The Italian's Baby

‘Oh, I’m so happy. And what about you two? It’s time you tied the knot. Why don’t we make the announcement now?’

‘No,’ Rebecca said quickly. Then, fearing that she had been too emphatic, she hastened to add, ‘This is your night. If I hijacked it I’d be in trouble with my boss.’

‘All right, but on my wedding day I’m going to toss you my bouquet.’

She danced away and Rebecca heaved a secret sigh of relief.

‘Why did she call you Becky?’ Danvers asked.

‘It’s short for Rebecca.’

‘I’ve never heard anyone use it with you, and I’m glad. Rebecca’s more natural to you, gracious and sophisticated. You’re not a Becky sort of person.’

‘And what is “a Becky sort of person” Danvers?’

‘Well, a bit coltish and awkward. Somebody who’s just a kid and doesn’t know much about the world.’

She put her glass down suddenly because her hand was shaking. But she knew he wouldn’t notice.

‘I haven’t always been gracious and sophisticated,’ she said.

‘That’s how I like to see you, though.’

And, of course, Danvers wouldn’t be interested in any other version of her than the one that suited himself. She would probably marry him in the end, not for love, but for lack of any strong opposing force. She was thirty-two and the aimless drift that was her life couldn’t go on indefinitely.

She rejected his suggestion of dinner, claiming tiredness. He saw her to her suite and made one last attempt to prolong the evening, drawing her close for a practiced kiss, but she stiffened.

‘I really am very tired. Goodnight, Danvers.’

‘All right. You get your beauty sleep and be perfect for tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘We’re having dinner with the chairman of the bank. You can’t have forgotten.’

‘Of course not. I’ll be there, at my best. Goodnight.’

If he didn’t go soon she would scream.

At last she had the blessed relief of solitude. She turned out the lights and went to stand in the window, looking out at the lights of London. They winked and glittered against the darkness, and in her morbid mood it seemed as if she was looking at her whole life from now on: an endless vista of shiny occasions—dinner with the chairman, a box at the opera, lunch in fashionable restaurants, entertaining in a luxurious house, the perfect wife and hostess.

It had seemed enough before, but something about tonight had unsettled her. That young couple with their passionate belief in love had reminded her of too many things she no longer believed.

‘Becky’ had believed them, but Becky was dead. She had died in a confusion of pain, misery and disillusion.

Yet tonight her ghost had walked through the costly feast, turning reproachful eyes on Rebecca, reminding her that once she had had a heart, and had given that heart freely to a wild-eyed young man who had adored her.

‘A kid, who doesn’t know much about the world,’ had been Danvers’ verdict on ‘Becky’, and he was more right than he knew. They had both been kids, herself and the twenty-year-old, Luca, thinking that their love was the final answer to all problems.

Becky Solway had fallen in love with Italy at first sight, and especially the land around Tuscany, where her father had inherited the estate of Belleto from his Italian mother.

‘Dad, it’s heavenly!’ she said when she first saw it. ‘I want to stay here forever and ever.’

He laughed. ‘All right, pet. Whatever you say.’

He was like that, always willing to indulge her without actually considering what she was saying, much less what she was thinking or feeling.

At fourteen all she saw was the indulgence. It had been just the two of them since her mother had died two years before. Frank Solway, successful manufacturer of electronic products, and his bright, pretty daughter.

He had factories all over Europe, continually moving the work to wherever the labour was cheapest. During her school vacation they travelled together, visiting the outposts of his business empire, or stayed at Belleto. The rest of the time she finished her schooling in England. When she was sixteen she announced that she was finished with school.

‘I just want to live at Belleto from now on, Dad.’

And, as always, he said, ‘All right, pet. Whatever you like.’

He bought her a horse, and she spent happy days exploring the vineyards and olive groves that formed part of Belleto’s riches.

She had a quick ear, and had learned not only Italian from her grandmother but also the local Tuscan dialect. Her father spoke languages badly and the servants who ran his house found him hard to understand, so he soon left the domestic affairs to her. After a while she was helping with the estate as well.

All she knew of Frank was that he was a successful businessman. She never suspected a darker side, until one day it was forced on her.

He had closed his last factory in England, opened another in Italy, then taken off for Spain, inspecting new premises. During his absence Becky went for a ride and found herself confronted by three grim-faced men.

‘You’re Solway’s daughter,’ said one of the men in English. ‘Frank Solway is your dad. Admit it.’

‘Why should I deny it? I’m not ashamed of my father.’

‘Well, you damned well should be,’ another man shouted. ‘We needed our jobs and he shut down the English factory overnight because it’s cheaper over here. No compensation, no redundancy. He just vanished. Where is he?’

‘My father’s abroad at the moment. Please let me pass.’

One of the men grabbed the bridle. ‘Tell us where he is,’ he snapped. ‘We didn’t come all this way to be fobbed off.’

She was growing nervous, sensing that they would soon be out of control.

‘He’ll be next week,’ she said desperately. ‘I’ll tell him you called; I’m sure he’ll want to speak to you—’

This brought a roar of ribald laughter.

‘We’re the last people he wants to speak to—he’s been hiding from us…won’t answer letters.’

‘But what can I do?’ she cried.

‘You can stay with us until he comes for you,’ the most unpleasant-looking man snapped, still holding the bridle.

‘I think not,’ said a hard voice.

It came from a young man that nobody had noticed. He had appeared from between the trees and stood still for a moment to make sure they had registered his presence. It was an impressive presence, not so much for his height and breadth of shoulder as for the sheer ferocity on his face.