Wed To The Italian: Bartaldi's Bride / Rome's Revenge / The Forced Marriage

CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_b6d725ab-8c48-50ba-9b34-47100704a6c7)

CLARE made her way into the house by a side door, avoiding the salone.

She went straight to her room, where she stripped off her wrap and bikini and showered, revolving slowly under the warm cascade, tilting up her face, eyes closed, to its power, then cupping her hands and pouring water over her hair, and down her breasts and thighs until she felt cleansed and revived.

She towelled down slowly and thoroughly, discovering that she was watching her own reflection warily in the bathroom’s long mirror, as if she might find some stranger she did not recognise looking back at her.

She put on clean underwear, then slipped into a pair of dark green silky culottes, and a matching sleeveless top with a scooped neckline.

As she was brushing her damp hair, she heard voices below her window, and, peeping out cautiously, saw Guido Bartaldi and an older man, tall, grey-haired and handsome, walking towards the chauffeured limousine awaiting them on the drive.

She sighed with relief, because she’d feared Violetta might have persuaded them to stay for lunch. And it would be useless to pretend ill health again.

She slid her feet into heel-less silver kid sandals, and went downstairs.

She found her godmother standing by the long glass doors leading on to the terrace, staring out at the garden, so deep in her reverie that she started when Clare spoke to her.

‘Ah, carissima.’ There was a note of reproach in her voice. ‘I was wondering where you were. I wished to present you to the Conte did Mantelli.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Clare dropped a penitent kiss on her cheek. ‘I got a little overheated in the garden, and went up to my room to cool off.’ She looked round innocently. ‘Have your visitors gone?’

‘Yes.’ Violetta gave her an old-fashioned look. ‘But I do not flatter myself that they came to see me.’ She paused. ‘I understand the Marchese had a proposition for you.’

‘Yes,’ Clare said calmly. ‘He wants me to act as chaperon for his bride-to-be.’

‘That is what his uncle the Conte told me.’ Violetta sighed. ‘The girl Paola is a big problem to them all, I think. Clearly she needs someone simpatico, but with sense, to be her companion.’ She shot Clare a sideways glance. ‘I told the Conte you would be an ideal choice.’

‘Does he know that forty-eight hours ago his nephew was trying to have me jailed?’

‘Ah, but that was just a terrible misunderstanding,’ Violetta protested. ‘So unfortunate.’

‘Unfortunate for me, certainly,’ Clare agreed. ‘I could have been deported. Unable to work here again.’

‘But that has all changed now,’ Violetta said coaxingly. ‘And it would mean you would stay in Umbria, as I have always wished. It was always a sorrow to me that I had no children. And a daughter especially. This will allow me to see more of you while you earn a living.’

Clare bit her lip. ‘I’m sorry, Violetta, but I turned the Marchese down. I can’t possibly work for him. You must see that.’

‘I see nothing of the kind,’ Violetta said with a touch of tartness. ‘You would live in luxury, and be paid a generous salary simply to stop a tiresome girl from causing more trouble. How can you refuse?’

‘Quite easily. It—it’s not a cause to which I wish to devote a chunk of my life.’ Clare studied the coral enamel on her toenails as if her life depended on it.

‘But it would not even be for very long,’ her godmother urged. ‘The Conte tells me that he hopes Paola’s wedding will take place at the earliest opportunity. Marriage, of course, will settle her.’

‘So the Marchese Bartaldi intends,’ Clare said evenly, feeling as if an icy fist had clenched inside her. ‘In the meantime, it will do him no harm to act as her simpatico companion himself. Maybe he could start by giving up his mistress in Siena.’ She sent Violetta a taut smile. ‘I wonder what’s for lunch? I’m starving.’

Over the next few days, Clare applied herself to enjoying her holiday with a kind of dogged determination. There was no further communication from the Villa Minerva, so it seemed that the Marchese had decided to accept his dismissal from her life.

Which is exactly what I want, Clare told herself robustly. And all I have to do now is put the whole sorry business out of my mind.

The weather was glorious, so part of each day was spent by the pool, where she swam and sunbathed, watched indulgently by Violetta, who sat rigorously safe-guarding her complexion with a parasol.

On one occasion they drove to Urbino, so that Clare could see the art treasures in the magnificent Renaissance palace that towered over the city.

Another day they visited Assisi, where Violetta murmured sorrowfully over the damage caused by the earthquake to the two great basilicas of St Francis and Clare, which stood at opposite ends of the town, both of which were being rapidly restored, however, even down to the famous Giotto frescoes which had suffered so disastrously.

‘Was it very frightening?’ Clare asked.

Violetta shuddered. ‘The whole earth seemed to rock, mia cara. But I was so lucky. A few tiles from the roof—some panes of glass—that was all. Elsewhere such hardship and tragedy.’

As they drove back to Cenacchio, Clare found herself looking up at the rugged Appennine hills which provided such a dramatic backdrop to the narrow road they were travelling on. They said wolves still lived on those steep, thickly forested slopes, and she could believe it. There was a wild, almost savage quality about them.

At the same time they looked so majestic—and eternal. As if nothing could move them. Yet the earth was such a fragile place, at the mercy of Nature in all kinds of ways, as the recent quakes had proved so drastically.

And even when the world seemed at peace, as it did today, there were other more personal storms to endure. Disturbed nights, with too vivid dreams, and, by day, a strange, aching emptiness that she could not escape, she thought, shivering.

‘I need to stop in Cenacchio,’ Violetta announced as they reached the small town. ‘My attorney wishes me to sign some papers over the lease of a field. So tedious. Why don’t you look at the shops, and we will meet at the caffe in the square in a half-hour, cara?’

Clare agreed readily to this plan, wandering happily round the narrow cobbled streets, window-shopping at the boutiques, pausing at a small bookshop to buy a local guide book, and, on impulse, a life of St Clare of Assisi.

At the delicatessen, she stared longingly at its mouth-watering displays of cheeses and sausages, and the enormous variety of goodies in jars and bottles.

Before she went home she would treat herself to some really good olive oil, she determined.

The half-hour was up, but there was no sign of Violetta at the caffe. Unperturbed, Clare seated herself at a table under the blue-striped awning, and ordered a cappuccino.

She began to glance through the life of the saint, finding to her amusement that her namesake was the patron of television.

Well, I suppose there has to be one, she thought, as she casually turned the pages.

When a shadow fell across the table, she assumed it was Violetta, and glanced up with a smile, only to find Paola gazing anxiously at her.

‘Signorina—Clare?’ Her face broke into an uncertain smile. ‘I hoped it was you. Are you alone? May I join you?’

‘Of course. I’m just waiting for my godmother.’ Clare returned the smile politely but without any particular enthusiasm.

‘Ah, the Signora Andreati. I was so pleased to meet her. Si amabile. Si elegante.’

‘Yes, she’s all of that,’ Clare agreed, her tone softening, touched by the wistful note in Paola’s voice.

The younger girl sat down beside Clare, and put a hand on her arm. ‘I have so much wanted to see you. I wanted to say how sorry I was for all that Guido made you suffer.’ She shook her head. ‘Che bruto. Did I not tell you?’

‘Yes,’ Clare acknowledged. ‘But I don’t think you should tell me again. Not when you’re talking about the man you’re going to marry.’

‘Niente paura,’ Paola asserted passionately. ‘It will not happen.’ She gave a wary look around her. ‘But I need your help.’

Clare sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Paola. But that wouldn’t be very wise. And you don’t really need help. You just have to say No and mean it.’

‘You do not understand.’ Paola lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘His uncle is with us now, and they will force me to do as they say.’