Married Under The Italian Sun. Lucy Gordon
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someone who knows what to do. In fact, there must already be someone working here.’
His grin became a little wild.
‘You have nobody who can care for those lemons so that they’ll get the best price,’ he said flatly.
‘There are gardeners, aren’t there?’
‘There’s one. He’s a good workhorse, but he’s not an artist. You’ll have to explain everything to him.’
‘But surely there’s a head gardener, who doesn’t need to be have things explained?’
‘The only one who knows is me, and I’m out of here since you seized my home.’
‘You’re blaming me? You’ve got a nerve. Is it my fault you chose to sell?’
‘I did not—’ He stopped himself with a sharp breath. ‘Don’t trespass on that situation. You know nothing.’
‘Then don’t throw accusations at me. I didn’t seize your home—’
‘No, your husband did. But who ended up owning it?’
‘And that makes me a criminal, does it? I have no desire to “trespass on that situation” as you call it. I just want to take over my new home and settle in.’
He drew a sharp breath.
‘As you say,’ he said coldly. ‘Welcome to your home. I’ll inform your staff that you’re here.’
He walked out, followed by her glare. If there had been anything to throw, she would have thrown it.
She was furious with him for ruining the first special moments here. Everything had been peaceful and beautiful, until she’d walked in and found him waiting, almost as if trying to spring a trap for her.
It was no use telling herself that it had been pure accident. That was common sense, and she wasn’t in the mood for it.
In fact, she was annoyed with herself for acting like Angel at her most queenly and petulant. She’d believed that was part of the old life, left far behind. But years of being pampered and deferred to had left their mark, despite her best intentions.
I have not allowed Joe to turn me into a spoilt brat, she reassured herself. I have not.
Well, perhaps just a bit.
Angel strode to the other two windows and pushed the shutters wide open so that sunlight streamed in everywhere, like a benediction. Now she could look around the room, which was like no bedroom she had encountered before. Like the rest of the house that she had so far seen, the floor was covered in dark red flagstones. The bed was almost seven feet wide, with a carved walnut headboard and matching foot.
Trying it cautiously, she found that the mattress was firm almost to the point of hardness, but when she stretched out for a moment it was curiously comfortable. The lamp on the bedside table was defiantly old-fashioned, with a carved stand and a parchment shade.
There were two wardrobes, also of walnut, standing in the spaces between the windows. Ornate on the outside, they were basic on the inside, with rails and wire hangers, so unlike the padded satin hangers on which her elegant clothes normally hung. A large chest of drawers stood against one wall.
And that was it.
And yet she felt at home. The very starkness and simplicity of the room was peaceful.
Angel delved further into one of the wardrobes, realising how old it was, and how much in need of repair. The floor actually had a hole. Reaching into her bag, she took out a small torch that she carried everywhere and trained it on the hole. The light went right through to the floor, showing her something small and green.
Reaching under the wardrobe, she managed to grasp the object, which turned out to be an address book. Perhaps this was what he’d lost. He must have left it in a trouser pocket, from where it had fallen out of sight.
From down below she heard a woman’s voice, sounding worried, almost tearful, then Vittorio Tazzini’s, seeming to comfort her. She just managed to get to her feet and brush her clothes down before the door opened and a powerfully built middle-aged woman entered, with Vittorio’s arm about her shoulder.
‘This is Berta,’ he explained in English. ‘She looks after the house and does a wonderful job.’ He translated this for the woman before reverting to English to say, ‘Unfortunately, she understands very little of your language, and she’s worried in case this counts against her.’
‘Why should it?’ Angel asked. ‘We can speak in Italian.’ She crossed her fingers and spoke slowly. ‘Berta, I’m sorry that I did not warn you I was coming. It was rude of me.’
To her relief, Berta understood, and a smile broke over her broad face. She too spoke slowly.
‘If the signora will come down to the kitchen I will prepare coffee while the room is made ready.’
As they descended the stairs, Angel could see that the household was already alive to her presence. All the staff were buzzing around her bags, beginning to take them upstairs, but not before they’d given her quick looks of curiosity.
She could sense the other woman’s unease, and it touched her heart. She hadn’t come here to hurt anybody.
When Berta served up coffee, Angel thanked her with her warmest smile and said in slow, clear Italian, ‘This looks delicious. I’m sure we’re going to get on really well.’
Berta nodded, looking happier.
‘By the way, is this what you were looking for?’ she asked Vittorio, holding out the little book.
‘Yes, it was. Thank you. Where did you find it?’
‘It had fallen through a hole in the bottom of one of the wardrobes.’
Berta tut-tutted. ‘There now! Such a state some of the furniture’s in! But you’ll be able to see to it, won’t you?’
To Angel’s surprise, this was addressed to Vittorio.
‘Why should you say that?’ she asked. ‘Now that Signor Tazzini’s property has been found I see no reason for him to come here again.’
Berta’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh, dear! You haven’t said—’
‘Haven’t said what?’ Angel asked, her eyes kindling.
‘It’s only—you knowing nothing about the estate,’ Berta faltered, ‘and the padrone knowing so much…’
‘Perhaps you’d better leave us for a moment, Berta,’ Vittorio said quietly.
‘Si, padrone.’
It was the word ‘padrone’ that reduced Angel’s patience to danger level. Berta had called him ‘master’ because that was how she still saw him. And the way she scuttled out underlined the unwelcome fact.
‘Do you mind telling me what’s going on?’ Angel said coolly. ‘Because everyone seems to know, except me. In fact, you seem to have made quite a few decisions that I know nothing about. Perhaps it’s time you informed me.’
‘All right, it’s very simple,’ he said in a hard voice. ‘You need an estate manager, a real expert, and that means me. You haven’t a hope of doing it on your own, you’ve already proved that.’
‘Damned cheek!’
‘Well, face facts. You don’t know the first thing about the lemons you grow, not even what type they are. How often do they need watering? How long between planting and harvesting? How often do they flower? The whole prosperity of this place depends on intensive knowledge, or your harvest will fail. And I didn’t spend years working myself to a standstill to see you throw it away.’
‘If that’s your way of asking me to hire you, you’re making a very bad job of it.’
‘Don’t