The treasures inside the Basilica of St Francis were absorbing, and by the time Abigail allowed herself to be persuaded to leave, albeit reluctantly, the warm pink dusk of evening had suffused the hilltop town, the buildings glowing in the last remaining rays of the dying sun.
“Oh, goodness,” Abigail exclaimed guiltily, “I didn’t realise I’d taken so long!”
Greg smiled. “It seemed a pity to dampen your enthusiasm,” he said, “but don’t worry, we’re not late. I daresay Rupert and Penelope are a drink ahead of us. I can’t see Penelope waiting.”
It seemed a crime to hurry. So they dawdled in the velvety evening air, meandering through the cobbled streets. The house-martins and swallows dived and screamed overhead, snatching at small insects rash enough to fly before the shafts of sunlight. The wrought iron street lamps cast their yellow glow on the uneven cobbles, and beneath every lamp sat a group of women knitting; always surrounded by a crowd of noisy children and a motley assortment of dogs.
“This is an enchanted place,” whispered Abigail, almost afraid to speak too loudly in case she broke the spell.
“You think so?” said Greg. Then he smiled gently, and taking her hand in his held it loosely. “I think Italy has already begun to weave its magic spell over you,” he observed. “Already you seem much more relaxed.”
Abigail laughed, her grey eyes sparkling. She didn’t remove her hand, it felt comfortable in his, and for the moment she felt ridiculously happy. But it was only a moment, a few seconds later that moment was shattered as Greg pointed towards a little bar in the main piazza.
“There, what did I tell you? They are one drink ahead of us.” Abigail looked in the direction of his pointing finger. Then she saw them, sitting very close together, a single candle in a glass holder illuminating their faces, which even though she was some distance away, she could see were animated and very intimate. She hung back, not wanting to break into the circle of intimacy that surrounded them; but Greg continued to walk and there was no alternative but to accompany him.
As they drew nearer, she could hear their low voices laughing and talking, and it was only a long time afterwards, almost towards the end of the evening, that she realised Greg had discreetly let go of her hand the moment they had seen Rupert and Penelope. Not that she had attached any importance to that, there was nothing romantic about the way he had held her hand, it was just a friendly gesture, like that of a brother. And anyway, at the time she had only been conscious of the rapt expression on Rupert’s face as he listened to his companion.
It was Penelope who saw them first. She waved gaily, and broke into her tinkly laugh, breaking the peaceful serenity of the piazza. At least, so it seemed to Abigail’s sensitive ears.
“We’ve had an absolutely fantastic time,” she said, as Greg pulled out a chair for Abigail and they joined the two of them at the table. “Have you?”
“Yes,” Greg answered for them both, then turned to Rupert. “Hope you didn’t suffer too much. Being dragged around shops by a woman is my idea of hell on earth!”
“He loved it,” said Penelope firmly, laying a well manicured hand possessively on Rupert’s arm. “And I dare you to say you didn’t.”
“I did love every minute of it,” replied Rupert, grinning, then suddenly, as if he’d just remembered Abigail’s presence, he smiled at her too, adding hastily, “I thought you’d enjoy sightseeing better. I hope you didn’t mind.”
“As it happens you were right, but I would have preferred to have been asked!” Abigail replied, a touch of acerbity tinged her voice, and she noticed a guilty expression flicker across Rupert’s face.
“Shall we order a drink?” interrupted Greg, as Rupert opened his mouth to reply. Not waiting for an answer from the others, he called a waiter over to their table. “Campari and soda for me,” he said. “What about you, Abigail?”
“I’ll have the same,” she answered, noticing how grateful Rupert looked for the interruption. She wondered whether Greg had done it on purpose, or whether it was just fortuitous that he happened to speak at that moment.
“I’ll have a small beer,” said Rupert quickly, keeping his gaze averted from Abigail’s clear grey eyes.
“And I’ll have an enormous gin and a little tonic,” said Penelope. She slid her arm around Greg’s neck, and kissed him on the cheek. “You will buy me an enormous gin, won’t you?” she purred provocatively.
