Masquerade

“Yes.” Samantha was unsure.

“Now. Let us get down to details,” said Arturo Cioni, in a more businesslike manner. “Your grandmother wants you to fly from Milan to London as soon as possible. Naturally your affairs here will be tied up quite easily. Anything further you need to know can be explained to you. The villa is too big for you to rent alone. Surely by now you must have made some plans for your future.”

“Not really,” murmured Samantha weakly, sinking down on to a chair, her face pale. Suddenly she felt the enormity of what was expected of her sweeping over her, and she felt quite faint.

Benito, familiar with the whereabouts of everything in this room, crossed to a small cabinet and drew out a bottle of brandy which her father had always kept there for medicinal purposes. He poured a little into a glass and returned to Samantha, handing her the glass tenderly.

“Drink,” he murmured softly. “It will make you feel better.”

Samantha obediently sipped the fiery liquid and felt it burn its way down into her stomach, warming her chilled body.

“Forgive me!” exclaimed Arturo, looking anxiously at her. “This must all have been a great shock to you. I am a clumsy oaf. I have tried to rush you. It is simply that your grandmother put such a sense of urgency into her communication that we lost no time in putting her plans into operation.”

Samantha stiffened. She wondered how great the gulf between her parents must have been. Knowing how sensitive John had always been, her mother must have hurt him immensely for him to pack up and leave the country like that.

“Yes,” she said at last, sipping at the brandy, “I understand. And … and he thought I should go to England when he died for all he never went back.”

“Time changes many things,” put in Giovanni. “Circumstances change even more. He knew that whatever you shared could not go on for ever. One day you would have to know the truth and then decide for yourself. What else can you do? Have you a job in mind?”

“We are betrothed,” said Benito, looking fierce. “Is this not job enough? Is her future not secure in my hands? Why should some stranger provide for her what I can provide and more besides?”

“Benito!” said Samantha, sighing. “Please! We are not betrothed. Not yet. I must have time.”

Arturo shrugged. “Should you decide to stay in this country, signorina, I will inform your grandmother to that effect. You need not write or communicate with her in any way if you do not wish to do so. It is in your hands. You are of an age now to please yourself, one way or the other.”

Samantha ran a tongue over her lips. “Naturally, I am curious,” she said. “Do you know why my mother and father separated?”

“They divorced,” said Giovanni. “That is all we can tell you. Your father confided in us, but we do not know the whole story. You must find that out for yourself.”

“I see.” Samantha finished the brandy and stood the glass down. She looked thoughtfully at Benito. He looked solemn and very angry. She could tell this from the way his eyes flashed when he looked at her.

Samantha bent her head for a moment, twisting her fingers together, and then said:

“It is nearly lunch time. Will you stay to lunch?”

“That is very kind, signorina,” said Giovanni, smiling. “We would be most grateful.”

“And after lunch, I will give you your answer,” said Samantha firmly.

Matilde was in the kitchen when Samantha went in search of her, leaving Benito to entertain her guests. She perched on the board at which Matilde was working and slowly began to explain all that had happened. Matilde did not interrupt. She was a very comforting presence and Samantha knew she would miss her terribly if she did decide to go away.

As they washed and prepared a salad, Matilde looked questioningly at the girl.

“And you will go to England?” It was a statement more than a question, and Samantha looked surprised.

“Do you think I should?”

Matilde shrugged. “I do not know, Samantha. I only know that if you do not you will spend the rest of your life wondering whether you should. What is there for you here? Marriage with young Benito. Five years marriage and who knows? You may find your life is not as full as you had thought. There would be no escape. Our faith does not recognize divorce. Once married you stay married for many long years. Be sure before you commit yourself to such a sentence.”

“Oh, Matilde. You make it sound so dreary.”

