expect—especially in a place like this—”

  Rosamund leaned back and regarded the younger girl with expectant tolerance. “What’s so astonishing?”

  “I was so surprised!”

  “Calm down, Erica, and tell me your revelations.”

  Erica flung herself into the nearest chair and made an effort to control her wild thoughts.

  “To begin with, I spent part of the afternoon with Niccolo. We sat by the swimming pool and his sister Adriana joined us, but her English is not very good and Niccolo had to act as interpreter, so the conversation wasn’t very lively. In any case, I had the feeling that she had been sent as chaperone in case Niccolo became too ardent.”

  Rosamund laughed. “And which would have disappointed you more? His ardour or lack of it?”

  “Don’t interrupt me,” rebuked Erica, “or I shall lose the thread—and refuse to tell you about my discovery at all.”

  “Apologies,” murmured Rosamund.

  “Well, after a while Adriana left us to go indoors. It was turning rather chilly, and soon after Niccolo and I went back to the villa. He suggested that his young brother Seppi would escort me down to the beach or where else I might like to stroll.”

  “Why did he hand you over like that?” asked Rosamund.

  “Oh, Niccolo apologised for deserting me, but he said a friend of his father’s had called, a business associate, and he had to be present along with his father.”

  “I see.”

  “Seppi said he would be delighted, so we started off, but he went leaping ,down a very rough path, all strewn with boulders and stones and I followed more slowly. In the end, I gave up. I thought it wasn’t worth climbing down such a steep place just to see a little beach. I called out to Seppi that I’d wait until he came up again, but he may not have heard me. Then I could hear some voices in Italian and in a moment or two, while I was sitting on a large flat stone to rest for a while, along came this tall man and looked down at me as though I were some unspeakable species that had crawled out from under the stone.”

  “What was he like?” asked Rosamund during Erica’s brief pause for breath.

  “Tall, darkish hair, a sort of hard face. But guess what? He’s English!”

  Erica’s triumphant tone was akin to a conjuror’s attitude when the flags of all nations appear out of an empty box.

  “English?” echoed Rosamund quietly. “Does he live here?”

  “I’m not sure. Near here, I suppose. Probably in another villa close by.”

  “And did he
introduce himself?”

  Erica’s blue eyes sparkled. “No. Seppi did that. He came up the path to look for me. He’s Brent Stanton. But I was so puzzled at a remark he made when he heard my name and that my father was coming to live here. He said he was surprised that I was obviously older than ten or twelve years.”

  Rosamund laughed at that. “What did you say?”

  Erica’s head shot up. “That I was nineteen and quite grown-up. But anyway, isn’t it marvellous to find this man stuck away in this remote spot?”

  Rosamund tilted her chair back. “You may be disappointed, but I think you ought to know that the young man, Brent Stanton, occupies the small cottage in the garden of the Villa Delfino—?”

  “But that’s better than ever!”

  “That he’s here usually only at week-ends and then for purposes of working at his studies.”

  Erica’s expression suddenly changed. “How do you know all this?” she demanded. “Have you seen him? When?”

  “I’ve met him already,” answered Rosamund. “Actually he came to the Villa Delfino when your father and I were there this afternoon.”

  “Why was that?”

  “Tomaso, the caretaker, brought him to interpret for us about the electrical work and so on, the plumbing, the water-heating and all that.”

  “And you never said a single word!”

  “I haven’t seen you until a few minutes ago,” Rosamund pointed out. “But I’ll be honest with you. I saw him a few days ago when we came here to lunch and I was looking for Tomaso and Maria.”

  Erica walked away, almost stamping the floor in childish rage. “Well, I didn’t think you’d be so mean!” She flung the words at Rosamund.

  “I told your father about him and that he was the tenant instead of the caretakers and that they were living in the villa itself.”

  “It just shows that as soon as there’s a presentable young Englishman on the scene, you want to grab him for yourself.”

  “Presentable?” Rosamund echoed in derision. “You’d hardly have described him as that if you’d met him on that first occasion. He was cleaning up some old bit of metal, he looked disreputably dirty and he was not in the best of tempers. He had an offensive and most bullying manner.”

  “Well, he wasn’t in the least like that today,” retorted Erica, “so perhaps you had a bad effect on him. He was most attentive and helped me up that awfully steep path.”

  Rosamund grinned mischievously. “As long as he doesn’t guide you down a slippery path—”

  “How envious can you get?”

  “Is the handsome Niccolo’s nose out of joint already?” Rosamund queried.

  “Indeed no!” Erica’s mood suddenly changed, her anger forgotten. “But it might be rather interesting to compare an Italian with an Englishman, don’t you think?”

  “In what way?” Rosamund was being deliberately obtuse, although she divined Erica’s meaning quite plainly.

  “In every way—but particularly in their approach to—”

  “To love? Well, you already know something of their national characteristics. But—if you’ll accept a word of advice—go cautiously if you want to develop the acquaintance of Mr. Stanton. We know nothing about him except that he’s studying volcanoes and lives somewhere on Mount Etna. And I didn’t discover that. Your father did.”

  “Oh, isn’t it like you to pour cold water on every new and exciting possibility! I’ll leave you to your typewriter. Snuggle up to that and see what change you get out of it!”

  Erica marched out of the room and Rosamund sighed. Already within the space of a few hours this ill-mannered volcano expert was causing controversy between Rosamund and her employer’s daughter with whom she had usually been able to maintain the most harmonious relations. Heartily she hoped now that he would find his new circumstances at the cottage intolerable and return with all speed to his mountain hideout and stay there.