“I’ll buy you anything you want,” said Greg with a laugh, appearing to enjoy her attention, “and I’m sure that goes for Rupert too.”
Penelope giggled delightedly. “I’m lucky to have two such attentive men, but I mustn’t be selfish. You must spoil Abigail too.”
Oh, heavens, thought Abigail with a sinking feeling, this is going to be an awful evening. She hated girls who deliberately turned on the “little girl” charm and flirted with men, it was something she could never do.
“I don’t feel the need to be spoiled,” she said coldly. “You’re welcome to them both, Penelope, if that’s what you want.” It was a bitchy remark, and out of character, but at that particular moment she could have quite cheerfully spat blood!
The awkward silence at the table was broken by Greg giving the order to the waiter, who had been hovering attentively near by. Abigail bent her head to hide her furious expression, and fondled the ears of a black and white dog who was sitting, looking expectant, by their table.
“I wouldn’t touch the dogs around here,” said Penelope in her supercilious tone, the one she reserved for elderly patients and foreigners. “For a start they’re not well bred, and you never know what you might catch.”
“Penelope’s right,” chimed in Rupert. “You never know…”
“No, you don’t, do you?” said Abigail quietly.
Rupert flushed uneasily, and she knew the innuendo had gone home. “I worry about you,” he said defensively. “You don’t want to be ill while you’re away.”
“I daresay the dogs here are as healthy as anywhere,” said Greg, and picking up a pretzel from the dish on the table, he tossed it to the dog, who snapped it up eagerly.
He had broken a potentially awkward situation again, and this time Abigail knew he had done so on purpose, and was grateful. She was feeling confused and angry, and the last thing she wanted to do was quarrel with Rupert. When we’re on our own, we’ll be able to talk reasonably, and sensibly, and everything will be all right, she told herself; controlling the upsurge of jealousy that threatened to swamp her, with an effort.
So she smiled at Rupert, and was glad to see him smile back, relief written all over his face. He had never been faced with an acid-tongued Abigail before, and she couldn’t help thinking, just a little bit smugly, that he didn’t know how to handle her in that mood! Almost simultaneously, though, the uncomfortable thought flashed across her mind that Greg would have known exactly how to handle it—he would have lashed back and they would have had a flaming row! In a strangely contradictory way, she wished she and Rupert had rowed there and then, and to hell with the embarrassment!
But for the rest of the hour they spent at the bar, Abigail made a point of being sweetness and light itself; so much so that Greg leaned over at one point and whispered in her ear, “Be careful, or you’ll go over the top!”
Abigail rewarded him with a shrivelling glance as Penelope asked, “What did you say, Greg?”
“Give the dog another biscuit,” he replied, with a deadpan face.
Abigail couldn’t help it, she giggled. He looked so serious, and picking up a handful of pretzels, she started feeding them to the dog one by one.
“Pongo!” shouted the waiter, and the dog pricked up its ears, then slunk sheepishly away along the edge of the square.
“Tell him it’s my fault,” pleaded Abigail, clutching hold of Greg’s arm anxiously. “He didn’t beg for food, I offered it.”
Greg laughed, and said something in rapid Italian to the waiter, who beamed from ear to ear and whistled the dog back, giving it a friendly cuff around the ears as it came bounding back up to the table. As he made out their bill, he continued chatting to Greg.
“What did he say?” asked Abigail when he’d gone.
“He said the dog always picks on the pretty English girls, because he knows they’re soft-hearted,” answered Greg, smiling widely.
“I’m not soft-hearted,” said Penelope.
You can say that again, thought Abigail, biting back the words with difficulty. It seemed that neither Greg nor Rupert heard Penelope’s remark, as they made no comment.
Rupert merely remarked mildly to Abigail. “You’ll be partly to blame for that animal’s premature middle-aged spread!”
Abigail laughed and linked her arm through his. “Dogs don’t worry about their figures,” she said.
