In the Italian's Sights

Once outside in the summer-scented air, she hurried over to the car in which Gilda and the two maids already sat, getting into the passenger seat by the driver. Vittorio had hired an army of cars to transport his guests to and fro during the day. No expense had been spared. They were away at once, and by the time they arrived at the beautiful village church she had herself under control again and had vowed that would be the last time she faltered.

The scent of a million flowers filled the interior of the incredibly ornate church, the stained-glass windows lit by bright sunshine and the exquisite wood and stone work shown off to perfection in the glowing golden light.

Cherry took her place among the congregation after checking that all the bridesmaids and pageboys had arrived and knew their roles, smiling at Santo when he turned round to raise his hand to her. He looked scared to death, poor lamb, she thought, a dart of amusement piercing the sadness for a moment. He was naturally shy and reserved, and this sort of grand occasion—especially as he was one of the prime players—was his worst nightmare. Nevertheless, the more she had got to know Santo and his family over the last weeks, the more she had been sure that Sophia would be very happy and well cared for in their fold. And there had been the odd time—just once or twice—when she had seen Santo put his foot down with his bride-to-be over something or other, which had reassured her the marriage wouldn’t be as unequally yoked as Vittorio had feared.

The music changed, a rustle of anticipation went round the assembled throng, heads turned and the service began. Sophia looked lovely as she walked up the aisle on Vittorio’s arm, and as they passed Cherry drew in a long, deep, tortuous breath.

This was the worst part, she told herself desperately. Once the service was over it wouldn’t be so poignant. She felt a pair of eyes on her, and turned her head slightly to see Caterina to the far left of her. They stared at one another for a split second—there was a small, curling smile of satisfaction on Lorenzo’s wife’s face at what she had clearly read in Cherry’s—before Cherry broke the hold of the big-cat amber eyes.

Strangely, the fleeting moment provided a dose of adrenaline straight into Cherry’s veins, straightening her backbone, lifting her chin and wiping her face clean of all emotion save that which one would expect at a wedding. There was no way she was going to crumble now, she told herself with iron in her spirit. This was possibly the worst day of her life, and tomorrow, when she left the Carella estate, was going to be worse still, but she wasn’t a British bulldog for nothing. The stiff British upper lip might be mocked on occasion, but today she welcomed her heritage.

The service was in Italian, as one might expect, and full of conventions and rituals Cherry didn’t know, but overall it was charming—if a great deal longer than the average English marriage service. But then it was over, and a smiling Sophia and a proud Santo were sailing down the aisle followed by their bright-eyed and chattering little army of bridesmaids and pageboys, who had been amazingly well behaved throughout. Once outside in the hot Italian sunshine the noise was overwhelming as folk hugged and laughed and called to children who, having been quiet and still for over an hour, were running and shouting and screaming with gay abandon. Everyone was happy and everyone knew everyone else—Cherry had never felt so lost and forlorn in all her life.

And then Vittorio was at her elbow, taking her arm and tucking it through his as he greeted guests and chatted, using English when he could and introducing her around. It was an exquisite torture, so bittersweet that for ever after she couldn’t remember anything of those minutes beyond the smell and feel of him and the hot sun beating down—along with the look on Caterina’s face, which made her appear as though she?

?d swallowed something which was choking her.

On the way back to the villa Cherry determinedly cleared her mind of everything but the view out of the window, her eyes picking out the beauty of silver spindrift olive trees against the flat blue backdrop of sky, a bird circling high above in the thermals, and the luxuriant foliage of the Carella gardens when they entered its confines and the honey-coloured building came into view. Vittorio had asked her to ride back with him, but she’d made the valid excuse that she and Margherita and the maids were needed at the villa, to check everything was in order and supervise the team of caterers.

He’d stared at her, an intent look, before saying softly, ‘You are a guest now. You can relax and enjoy the day.’ Something she’d considered an insult in the circumstances. He might be able to forget last night and dismiss it from his mind as unimportant, she’d thought as she had smiled coolly and declined his offer again, she actually had feelings.

She had been back at the house for about fifteen minutes when the bridal carriage appeared, a long stream of cars following it. From that moment the celebrations began in earnest, and even in her present state of misery Cherry was affected by the easy, joy-filled atmosphere and lazy, leisurely pace of the proceedings. Italians loved children—Cherry had discovered since being in the country there was none of the ‘be seen and not heard’ attitude which prevailed in some countries—and little ones were everywhere, being scooped up in people’s arms, playing games and running hither and thither, clambering on to the carousel and shrieking with laughter and in some cases fright, and just generally turning the occasion into a huge, happy family gathering.

