Summer at the Lake (26 page)

‘Please,’ she pleaded, looking anxiously about her – she could see her father dancing with Elizabeth and glancing over to her, so too was Marco as he danced with a delighted Elena, her head tipped back with a beaming smile of happiness on her wrinkled face – ‘keep your voice down, others will hear you.’

His dark eyes stormy, he flashed her a look that scared her rigid, making her realise that there was something inherently reckless and dangerous about him. It was just as Marco had said; there was a rebellious streak to his nature that made him deliberately seek out danger, in any form.

‘Do you think I care if they hear?’ he snarled. ‘Would it not be better for everyone to know that I have been used and that Marco is not the saint they think him to be? All my life it is the wonderful Marco I have to hear about. Everyone loves him. Everyone thinks he is perfect. But he is not perfect!’

‘So that’s what this is all about? You’re jealous of your cousin and you want to hurt him, is that it?’

‘Jealous? Me? What does he have for me to be jealous of? It is the fairness I want. For people not to think I am the bad one of the family and he is the good one. Has he not said bad things about me to you?’

‘You couldn’t be more wrong. And if you believe he would, then you don’t know him.’

‘Ah, of course, you have known him for five minutes and know him better than me!’

Appalled at the bitterness she was now witnessing from this man and shocked how wildly she had misjudged his character, she said, ‘My father was right about you. He warned me to be careful around you and he was right.’

‘Yes, your father does not approve of me, we both know that. He spoke to me earlier this evening when I arrived. He made it very clear that I was not to upset you, that I was to leave you alone.’

‘And yet you have upset me.’

He smiled sardonically and to her very great relief the music came to a stop and he released her. She couldn’t get away from him fast enough and without really thinking where she was going, she left behind the gaiety of the party on the terrace and slipped into the quiet darkness of the garden.

She ran the length of the lawn, passed through the ornate gate, took the steps down to the lake and sat on the bottom step, deliberately choosing a spot behind a large stone urn, which she hoped would keep her from being seen.

Her hands pressed to the sides of her face, she listened to the music now playing on the terrace, while staring at the inky surface of the water and the twinkling lights of Lezzeno in the distance. Above her, a silver arc of moon shone so brightly it had the look of being newly polished. There wasn’t a breath of wind and insects buzzed and fluttered in the syrupy warm air. Somewhere, not so far away, a church bell was softly chiming.

She sighed. What a mess she had made of things, and the worst of it was, it was of her own making. Angelo was right; she
was
guilty of using him. Being as sharp as he was, he had known before she did what she was doing. Oh, she was nothing but a very silly child. Tears of self-pity filled her eyes and spilled over, streaming down her cheeks.

‘Esme, are you there?’

She started at the sound of Marco’s voice in the shadowy darkness and tried to hide herself further behind the urn.

‘Esme?’

She held her breath, hoping he would go back to the party.

But he didn’t. Still holding her breath, her heart thumping in her chest, she listened to his footsteps on the stone steps. And then he was there, looking down at her. ‘Why are you hiding here?’

When she didn’t answer him – her throat was too constricted with tears to speak – he sat on the step next to her. ‘Why are you crying?’ he asked. ‘What is making you so sad?’

She shook her head. ‘Nothing,’ she managed to say.

He pulled a handkerchief from his trouser pocket, but instead of passing it to her, he pressed the folded white linen to her cheeks. ‘There, that is better. Now tell me what is wrong.’

‘I can’t tell you,’ she said.

‘You said that before when Angelo upset you on the raft. And now you are saying it again after Angelo has danced with you.’

She shook her head. ‘It’s not him; it’s me. I’ve been very silly.’

‘Then tell me what it is you have been so silly about and I will decide if it is worth crying over.’

‘Are you asking me to confess to you, as if you were a priest?’

He took her hand in his. ‘No,
mia cara
, I am asking you to talk to me as a friend. We are friends, are we not?’

She swallowed. ‘Yes,’ she murmured, a fresh burst of tears spilling from her eyes.

He gently pressed the handkerchief to her eyes. ‘I think I must be a very poor sort of friend if I make you cry like this.’