Rupert smiled down at her, and she felt some of her old happiness return. She had an over-active imagination, that was her problem, she decided. But when they reached the parked car, she wasn’t certain whether or not it was her imagination that Rupert hesitated just a second before opening the door of his car for her. For a moment she had almost thought he was going to usher Penelope into the car, but then, as she told herself later, it was a natural mistake. He had arrived with Penelope, and she with Greg, but she drove back to the villa with Rupert. On the way he seemed to be his old self, explaining what he had been doing while waiting for her to arrive, and Abigail’s worries evaporated—she definitely had an over-active imagination, something she would have to curb in the future.
The days passed quickly one after the other, there was so much to do, sailing, windsurfing, sightseeing, and always they ended the day sitting late into the evening on the patio, eating and drinking under a star-spangled sky.
Abigail was pleased that Rupert had finished his work for Sir Jason, and so had plenty of time to spend relaxing, although she did sometimes wish they could have more time together, just the two of them. She had hoped, after the departure of Sir Jason and Lady Orchard, that Penelope would spend more time with Greg, but it seemed that everything had always been arranged, and it was always a foursome. Rupert didn’t appear to mind at all, and on the few occasions Abigail had mentioned it to him, he had said they couldn’t very well be rude as they were staying in Greg’s villa.
One particular morning, however, when Abigail went down to breakfast, she found herself alone on the patio. From the debris of crumbs and half-empty glasses of orange littering the table, it was obvious that everyone else had already breakfasted.
Pouring herself a glass of fresh orange juice, she wandered slowly to the edge of the patio, leaning on the balustrade overlooking the lake. Suddenly, a movement far down below caught her eye; it was Penelope and Rupert running down the slope towards the boathouse on the shore of the lake. They had their arms linked, and their laughter floated up clearly through the still morning air. Abigail bit her lip. They had obviously decided to take an early morning sail, although judging from the mirror-smoothness of the lake there wouldn’t be much wind for sailing.
Turning away, she tried to ignore the feeling of emptiness in the pit of her stomach, trying to blot out the disturbing scene of Rupert and Penelope together. But it was impossible, and all the vague doubts that had been troubling her the past week returned in force, numbing her heart with unhappiness.
Suddenly she looked at the ring on her finger. The diamonds seemed to sparkle coldly in the morning sunlight. Impulsively snatching it from her finger, she held it in the palm of her hand, where it winked back at her with a mocking glitter. Unhappily she wondered what she should do, what could she do? She just didn’t understand Rupert, he had wanted their marriage date brought forward, and if he had changed his mind he certainly hadn’t mentioned it, although talking to him about anything had been difficult. They never seemed to be alone together.
“You’d better put that back on, you might lose it,” said a quiet voice beside her.
Startled, Abigail looked up. She’d been so engrossed in her thoughts that she hadn’t heard Greg cross the patio towards her.
“I…” she began.
“Put it on,” he commanded, then added with a wry twist to his lips, “if you were thinking of throwing it over the edge in a fit of pique, I would advise against it.”
“I am not,” said Abigail, “given to fits of pique!” She put the ring back on her finger.
“You’re thinking that Rupert is neglecting you,” began Greg.
“Certainly not,” cut in Abigail quickly—much too quickly, she realised as Greg raised an ironical eyebrow. “I didn’t know he intended to go sailing this morning. I was just a little surprised.”
Maria appeared in the doorway leading from the villa to the patio, bringing out a tray of fresh bread rolls, which she placed on the breakfast table.
“Come on,” said Greg, taking Abigail’s arm, and leading her away from the balustrade. “This is one advantage of taking a late breakfast, we can have fresh bread, straight from the ovens.”
Abigail walked with him, noticing for the first time how immaculate he looked in cream-coloured slacks and a pale lemon shirt which accentuated his deepening tan. “You’re looking very smart this morning,” she couldn’t resist saying. It was true, he usually wore jeans and a T-shirt, the most practical clothes for sailing or sightseeing.
He threw her a thoughtful glance as he said, “there is a reason, but you’ve obviously forgotten.”
Abigail frowned. What on earth was he talking about? “Forgotten what?” she asked.
