The Italian's Token Wife

As he walked into the long room he could tell instantly that his father had been enumerating his son’s crimes and misdemeanours in graphic detail. His aunt had her older-sister look about her, and his uncle had the familiar glazed look that meant his mind was miles away from yet another family furore.

‘So! You deign to return at last,’ was his father’s opening salvo as his son approached. ‘First you destroy me, and then you desert me. But what other treatment should I expect from you, hah?’

Rafaello felt the familiar surge of tense exasperation fill him. ‘I needed to go to Rome, Papà. I had to call a board meeting as soon as possible to confirm the new chairmanship.’

A hiss that sounded like a steam train escaped his father’s mouth. ‘Already. Already you discard me. Well, when you leave the family company in ruins with your reckless over-ambition remember that you took it from me by treachery.’

‘You gave me your word, Papà, to let me run the company if I were married by my thirtieth birthday. That condition I have met. That is all.’ Rafaello spoke with iron control, and watched the colour mount dangerously in his father’s face. His own darkened, and his control slipped fatally. ‘I am not a schoolboy any longer. What you attempted to do was unforgivable. This is my life—you have no right to play with it like a toy.’

His voice had risen, and so had his temper.

His aunt stepped forward, holding up her hands between them.

‘Rafaello, enough. And you, too, Enrico. Can you at least try for civility if nothing else?’

‘Civility?’ Enrico spat. ‘You ask for civility, Elizavetta? After what he has done?’

His sister gave a heavy sigh. ‘It astonishes me, Enrico, that after all these years you still do not know Rafaello is as stubborn as you. Good God, where else does he get it from but you? You tried to force his hand—and he retaliated. What did you expect him to do, with your blood in him? I warned you not to pursue your stubborn course! If he had wanted to marry Lucia he would have done so without your help.’

Her brother looked mutinous at this criticism, but his sister gave him no chance to respond. She turned her attention to her nephew.

‘And thank heaven you had more sense than to marry Lucia. One day, I hope—’ her voice had a reproving note for Rafaello ‘—you will make a marriage based on love. But first you have to disentangle yourself from this ridiculous misalliance you have tied yourself up with. I do not approve of what you have done, Rafaello, I tell you that straight. However,’ she went on imperiously, ‘I still have hopes that you might yet prove yourself something more than a business brain and a handsome face.’ Her voice became sharper than ever. ‘You might even bring yourself to greet your aunt.’

She held her arms out commandingly, and Rafaello crossed to bestow the customary kiss and greeting on either cheek.

‘Yes,’ she said tartly to him. ‘That is better.’

She held his eye a moment. For all her sharp tongue he got on well with his outspoken aunt. ‘You and I will talk, young man,’ she told him. ‘And I will contrive, not for the first time and no doubt not for the last,’ she said wearily, ‘to see if I can sort out this latest disaster.’ She let him go and stood back. ‘But first I should like to refresh myself. The journey from Bologna was tiring. Your uncle has been working too hard—his lecture tour was arduous and he has papers to write. You should time these tempests better. Bernardo—come.’

Sweeping her husband with her, barely giving him time to exchange hurried greetings with his nephew by marriage, she headed for the door. For a moment Rafaello stood uncertainly, looking across at his father, still smouldering like a keg of dynamite threatening to explode. Why? he thought bitterly. Why is it always, always, always such a battle?

A wave of depression swept over him. His father was a stranger. An angry stranger.

A fierce light sparked in Enrico’s eyes as he saw his son looking at him. ‘And you—you can get out, too. Get out of my sight.’

Rafaello did not need telling twice. He turned on his heel and left.

A swim, he thought. That was what he needed. The weather was warming up, and the physical exertion would do him good. Drain off some of that hard, angry emotion roiling around inside him like bilgewater in a rotting hull. But when, clad in his swimming trunks, towel over his shoulder, he strode through the stone archway that led into the walled pool area, he stopped dead.

There was someone in the pool already. In fact, he realised instantly, two people. His bride and her son.