‘Please don’t be so sweet; I can’t bear it. Not when I’ve behaved so badly.’

‘Who has said you have behaved badly? My cousin?’

‘No, me. I know I have. I thought I was being so clever and grown up, whereas the truth is, I’m hopelessly naive.’

‘We are all naive and we all make mistakes. I have made plenty myself. For instance, perhaps it is a mistake for me to sit here with you.’

She looked up into his face. ‘Why?’

‘Because ever since I met you in Venice I have wanted very much to kiss you.’

She swallowed. ‘Really?’

‘Yes. I will never forget the sight of you spinning so happily in your red skirt in San Marco. I thought only a person who was truly happy could express joy so freely and so simply.’

She smiled at the memory.

‘Every day since, I have thought of you. And wondered what it would be like to kiss you.’

‘But you can’t, can you?’

‘I could.’

‘But you mustn’t.’

‘One kiss would not be too bad. It is my birthday.’

‘But I’ll be responsible for making you go to hell, or . . . or something far worse. Excommunicated before you’re even . . . communicated,’ she said, scrabbling for the right words and failing miserably.

He smiled and took her hand in his again. ‘One kiss does not mean I will be eternally damned. And I am a long way from taking my vows yet, so I am happy to take my chances. One kiss and then you must come and dance with me. Will you do that?’

She contemplated his face so close to hers, the smoothness of his olive skin, the darkness of his blue eyes and the intensity of expression within them that held her rapt, drawing her to him like a candle in a darkened room. Yet for all the compelling strength of his gaze, there was nothing to fear in it and she suddenly knew that he was not going to force her to do anything she didn’t want to. This was entirely her decision.

It was a sweet and tender kiss, like nothing she had experienced before. There was no anxiety to it, no fear that she was doing anything wrong or that she was being toyed with, as there had been when Angelo had kissed her.

With Marco, the world no longer existed; it was just the two of them and the silky, warm softness of his mouth against hers. She could sit here kissing him for eternity, and still want to go on kissing him. Nothing, absolutely nothing, would ever compare to this heavenly moment.

‘Happy birthday,’ she murmured, when at last they drew apart and she looked at him dazed and a little breathless.

‘This will be a birthday I never forget,’ he said solemnly. ‘I shall remember this always.’

There was such finality and certainty in his voice, Esme’s heart missed a beat. ‘I will as well,’ she said.

‘I leave for Venice next week,’ he said flatly, gazing out at the lake.

‘Are you sure you’re well enough to go back?’

He half turned to look at her. ‘Yes, I am more than well enough. Despite what Elena might say,’ he added with a smile.

‘I shall miss you when you’ve gone,’ she said. ‘It won’t be the same here without you.’

‘I shall miss you as well.’

‘Do you think you might be able to return for a few days before my father and I leave to go home to England?’

‘It might not be possible, but if it is, I will come. I promise.’

For some minutes they sat hand in hand in companionable silence just staring at the lake and watching a small boat puttering by, its lights winking in the darkness.

‘Would you do something for me?’ Esme asked, when the boat had passed and they were left with the sound of small waves lapping at the shore just yards from where they were sitting. ‘Would you let my father paint you, please? I should like to have something special to remember you by.’

Squeezing her hand, he said gravely, ‘And what will I have to remember you by?’

‘Given the circumstances perhaps it would be better that you forget me.’

‘How quickly you have forgotten what I said only a few minutes ago, that I shall remember this moment for ever.’

‘If that is true then you don’t need anything to remind you of me,’ she said lightly.

‘But I should like something. A small token that I shall always keep.’

With a sudden thought, she smiled. ‘I know the perfect thing.’

‘What is it?’

‘It will be a surprise for you, but I promise it will always make you think of me.’

‘Then it will be something I will treasure.’

The mood eased between them, he said, ‘
Allora
, we must go back and join the others or we shall be missed. And you will dance with me, yes?’

‘Are you sure you wouldn’t rather dance with Elizabeth?’

He laughed. ‘I have that pleasure to come.’

