yet.”
Benito leant towards her. “Cara, what about us? You know how I feel about you. I thought … I hoped … that soon now …”
Samantha nodded. “I know.”
She had been left in no doubt as to Benito’s feelings. They had grown up together. They had always been in each other’s company. He had taught her to swim, to handle a boat as well as any boy, to fish. John had not objected, although at times her father had been a little obtuse where Benito was concerned. He had not been able to see what was happening under his very nose. Perhaps, Samantha reflected, he had thought they were too close for anything emotional to come of it, but in Italy, it was the natural thing that children brought up together should marry, and Benito had never made any secret of his feelings. Benito’s family expected the match. Already there was talk of a small cottage becoming vacant in the village which would suit their needs. John Kingsley’s villa had too high a rent for any of the village folk and anyway, Benito would want to remain in the bosom of his family. And Samantha had always enjoyed their company. She adored the children, Benito’s nephews and nieces, but marriage was such a big step and in no time at all she could see herself with a family of her own and no possible chance of ever leaving the village again. Was this what she wanted? she had asked herself time and time again, and had always come up, unsatisfactorily, with the same answer. What other choice had she? Now that John was dead the problem had become daily a more difficult one. This letter had opened new doors, shown new horizons, and although the idea of leaving was frightening, yet she felt sure that this was her opportunity to see something of the world. How could she explain all this to Benito, though? How would he ever understand? He was content to live in Perruzio. He had a good life. He belonged with his family. And so might she belong with hers.
Benito had always taken her acceptance for granted and now to be confronted by this new Samantha was rather disconcerting for him.
“Why have they never come to see you?” he asked suddenly. “Why did your father say your mother was dead?”
“I don’t really know,” she admitted, sighing. “Perhaps as far as he was concerned, they were. But my grandmother was contacted by my father’s solicitors, so he must have decided that should anything happen to him, I was to know the truth. Of course, he would never think that anything would happen so soon. He was only a young man, after all.”
“But what about me?” Benito rose to his feet. “Surely your father knew about us?”
“He knew, and yet he didn’t know,” murmured Samantha. “Benito, I don’t think Father thought that there was anything more than friendship between us.”
Benito turned away. “And you let him think that?”
Samantha rose too now. “Of course not. I told him that we were very fond of one another. …”
“Very fond?” Benito spread wide his hands helplessly. “I adore you.”
Samantha compressed her lips. “I know, I know.”
“But you are going to let this new family of yours take you away from me,” he exclaimed angrily.
Samantha put her hands over her ears. “Don’t! I don’t know yet.”
Benito looked belligerent. “I won’t let you do this to me!”
Samantha turned and ran up the cliff to the villa, without answering him. Benito ran after her, and as he was not tired from swimming caught her easily.
“This is your home, carissima,” he murmured, in another tone.
Samantha looked gently at him. “It’s the only home I’ve ever known,” she whispered.
“And so?”
“I still can’t quite take it in,” she said. “Try and understand, Benito. How would you feel if you suddenly learned that your mother was still alive after you had thought her dead for all these years? I’m twenty-one now. I’ve never known what it’s like to have a mother. Naturally, I’m curious to see her. If only to find out what kind of a woman could desert her child to the extent that my mother has done. It must be at least seventeen years since she saw me.”
She felt a lump in her throat at this thought. Then she looked at Benito. Standing beside her in denim trousers and a rough shirt open at the neck, he looked dear and familiar, and she wondered why she was allowing the letter to come between them. If only it had never arrived! It would have been so simple to marry Benito and have his children. Living in Perruzio there would be no complications in their lives. Just as his parents had lived before them.
She slid her arm through his. “Don’t rush me, darling,” she murmured.
He looked dejected for a moment and then pulled her to him to press his lips to hers, his rough hands encircling her slim throat.
“Si,” he said softly. “I will give you time.”
They walked on up the cliff path until they could see the villa, lying peacefully as ever in the sunlight. But, to their surprise, there was a low black limousine parked at the entrance.
Samantha looked at Benito and raised dark eyebrows. Benito shook his head in reply.
“Are you coming in for some coffee?” she asked.
Benito smiled slightly. “I think I had better. We must find out who your visitors are.”
Matilde was in the hall when they entered the door. An elderly woman, her long black hair twined always into a bun on the nape of her neck, she looked at Samantha with relief in her face.
“You have company,” she said softly in Italian, indicating the door of the lounge where earlier Samantha had read the stupendous news. “From Milano.”
Samantha frowned. The day was gradually taking on the aspects of a dream. First the earth-shattering letter and now some strange company. Her limited existence was widening alarmingly.
Benito waited in the hall while Samantha went to change and put on a dress. She returned only a couple of minutes later, having towelled her hair almost dry and donned a simple shift of yellow cotton, another of her own creations. There had not been much money over to spend on clothes and she had found that buying material in the market and running it up herself left more over for essential commodities.
“Do I look all right?” she whispered to Benito, and he nodded. To his eyes she would look good in anything. Just to look at her sent the blood pounding through his veins, his heart thumping wildly. Soon, oh! soon, she must marry him. He could not wait much longer. He wanted her passionately. With her fair skin and almost white hair she was so different from the dark-haired girls of his own race and too long he had delayed already. Had they already been married when the letter came this morning, she would not have been able to talk to him as she had done. She would have been his wife, his property, and most probably, the mother of a bambino by now.
Together they entered the lounge to find two men seated in opposite armchairs, smoking and drinking the strong coffee which Matilde had brewed for them. They were both much older than the two young people, the younger of the two being about fifty years of age. They rose to their feet politely at Samantha’s entrance and the older man came to greet them.
“Miss Kingsley?” he asked, in heavily accented English.
“Yes.” Samantha shook hands cautiously. They looked all right, so she supposed that as they came from Milan, they must be business associates of her father. Perhaps they had something to do with the exhibition.
“My name is Arturo Cioni,” went on the man, “and this is my brother Giovanni.” He smiled. “We are your father’s solicitors.” He hesitated. “Do you speak Italian, Miss Kingsley?”
Samantha smiled and nodded. “Yes. Do speak in your own language if it is easier for you.”
“Good.” The man continued in Italian. “We have had a communication from your grandmother in England. I understand you have