“I’ll pay.”
The static on the line surged and crackled and she closed her eyes, willing the call to go through. It was ten o’clock and her father would have finished his paperwork for the estate, ready for a cup of coffee before he began his rounds.
Suddenly the line cleared, and she heard the voice of the butler.
“Matthews? Is that you? Let me speak to my father. Yes, yes, it’s me, Lady Emma.” She should have thought more carefully about how she would introduce herself. Poor Matthews had sounded as if he’d heard a ghost, which he had, in a way.
At home the telephone was in a poky little cubbyhole under the stairs because her father refused to have it in his office and she waited, tapping her foot, until she heard her father’s steps echoing on the flagstones of the big hall.
“Who is this?” He sounded angry, upset. “Is this some kind of joke?’
“Daddy? Daddy, it’s me, Emma. I’m alive…Yes, really…no, I’m not hurt. It was Catherine, my maid…” Through the blur of her tears she saw Marco move to stand a short distance away, giving her some privacy.
It took three days for money to come through in a wire, and for the British Ambassador in Rome to issue her travel documents. During the three days, Marco took her around the estate, letting her meet his workers, explaining the techniques of wine making, storing and shipping. She’d always had a good head for the business side of things and enjoyed comparing how things were done here with the traditions of her father’s estates.
They found the owner of the dog. Mickey’s real name turned out to be Grande, unoriginal but eloquent. His owner had been in the caves with Marco. They figured the dog must have seen Emma and recognized her when he found her trying to climb the slope. He’d learned the trick with his tail with small children.
Emma bent down and rubbed the animal’s ears. “You’ll always be Mickey to me,” she whispered. “There’s always a big bone for you at my house.”
The days took on a rhythm. They rode out each morning under the sun, with Emma clad in trousers, a loose shirt and a floppy hat. They stopped to eat in a cottage somewhere and to sample the local wine. In the afternoon they returned, hot and dusty, and bathed together, never tiring of exploring their bodies, talking about their morning, always ending in making love on the soft bed with curtains drawn across the windows to create an early dusk. Then they slept until the air cooled.
After dinner in the evening they talked more about the estate, about how Marco would solve the problems that had accumulated while he was away, about marketing his wine. Emma told him about the big house in the Cotswolds, the crops they grew, her father’s dedication to the land.
When it grew dark then they would walk up the stairs, arms entwined around each other’s waist and fall into bed, sated with food and wine and sunshine. Their lovemaking was sometimes slow and easy, sometimes fraught with a raw need, always satisfying, touching the depth of their soul.
The money and the government papers arrived by messenger as they sipped an aperitif on the terrace in the late afternoon of the third day. The man propped his bicycle against a tree and handed them the buff envelope with “On His Majesty’s Service” printed in black across one corner.
Marco signed for the letter and gave the man a tip. Well content, the messenger pedaled away, the wheels scrunching on the freshly raked gravel.
Emma took out the papers and looked at Marco with tears in her eyes.
“I have to go.”
He thrust his hands in his pockets. “I know.”
“I’ll write to you.”
“Of course.”
That night she lay naked in bed with her eyes half closed while he snuffed the candles. The fear settled in her belly, like a living organism, cold and voracious. What if she found she no longer cared for him once she was back in her familiar home? What if he forgot her as soon as she was out of sight? Her head told her that the test would be a good one, but she also knew the physical pain around her heart that had started at the thought of saying goodbye would never go away if she lost him. With icy certainty she understood that if she didn’t return to Marco, even if she had to marry, she would never find anyone who could touch her spirit and make her body sing in the same way.
Darkness took over the room as the last candle guttered and died. She felt the bed move as her lover lay down beside her. For a long moment he remained silent, then his hand found hers.
“
She couldn’t find her voice to reply. Her throat grew tight as she fought to hold back the sob that threatened to shatter her tenuous control. Instead she took a giddy delight in touching him, clinging to him, feeling his arms around her.
She said nothing, not even when he gently moved her legs apart and slid into her, but she tightened her hold on him, trying to etch every precious moment into memory.
Words were meaningless as he brought her to the inevitable conclusion.
Chapter Eleven
The Channel between Calais and Dover was rough and choppy as usual. Emma stayed on deck, huddled in a canvas chair tucked into a corner out of the wind. As they approached the berth she pressed up to the rail and she spotted her father immediately. When she stepped off the gangway, he swept her into a wordless embrace, unmindful of the other passengers swirling around them. He kissed her forehead and she felt the dampness of tears on his cheek.
“I’m fine, Daddy,” she said. “I’m fine.”
He released her at last and mopped his eyes with a large, white handkerchief. “Come, come,” he said, as if she had been the one causing the delay. “The car is waiting.”
He’d brought the Rolls and a driver, so he could sit in the back with Emma, holding her hand and asking her endless questions.
After she’d given a few short answers he patted her hand. “Quite understand, my dear,” he said. “Bad experience. Not ready to talk about it yet. Take your time, take your time. It’s enough to have you back safe and sound.”
They fell silent as the car whisked them west toward the Cotswolds. Emma knew her father would never ask her another question until she was ready to talk. Although he might long to know every detail, he would allow her the time she needed and while he waited he would quietly watch over her, looking after her comfort.
Home. Home where she could relax, where she knew what to expect, where she would be welcomed and cherished. Home that had lost most of its power to delight, because it held no trace of Marco.
It began to rain, a soft, gray drizzle that sucked the color out of the surroundings. The suburbs of London were drab, the streets a sea of umbrellas, and the country towns were virtually deserted. The grey stone of the houses blurred through the rain-streaked windows and the roofs shone black like the tarmac of the road. She held her father’s hand and made small talk, blocking her mind to the contrasting memory of the bustle and vivid colors of Marco’s country.
Her father might have decided to wait for more answers, but in the next few days everyone else had questions for her. Her friends, and of course the authorities, were hard to satisfy.
The parents of Catherine Hall, her maid, had to be informed that their daughter was dead, not missing. Emma spent a dreadful few hours with them in their grief, knowing all the time the question they wanted to ask was, Why her? Why not you? The same question had echoed for days in her own head.
Catherine’s body, identified as Lady Emma Houndsdale, was to be shipped from Naples the same day Emma had left, and her father had been preparing to receive it when she had telephoned him. He still seemed bewildered by the sudden change in circumstances and she often found him staring at her when he thought she wasn’t looking, as if unable to believe she was there. As she passed him, or sat close in the evening, he sometimes