“The visit to the hospital,” he replied. “I’m operating at Siena later today, and you’re helping me, remember?”
Her hand flew guiltily to her mouth; she had completely forgotten. “I’d better get ready,” she gasped, hastily pushing back her chair.
“Sit down and eat some breakfast first,” he growled, grasping her wrist and dragging her down beside him. Then he grinned wickedly, “Now you know why your darling fiancé and Penelope have gone sailing for the day, because you’ll be otherwise occupied.”
“You told Rupert?”
“Of course. I couldn’t very well steal his fiancée for the day without mentioning it, could I?” The remark was innocent enough, but there was a note of hidden laughter in his voice.
Abigail flushed; he was mocking her, laughing at her for removing her engagement ring so impulsively. It seemed a stupid thing to do now that it all made sense. What a jealous, silly woman she had become—she almost laughed out loud at her own neuroses. Of course Rupert and Penelope would do something else, if she and Greg were going to be away all day in Siena.
She took the bread roll he proffered and remained silent during their breakfast, her mind busily revising the theatre techniques she had looked up some time before. Gulping down her coffee, she made her excuses to go and get changed, even though Greg said there was no hurry. She wanted to look through the books just once more.
“There won’t be too much for you to do,” said Greg, accurately reading her mind.
“Maybe not,” retorted Abigail, “but I want to make sure that what I do is absolutely correct.”
“You worry too much,” laughed Greg, lazily pouring himself another coffee, “I’ve told you so before.”
Abigail didn’t answer, just made good her escape to her room, hastily fishing out the books, and feverishly flicking through the pages, familiarising herself with the theatre techniques, although she already knew them backwards. At the same time, she cursed Greg for not reminding her before the actual day had arrived!
Changing into the most businesslike outfit she had brought with her, a blue and white tailored dress, she carefully pinned her blond hair into a neat chignon, then hurried down to join Greg in the courtyard. The journey to Siena took about an hour, and in spite of feeling apprehensive about the theatre work ahead of her, Abigail was entranced as usual by the scenery. Monasteries, hilltop towns perched on rocky crags, all combined with a kaleidoscope of ever-changing greens and golds into a timeless landscape.
Greg looked down at her rapt face. “You looked bewitched,” he teased.
Abigail smiled. “Perhaps I am.”
“I’d like to think it was my enthralling company,” he said with a wry smile, “but I’m inclined to think that it’s Italy you’re in love with!”
There was no time to continue the conversation, as they had arrived on the outskirts of Siena. The hospital where Greg was to operate was situated in a square just off the Piazza del Campo. Greg had been there before, and negotiated the narrow streets with an expertise born of practice, swinging the car into the hospital’s overcrowded parking area without a problem.
As soon as they stepped into the interior of the hospital Greg was greeted with enthusiasm, and Abigail felt at home too; the familiar antiseptic smell, the long shining corridors, the atmosphere of calm ordered efficiency soothed her nerves. She suddenly felt more confident. She would be able to discharge her duties, and do it well; she would be a credit to herself and to Greg.
The two hours’ work went well, and Abigail forgot everything else, as Greg snapped orders at her, and she carried out his commands without a moment’s hesitation. She also found watching the bloodless laser surgery completely absorbing—the invisible beam of light excising the skin and sealing the blood vessels in one split second. As Greg explained later to his attentive audience, this provided minimum discomfort to the patient during the post-operative period, as the usual oedema associated with major surgery was absent; the laser beam causing little trauma to the surrounding tissues.
After the operating session, they were taken to lunch, where Greg was continually bombarded with questions. Abigail sat quietly eating her lunch, marvelling at Greg’s patience. She knew by now he must be feeling tired—two hours of difficult surgery, followed by another two hours of non-stop questioning. At last they made their escape, after many handshakes all round, Abigail only nodding her head and smiling, wishing she could understand the babble of excited conversation.
They had started walking back towards the parked car when Greg paused and looked at his watch. “We still have time to fit in a little sightseeing,” he said. “Shall we climb the bell tower in the Piazza del Campo and take in an aerial view of Siena? That is, of course, if you can make it after that lunch!”
