Married Under The Italian Sun

When had she last heard silence? When, in her rackety life, had there been such peace, such potential for tranquil joy? If she hadn’t come here, how much longer would she have survived?

Soon she began to climb again. After the heat outside, the house was blessedly cool, protected by the thick stone walls. She emerged onto a large landing, leading to a corridor with several doors. One in particular attracted her attention, because it was the only double door. No doubt this would be the master bedroom, and the one she would take as her own.

Eager to see it, she pushed open both doors and walked in.

For a moment she could discern nothing, as the wooden shutters at the three windows were mostly closed. Then the gloom cleared slightly and she saw that one of them was open a few inches, and a man was standing there, looking out through the narrow gap.

At first Angel could make out little of him, except that he was tall and lean. Then, as her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, she saw that he was dressed in old jeans and a frayed denim shirt, with scuffed shoes to complete the picture. Probably the gardener, she thought. But what was he doing here?

‘Hello?’ she said.

He turned quickly.

‘Who are you?’ they both said together, in Italian.

Angel gave a brief laugh, realising that her indignation was a tad illogical.

‘I’m sorry, this is my fault,’ she said, ‘for not letting anyone know I was coming today.’

He pushed the shutters further open so that light streamed into the room, falling directly onto her like a spotlight as she moved towards him. She saw him grow suddenly tense, his face harden, but he didn’t speak.

‘I’m the new owner of the estate,’ she said.

‘The Signora Clannan.’

Angel had reverted to her maiden name, but she let it go for the moment.

‘That’s right. Obviously you’ve been expecting me.’

‘Oh, yes, we’ve all known you were coming, although not exactly when. You kept that detail to yourself, so that you could catch us unawares. Very shrewd. Who knows what discoveries you might have made?’

She could see him better now, and thought she’d never come across any man who looked so hard and unyielding. There was a gaunt wariness about him, not just in his face, but in his tall, angular shape, the way he crossed his arms defensively over his chest, telling the world to keep its distance.

He might as well have warded her off with a sword, she thought.

‘I wasn’t trying to catch anyone out,’ she said, trying to remain good-tempered. ‘It was an impulse decision.’

‘And you couldn’t even have made a phone call from the airport to give Berta a chance to be ready for you? She’s your housekeeper, and a more faithful, hard-working soul never lived. She deserves better.’

Angel had a faint sense of remorse, but it was quashed in the rush of indignation. What the hell did he think gave him the right to talk to her like this?

‘Look,’ she said, ‘I presume you’re one of my staff, so let me make it clear right now that you don’t speak to me like that. Not if you want to go on working for me.’

‘Is that so? Then how fortunate that I don’t work for you, or I’d be shaking in my shoes now.’

‘Don’t be impertinent. If you’re not one of my employees, what are you doing in this room, where you most decidedly have no right to be?’

She thought he grew a little paler, the twist to his mouth a little more sardonic.

‘True,’ he said. ‘I have no right. Not any more.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘My name is Vittorio Tazzini, and I used to own this place.’

CHAPTER TWO

‘YOU?’ The word had an unflattering tone that came out before Angel could stop it.

‘Yes,’ he said, looking down at himself. ‘A scarecrow like me. This used to be my room, and I returned to search for something I left behind. I apologise for being here when the new padrona arrived. If I’d been warned, I’d have cleared out and not troubled you.’

She was disconcerted, not so much by his words as by the way his eyes flickered over her. There was nothing new in that. For years men had gazed at her with admiration, even frank lust, trying to strip her in their thoughts. She had thought she was bored by it, but it might have been better than the contempt in this man’s gaze.

‘There’s no need to be melodramatic,’ she said coolly.

‘Is it melodramatic to call you padrona? Isn’t that what you are? The new mistress to whom everyone will now defer? I’m merely recognising reality.’

‘No, you’re trying to make me feel uncomfortable, as though I should be ashamed of being here.’

‘It never occurred to me that you would feel ashamed of anything.’

‘Look, this won’t work. I’ve seen off sharper men than you.’