“And isn’t it? When you are young, and have the world before you, is not anything humdrum dreary? Will you really be contented with half a dozen bambini to look after? Benito is a good man. You could do no better in this village. But Benito is Italian. You are not. Never forget that. Whatever you have done in the past. However much you speak the language and become one of us, you are still English. I am sorry to sound disparaging, Samantha, but I think you know I am right. Your mind is not really undecided. Only your heart is fickle. You want the best of both worlds. You would like to be married, for a time, but this is not what marriage is for. Marriage is giving yourself into another’s keeping for ever. For as long as you live. Always remember this. No matter where you go, or who you marry.”

Samantha looked pensively at the older woman. “As usual, Matilde, you are right. But what about you? What will you do?”

Matilde smiled. “I am getting old. Too old to mind giving up my work. My sister is a widow. She lives alone in Ravenna. She will be glad of my company. She is not a poor woman, we will not starve. Do not worry about me, Samantha. Worry for yourself. Go and get what you want and hold on to it. Never be content with ‘second-best’. Just tell yourself, you are as good as anyone else, and you cannot go far wrong.”

Samantha smiled. “All right, I’ll tell the Cionis. And thank you for your understanding. I’m going to miss you.”

“If you come back, come to my sister’s in Ravenna. We will make something out. Don’t worry. Be strong, and honest, and you will survive. In life, strength of mind and purpose, solve most things. Don’t be a child. You are a young woman. Act like one and be independent.”

Benito was sitting moodily on the verandah, when Samantha went to tell him that lunch was ready. He looked up dejectedly at her approach and she felt guilty that she should be the cause of his depression.

“You’re going, aren’t you?” he said accusingly.

Samantha shrugged her shoulders. “I’ve got to, Benito.”

“I don’t understand you, Samantha. I always thought I did. I was wrong.”

Samantha spread her hands helplessly. “Would you want me to marry you and spend the rest of my life wondering whether I had done the right thing?”

“Of course not, but before this letter came there was no doubt.”

“There was no alternative either,” she reminded him, awkwardly. “Please, Benito, try to understand. I’ve never left this country since I was four years old.”

“I have lived here all my life.”

“But you’re Italian.”

“So will you be, when you become my wife.”

“In name only. Benito, I’m English.”

“I’ve never known it bother you before.”

“Oh, Benito, try … try to understand. I do think a lot of you, but if I go away I will be able to see things in perspective. If I love you, I will come back. You know that. If you love me you must know that love does not die simply because the two people concerned are separated.”

Benito frowned. He knew she was right and yet he was also afraid of what the separation might do. He was not as sure of her as he was of himself. He could see that she genuinely did not want to hurt him, and yet if she did go, would he ever see her again?

“If you are determined, there is nothing I can do to stop you,” he said coolly.

“There is,” she said desperately. “You could give me an ultimatum. I don’t think I would dare to refuse you then.”

Benito sighed and shook his head. “No, of course you are right. I could not force you into such a position. You are a free woman, Samantha. But please come back to me.”

Samantha flushed. “Oh, Benito, when you look at me like that, I wish I had never even seen the letter.”

Benito pulled her to him. “So do I,” he groaned, as he pressed his lips to her hair.

“And now,” he said, at last, “you must tell the Cionis of your decision.”

“Yes,” Samantha nodded. “And soon I’ll know the secret of why my mother acted as she did. I only hope she is not as horrid as she sounds.”

CHAPTER II

PATRICK MALLORY crossed the smooth tarmac of Milan airport. Ahead lay the gleaming aircraft which was to transport him back to London and the busy life from which he had enjoyed a brief respite. He always regretted leaving Italy after staying there for some time. It was his mother’s country and he had spent four idyllic weeks with her in their villa on the shores of Lake Como, soaking up the sun and relaxing completely. His life in London was hectic and sometimes nerve-racking. This holiday had been a godsend. Now he had never felt better. He looked tanned and fit and was ready to assume the responsibilities which were waiting for him in England.

He was a tall lean, attractive man in his middle thirties. His hair was very black and his olive complexion owed much of its darkness to the fact of his being half-Italian. His eyes were hazel, tinged with tawny lights and his expression was rather cynical. He had not the kind of square-cut good looks that are generally called handsome, but he had a whimsical charm which in itself was much more magnetic. He was quite aware of the effect he had on members of the opposite sex and could use his charm to good advantage if it suited his purpose. He had not lived thirty-six years without knowing a great many women, but so far he had found them monotonously the same.

