An Innocent Abroad: A Jazz Age Romance (10 page)

“Not
for food,” she said.

They
returned to their meal. Eventually.

After
the antipasti, they ate the pasta dish Stefano had made, macaroni in a source
of clams and mussels, and flavoured with lemons. For dessert, there was almond
cake dripping with fresh cream.

“This
is the most heavenly food I’ve ever tasted,” she said.

“I
can’t take credit for the cake. My housekeeper made that.”

“Where
did you learn to cook like this? You know men in England don’t cook?”

He
grinned. “There are a lot of things English men could learn from us Italians.”
He raised her fingers to his mouth and brushed a kiss across her palm. “For the
English, food is nutrition. Here in Italy, food is pleasure. And as with any
pleasure, its preparation is an art form.”

She
could appreciate that. There was another form of pleasure Stefano had raised to
an art form. She leaned back against him, and he draped a casual arm over her
shoulder, his voice a rumble against her ear. “Meals in Italy take many hours.
They are social events, to be enjoyed, not rushed. Here we believe that the
good things in life are worth savouring.”

He
bent his head to brush a kiss over her collarbone. “That is how I knew you were
different, that first day we met. You tasted the
limoncello
, really
tasted it.”

“It’s
the Italian sunshine bottled,” she said. Her voice sounded faraway, dreamy.

He
turned her in his arms, laying her down beside him on the narrow bunk. She laid
her head against his chest and listened to the slow and steady beat of his
heart. With the softer skin of her thumb she stroked the calluses on his palm.
“What gave you these?” she asked.

“My
second love,” he said. “Those are from sailing. It’s hard work, but a labour of
love.”

She
didn’t ask what his first love was. He’d already made that abundantly clear.
His country and his people came first. And she wasn’t one of them. She wasn’t
sure if she’d even figure anywhere on his list.

She
buried her face in his chest, breathing in the scent of his skin and of their
lovemaking. He played with a lock of her hair, threading it through his
fingers. For a long while they lay in silence, rocked together by the gentle
sway of the boat. One of his arms lay loosely along her hip, so warm and
reassuring, and strong.

Through
the porthole, the sun angled down onto their naked bodies, her pale limbs
intertwined with his darker ones. Isobel watched the sun’s slow progress with
an ache in her heart. She wasn’t yet ready for this day to end.

She
wanted so much more. Her body craved more of his loving, as her heart craved
more of him.

“We
need to head back,” he said, his gaze following hers to the window.

She
nodded, unable to speak.

They
rose from the bunk and returned to the deck to find their clothes.

Too
soon, the throb of the boat’s engines roared to life and the cruiser chugged
out of the cove, back across the waves towards the mainland. Once again they
stood together in the tiny cockpit. He placed her hands on the wheel, with his
larger, browner ones over hers, and she leaned against him, soaking up these
last moments alone together.

The
mainland rose up out of the water before them, approaching far too quickly for
Isobel’s liking. When the red roofs of Arienzo came into sight, she moved away
from him to stand once again in the prow. The children were long gone and the
beach was deserted.

She
helped him moor the boat to the jetty, following his calm, precise instructions
as he navigated the boat into position. Once moored, he collected her things,
then held her hand until they both stood on the solid ground of the beach. They
faced each other, separated by a foot of cold air. The connection between their
hands sent a pulse down deep into her, to the delightful raw ache between her
legs.

He
released her hand. “
Ciao
, Bella.”

Not
arrivederci
. Not ‘until we meet again’. This time it really was goodbye.

She
forced the weight of her sadness away and put all the joy she could muster into
her smile. “Thank you for today,” she said.

Then
she turned and walked away, resisting the temptation to look back. With every
step she took, a little of the hope inside her died. The hope that he’d run
after her, that he’d call her to stop. That he’d ask her to stay, and tell her
she wasn’t just another summer romance, and that she had his heart as he had
hers.

Tears
blurred her eyes. It was over.

“Thank
you, Edwards,” Isobel said to the butler as he opened the front door wide for
her to pass. “Are the others home yet?”

“Not
yet, ma’am.”

“And
Frances?”

“Miss
Frances is in her room. She has not been well.”

“I’m
sorry to hear that.”

She
took the steps two at a time, bounding along the corridor they shared. Frances’
door was closed. She knocked timidly. Silence.

“Frances?”

There
was a shuffling sound on the other side of the door, then the scrape of a bolt
being drawn.

“You
can come in.” Frances’ voice sounded thick, as if she’d been crying.

Isobel
pushed the door open and stepped into the room. The shutters were closed, and
shadows darkened the room. The sheets lay tangled in a heap at the foot of the
bed. In the dim light she could see that Frances wore nothing but her knickers
and camisole.

Then
she caught sight of Frances’ face; pale, wretched. A single tear slid down
Frances’ cheek.

“Whatever’s
wrong? Did something happen?” Alarmed, Isobel laid a hand on her cousin’s
shoulder. The touch released the dam of emotions within Frances. She let out a
sob and threw herself into Isobel’s arms. Then the tears came, hot tears that
soaked Isobel’s shoulder as she cradled her cousin.

