Sancha's lips trembled. ‘What are you trying to do? Find logical explanations for your behaviour? Does it satisfy your own self-respect that you can actually find mitigation for your misdeeds?'

  ‘Sancha!' He bit out the word savagely. ‘For God's sake, give me a chance to explain——'

  ‘Explain? Explain? What is there to explain?’ Sancha felt physically sick; sick, because in spite of everything if he had taken her in his arms she would have been unable to resist him. She pressed her hands over her ears. ‘What are you going to explain?’ she cried again. ‘Are you going to give me reasons why Janine permits you to treat her like she does? Is your sexual prowess so devastating that she's prepared to suffer any humiliation to remain in the position she so obviously enjoys? Doesn't she care——'

  ‘For God's sake, Sancha, stop it!’ The Count took her by the shoulders and shook her fiercely. ‘Listen to me!'

  ‘I don't want to listen to you!’ she gasped, staring at him wildly. ‘I've listened to everything I want to hear. It's rather amusing, really, isn't it? You should write another book, Count Malatesta, you could call it The Amorous Experiences of a Contemporary Count!’ and she began to laugh. Hysteria was rising in her throat, and when his hand stung painfully across her cheek she collapsed on the floor in a paroxysm of weeping.

  The Count uttered a self-recriminatory remonstrance, and went down on his haunches beside her, lifting her chin with suddenly gentle fingers. ‘Sancha,’ he murmured brokenly, ‘Sancha, don't you know——'

  But suddenly there was the sound of a car stopping, its brakes squealing raucously, and then doors opening, and before Sancha had a chance to assimilate what was happening, Eduardo strode into the room followed rather more slowly by Elizabeth.

  Her uncle's gaze swept the scene before him furiously, his eyes going first to Sancha's white, tear-stained face and then to the strained features of the Count as he rose stiffly to his feet to face them.

  ‘What the hell is going on here?’ demanded Eduardo fiercely. ‘Count Malatesta! I expect an explanation!'

  The Count buttoned the jacket of his expensive dark suit, his own feelings veiled by the long black lashes. ‘I must apologise, of course, signore,’ he said expressionlessly. ‘As to an explanation, I fear no explanation of mine would satisfy you.'

  Eduardo was taken aback, and he blustered a little. ‘Look here, you can't get away with that!’ He looked again at Sancha as she got rather unsteadily to her feet. ‘What's been happening here? Why are you here? Half an hour ago you were at the Marcellos'!'

  ‘Oh, Uncle, please!’ Sancha pressed the palms of her hands to her temples. ‘Nothing has happened. Nothing of any importance, that is.’ She looked squarely at the Count, stilling the traitorous longing inside her which wanted to forgive him for everything. ‘I think Count Malatesta was just leaving!'

  The Count stared at her for a long, soul-searching minute and then the congestion in his chest which had troubled him earlier broke out again and shaking his head he walked to the door, coughing hoarsely.

  Eduardo stepped forward and would have said something more, but Elizabeth put her fingers on his arm and shook her head significantly. Eduardo compressed his lips and the Count, who had by now composed himself again, turned and said:

  ‘As your niece has dismissed me, I will leave. I regret this intrusion!’ and without another word to any of them he walked down the hall and a few moments later the outer door slammed.

  Sancha stood frozen into immobility, and Elizabeth dropped her evening bag on to the table and said brightly: ‘I'll go and make some coffee.'

  Eduardo nodded, while Sancha tried to gather herself to face him. When they were alone, Eduardo broke into angry speech.

  ‘For God's sake, Sancha!’ he exclaimed. ‘What was going on here?'

  Sancha clenched her fists. ‘It—it was nothing. A private matter, that's all.'

  ‘A private matter!’ Eduardo's voice rose on a note of protest. ‘Sancha, don't I deserve any consideration? When I found Malatesta had left the Marcellos', I told your aunt and we came straight home. I knew I would find him here. Do you have to encourage him like this?'

  ‘Encourage him?’ Sancha pressed her lips together, feeling the hysteria rising in her throat again. ‘I don't encourage him, Uncle. But—but I do love him. You might as well know the truth.'

  ‘You love him?’ Eduardo was horrified.

