CHAPTER I

      THE letter from England came only one month after the sudden death of her father. Samantha was still living in the shocked daze which had taken a hold on her when she had heard that her father’s car had crashed on the autostrada while she was driving from Milan to Bologna. A sudden puncture of a front tyre had caused the old saloon to skid dangerously, crossing the dividing lanes and colliding with a touring autobus coming from the opposite direction. The passengers on the bus had been shocked but unhurt. John Kingsley was dead.

      Samantha was desolate; she had lived here so long in the small Italian fishing village of Perruzio with her father, sharing the villa and sharing his life. They had been so close. Too close, for now he was dead she felt she had no one. Even old Matilde, who had been housekeeper at the villa for as long as she could remember, could not make up for the emptiness she felt inside. She thought she would never feel secure or happy again.

      John, she had always called him that, had been to Milan to open his first exhibition of sculptures. For years his talent had gone unrecognized, and then a visiting art enthusiast had been impressed and had arranged for John to have this exhibition in Milan. He had been there two weeks, writing home to tell Samantha of the sucess he was having; the commissions he was hoping to fill. He was driving home when the accident occurred, and Samantha reflected bitterly that it was ironic that he should be cut off from life just when all he had ever worked for was being realized.

      The funeral had taken place in Perruzio, with all the villagers turning out to the little church where the Catholic father had said the Requiem Mass. They were all so friendly, so sympathetic, and yet Samantha could hardly bear their kindness. She only wanted to be alone, to grieve in private.

      Her father’s affairs were in a sorry state. The villa was rented and although the exhibition was the beginning of his success, as yet there was little to show for all his years of work. He had had a small military pension, but that had died with him, and after the funeral was paid for there was very little left for Samantha. For the time being she was content to stay on at the villa, but she knew it could not last. Soon she would have to do something. Get a job, or alternatively accept the offer she had already been made. Her thoughts shied away from this inevitable conclusion. For, after all, what job was she equipped to perform? She knew some typing and could look after a small house, she could cook a little, but she did not think these attributes amounted to much in a modern world where every girl seemed to provide herself more than adequately to fit any position.