‘I don’t doubt it. Your very presence in this place is a triumph. But what will you do now you’re here? I’ll wager you haven’t given it a thought. Not a serious thought, anyway. But why should you care? Those huge alimony payments will take care of all problems.’

‘Not that it’s any of your business,’ Angel said, her eyes beginning to sparkle with anger, ‘but I intend to make my own way. I understand the estate is profitable. Everyone assures me that Tazzini lemons are second to none.’

He regarded her sardonically.

‘So, you’ve heard about the lemons and now you think you know everything.’

‘No, but I know about limoncello.’

A grin spread over his face, suggestive of derision rather than amusement. It made her uneasy.

‘Truly,’ he said, ‘your knowledge is awesome. But how far does it go? For instance, what kind of lemons are grown in this place?’

‘What kind? Lemons are lemons, aren’t they?’

‘You instruct me. How foolish of me not to think of that.’

‘Now, look—’ she began hotly.

‘Lemons, as you so expertly say, are lemons. But are they Meyer lemons, Eureka lemons, Lisbon lemons?’

‘All right. I didn’t know there was more than one type,’ she said, facing him squarely.

‘No, and you don’t know which kind is the best for limoncello. In fact, you know nothing.’

‘Well, I’m not planning to tend them myself. I’ll employ someone who knows what to do. In fact, there must already be someone working here.’

His grin became a little wild.

‘You have nobody who can care for those lemons so that they’ll get the best price,’ he said flatly.

‘There are gardeners, aren’t there?’

‘There’s one. He’s a good workhorse, but he’s not an artist. You’ll have to explain everything to him.’

‘But surely there’s a head gardener, who doesn’t need to be have things explained?’

‘The only one who knows is me, and I’m out of here since you seized my home.’

‘You’re blaming me? You’ve got a nerve. Is it my fault you chose to sell?’

‘I did not—’ He stopped himself with a sharp breath. ‘Don’t trespass on that situation. You know nothing.’

‘Then don’t throw accusations at me. I didn’t seize your home—’

‘No, your husband did. But who ended up owning it?’

‘And that makes me a criminal, does it? I have no desire to “trespass on that situation” as you call it. I just want to take over my new home and settle in.’

He drew a sharp breath.

‘As you say,’ he said coldly. ‘Welcome to your home. I’ll inform your staff that you’re here.’

He walked out, followed by her glare. If there had been anything to throw, she would have thrown it.

She was furious with him for ruining the first special moments here. Everything had been peaceful and beautiful, until she’d walked in and found him waiting, almost as if trying to spring a trap for her.

It was no use telling herself that it had been pure accident. That was common sense, and she wasn’t in the mood for it.

In fact, she was annoyed with herself for acting like Angel at her most queenly and petulant. She’d believed that was part of the old life, left far behind. But years of being pampered and deferred to had left their mark, despite her best intentions.

I have not allowed Joe to turn me into a spoilt brat, she reassured herself. I have not.

Well, perhaps just a bit.

Angel strode to the other two windows and pushed the shutters wide open so that sunlight streamed in everywhere, like a benediction. Now she could look around the room, which was like no bedroom she had encountered before. Like the rest of the house that she had so far seen, the floor was covered in dark red flagstones. The bed was almost seven feet wide, with a carved walnut headboard and matching foot.

Trying it cautiously, she found that the mattress was firm almost to the point of hardness, but when she stretched out for a moment it was curiously comfortable. The lamp on the bedside table was defiantly old-fashioned, with a carved stand and a parchment shade.

There were two wardrobes, also of walnut, standing in the spaces between the windows. Ornate on the outside, they were basic on the inside, with rails and wire hangers, so unlike the padded satin hangers on which her elegant clothes normally hung. A large chest of drawers stood against one wall.

And that was it.

And yet she felt at home. The very starkness and simplicity of the room was peaceful.

Angel delved further into one of the wardrobes, realising how old it was, and how much in need of repair. The floor actually had a hole. Reaching into her bag, she took out a small torch that she carried everywhere and trained it on the hole. The light went right through to the floor, showing her something small and green.