  Fortunately, Erica rarely sulked for long or persisted in an angry mood, and at dinner with the Mandellis she was more her normal light-hearted self, exchanging chatter with Niccolo and his brother Seppi and laughing at her mistakes when she tried to speak a few words of Italian.

  Rosamund was relieved when no mention was made of Brent Stanton. Perversely the fleeting thought entered her head that perhaps at this moment he was eating a meal alone in that cheerless little shack or sharing a frugal stew with Tomaso and Maria. Then she brushed the notion aside. More likely he was down in Taormina dining comfortably at one of the best hotels or restaurants. He had been at the Domenico a few nights ago, so no doubt it was his habit to take his main meals in such places. Her pity was wasted, she thought, and he certainly had no need of it.

  After dinner Niccolo suggested that he and Erica, accompanied by Rosamund and Seppi, should drive down to Taormina.

  Rosamund was inclined to refuse, feeling that she had probably been invited only out of sheer politeness and that Niccolo would have preferred to take Erica alone, but then she saw the expression in Seppi’s dark eyes, pleading, almost willing her to agree.

  “All right then. It’s Saturday night, after all.”

  “Oh, yes, there is dancing and everything most lively,” Seppi assured her.

  “And you, Adriana?” Signora Mandelli queried with a glance at her daughter.

  The girl shook her head. “No. I will stay.”

  In Niccolo’s car Seppi maintained a lively conversation with Rosamund while Erica sat in front with Niccolo.

  “I have finished with school,” he told Rosamund.

  “So soon?”

  “In the autumn I have to go to university in Palermo. It is my father’s wish, but I he broke off and shrugged his slim, boyish shoulders.”

  “What else do you want to do, then? Surely education must come first before you decide on a career?”

  He made a puckish grimace. “There are so many other ways of living. To be free, that is my desire.”

  Rosamund smiled. “How many people know what freedom is? Everyone has a different idea of his own personal freedom.”

  He stared at her in admiration. “Oh, please, you must talk to me quite many times. To improve my English, you see, which is not perfect. Also you say wise words, yet you are young and not an old woman.”

  She laughed.

  “No, no, I did not mean such an impolite sentence. I was trying to be—to give you a compliment.”

  “Don’t worry, Seppi. I know that. But what are your ambitions?”

  “Sometimes I would like to be a musician—in a group, you understand.”

  “A pop group? Would your parents like that?”

  He shook his head. “They are not modern, you see. They have set their minds in the past and they do not understand the young people. They can only remember what they were like when they were young.”

  “Neither of them is exactly ancient even now,” she pointed out. She guessed that Signor Mandelli was probably in his early fifties and that his wife was no older than the late forties.

  “They seem old to me,” Seppi muttered. “Also I would like to travel much in ships. It would be a fine life in the Navy, but then, of course, I would miss the chance of skiing in the mountains.”

  Rosamund laughed. “You want all the pleasures all at once! If I were you, I’d wait a while before you decide what sort of career you really want.”

  “Ah, but then it may be too late.” The boy shook his head mournfully. “The chance will be lost.”

  By this time Niccolo had arrived in Taormina and parked his car in a wide cobbled space at the end of the Corso Umberto.

  “What would you like to do?” he asked Erica and Rosamund.

  “Whatever you think is entertaining,” replied Erica.

  “The best music is—” at began Seppi.

  “Oh, spare us your noisy little backroom haunts,” broke in his elder brother. "You can’t hear yourself speak for the blare and racket and you can’t see across the room for smoke. Erica and Rosamund won’t lik
e that.”

  “You have not asked them,” protested Seppi, but Niccolo decided otherwise.

  They walked among the evening crowds along the length of the Corso Umberto and beyond the main piazza, now blazing with cafe lights and filled with chattering voices.

  The street was narrow and several times Seppi called Rosamund’s attention to pictures or pottery souvenirs in the shop windows.

  “We shall lose Erica and Niccolo,” Rosamund warned her escort. “Then we shan’t know where they’re going.”

  “Not to worry,” replied Seppi airily. “I know. They will be at the large hotel behind the Cathedral. There is dancing.”

  “At the San Domenico?”

  "If not there, then at the other one,” he told her.

  There was no sign of Erica or Niccolo at the San Domenico.

  “We will try the Excelsior,” Seppi offered.

  Rosamund was none too pleased at the idea of trailing from one hotel to another in search of the other pair. Was this Erica’s doing so that she could be alone with Niccolo?

  At the Excelsior Rosamund discovered that the hotel ballroom was being used for a banquet, so it was obvious that there was no dancing in which outsiders could join.

  “So now we’ve missed them altogether,” she said to Seppi.

  “Perhaps they do not want to be with us,” he suggested with almost a wink.

  “We’ll go back to the piazza and have a coffee,” she decided. “We might see them passing by.”

  “But it would be too cold to sit out of doors,” the boy pointed out. “I could take you to a lively place. It is not true what Niccolo says. They play good music, perhaps a little loud, but—”

  “Thank you, Seppi, but another time. Not tonight, I think.”

  At one of the cafes in the piazza, she chose a table near the window and ordered coffee, but she saw how in the darkness it would be next to impossible to see or recognise individuals walking outside unless the lights happened to catch them.

  “We’d better go back to your brother’s car,” she said when they had finished the coffee.

  “What use?” Seppi asked. “We couldn’t enter. Niccolo is very careful about locking his car.”

  Rosamund laughed. “Very well. We’ll stay here a little longer, then chance it.”