read the signature. It was simply “Lucia Davenport”.
With a characteristic shrug of her slim shoulders, Samantha began to read from the beginning.
“My dear Samantha,
Since being informed, a few days ago, of my son-in-law’s tragic death, I have made arrangements for you to return to England. Of course, you must return here. We are your family and we want you. I am your grandmother, and since Barbara still refuses to act as a mother should, I myself will avail you of the facts.
Whatever your father may have told you to the contrary, your mother is very much alive. I suspect you are unaware of this. I will explain more fully when we meet. I am an old, old woman, my dear, and it would give me delight to have you come and live with me at Daven. My existence is now somewhat dull, but I would like to have a young person like yourself around me and I would try to see that you did find enjoyment and entertainment in spite of this.”
Samantha stared at the letter in amazement. Her legs felt as though they would no longer hold her and she sank down weakly on to the arm of a nearby chair, astonishment vying with disbelief. Could it possibly be true? Or was this someone’s idea of a cruel joke. With trembling fingers, she turned the page and read on:
“When your father’s solicitors contacted me, as your father had left instructions that they should if anything should happen to him, I immediately sent instructions for your journey to London. I myself will be in London to meet you, if you will let me know the date and time of your arrival.
Please do not think too much about this until we meet. You cannot possibly understand anything until the full facts are explained to you. Simply rest assured that we will welcome you here.
Yours affectionately,
Lucia Davenport.”
Samantha could not restrain the gasp of pure bewilderment that escaped her. She replaced the letter carefully in its envelope and stared unseeingly into space.
Could it possibly be true? she asked herself again. Had she indeed been living a lie all these years? Was her mother really alive? And if so, why had she never contacted her? And yet, if it was not true, who was there to do such a thing to her?
No, she decided at last. It must be true.
She reached to the carved cigarette box which her father had made, and extracted a cigarette. Lighting it she pondered on the turmoil that had now invaded her brain. Suddenly her empty life was full again. Full of strangers, claiming to be relations. A grandmother; a mother! Could she possibly have any brothers or sisters?
A hundred and one questions buzzed around in her head and she had no satisfactory answers to supply to them. The only way she would ever know would be to go to London as this “grandmother” of hers suggested and find out for herself.
The thought of uprooting herself from all that she had held dear all these years was a terrifying one. How could she leave Matilde? Of course, Matilde did have a sister who lived in Ravenna, not far away from Perruzio, but was it fair to expect her to leave, just like that?
And what if she did not like these strange new relations? After all, they had not cared about her until now. Why had John kept it all such a closely guarded secret? She had thought they had no secrets from one another, while her father was withholding something that could change her whole life!
She shivered although the day was already quite hot. She rose and crossed the polished wooden floor to the French doors which opened on to the verandah which overlooked the almost white sands of the beach, lapped continually by the smooth, creamy surf of the Adriatic. It was all so beautiful that it took her breath away. To leave all this, for some cold, grey English town, where the sun never shone and where people could not go out without their mackintoshes! John had painted a very gloomy picture of the country of her birth, but after all the secrets he had withheld, she wondered now whether London was indeed as bad as he had painted it. If there had been something there which he hated; something he had come to Italy to get away from, might he not see it with very different eyes from hers?
For the time being she felt she could not share her news with anyone. It was too sudden; too difficult to explain, even to Matilde.
Stubbing out her cigarette she turned and re-crossed the room. She walked down the tiled passage to her bedroom and stripped off the old jeans and sweater which were her only attire. She pulled on a diminutive bikini which she had made herself and caught up her long silky hair in a ponytail.
She left the villa, crossing the verandah and descending the sloping cliff to the beach. She ran eagerly into the warm ocean, allowing the cooling water to swirl over her head for a moment, before surfacing and swimming strongly through the waves. She swam almost every day, and in the water she could escape for a while the implications of the fateful letter. Soon she would have to go back, to tell Matilde and ask her advice. But for now, she forgot everything but the warmth of the sun and the sense of well-being the water always gave her. She was not aware that for the first time since her father’s death, she had cast aside her melancholy.
She was a strong swimmer, and looking back towards the shore she realized she had come farther than she had realized. Turning, she saw the stocky figure of a fisherman watching her and she waved, recognizing him. She soon reached the shallows again and waded up out of the water on to the beach.
Benito Angeli stood watching her as she approached him, his eyes warm and desirous. She was so fair, this English girl, with the silky mass of her hair falling wetly about her shoulders. Her green eyes surveyed him smilingly, and as she was a tall girl they were on eye-level terms.
“You are better, eh?” he asked in Italian. Samantha nodded. Although it was unlikely Benito would ever leave his native village, she had been teaching him English and she said now:
“Yes, thank you, Benito,” and he grinned sheepishly.
“It’s no good,” he went on in his own language. “I’ll never learn.”
“You won’t if you don’t try,” she replied in Italian now, and loosening her hair from its restraining band she flung herself down on the sand and stretched luxuriously. “The water is delicious!”
Benito knelt beside her. “You swim too far alone,” he remarked.
“I know.” She sighed and looked suitably chastened.
Benito was puzzled. Since her father’s death Samantha had had no time for idle chatter. But today, she was different.
Samantha, as though reading his thoughts, said: “To be quite honest, I’m a bit bemused. I had a letter from England this morning.”
“England?” Benito frowned. “You know someone in England?”
“Apparently so,” replied Samantha, rolling on to her stomach.
“Someone who knows your father?”
“Yes … at least ‘knows’ is rather an understatement.” She shook her head.
“So? Tell me, who is it from?”
He allowed himself to relax beside her, his fingers straying caressingly over her bare back.
But Samantha was not in the mood for petting and she rolled restlessly away from him and sat up.
“Don’t,” she said, irritatedly. “I’m serious. The letter was from my grandmother. Now do you understand?”
Benito lost his lazy air. “Your grandmother! But your father, he said that you had no relations!”
“I know.” Samantha hunched her shoulders. “But it seems I have. That is, unless someone is having a joke at my expense. And that’s not all. I also have a mother!”
“Madre de Dio!” Benito gasped.
“Yes, that’s exactly how I feel. So you see, I am presented with rather a problem.”
“And that is?”
“My grandmother wants