Reaching under the wardrobe, she managed to grasp the object, which turned out to be an address book. Perhaps this was what he’d lost. He must have left it in a trouser pocket, from where it had fallen out of sight.

From down below she heard a woman’s voice, sounding worried, almost tearful, then Vittorio Tazzini’s, seeming to comfort her. She just managed to get to her feet and brush her clothes down before the door opened and a powerfully built middle-aged woman entered, with Vittorio’s arm about her shoulder.

‘This is Berta,’ he explained in English. ‘She looks after the house and does a wonderful job.’ He translated this for the woman before reverting to English to say, ‘Unfortunately, she understands very little of your language, and she’s worried in case this counts against her.’

‘Why should it?’ Angel asked. ‘We can speak in Italian.’ She crossed her fingers and spoke slowly. ‘Berta, I’m sorry that I did not warn you I was coming. It was rude of me.’

To her relief, Berta understood, and a smile broke over her broad face. She too spoke slowly.

‘If the signora will come down to the kitchen I will prepare coffee while the room is made ready.’

As they descended the stairs, Angel could see that the household was already alive to her presence. All the staff were buzzing around her bags, beginning to take them upstairs, but not before they’d given her quick looks of curiosity.

She could sense the other woman’s unease, and it touched her heart. She hadn’t come here to hurt anybody.

When Berta served up coffee, Angel thanked her with her warmest smile and said in slow, clear Italian, ‘This looks delicious. I’m sure we’re going to get on really well.’

Berta nodded, looking happier.

‘By the way, is this what you were looking for?’ she asked Vittorio, holding out the little book.

‘Yes, it was. Thank you. Where did you find it?’

‘It had fallen through a hole in the bottom of one of the wardrobes.’

Berta tut-tutted. ‘There now! Such a state some of the furniture’s in! But you’ll be able to see to it, won’t you?’

To Angel’s surprise, this was addressed to Vittorio.

‘Why should you say that?’ she asked. ‘Now that Signor Tazzini’s property has been found I see no reason for him to come here again.’

Berta’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh, dear! You haven’t said—’

‘Haven’t said what?’ Angel asked, her eyes kindling.

‘It’s only—you knowing nothing about the estate,’ Berta faltered, ‘and the padrone knowing so much…’

‘Perhaps you’d better leave us for a moment, Berta,’ Vittorio said quietly.

‘Si, padrone.’

It was the word ‘padrone’ that reduced Angel’s patience to danger level. Berta had called him ‘master’ because that was how she still saw him. And the way she scuttled out underlined the unwelcome fact.

‘Do you mind telling me what’s going on?’ Angel said coolly. ‘Because everyone seems to know, except me. In fact, you seem to have made quite a few decisions that I know nothing about. Perhaps it’s time you informed me.’

‘All right, it’s very simple,’ he said in a hard voice. ‘You need an estate manager, a real expert, and that means me. You haven’t a hope of doing it on your own, you’ve already proved that.’

‘Damned cheek!’

‘Well, face facts. You don’t know the first thing about the lemons you grow, not even what type they are. How often do they need watering? How long between planting and harvesting? How often do they flower? The whole prosperity of this place depends on intensive knowledge, or your harvest will fail. And I didn’t spend years working myself to a standstill to see you throw it away.’

‘If that’s your way of asking me to hire you, you’re making a very bad job of it.’

‘Don’t waste my time with that sort of talk. I’m not asking you to hire me. I’m telling you. You don’t have a choice.’

‘The hell I don’t!’

‘That’s right, you don’t. You need me, that’s the plain fact, so why waste time?’

‘And you did it all on your own, did you? Without you there’s no one except the “workhorse” you mentioned?’

‘No, I had a staff of three gardeners, but they’ve gone except for that one. The other two left when the place was sold.’

‘How interesting! They both made the same sudden decision, did they?’

‘They did.’

‘And both left on the same day?’

‘In the same hour.’

‘What a remarkable coincidence! I wonder exactly how it came about.’

Her ironic tone left no doubt of her meaning, and Vittorio’s eyes darkened.

