The Rinuccis: Carlo, Ruggiero & Francesco: The Italian's Wife by Sunset

‘Try to understand this, and then never let us speak of it again. It wasn’t your fault, or anyone else’s except mine. In her eyes I just don’t measure up. That’s all there is to it.’

She understood. He was telling her, gently, that even she was irrelevant when set against his love. His eyes were kind, softening the hint of rejection, but she had no doubt that he meant it.

For a moment she hated Della with a ferocity that shocked her. All this might have been hers, and she’d tossed it away, breaking his heart, abandoning him in an endless desert.

But the man he had become understood even this, and said quietly, ‘Don’t hate her, Mamma. For my sake.’

‘Very well, I won’t. In fact, I think you should go to England. Whatever is wrong between you put it right—if that’s the only thing that will make you happy.’

It was a bad thing to say. Carlo’s face was hard and set.

‘Go after her?’ he echoed. ‘Beg from a woman who’s turned me down as not up to standard? What do you think I am?’

‘My dear, don’t let your pride get in the way.’

He shrugged and made a wry face.

‘Let a man keep his pride. It matters.’

‘Well, can’t I help? If I talked to her—’

She stopped before the anger that flashed in his eyes.

‘Never even think of such a thing. Not even for a moment. Do you hear me, Mamma?’

‘Yes,’ she faltered. ‘I won’t do anything you don’t want.’

For a moment she had glimpsed the fierce will inside him, and it had almost frightened her.

Carlo softened and put his arm about her.

‘Forgive me for speaking to you so,’ he said contritely. ‘But you mustn’t interfere. You can’t help this situation.’

‘Then what can help it?’ she cried.

‘Nothing,’ he said quietly. ‘Nothing at all.’

Della’s first job was to visit the flower shop where Gina worked. There, she saw a pretty, tired-looking girl of about nineteen.

‘Can I help you, madam?’ Gina asked, but no sooner had she spoken than her eyes closed and she swayed.

Della caught her and guided her to a chair.

‘The same thing used to happen to me,’ she said sympathetically.

She looked up as the shop’s manageress bustled out.

‘I’ll take her home,’ she said, in a voice that brooked no argument. ‘I’m her aunt.’

Gina lived in a couple of rooms a few streets away. Recognising a stronger personality, she made no protest as Della called a cab and took her away.

The rooms were much as Della had expected—shabby and basic, but clean and cared for. Having urged Gina to a sofa, she made a pot of tea and sat down beside her while they both drank.

‘I’m Sol’s mother,’ she said. ‘I came to see how you were.’

‘Did he send you?’ Gina asked, with an eagerness in her voice that touched Della’s heart.

‘No, I’m afraid not. I wouldn’t hope for too much from Sol, if I were you.’