“Did
he hurt you?” Isobel asked, appalled.

At
last the gut-wrenching sobs slowed. Frances shook her head, hiccupped and
pulled away. “Carlo doesn’t want me,” she said, her voice breaking on the
words.

“Of
course he wants you,” Isobel said, soothing Frances as she’d soothe a baby.

But
Frances shook her head, her bobbed hair bouncing wildly about her face, an
unkempt halo. “He called me a whore.”

“
What?
”

“I
told him I don’t want to go back to London, that I want to stay here with him.
I told him I love him and want to marry him.”

Frances
pushed away, pacing towards the shuttered window, angry now. Isobel stood still
and listened, too shocked to move. Her cousin had been brave enough to do what
she couldn’t. To ask for what she wanted.

“And
what did he say?” Isobel asked, her throat so tight she could barely force the
words out. She already knew the answer, and she understood Frances’ pain. It
was a pain she shared.

“He
laughed. He said: Why would I want to marry a whore?”

Isobel
drew in a sharp breath.

Frances
paced back again. “He said I meant nothing to him, and didn’t I know I was
nothing more than a little fun for the summer. He said I’m just like all the
other English girls he’s had.”

Isobel
gasped, the pain stabbing fresh. She wanted to offer her cousin words of
solace. But the words stuck in her throat.

She
would not lie to Frances. Italian men, noble and peasant alike, did not marry English
girls. They seduced them, they played with them. And both she and Frances had
offered themselves willingly.

She
wondered fleetingly about all those
others
. Had those other English
girls also lost their hearts, and left Italy broken-hearted, as she and Frances
would have to?

Frances
seemed more composed now. But it was a frightening composure, like ice
stretched thinly over a frozen lake, ready to crack at any moment. “I knew he
didn’t love me. I thought he wanted me for my money and I could live with that.
I love him enough for the both of us.”

“But
your parents would never allow it.” Isobel could not keep the horror from her
voice. “He’s a commoner. And Italian.”

Frances’
eyes were wide, crazy.  “They would have had to, to save me from ruin. They would
have returned to London without me and they would have made up some story to
tell people.”

“Why
would they do that?” Foreboding licked up Isobel’s spine. “Frances, you’re not
…?”

The
ice cracked. “I’m carrying his baby.”

She
crumpled onto the bed. Isobel lay beside her, folding her cousin into her arms,
cradling Frances as another wave of grief rocked her.

“What
will you do about the baby? Is there a doctor you can see?” The very idea
appalled Isobel, but what other choice did Frances have? If Carlo would not
have her, even for her family’s money, then she had nowhere to go. Her life was
ruined.

“I’m
keeping it!” Frances voice was muffled in the blankets. “I want to have his
baby. It’s all I have left of him.”

“Don’t
be stupid!” Shock turned Isobel’s voice sharp. “You can’t keep the baby. Your
parents would cast you off. You would have nothing.”

Her
cousin lifted her tear-stained face from the blankets. “Then I’ll go to my
grandmother in America. Or I’ll marry someone else. Anyone. I’ll do anything
for this child.” The ferocity died, and her voice turned pleading. “I still
want him, Izzy. That’s the worst part. I still want him, even though he doesn’t
want me. You don’t know what it’s like.”

Frances
buried her face in the blankets once again. Isobel stroked her hair as her
cousin gradually calmed into exhausted sleep. She pulled a blanket over
Frances.

“I do
know,” she murmured, too soft for Frances to hear. Hadn’t she fallen under the
same stupid spell? She too had lost all sense over a man. And she too might
even now be pregnant. Stefano had spilled his seed inside her enough times.

She
hadn’t thought. She’d been too lost to her own wants.

There
was that word again.
Want
. Stefano had encouraged her to reach out for
her dreams, to believe in the impossible, and for one reckless moment she had.
Okay, a few reckless moments. But he’d made her no promises. And if they had no
future together, why had he let things get so far between them? Merely for his
own pleasure?

And
why had she?

She
rested her hands on her stomach. Was Stefano’s baby in there now? And if it
were, would she be able to destroy it? She smoothed her hands over the soft
silk of the borrowed dress. She couldn’t even bring herself to think of ending a
life, no matter what it would bring to her.

No
matter what.

Stefano
had used those words, and now she understood. No matter what it would bring.

If
she carried his child, would Stefano acknowledge her, and his child? Or would
he too cast her away as the slut she was?

She
had no grandmother to go to, no-one else to turn to.

Christopher.

If
she married Christopher, she would at least have the protection of his name.
And if she did it quickly enough, perhaps he would never know.

But
of course he would.

No
one would question if Frances had a dark-haired, dark-eyed child. But Isobel,
with her fair hair and pale blue eyes, would never get away with it.

And
she couldn’t do that to Christopher. He was above all else an honourable man.
He would stand by her, even in the face of her deceit, and it would destroy
him. He didn’t deserve that.

She
closed her eyes, and the spectacular ceiling of the di Cilento chapel floated
against the back of her eyelids as she heard again Stefano’s voice:

What
do you pray for, Bella?