  ‘Yes.’ Sancha tugged her fingers through her hair. ‘But he doesn't know, and he must never find out or …’ She sighed. ‘He's getting married soon. To Janine Rumien.'

  ‘And yet he can't leave you alone!’ Eduardo raised his eyes heavenward. ‘Dear God, Sancha, do you have any idea of what could happen to you?'

  Sancha bent her head. ‘Of course I have. And that's why I'm considering going back to England. I couldn't face the kind of life that Eleanor——’ She broke off as her aunt came back into the room. With a supreme effort, she managed a smile and said: ‘No coffee for me, Aunt Elizabeth. I'm tired. I think I'll go straight to bed.'

  Elizabeth looked at her anxiously. ‘As you wish, dear child,’ she said. ‘Do you want me to come with you?'

  Sancha shook her head. ‘No—no, thanks! I'll be fine. Goodnight.'

  Eduardo nodded abruptly and turned away and Sancha went to her room. She knew he was disappointed that she had behaved so stupidly, but what could she do? She had known right from the beginning that so far as she was concerned the Count Cesare Alberto Venturo di Malatesta was dynamite …

  CHAPTER TEN

  ALTHOUGH Eduardo had suggested that Sancha should spend a week with her aunt before making any definite decision about returning to the office, towards the end of that week he was forced to ask her to return to work. Eleanor had developed an attack of influenza, and with several others of his staff absent from duty, he needed her assistance.

  Sancha could do nothing but agree. Besides, the empty hours spent at the Tessile villa were beginning to pall, particularly as she had too many problems to plague her mind.

  So she went back to work in earnest, and found her days too filled with concentration to be miserable. She worked long hours, trying desperately to keep to Eleanor's schedule, and although she had help from other writers, she managed quite well. Sufficiently so to feel that given the time she could cope with Eleanor's job. Maybe Eduardo had seen this as an ideal opportunity to show her exactly what she was turning down, she thought, in her more cynical moments, but as the days went by she began to wonder whether indeed she would not be a fool to reject his offer.

  In the beginning, she was still obsessed with her involvement with Count Malatesta, but as a week, ten days, went by, and there was no contact with him, she wondered with a ridiculously sinking heart whether that too had been made to seem more important than it was by her own conceit. Certainly it seemed that the incident at her uncle's villa had destroyed everything between them, or maybe Janine was capable of exerting more pressure than he had thought her capable of.

  In the event, she had to accept after three whole weeks had passed that it was over and therefore there was absolutely no reason why she should reject her uncle's offer—at least for the three or four months of her year that were left.

  Eleanor returned to the office only long enough to collect her belongings. The period of her notice had passed with her illness, and Sancha privately thought that it had been contrived that way so that Eleanor would not have the ignominy of teaching Sancha her job. After she had left officially, there was a definite easing of tension in the office and Sancha realised that Eleanor had used her influence with Eduardo to the full.

  Eduardo himself avoided any mention of the Count to Sancha. Their relationship proceeded on a surface basis, as though the whole affair had never happened, and neither of them probed the feelings of the other. If Aunt Elizabeth considered Sancha's newly acquired air of invulnerability was rather off-putting, she made no mention of the fact, and like her husband allowed all personal matters to remain undiscussed.

  Only Maria seemed to understand that nothing had really changed. Sancha was just as vulnerable where Count Malatesta was concerned as she had ever been, no matter how hard she might try to deny it to others and to herself.

  Antonio Fucchi was another matter. In the early days after that disastrous evening at the villa he had behaved rather stiffly with Sancha and she had quite expected him to allow their association to fade. But as the weeks went by he seemed to forget what had happened and gradually he took up where he had left off, seeing her most weekends and occasionally telephoning her at work during the week now that she had a telephone of her own. It was exactly the kind of casual relationship Sancha needed, and without encouragement, she knew, that Antonio would never trespass on private ground.

  One day, about five weeks after the night she had last seen Count Malatesta, Sancha was shopping in the Merceria during her lunch hour when she almost ran into a tall muscular man who was emerging from a delicatessen, his arms filled with parcels which spilled on to the pavement.

