The Italian's Bride

‘Don’t be so ridiculous!’ The note of sheer horror in Joyce Makepeace’s voice turned to grinding exasperation as she swung round from peering through the net curtains and told her daughter, ‘We’ve been through this a thousand times over the last six weeks! Of course you can’t change your mind. You have to go. What else is there?’

She expelled an impatient breath and came out with the usual well-worn litany. ‘If you’d concentrated at school instead of living in a dream world you might have been equipped for a decent career, been able to afford a place of your own, proper childcare. Your father and I can’t afford to keep you and the baby—’

‘I could go back to work—’

‘Your job’s gone.’

‘I could get another. In any case, Mr Weston said he’d take me back. The girl he hired when I took maternity leave knows she’s only temporary.’

‘And expect me to babysit, I suppose? And keep yourself and a child on a waitress’s wages? I don’t think so.’ Joyce’s mouth thinned. ‘He won’t stay a baby for ever.’

Portia bit down hard on her wobbling lower lip. It was true. The job she’d enjoyed, even though humble, had paid very little. Tips were what waitresses relied on, Mr Weston had explained. The only trouble was, the type of people who frequented Joe’s Place couldn’t afford tips. They were mostly senior citizens lingering over a single cup of tea and a bun while they chatted to their friends as an after-shopping treat.

And apart from the dearth of tips she’d often bought hearty cheese or ham sandwiches with her own money for one particular elderly lady who’d come in on pension day and always sat on her own, never ordering more than a cup of tea. She’d looked so frail and white, as if a puff of wind would blow her over, and so pathetically grateful when Portia had slid the plate in front of her, making up some excuse or other for why the food was surplus to requirements, so that the old dear wouldn’t feel she was receiving charity.

No. Her eyes misted with tears as she gazed down at her sleeping son. The only thing she could give him was love, by the bucketful.

‘Sam’s Italian grandfather is a very wealthy man. He can give you and the baby

everything you could want,’ her father said, his tone gentler than her mother’s had been. ‘And in that letter from him—the one his son left for you—he did say that if you weren’t happy in Italy you could return to England.’

At her mother’s tart ‘Heaven forbid!’ Portia swallowed the huge lump in her throat and tried to get rid of the scary feeling that had been steadily growing inside her all morning.

The letter, when she’d forced herself to read it, hadn’t been full of recriminations or threats to take her baby from her, she reminded herself unsteadily. Eduardo Verdi had sounded like a really nice old gentleman, expressing the wish to see not only his grandson but her, too, to welcome them both into his family. He had invited them to stay for as long as they liked, the longer the better.

So what was there to be frightened of? Why the angst? She might not have the brain of a rocket scientist, but she was determined enough, strong enough, to make sure that she did what was best for her baby. And if things didn’t work out in Tuscany—if, say, she found the Italian side of her son’s family taking him over, sidelining her and depriving him of the most important thing for his welfare, his mother’s love and devotion—then she’d pack their bags and they’d make tracks.

Alongside their passports in her handbag she had the remains of her savings—enough, surely, to pay their air fare back, she comforted herself.

‘He’s here.’ Joyce dropped the corner of the net curtain and walked briskly out into the hall. ‘Get a move on, Portia. We don’t want to keep him waiting.’

Her eyes welling with tears, Portia slung her bag over her shoulder and lifted the carry cot. They couldn’t wait to be rid of her and Sam. Not that she could blame them. She had always been a huge disappointment to her parents and presenting them with an illegitimate grandchild had been the last straw.

Lucenzo Verdi was scowling at the untidy pile of her luggage, looking mean and moody in an exquisitely cut pale grey suit, a darker grey silk shirt and deep blue tie. Dark eyes glittered at her beneath broodingly lowered lids, making her feel clumsy and inept as she slowly negotiated the cot around the angle of the doorframe.

‘What is this?’ Lucenzo glared at the tottering pile of bulging plastic carriers and cardboard boxes that rested on top of her shabby suitcase as if they were emitting some very nasty smells.

Portia, resisting the impulse to slap that handsome oh-so-superior face, gritted her teeth and relayed defensively, ‘Sam’s things, mostly. Babies don’t travel light.’

At the same time her mother hissed out of the corner of her tight, bright smile, ‘Didn’t I tell you there was no need to take so much.’

‘Everything the child needs is at the Villa Fontebella,’ Lucenzo stated flatly. ‘All that is needed is a change of clothing for the journey.’

Not that he knew anything of children’s needs, he thought heavily. His own child had died before it could be born. But it was bad enough to have to escort one of Vittorio’s cast-off bimbos back to Tuscany without being lumbered with a heap of clutter that resembled a pile of rubbish left out for the refuse collectors.

Portia lifted her chin, her large grey eyes narrowing. Start as you mean to go on. Be assertive and brave for once in your life, she told herself as she took a deep breath and said shakily, ‘Sam needs his own things. Neither of us is going anywhere without them.’

Her stockpile of tins of baby formula, feeding bottles, steriliser, nappies, Babygros, creams and lotions, his special shampoo, not to mention all those cute fluffy toys which were valued gifts from friends and neighbours—she wasn’t prepared to leave a single thing behind.

They were all links with the safe and the known, and if she was going to have to live amongst strangers she was going to need them to cling onto, like a mental safety rope.

‘I’ll give you a hand.’ As if sensing insurrection, Godfrey Makepeace grabbed several carriers and headed for the door.

Portia felt her mother’s hand grip her arm, urging her forward as she muttered impatiently, ‘Don’t be tiresome! Look, I know you’re nervous about going to stay with strangers, but there’s no need. When your father phoned Signor Verdi senior to make sure everything was above board he was completely reassured.’

‘Dad did that?’ Portia’s gentle heart swelled with love and gratitude. ‘He really did check up for me?’

‘Of course. We’re not complete monsters.’