“Of course I can make it,” retorted Abigail indignantly, “I’m very fit.”
“Wait until we come down and then tell me whether or not you’re fit,” was the skeptical reply.
Climbing up inside the spiral staircase of the bell tower was more difficult than Abigail had imagined, and she gratefully accepted the offer of Greg’s hand to help her up. Once at the top, however, the view of the surrounding Tuscan countryside, and the spectacle of Siena’s streets spread out like the spokes of a wheel, made it all worth while.
A group of German tourists, puffing and panting, came squeezing past them to look from the other side of the tower, and Greg drew Abigail in close to make room for them. She was suddenly aware of the uneven hammering of her heartbeat reverberating in her ears, and at the same time she realised that she had not thought of Rupert for a single moment, not since the morning when she’d started out for Siena with Greg. Irritably she turned her head, trying to escape the shadowy image of Rupert, only to find herself looking into the depths of Greg’s coal-black eyes. For a fleeting moment, she thought she glimpsed a deep tenderness, but then it was gone, replaced with his usual enigmatic expression.
His head with its mass of dark hair, bent fractionally towards her, and Abigail knew she was almost willing him to kiss her. His face was so close, and yet at the same time a million miles away. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheeks, and his lips came closer; then the German tourists came back, noisy and effervescent, bumbling past them, shattering the fragile moment into a thousand pieces.
“We’d better start back down,” “said Abigail, watching the retreating back of the noisy crowd, “it seems to be getting dark already.”
Greg looked at his watch. “Yes,” he agreed, “we don’t want to miss dinner. I hardly ate any lunch, it was difficult eating pasta and fending questions.”
His tone was matter-of-fact and coolly friendly, giving her the uncanny feeling that the moment before the arrival of the Germans had been a figment of her imagination.
During the drive back to the villa, Greg talked casually about the morning’s work, and answered some of her questions. She suggested that he should invite Sister Collins into theatre when he returned, to see the “newfangled method” as she would still insist on calling it.
“Perhaps I will,” he said, “although I must confess Sister Collins and the County General seem very far away at the moment.”
“Not so far,” said Abigail pensively. “We shall be back there next week, and then all this will seem far away.”
“Will you be sorry to leave?” he asked suddenly.
“I’ve enjoyed my holiday,” she replied warily, choosing her words with care. She didn’t want Greg to know that she had been assailed with doubts about Rupert and Penelope ever since she had arrived in Italy.
But almost as if he could read her innermost thoughts, Greg suddenly said, “I wonder if Rupert and Penelope had a good sail?”
“I wonder,” replied Abigail.
Then the surprising thought struck her; she wasn’t as anxious about Rupert spending his day with Penelope as she should have been. Could it be because she had enjoyed her day with Greg so much? It was a question she couldn’t answer, but somehow it didn’t seem to matter that much.
Dinner that night was the usual prolonged affair, but Abigail thought Rupert seemed strangely edgy, although no one else appeared to notice, least of all Penelope. She, on the contrary, was in an extra vivacious mood, and regaled everyone with Rupert’s prowess at sailing.
“He’s such fun to be with,” she said to Abigail. “He had me in absolute stitches all day.”
Must have worn him out in the process, thought Abigail, glancing at Rupert’s tight face, but she didn’t allow a flicker of animosity to reach her face, merely saying, “I’m so glad you had a good day.”
“Did you enjoy yourselves?” Penelope asked without interest, adding, “personally I can’t think of anything more boring than to work when on holiday. Talk about a busman’s holiday!”
“It was fascinating,” said Abigail briefly.
Penelope’s tinkly little laugh ricocheted around the patio. “I always knew you were a workaholic,” she said. Then she leaned over to Rupert and took his arm, whispering confidentially, “You’ll have to work on Abigail. You know what they say, all work and no play!”
“I hardly think that applies to Abigail,” muttered Rupert, looking distinctly uncomfortable.