  ‘Oh, I'm sorry!’ Sancha exclaimed apologetically, going down to her haunches to help him gather together his possessions, and then she gasped: ‘Paolo! I—I didn't realise …'

  Paolo gathered his parcels and rose stiffly to his feet. He made no acknowledgement of her surprised exclamation and would have turned away when she caught his arm, some inner need forcing her hand.

  ‘Paolo! Paolo, you know who I am!'

  Paolo regarded her coldly, his shaven head attracting attention to their small confrontation. ‘Yes, signorina, I know who you are,’ he agreed bleakly.

  Sancha shook her head helplessly. ‘Well, then? You were not going to acknowledge it?'

  Paolo raised his chin. ‘Excuse me, signorina, but I must go. The signore is waiting for me.'

  Sancha glanced round apprehensively, ‘W—waiting for you?'

  ‘Si, signorina. At the palazzo.'

  Sancha relaxed. ‘I see.’ She wetted her dry lips, unable to suppress the desire to know about him. ‘How—how is Count Malatesta? Is—is he well?'

  Paolo's lips thinned. ‘You are interested, signorina?’ he enquired contemptuously.

  Sancha stared at him. ‘What do you mean? Of course I'm interested.’ She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘It was a polite enquiry, that's all.'

  Paolo regarded her scornfully. ‘It is a little late, that is all, signorina. But he is almost recovered, si.'

  Sancha's palms moistened. ‘What do you mean? Recovered?'

  Paolo adjusted his parcels more comfortably in his arms. ‘You must excuse me, signorina. I do not have time to discuss such matters at the moment. Arrivederci, signorina!'

  Sancha caught his arm again. ‘Please,’ she begged appealingly. ‘You must tell me what you mean! Has the Count been ill?'

  Paolo's expression softened slightly. ‘Do you not read Italian newspapers, signorina?’ he asked quietly.

  Sancha put a hand to her forehead. ‘I—I've been so busy these last weeks, I've read hardly anything!’ she exclaimed.

  Paolo shook his head. ‘Cosi, there it is. Arrivederci again, signorina.'

  And shaking off her unresisting fingers he strode away down the street leaving Sancha standing in a state of shocked paralysis.

  Presently, as she realised she was attracting curious glances, Sancha began to walk down the street herself in the opposite direction to that which Paolo had taken. Then she quickened her footsteps and soon began to run.

  She ran almost all the way back to the office, panting as she made her way into the general office. Here were kept files of most of the national newspapers printed in Italy. They were used for reference purposes and were useful when researching current events.

  Sancha made her way to the stand of the main national daily and folding back the sheets began systematically studying all the society pages. She was so intent on what she was doing that she didn't hear anyone behind her until Maria's light voice said:

  ‘I saw you dashing in here. What's going on? Have you seen a ghost or something?'

  Sancha glanced round and heaved a sigh. ‘No, no, not a ghost, Maria. Paolo!'

  Maria raised her eyes heavenward. ‘Oh, God!’ she said resignedly.

  Sancha shook her head. ‘He told me the Count was recovered, but he didn't tell me from what!’ she said incoherently.

  Maria leant against the stand, cupping her chin on her hands. ‘I might have known sooner or later you'd find out,’ she said glumly.

  ‘Find out? Find out what?’ Sancha stared at her with horrified eyes.

  Maria shrugged and turned to lean back against the stand. ‘That your Count had an accident!'

  ‘An accident!’ Sancha put a trembling hand to her throat. ‘What kind of accident? Why didn't you tell me? Why wasn't I told?'

  ‘Calm down, calm down!’ Maria put an arm across her shoulders. ‘It was nothing too serious. He crashed his car on his way back to Venice one evening. He—well, he broke a few ribs, one of which punctured his lung, and because he had congestion they couldn't operate right away——'

  ‘Oh, Maria!'

  Sancha stared at her sickly. She put the palms of her hands to her cheeks, and felt an awful giddiness assailing her. She thought for a moment she was going to faint, but then Maria was forcing her into a chair and saying: ‘Sancha! Sancha, stop it! There was nothing you could have done!'

  Sancha shook her head from side to side disbelievingly. She couldn't take it in. Why hadn't she been told? Had no one else known? Had not Eduardo known—or her aunt? She turned haggard eyes to Maria.