Running a restless hand through his short hair, he mounted the steps to the entrance of the aeroplane, smiling his warm, attractive smile and causing the young stewardess to become blushingly confused.

She directed him to his seat and putting down his briefcase beside him he stretched his long legs luxuriously. Now that he was actually almost on his way, as it were, his mind was already leaping ahead to London and to his immediate plans on arrival. There was the new play, for example. That might take some re-writing to fit the stage.

Reaching up a lazy hand, he loosened the top button of his shirt beneath his impeccable tie. It was hot in the aircraft. It would be cooler when they took off. At least the journey required no further effort from him. He could sit back and enjoy it.

His thoughts turned to the woman who had been occupying much of his mind during the holiday. She would be waiting for him in London. He wondered whether it was time he started thinking seriously about settling down. A bachelor life was fine, but the idea of having a settled home appealed to him. His mother had said much the same thing to him when they had discussed his life. She wanted him to have children. His sister was married with six children and had been married now for over eighteen years. Of course, Gina was ten years his senior, but he ought to be turning his thoughts in that direction, he supposed.

He looked casually out of the window, surveying the airport buildings. Already it was nearly time for take-off. He was glad his mother never insisted on coming to the airport to see him off. He detested long farewells, particularly those made in public.

His attention was caught by two young people by the gate which led over to this aircraft. The young man was obviously upset and was trying, rather unsuccessfully Patrick thought, to hold the girl tightly to him and kiss her. Eventually he succeeded in his objective, but the girl broke away almost immediately and darted from him, and across the tarmac to the waiting plane. Apparently the young man had come to wish her goodbye and things had got rather emotional and out of hand.

Patrick felt amused. The girl looked English, but you never could tell these days. It could have been a holiday romance that had blossomed swiftly in the hot sun, or she could be an Italian leaving home for the first time for some reason. They were too intense, thought Patrick cynically. Why did young people always seem to feel things so intensely? He never had, at least he could never remember having done so. Perhaps he was singularly lucky, or alternatively not the sort of person to feel emotion deeply. At any rate, no woman had ever made a fool of him. He lit a cigarette. Well, he was glad he was past the stage for hearts and flowers. If he married, and it was a big “if”, it would be for practical reasons, not emotional ones.

A few moments later the girl came down the aisle with the stewardess and was deposited on the seat beside him. He looked at her with interest. At close quarters she was remarkably attractive, and he liked the way her hair fell straightly to her shoulders.

At first she was unaware of his scrutiny. She was too absorbed by her own feelings and he was able to regard her openly. He noted the long, curling black lashes, the tanned yet creamy complexion and the slight tip-tilt of her nose. Her dress was not fashionable and her shoes were flat and uninteresting, but in the right clothes he thought she would be quite arresting.

Suddenly, she became aware of him and looked abruptly at him. For a moment, Patrick held her gaze and then withdrew his eyes. Her clear expression did not embarrass him, but the girl’s face suffused with colour and she twisted the strap of the handbag in her lap.

A few minutes later, the engines roared to life and the sign requesting passengers to put out their cigarettes and fasten their safety belts flashed ahead of them.

Patrick fastened his safety belt with the ease of long practise, but the girl fumbled awkwardly with hers. Patrick, unable to prevent himself, took the straps from her unresisting fingers, and fastened it securely.

“Thank you,” she murmured, showing even white teeth, as she smiled shyly at him.

Patrick merely smiled in return and stubbed out his cigarette. The aircraft began to move with slow, deliberate grace and soon they were taxiing along the runway.

The girl gripped the arms of her seat tightly and Patrick found himself watching her again. She was obviously terrified, and for once he felt something akin to sympathy. Usually he had no time for nervous passengers.

“Relax,” he said easily. “We’re almost airborne. Is this your first flight?”

She nodded. “As far as I know,” she replied. “I’m rather a coward, I’m afraid.”

