The Autumn Of The Witch. Anne Mather
Читать онлайн книгу.
a feeling of distaste for what we are doing. But when this happens, we must remember that in our position McMaster would not hesitate to crush us if he could. That is the way of the world. It took me some time to learn it too, and you are young yet, Pietro. You must learn to suppress weakness, for that is what it is.’
Pietro sighed. ‘I suppose you are right. But sometimes it frightens me.’ He turned his attention to Lucia, watching her as she lay on her stomach, dipping her hand over the side of the yacht to fill her bucket with water. Then he said, almost absently:. ‘Tell me something, Santino. Have you never thought of marrying again?’
Santino was taken unawares and for a moment he did not reply. But when he did he was curt and uncompromising. ‘No!’
Pietro frowned now. ‘Why not? It’s over four years since Lucia’s mother died. And she needs – someone – a woman—’
Santino’s expression hardened and Pietro knew he had said too much. ‘Lucia has me, and she has Maria. That is enough.’
Pietro shook his head, unable to prevent himself from disagreeing for once. ‘Maria is old, Santino. And you’re away such a lot—’
‘Pietro, I know you mean well. You are my brother-in-law and I think my friend. But in this there is nothing more to say. I loved Sancia, and I was distraught when she died giving birth to our daughter. Now I need no woman about the house, no companion for my future years. If my animal appetites require assuagement there is always Palermo. What more do I need?’
‘But there is still Lucia,’ Pietro persisted. ‘As she grows older, will you be able to share with her all the things a mother would share with her daughter? Will you be able to teach her the ways of a woman?’
‘You are becoming increasingly boring, Pietro,’ Santino grew impatient, his face hardening into the grim lines Pietro knew so well. ‘First you are concerned about McMaster – now it is Lucia! Are you becoming womanish yourself, Pietro? That is the question you should be asking yourself!’ He snapped his fingers. ‘I think you should look to your own affairs and leave me to mine!’
Pietro coloured. Santino was always capable of reducing him to the stature of a schoolboy and he had long learned that his brother-in-law would accept advice from no one, least of all someone like himself. With a sigh, he turned on to his back and drawing deeply on his cigarette he gazed into the deep blue arc of sky overhead. As his eyes flickered lower he saw the stark walls of the castello like some bleak fortress outlined against the skyline, and he felt an unwilling stirring of pride. The name of the castello was apt, he thought, the Castello di Strega, the castle of the witch, and its master a man who had the pride of il diabolo, the devil himself …
AS Stephanie came down the stairs she could hear them arguing. They were in the library and her stepmother’s voice, inherent of her theatrical training, carried easily to the girl as she stood silently gripping the banister rail. The deeper, more resonant tones of her father were raised in protest, but Stephanie knew that Jennifer would eventually wear him down by sheer persistence. She sighed and descended the rest of the stairs, halting uncertainly in the hall, wondering what they were arguing about now. They always seemed to be arguing these days and although Stephanie knew that her father’s temper was shortened by his anxieties over the company that didn’t altogether account for the situation.
She sighed and crossed the panelled hall to the lounge. Afternoon sunlight filtered through venetian blinds on to the warm polished mahogany of the china cabinet which had been her mother’s, and dappled the tapestry-covered chairs and settee. It was a room which had changed little over the years since her childhood even though from time to time Jennifer changed the curtains, splashed new rugs and cushions about, and begged her husband to get rid of the three-piece suite. But in this Robert McMaster was adamant, the room retained the character of his first wife; and so the rest of the house was rife with Swedish wood and glass, but the lounge remained the same.
Now Stephanie walked to the wide windows which overlooked the sweep of lawn at the back of the house and hoped desperately that Allan would arrive soon and take her away from the sound of their voices.
Allan Priestley was a pilot working for her father’s airline. He was an attractive young man in his middle twenties, and they had been going about together for almost a year, since Stephanie’s eighteenth birthday party, in fact. Stephanie liked him tremendously and she knew that they were gradually drifting into a situation where he would ask her to marry him. It was already an accepted thing among their friends that they were always asked places together. Allan earned a good salary and Stephanie was quite prepared to work for a while after their marriage. She enjoyed working in the children’s ward of a psychiatric hospital and she did not want to give it up without reason. Besides, it was an accepted arrangement these days for a young wife to have employment and certainly there would not be enough to do about the house to interest her until they had a family of their own. She sighed. Wasn’t she being a little precipitate thinking like this? She was only eighteen when all was said and done and she wondered whether if her mother had still been alive she would have contemplated leaving home so soon. She turned away from the window and caught a glimpse of herself in the framed oval mirror above the fireplace. Was that troubled countenance really hers? Why did she, like her father, allow Jennifer to get under her skin? She wasn’t afraid of the woman, after all. It was simply that her attitude was such that unless one wanted a continual state of contention one avoided open confrontation.
With a deliberately firm shake of her shoulders, Stephanie regarded her image critically. The trouser suit which at first had seemed a little too modem looked rather attractive now, and as it was a cold September afternoon the trimming of fur at the collar and cuffs and around the bottoms of the trousers looked just right. She left her hair loose, and it caught on the fur collar as she moved her head, falling in silky tendrils about her face. Its tawny brilliance was startling against the olive green suiting and yet it blended with the amber fur trimming. She wore little make-up, accentuating only the strange liquid chartreuse of her eyes, and in consequence they were the first thing anyone noticed. She was not beautiful, she knew that, and yet there was something more than mere good looks in her small face. She had a tantalizing allure that denied all formal designation. Maybe it was the slight tilt of her eyes at the corners, or maybe it was the thick luxuriant softness of her hair, or even the gentle fullness of the curves of her body that showed none of the angular lines of a model. Or perhaps it was simply the invariably bubbling personality that reached out and enveloped her admirers. In any event, she had never found any shortage of male admirers and in consequence she knew quite a lot about the opposite sex.
The doorbell suddenly pealed and she started. She must have been so wrapped up in her own thoughts she had not heard the sound of Allan’s car. Leaving the lounge, she walked out into the hall just as her stepmother came out of the library. Jennifer regarded her with unveiled mockery, raising her eyebrows critically.
‘Well, well,’ she remarked sardonically. ‘That’s new, isn’t it? I haven’t seen that – outfit – before, have I?’
The deliberate hesitation before the word outfit was not lost on Stephanie, but she refused to be drawn. Instead, she said: ‘No, you haven’t seen it. I just bought it last week. Out of my salary!’
She had the pleasure of seeing Jennifer’s lips tighten angrily, and she felt a momentary twinge of conscience. It was a moot point that her father had ordered Jennifer not to run up any more bills on clothes for the time being unless she could pay for them herself. The older woman was extravagant to a degree and this adjuration had not been taken lightly.
Stephanie saw Miller, the maid, coming to answer the door and waved her away and went to answer the door herself. Allan stood on the threshold and his eyes darkened admiringly as they surveyed her trim appearance. Then he smiled warmly at her before stepping past her into the hall where Jennifer still stood draped against the banister watching them.
‘Well, Allan,’ drawled Jennifer. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m