She
buried her face in her hands.

Isobel
dressed with fumbling fingers. The sheer fabric slipped through her fingers. It
was a new dress, a parting gift from her aunt; a Jeanne Lanvin original in pale
lilac, ornately beaded. At last she was dressed, her hair pulled back with a
band and held in place by a single orchid from the villa’s hothouse.

She
looked at the stranger reflected back at her in the mirror. In a couple of days
she would board the ship in Naples a different person from the inexperienced
girl who had arrived only a few weeks ago. Her face was more tanned, even a
little freckled. She walked now with a new awareness of herself, conscious of
the subtle changes in her body, in that most intimate part of herself that
still sometimes seemed to throb with the feel of Stefano inside her.

But
the greatest change was the hardest to define.

Certainly
older, wiser, a little sadder. She smiled tentatively, and there was something
else in the stranger’s reflection. Beneath the surface was a lustrous glow she
couldn’t contain, because no matter how brief it had been, she’d known love and
passion. The gauche girl was gone, and in her place a woman stood, a brave and
sensual woman, the kind of woman who could create the kind of art Isobel had
always wanted to create.

She
was among the last to arrive in the drawing room and savoured the attention as
all eyes turned to her.

“What
will it be tonight?” Adam asked, standing at his usual place behind the
cocktail tray. “A Cuban Daiquiri or a Tom Collins?”

“A
Sidecar.”

“I’m
going to miss you, Izzy,” he said, shaking the ingredients together. “I enjoy
having someone to experiment on.”

“You
experiment on everyone,” she pointed out.

“None
so pretty as you. And the party won’t be the same without you.”

His
flattery was charming, smoother than Christopher’s muddled attempts, less believable
than Stefano’s frankness.

She
took her drink and circled the room, hovering on the edges of the babble of
conversation that filled the large room. The Baron was telling an involved and
humorous tale about buying a race horse to much laughter. She smiled. She would
miss them all.

Pausing
beside the wide windows, she took in the view of the darkening sky and sea.
From here she could not see Capri, but in her mind she could picture it
clearly, all the hues of blue and green that the island evoked for her. That
would be her next painting; the mysterious grotto, a place of secrets.

“You
are transformed, Isobel.” Tom’s Yankee drawl brought her back to the present.
He had come to stand beside her at the window, but his eyes were not on the
view. “I think I rather like this new you.”

“I
do too.” She grinned. The Sidecar was definitely raising her spirits.

“You
ever want to ditch those English stiffs, you’ll have a welcome with us in New
York any time.”

“Thank
you. I might take you up on that.” Though whether that invitation would extend
to a fatherless baby, she could only guess.

Frances’
laughter, too loud, more than a little tipsy, made her turn her head. For days
her cousin had held the mask in place, that cool glaze of sophistication she
wore like a shield. Tonight it seemed the mask was slipping.

“I
think she’s sad to leave Italy,” Tom observed. “She hasn’t been herself for the
last few days.”

“None
of us have.” Isobel’s gaze moved to Christopher, fidgeting on one end of the
sofa. He gulped down his drink, as desperate as Frances to appear at ease.

She
turned back to Tom. “It’s been an interesting summer. I’m so glad I had this
chance to meet you all.”

“Join
us again next summer.” His eyes twinkled. “Or perhaps you will be here on your
honeymoon?”

She
shrugged. “Who knows what the future holds? Maybe I’ll return next year as an
eccentric spinster artist.”

He
laughed at that. “Never a spinster! You are too beautiful and intelligent a woman;
the men will never allow it.”

“Dinner
is served,” Edwards intoned from the doorway.

She
set down her now empty cocktail glass and followed Tom towards the hall.

“Will
you stay a moment?” Christopher’s cool hand on her arm waylaid her.

He
glanced nervously at the retreating backs of the other guests as they
disappeared from view. When they were alone, he sank to his knees before her.
Isobel stifled the laughter that threatened to bubble up. Though she’d expected
this moment, had been waiting for it for days, now the moment was here she
didn’t know what to do.

“Please
would you do me the honour of accepting my hand in marriage.” It was a
statement, not a question.

“We
should go in to dinner. The others will soon miss us.” She still needed time to
think. But there was no more time.

His
earnest blue eyes sought hers. “You must know how much I care for you. I hoped
you’d come to feel the same way for me.”

For
one mad, fleeting moment she still considered saying yes. If there was a baby,
saying yes to Christopher would save her from ruin.

She
pulled herself together. She could be as brave as Stefano had believed her to
be.

“We
aren’t suited to each other,” she said. “You don’t really know me. You want a
nice, conventional wife, and I’m not that. I don’t want to be that.”

His
jaw jutted out. She hadn’t expected him to be so stubborn. “That’s what I love
about you. You’re different; you’re adventurous.” His voice was low,
impassioned. For a moment she glimpsed the man he could be, the fun one Frances
remembered so fondly from long ago. He dragged in a deep breath. “I know I’m a
little dull. I’d try to change for you.”