Patrick shrugged his broad shoulders. “I guess we all are at times. Take-offs can be frightening, if you’re not used to them.” Then he looked up. “There, it’s over. You can unfasten your safety belt now.”

“Oh, thank goodness.” She released the strap and relaxed in her seat.

Patrick unfastened his own, and then said: “Do you smoke?” He offered her his slim platinum case, with the engraved monogram.

“Thanks.” She took one and leaned forward to apply the tip to his lighter. Then she lay back again and looked speculatively at him.

Patrick lit a cigarette for himself and wondered, half-amused at his thoughts, why he was taking such an inordinate interest in this girl. He rarely struck up conversations on aeroplanes, as they had a habit of becoming a bore. Besides, well-known as he was, people usually had ulterior motives in speaking to him. He had grown wary of the casual remarks passed to him, and usually spent journeys either reading or studying some aspect of his work.

But the girl did not somehow come into this category. She did not appear to recognize him and was certainly unlikely to be connected with the theatre, dressed in such an outmoded way.

He drew on his cigarette, and looked again at her.

“What’s your name?” he asked idly, his eyes narrowed.

“Samantha Kingsley,” she replied at once. “And yours?”

“Oh!” Patrick hesitated. Now for it! Even if she did not recognize him, the name might mean something to her. “Patrick Mallory,” he said reluctantly.

If he had expected a reaction he was disappointed. If was obvious his name meant nothing to her. He sighed gratefully. Although he never lied about his identity it was a pleasure to meet someone who knew nothing at all about him. “Are you going to London?” he asked.

“Well, to begin with, but not exactly there. Wiltshire. Is that near London?”

“Reasonably so,” Patrick nodded, amused by her expression. “You don’t know much about England, do you? I thought you were English.”

“I am. At least, I was born there, but I’ve lived in Italy since I was four years old.”

“Oh, I see.” Patrick frowned. “And you’ve never been back?”

“No. Never. My father preferred not to do so.” Samantha was silent for a moment and Patrick had the feeling that she was withholding much more than she had told him.

“And your father?” he probed, curious about this girl, and unable to stop the question. “Is he not going with you?”

“No. My father is dead. He was killed over a month ago.”

Patrick frowned again. “I’m sorry.” He studied his cigarette for a moment. The name Kingsley rang a bell somewhere and now she had told him that her father had been killed, he remembered where he had heard it. “John Kingsley,” he said slowly. “Your father wasn’t John Kingsley, was he?” Samantha’s eyes widened.

“Why … why, yes. Did you know him?”

“No, not exactly. I met him in Milan at the exhibition. It was an excellent show. That must have been just before …”

Samantha sighed. “Yes, it was. I’m still a bit dazed about it. And … and you liked the sculptures?”

“Oh, yes.” Patrick stubbed out his cigarette. “Very much. And so now you are an orphan?”

Samantha hesitated. “Not exactly.” She halted awkwardly.

Patrick glanced curiously at her, and then seeing that she obviously did not want to talk about her immediate future, he changed the subject.

They talked about general things, books, art, music. Patrick was not bored by her rather shy conversation. It was so refreshing to find a girl as comparatively untouched as she seemed to be.

“Tell me,” she said suddenly, “what do you do?”

Patrick lit another cigarette, reflecting that he was smoking too much. The brief respite gave him time to think.

“I’m a writer,” he replied, without qualification.

Samantha frowned, wrinkling up her brow. “What do you write?”

Patrick shrugged. He had no wish to become embroiled in a conversation about his work. His relief was overwhelming when the stewardess appeared at their side and asked them if they would like a drink.

Samantha looked up in surprise. This was all quite new to her. It was almost lunchtime, already.

“I’ll have a tomato juice, please,” she said quietly, but the stewardess had eyes only for Patrick Mallory. She knew only too well who he was and the influence he had in the theatre. Besides, his physical attributes alone were a challenge in themselves to any woman.

“What will you have, Mr. Mallory?” she was asking gushingly.

Patrick looked up, his lazy eyes amused. “Scotch,” he said easily. “And bring this young lady a sweet sherry instead of tomato juice.”