‘You mean, I take it, that I encouraged them, in order to harm you?’

‘It seems pretty clear.’

He moved towards her so suddenly that she couldn’t stop herself from taking a step back, although it maddened her to yield so much as an inch. She found her back against the wall.

‘Listen to me,’ he said, in a soft, deliberate voice, full of menace. ‘You are very confused about what is clear and what is not clear, so I am going to make several things clear to you.’

‘This conversation is over,’ she said, trying to move sideways and away from him.

But he stopped her by placing both hands on the wall, on either side of her.

‘No, this conversation is not over until I say so, and I have decided that there are things you must hear first.’

‘And I say I don’t want to, so you will move away and let me go right now.’

‘Will I, indeed? And who is going to make me? You? Try it.’

She would have been mad to try. Even though he wasn’t actually touching her she had a fierce sense of the wiry strength in his body, and knew that she was no match for him. To fight would merely be undignified.

His eyes were fixed on her face, following her thoughts exactly. He grinned, and it was an alarming sight.

‘Nor will any of the others help you against me. Do you think they will?’

Dismayed, she knew the answer. In the eyes of the household, he was still the master.

‘So you will stay here and listen to me, and when I am quite sure that you have understood I will let you go.’

‘Then get it over with,’ she said through gritted teeth.

‘The first thing is this. You have accused me of being prepared to damage this place because of my contempt for you. I told you before, I put my life’s blood into the estate and hell will freeze over before I do anything to harm it. What you suggested would be an act of petty spite, and it’s an insult that I won’t tolerate.’

‘Then perhaps you should have heard yourself say it,’ she flung at him. ‘You were delighted to have caught me out. Admit it.’

‘Of course I admit it. But I didn’t catch you out. You caught yourself out, thinking you could come out here and take over when you know nothing. Your arrogance is unbelievable. That’s why they left, because they are knowledgeable men and they don’t sell their services to ignorance. Expecting them to do so was your insult to them. They wouldn’t tolerate it, and why should they? You think I drove them away? On the contrary, I begged them to stay. Not for you, but for the estate, for the earth and the things that grow here, that need tending and loving, and which are more important than their pride, or yours.’ He took a shuddering breath. ‘Or mine.’

The last words sounded as though they were wrenched out of him. For a moment his attention seemed to wander, as though he’d side-slipped into another world. Then he forced himself back with an effort.

‘Just so that you understand, I do not descend to acts of spite, and I won’t tolerate the way you just spoke to me. Don’t ever do it again or you’ll be sorry.’

‘And that’s supposed to make me hire you, is it? Threatening me?’

‘You need me, damn you.’

‘I don’t think so. You’ve got the thing you came to find, so now get out of here. Do you hear me? Get off my property.’

Angel spoke bravely but her heart was hammering at what she could see in his face. For a moment she thought Vittorio would lose control, but at the very last second he mastered himself. A shudder went through him. His hands fell from the wall and he moved away from her. She had a strange feeling that his strength had suddenly drained away.

‘Your property,’ he said bitterly. ‘Yes, it’s your property now. I wish you joy of it.’

‘Liar!’ she flung at him in a shaking voice. ‘You wish me nothing but misfortune and misery.’

‘How astute of you!’

‘Get out of here now, and don’t come back.’

He gave her one final look of hatred. Then he was gone.

Angel had expected a disturbed night but, to her surprise, she slept like a log. The apparently hard mattress was the most comfortable she’d ever known.

Awaking early, she found the room still in darkness, but with slivers of light creeping between the cracks in the shutters. Pushing one of them open, she saw the softly growing light of early dawn. Entranced, she watched the sea, so still that it had an unearthly quality.

It was perfect, she thought, smiling.

Almost perfect.

The fly in the ointment was Vittorio Tazzini, a dangerous man who had taken against her in a way she didn’t understand. True, she owned the home that had once been his, but she hadn’t stolen it. Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to sell, but had been forced to by debts. Even so, he must have money left over, enough not to have to dress in such a down-at-heel manner.

