Bartaldi's Bride. Sara Craven
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A more ominous rumble of thunder made her glance skywards, grimacing slightly. She was still miles from Cenacchio, where Violetta lived, and there was little chance of outrunning the storm. She knew how fierce and unpredictable the weather could suddenly become in this region.
Even as the thought formed, the first raindrops hurled themselves against her windscreen. Seconds later, they’d become a deluge with which the Fiat’s wipers were clearly reluctant or unable to cope.
Not conditions for driving on unfamiliar roads with severe gradients, Clare decided, prudently pulling over on to a gravelled verge. She couldn’t beat the storm, but she could sit it out.
She’d bought some cartons of fruit juice at the service station where she’d stopped for lunch, and petrol. Thankfully, she opened one of the drinks, and felt its chill refresh her dry mouth.
The rain was like a curtain, sweeping in great swathes across her vision. She watched the lightning splitting the sky apart, then zig-zagging down to lose itself in the great hills which marched down the spine of Italy. The thunder seemed to echo from peak to peak.
Son et lumière at its ultimate, thought Clare, finishing her drink. She leaned forward to get a tissue to wipe her fingers, and paused, frowning. Impossible as it might seem, she would swear she had just seen signs of movement straight ahead through the barrage of rain.
Surely not, she thought incredulously. No one in their right mind would choose to walk around in weather like this.
She peered intently through the windscreen, realising she hadn’t been mistaken. Someone was coming towards her along the road. A girl’s figure, she realised in astonishment, weighed down by a heavy suitcase, and limping badly too.
Clare wound down her window. As the hobbling figure drew level, she said in Italian, ‘Are you in trouble? May I help?’
The girl hesitated. She was barely out of adolescence, and stunningly pretty in spite of the dark hair which hung in drowned rats’ tails round her face, and an understandably peevish expression.
She said, ‘Please do not concern yourself, signora. I can manage very well.’
‘That’s not how it seems to me,’ Clare returned levelly. ‘Have you hurt your ankle?’
‘No.’ The sulky look deepened. ‘It’s the heel of this stupid shoe—see? It broke off.’
Clare said crisply, ‘If you plan to continue your stroll, I suggest you snap the other one off, and even things up a little.’
‘I am not taking a stroll,’ the younger girl said haughtily. ‘I was driving a car until it ran out of petrol.’
Clare’s brows lifted. ‘Are you old enough to drive?’ she asked, mindful that Italian licences were only issued to over-eighteen-year-olds.
There was a betraying pause, then, ‘Of course I am.’ The girl made a face like an aggravated kitten. ‘It is just that the car never has a full tank in case I run away.’
Clare gave the suitcase a thoughtful glance. ‘And isn’t that precisely what you’re doing?’
The girl tried to look dignified as well as drenched. ‘That, signora, is none of your business.’
‘Then I’m going to make it my business.’ Clare opened the passenger door invitingly. ‘At least shelter with me until it stops raining, otherwise you’re going to catch pneumonia.’
‘But I do not know you,’ the other objected. ‘You could be—anybody.’
‘I can assure you that I’m nobody. Nobody that matters, anyway.’ Clare’s voice was gentle. ‘And I think you’d be safer in this car than out on the open road.’
The girl’s eyes widened. ‘You think I could be struck by lightning?’
‘I think that’s the least that could happen to you,’ Clare told her quietly. ‘Now, put your case in the back of the car and get in before you drown.’
As the newcomer slid into the passenger seat, Clare could see she was shivering. Her pale pink dress, which undoubtedly bore the label of some leading designer, was pasted to her body, and the narrow strappy shoes that matched it were discoloured and leaking as well as lop-sided.
Clare reached into the back of the car and retrieved the raincoat she’d thrown there a few hours before. She’d left the Dorellis in such a hurry that she’d almost forgotten it, and their maid had chased after her waving it.
She said, ‘You need to get out of that wet dress. If you put this on and button it right up, no one will notice anything.’ She paused. ‘I’m afraid I can’t offer you anything hot to drink, but there’s some fruit juice if you’d like it.’
There was an uncertain silence. Then, ‘You are kind.’
Clare busied herself opening the carton, tactfully ignoring the wriggling and muttered curses going on beside her.
‘My dress it ruined,’ the girl announced after a moment or two. ‘It will have to be thrown away.’
Clare swallowed. ‘Isn’t that rather extravagant?’ she asked mildly.
‘It does not matter.’ The girl shrugged, pushing the pile of crumpled pink linen away with a bare foot.
‘What about your car?’ Clare handed over the drink. ‘Where did you leave that?’
Another shrug. ‘Somewhere.’ A swift, sideways glance. ‘I do not remember.’
‘What a shame,’ Clare said drily. ‘Perhaps we’d better introduce ourselves. ‘I’m Clare Marriot.’
The girl stared at her. ‘You are English? But your Italian is good. I was deceived.’
Clare smiled. ‘My mother was Italian, and it’s one of the languages I teach.’
‘Truly? What are the others?’
‘Oh, French, Spanish—a little German. And English itself, of course.’
‘Is that why you are here—to teach English?’
Clare shook her head. ‘No, I’m on holiday.’ She paused. ‘What’s your name?’
‘It is Paola—Morisone.’
Again, the brief hesitation wasn’t lost on Clare.
But she didn’t query it. Instead, she said, ‘It looks as if the storm could be passing. If you’ll tell me where you live, I’ll take you home.’
‘No.’ The denial was snapped at her. ‘I do not go home—not now, not ever.’
Clare groaned inwardly. She said quietly, ‘Be reasonable. You’re soaked to the skin, and your shoe is broken. Besides, I’m sure people will be worried about you.’
Paola tossed her head. ‘Let them. I do not care. And if Guido thinks I am dead, then it is good, because he will not try to make me marry him any more.’
Clare stared at her, trying to unravel the strands of this pronouncement and absorb its implications at the same time.
She said ‘Guido?’
‘My brother. He is a pig.’
Clare felt dazed. ‘Your brother?’ Her voice rose. ‘But that’s absurd. You can’t…’
‘Oh, he is not a real brother.’ Paola wrinkled her nose dismissively. ‘My father and his were in business together, and when my father died, Zio Carlo said I must live with him.’ Her face darkened. ‘Although I did not want to. I wished to stay with my matrigna, and she wished it too, but the lawyers would not permit it.’
At least Paola seems to have had more luck with her stepmother than I did, Clare thought, wryly. Bernice couldn’t wait to get me out of the house. But she had other problems.
She