  ‘Why didn't you tell me?’ she asked again. ‘I should have been told!'

  ‘You were in enough of a state as it was,’ said Maria calmingly. ‘Sancha, what could you have done? What good would it have done telling you? Your uncle——'

  Sancha clenched her fists. ‘My uncle, yes? What about my uncle?'

  ‘Well, he …’ Maria moved uncomfortably, ‘he told us not to mention it. It was a nine days’ wonder, that was all. For goodness’ sake, Sancha, what difference does it make? Just because he had an accident it doesn't make him any different!'

  Sancha shook her head helplessly. ‘Do you have a cigarette?’ she asked, holding out her hand.

  ‘You don't smoke!’ Maria was surprised.

  ‘Do you have a cigarette?’ Sancha repeated dully. ‘Please Maria, I need something. I'm trembling like a leaf.'

  Shrugging Maria took her cigarettes out of her handbag and handed her one, lighting it for her with a book of matches. Then as Sancha inhaled deeply, she said: ‘You'll make yourself ill!'

  Sancha choked at that moment and throwing the cigarette on the floor she pushed her hair back from her face with trembling fingers.

  ‘Oh, God,’ she said, standing up, ‘I can't even take a cigarette! Maria, what am I going to do?'

  Maria heaved a sigh. ‘Nothing! Absolutely nothing.'

  Sancha turned away. ‘When—when did this accident happen? Where had he been? Was he alone? Did the articles tell you that?'

  Maria's face suffused with colour and Sancha, glancing round, narrowed her eyes. Then a thought struck her and she caught Maria's arm. ‘Tell me, Maria. Had he been to Uncle Eduardo's villa? Was it the night——’ Her voice broke off chokingly.

  Maria bent her head wearily. ‘They said he had been to a dinner party at the Marcellos', and had called to see Signor Tessile about the feature in Parita magazine on his way home,'

  ‘Oh, Maria!'

  Sancha felt as though an enormous lump was filling her throat. She thought she would never be able to swallow again. What a ghastly thing to have happened! And she had not even known! It had been kept from her deliberately! What terrible thoughts must he have had of her these past weeks!

  Maria touched her arm tentatively. ‘It's getting late,’ she said ‘We ought to be going up to our offices.'

  Sancha moved away from her touch. She could not bear Maria's sympathy, well-meant though it might be.

  ‘I've got to see him,’ she said suddenly. ‘I've got to tell him I didn't know.'

  Maria stared at her helplessly. ‘What good will that do?’ she cried. ‘Has the situation changed? Has he become something different because of this accident?'

  Sancha turned to her. ‘You don't understand, Maria. He was leaving the villa when the accident happened. It was the night—the night——'

  Maria spread her hands. ‘Sancha, I know what night it was as well as you do! Your uncle explained briefly what happened that night when he told me …’ She lifted her shoulders. ‘I know you never mentioned it, Sancha, but nothing's changed from then, has it? It may be cruel to talk like this, but there's been no renunciation of his relationship with Janine Rumien!'

  Janine!

  For a while Sancha had forgotten about the other girl. She had been so concerned with her own feelings she had forgotten the girl to whom he intended to give his name.

  Now she closed the file of newspapers with slow, purposeful movements. She should have thought of Janine before. She should have realised that the other girl had a legitimate claim, not she. He might tell her he loved her, he might make love to her, but it was Janine he intended to marry, and Janine would see it was no marriage of convenience.

  The agonising humiliation was hers, not Janine's. She had been mistaken before. She had pitied the other girl even while she despised her lack of pride. But now—who would pity her?

  ‘Let's go,’ she said abruptly, surprising Maria into action.

  ‘Are you sure you're going to be all right?’ Maria was anxious.

  ‘Of course.’ Sancha's voice was hard. ‘You're right, Maria. You must be cruel to be kind.'

  And she turned and walked out of the room.

  But despite Sancha's brave words to Maria, as the afternoon wore on it grew increasingly harder to concentrate on what she was doing. Her mind wandered continually, and not even Eduardo's appearance with a sheaf of proofs for her to correct could shed her lethargy.

  He looked down at her curiously, and then said: ‘Maria tells me you know about Malatesta.'

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16