The call into the marquee for lunch was at least two hours late by Cherry’s reckoning, but no one, least of all the caterers, seemed to mind, and once inside folk sat where they wanted to sit, with nothing so formal as place-names to spoil the get-together. The only exception was the head table at the top of the marquee, where the bride and groom, Vittorio and his grandmother and Santo’s parents with the best man were sitting.

Cherry had been careful to avoid Vittorio since his return from church, busying herself with this and that and pretending to be occupied even when she wasn’t, so when she walked into the marquee and took a seat with a nice Italian family she’d been speaking to, who had a good grasp of English, she was surprised when she found herself being raised up by a firm hand at her elbow.

‘Vittorio, what are you doing?’ she protested quietly, trying to jerk herself free without attracting notice.

‘I was going to ask you the same question.’ The grey eyes were stormy. ‘Why is there not a place for you at the head table?’

‘Me?’ She was genuinely taken aback and it showed. ‘Why should there be? I’m not family.’

‘You have enabled this wedding to take place—besides which I will not tolerate you sitting anywhere else. There is now a setting for you next to me.’

She stared at him, not knowing if she wanted to laugh or cry. This was so Vittorio. The most conventional of men, he could sweep tradition and decorum out of the window when it seemed right to him. Hadn’t he considered how she’d feel, sitting next to him and on show to everyone? It was almost a statement of intent, and she would be the only one in the marquee who knew it for what it was—kindness. And she didn’t want his kindness.

‘I’m perfectly all right where I am, thank you,’ she whispered, resisting the pressure of his hand to draw her forward.

‘Be that as it may, you will sit with Sophia and I and the rest of the immediate family.’

‘I will not.’ She was becoming aware of interested glances in their direction and embarrassment was paramount.

‘Si, Cherry, you will.’ If he had noticed the attention they were drawing, he didn’t care.

‘Vittorio, think what people will assume,’ she hissed softly, her cheeks burning. ‘And your grandmother wouldn’t like it. You know she wouldn’t.’ His grandmother had managed to let her know—in spite of not speaking a word of English—exactly what she thought of the little English girl who had taken up residence in the home of her grandson.

‘This is not my grandmother’s wedding,’ he said, none too quietly, stating the obvious, and when her agonised ‘Ssh!’ came, added more softly, ‘It is Sophia’s and Santo’s, and they have both requested your presence with them at the top table, OK? Satisfied? You will spoil their wedding breakfast if you deny them this.’

They were becoming a spectacle, and it was this rather than his argument which forced her to accompany him down the long—endlessly long, it seemed—marquee to her seat between Vittorio and his grandmother. The old lady didn’t acknowledge her arrival by so much as the flicker of an eyelash, and Cherry thought Sophia and Santo looked bemused rather than anything else, but she was here now and that was that.

The meal was long and leisurely, even by Italian standards, and the wine flowed—red wine, white, rosé, sparkling and even dessert—all courtesy of the Puglia region and all superb. The climate meant that most Puglian wines had a high level of alcohol, the baking summer sun encouraging a large amount of sugar in the grapes, and long before the meal was halfway through the level of laughter and conversation had risen as the guests had got merrier. Cherry felt herself begin to relax a little. Everyone was busy having a good time, and although there was the odd speculative glance in her direction they weren’t unfriendly.

Vittorio talked to her mostly, leaning slightly towards her, his arm sliding round the back of her seat now and again, causing her to tense until it was removed again. He spoke to his grandmother a few times and the old lady answered him willingly enough, even unbending enough after three glassfuls of wine to smile and nod at Cherry when Vittorio mentioned her name.

‘What did you just say to her?’ Cherry asked him cautiously after this miraculous event. By now she’d had a couple of glasses of wine herself, which was a double-edged sword—on the one hand the alcohol had helped her to relax and loosen up a little; on the other she was terrified of letting her guard down and losing the control she was desperate to maintain. She was vitally aware of every tiny movement of the big male body next to her, even when Vittorio was speaking to the bridal couple or Santo’s parents and best man. The day had turned into something of a farce, but she was powerless to do anything about it.

‘What did I say to her?’ Vittorio echoed softly. ‘Just that the wind that blew you across our path was a lucky one for the Carellas. Sophia has had the day she wanted, and a large part of that is due to you.’