They had gone a short way up the stone steps when Esme caught the unmistakable and familiar sound of a lighter being flicked, then followed the equally familiar smell of cigarette smoke. Her heart in her mouth, she saw a figure noiselessly materialise from behind one of the tall cypress trees, the red tip of a cigarette glowing in the darkness. It was Angelo and his brooding face was a shadowy mixture of malevolence and grim satisfaction. Saying nothing, he merely turned on his heel and made his way back up the garden.

Either Marco was an excellent actor or he genuinely didn’t care what his cousin thought, but not a word did he say. Esme, however, spent the rest of the night worrying just how much of their conversation Angelo had overheard. And more importantly, what he had seen.

Her mind in a whirl, her body restless and clammy, Esme scarcely slept that night and when the first rays of daylight showed through the pearly bloom of dawn, she pushed back the tangle of bedclothes and went and sat on the window seat. She had left the window wide open and unshuttered in the hope of benefiting from a cooling breeze, but not a puff of air had blown in while she’d tossed and turned, both physically and mentally. Already she could feel it would be another stiflingly hot day.

Resting her elbows on the sill, she leant out of the window and stared wistfully at the lake and the mountains beyond which were shrouded in a shimmering apricot haze. It was a magical scene and it was no wonder her father frequently rose at this early hour to capture the first luminescent light of day.

She hadn’t had a chance to ask him last night, but at breakfast Esme planned to ask her father to paint Marco before his departure next week. She had no doubt that he would know the reason behind her request, and that he might consider it unwise to return home to England with such a poignant keepsake, but she simply had to have it, nothing mattered to her more right now.

Throughout their time in Italy she had taken plenty of photographs with the box Brownie camera her father had given her, and had taken a number of photographs of Marco, one or two when they had been in Venice, but a painting of him would be so much better. She knew that her father had the skill to produce more than a mere two-dimensional picture, that he would capture Marco’s true spirit – his kind and gentle nature – for it was that which she had fallen in love with.

Her head told her that it had been wrong to kiss Marco in the garden last night, but her heart said otherwise. It was that dilemma that had kept her awake. Reason told her it was not so much about right and wrong, but about reality and honesty, and when confronted with Marco’s own honesty, she hadn’t want to be anything but sincere with him.

The Kelly-Webbs had said that they wanted Esme’s father to paint a picture of them to show their future grandchildren one day – ‘Something to prove to them we had once been young and beautiful!’ they had joked. Esme could now relate to that same sentiment. She had no understanding of what it would feel like to be old, but when that day came, she wanted to be able to look back and remember Marco Bassani just as he was. She wanted him – and this summer – to be preserved in time for ever.

Voices and the sound of gravel being crunched underfoot had her leaning further out of the window. It was Angelo saying goodbye to his mother; he was going back to Milan. Relief swept over Esme. Now there was no danger of bumping into him, she decided to go for an early morning swim.

Later, when she had showered and changed into a sundress, she went to find her father for breakfast on the terrace, where all evidence of the party the night before had been cleared away. She greeted her father apprehensively, convinced that everybody was watching her – she was paranoid word might have gone round that she had been seen kissing Marco.

‘No Elizabeth?’ she said, battling her guilty conscience and trying to adopt a cheerful tone.

‘Not as yet. I suspect she might be having a lie-in this morning, she was pretty merry last night and might well be nursing a sore head. How are you feeling?’

Esme shook out her napkin. ‘I’ve been awake for most of the night.’

‘Yes,’ he said softly, ‘I imagined you might be. Tea? Or would you prefer coffee? I haven’t ordered anything to eat yet, I was waiting for you.’

‘Tea is perfect. Here, let me do it.’ Reaching across the table, she took the teapot from her father and filled her cup.

Maria appeared at their table, and at the sight of her expression – there was an unpleasantly mocking sneer to it – Esme felt queasy with fear. Had Angelo said something to the girl? Or had she, too, been skulking in the shadows last night and seen her kissing Marco?

They ordered their breakfast, and when they were alone, Esme asked her father why he’d thought she might have been awake for most of the night.