Samantha stared at him in surprise, and with obvious reluctance the stewardess moved away.

“You don’t object, do you?” he asked half-mockingly.

Samantha shook her head slowly. “No, I suppose not.” She bit her lip and looked thoughtfully at him. “Why did that stewardess act so strangely?”

Patrick grinned. “Strangely?” he mocked.

“Yes. You must know what I mean. She … well …” She flushed.

Patrick looked at her through a haze of smoke. “When you get a bit more experienced, you won’t ask questions like that.”

“Won’t I?” Samantha shrugged.

Patrick laughed softly. “Here are the drinks. Cheers.”

“Cheers,” she echoed slowly, and sipped her sherry.

Lunch was served soon afterwards, a delicious meal although it had all been pre-cooked. Samantha looked out on the fluffy cotton-wool world of cloud below the aircraft and wondered why people made such a fuss about flying. There was absolutely nothing to be seen and it did not seem so much different from bus-riding at home.

Home! She sighed. She had got to stop thinking about Italy as her home. Soon Daven House in Wiltshire was to be her home. There was no going back. If she returned to Italy it would be to marry Benito, but as the distance between them increased, she felt the ties between them decreasing.

She took the opportunity after lunch of going back to the ladies’ room. She washed her face and hands and combed her hair. The eyes that stared back at her through the glass were scared eyes and she inwardly chided herself. Why should she feel scared? After all, she had nothing to be ashamed of. It was these women she was going to meet today who ought to feel ashamed.

Stiffening her shoulders, she walked back to her seat to find Patrick Mallory absorbed in some papers he had extracted from his briefcase. He did not even glance at her as she reseated herself beside him and Samantha found her thoughts returning to the problem of the next few hours. She felt that she was gradually becoming more and more nervous and she would be glad when this day was over at last.

Her eyes strayed once more to her companion, as though drawn to him. In profile his features were just as attractive and from his immaculate tailoring and ease of manner she guessed he was a man who knew the world and what life was all about. He looked quite young and she speculated about his exact age. He must be about thirty, she decided, and wondered whether he was English. His name was English enough and yet there was something slightly alien about his dark complexion and tawny eyes. Cat’s eyes, Samantha thought. Like those of the tiger she had once seen in a travelling circus. Pondering, she wondered whether he was virtually quite as dangerous. He was very easy to talk to and she could understand a woman enjoying the attention he would devote to her. He treated Samantha rather like an overgrown schoolgirl and she wondered whether she acted that way. It was rather disconcerting to find that after having thought yourself quite grown-up a man, like this man, could make you feel quite gauche. It was apparent that the men of the village could hardly be compared to Patrick Mallory.

He was a writer, too. She wondered what he wrote. He had not wanted to talk about that. But the stewardess obviously knew him and he had expected her to recognize his name.

From these thoughts she returned to thoughts of Benito. He had insisted on coming to the airport to see her off, and had made the scene she had half-expected. After his early capitulation he had changed and become sullen and resentful. Samantha suspected that his family was to blame. They had not taken kindly to her plans for going to England. His mother had been quite blunt.

“Benito needs a wife,” she had said. “Not some fly-by-night creature who goes shooting off to England at the whim of a relation she has not seen for seventeen years. Don’t blame Benito if he finds someone else while you are away. Plenty of the village girls would give their right arm to have your opportunity with him.”

There had been more in this vein, and Samantha had left, knowing that it was very unlikely that she would ever go back. That was partly why she felt so scared. She had burnt her boats. The villa had been rented by a young couple from Ravenna and Matilde had gone there to live with her sister. At the moment she felt in transit. She had nothing left for her in Italy and ahead! Who knows!

She was roused from her reverie by Patrick Mallory. He offered her another cigarette and then said:

“You were very thoughtful, just then.”

Samantha smiled rather wistfully, Patrick thought.

“Yes.” She smiled. “Have you finished your work?”

Patrick shrugged. “I don’t suppose I shall ever be finished,” he replied enigmatically.