He was a mystery, but one she didn’t intend to let worry her. She’d thrown him out. Now she must put him out of her mind. It should be simple enough.

But it wasn’t; she knew that already. He had the kind of presence that wouldn’t be easily dismissed. He wasn’t handsome—well, not in the ordinary way, she corrected herself. His nose was too prominent, his mouth too grim, his cheeks too lean for conventional good looks. What he had was all his own, a kind of dark inner force, unforgiving, implacable. He would be a bad enemy.

Yet she wasn’t afraid of him. Far from it. For years the men she’d met had been too much alike—smooth, full of glib talk and meaningless compliments, all seeming to come from the same insipid mould: photographers, television producers, minor actors, models, young men with little personality but the kind of regular features that passed for good looks, flashing cheesy smiles, always performing with one eye on her, the other on the camera, and their inner eye on the impression they were making.

She’d almost forgotten what the genuine article was like until she’d been forcibly reminded by a man who smelled of the earth after rain, and had no pretty speeches, only a blunt ferocity that, however disagreeable, was, at least, honest. Their encounter had left her strangely exhilarated.

By closing her eyes she could conjure him up again, leaning close, his hands pressed against the wall on either side of her. She knew he hadn’t touched her, not by so much as a fingertip. How, then, could she explain the sensation of his hands roving all over her? She could almost feel them now, yet it had all been in her mind.

I’ve got to pull myself together, she thought, almost amused. If my life had been half as colourful as the press thought, I’d be handling this better.

It was too soon to get up for the day. She went back to bed and fell asleep again, but this time she had strange dreams. Footsteps walked through her head, although she could see nobody. She heard the steps going away and knew that she must stop them or something terrible would happen. But, before she could do anything, she awoke.

Breakfast was on a balcony overlooking the sea, a magic place where small birds came daringly close and even landed on her table, demanding crumbs. She became so entranced with them, and the sight of the impossibly tiny boats below, that she almost forgot to eat.

Berta served her delicious coffee and rolls. At first she was reserved, as if her loyalty was still to Vittorio. But gradually she thawed under Angel’s determined friendliness.

They spent the rest of the day exploring the house and Angel’s delight grew. She loved this place. She even loved its slight shabbiness, its lack of pretension.

It had seen better days, as was shown by the light patches on the walls where pictures had been removed. The bathrooms were pure nineteenth century, with pipes that clanked but delivered gallons of hot water. She was entranced.

‘It was built four hundred years ago, for…’ Berta named a once notorious ducal family. ‘Their main residence was a palace, but this was created for a younger son, who brought his bride to live here. After that, it passed to a daughter, then to her daughter. It’s been several generations since anyone with a title lived here, but it’s been a happy family house.’

It was on the tip of Angel’s tongue to ask why Vittorio had had to sell, but she stayed silent, feeling sure Berta would pass the question on to him. Hell would freeze over before she let him guess she was curious about him.

Not every picture was gone. Some of the walls bore murals, and she spent some happy hours studying them, recalling everything she had ever learned about art history.

Angel found a suite of rooms that would be ideal for Sam and his carers. It was downstairs, as climbing was becoming too much for him, and would give him a large, pleasant room looking out onto the garden on the landward side of the house, with his nurses nearby.

She made a mental note of the furniture she would have to buy, and how much redecorating would be needed. For the moment, she told Berta only that the rooms should be spring-cleaned. More detailed explanations could wait until she felt more able to take Berta into her confidence.

She also began to walk her estate, which was more extensive than she had realised. In addition to the lemon orchards, there was a huge garden, stretching away landward, built on several levels, connected by short flights of stone steps. Flowers of every kind grew in profusion—roses, geraniums, magnolias. There were fountains with water plants, and greenhouses with tropical plants. Rico, the only gardener left, came with her, explaining that it was arranged that something different would flower every month.

Angel had begun to understand why Rico, alone among the gardeners, had chosen to stay. He was sweet-natured and always willing to please, but his mind worked at a snail’s pace. He had been born on the estate, lived there his entire twenty-three years, and plainly knew that he wasn’t fit to venture out into the big, bad world.