“I don’t think Abigail is dull,” said Greg’s mother, who had the same disconcerting habit as her son of coming straight to the point.
“Oh, I didn’t mean you were dull, Abigail,” said Penelope, positively dripping with insincerity, “I meant that you work much too hard.”
Greg had said nothing at all during this exchange of conversation, just leaned back in his chair, his face in the shadow. Abigail was uneasily aware that he was watching, taking everything in, mulling over the verbal crossfire. She wondered what thoughts were passing through his head; his expression, as usual, gave nothing away.
But as for Rupert, it was quite obvious what was going through his head. He was distinctly embarrassed, and Abigail couldn’t help mentally smiling. Poor Rupert, Penelope had put him on the spot and he didn’t know which way to turn. But one thing she knew, and that was they had to talk, and talk alone. The situation was getting out of hand, Penelope was assuming a proprietorial air over Rupert, and she, Abigail, would have to do something about it.
When the meal had finished, Abigail hung back on the patio, hoping that Rupert would take the hint and stay behind too, but Mrs. Lincoln suddenly asked him to take something into the villa, and he quickly agreed. The alacrity with which he acceded to Mrs. Lincoln’s request made Abigail certain that he had done so in order to avoid being left alone with her. Instead, she found herself alone on the patio with Greg, not the way she had planned it at all.
Inwardly Abigail fumed angrily. Damn! Would she never have the chance to speak to Rupert alone, was she destined to wait until they returned to England before she could speak privately to her own fiancé?
There was nothing to do but wander slowly across the patio and gaze at the view. Leaning on the balustrade, she watched pinpoints of lights out on the lake, small boats fishing. It was late now, even the noisy cicadas were quiet, a soft breeze wafted on the warm night air, lifting the delicate tendrils of hair about her face. Through the purple haze of night, a sparkling galaxy of lights shimmered from the opposite shore of the lake.
“Penny for them?” came Greg’s voice at her side.
“I was thinking how lovely the view is,” said Abigail, unable to think of anything better to say.
“My sentiments exactly,” agreed Greg, but looking at her, not the lake, “although I wasn’t thinking of the scenery.”
Almost instinctively she turned towards him. The darkness enveloped them like a warm mantle, as Greg slowly drew her closer. In the intimacy of the night, Abigail raised her face to his, her pulses fluttering wildly to an unfamiliar rhythm. Slowly he bent his head to hers, the heady smell of his skin wafted across her pulsating senses, then his warm lips touched hers briefly.
He drew back. “Your fiancé is a fool,” he whispered softly. “He should pay more attention to you, then you wouldn’t stray into other men’s arms.”
At his words Abigail stiffened. “I am not straying…” she started to say.
“What exactly would you call it, then?”
“I…er…oh damn you!” Quickly she twisted herself out of his arms, and stood clutching the stone balustrade for support. A girl’s legs are only supposed to turn to jelly in books, she thought inconsequentially, not in real life! She glowered at Greg. How was it he made her feel guilty, like some Jezebel? As if she had tempted him, but it had been the other way around—or had it?
The moon sailed on its ribbon of light across the sky, and a shaft of moonlight sliding between the branches of the umbrella pine beside the patio splashed them both in a cold pool of light.
“If you want my opinion, I think Rupert has lost interest,” said Greg abruptly. “It seems to me he’s much more interested in Sir Jason’s daughter, and all the business contacts that go with it.”
“I don’t want your opinion,” cried Abigail, hurt by his cruel words.
“Maybe not,” said Greg, “but it’s about time you started facing up to the inevitable. If you really want to change things, you’ll have to put up a fight.” With that, he abruptly turned on his heel and walked back to the villa.
Abigail stood staring after him, gripping the stonework of the balustrade until her knuckles gleamed white in the moonlight. Hot resentful tears welled up in her eyes. How dared he say cruel, untrue things like that! But a relentless nagging little voice at the back of her mind cried out, It’s true, it’s true, you know it’s true. Rupert is more interested in Penelope than you.
“It is not true,” she whispered out loud.
Mentally, she tried to shake her jumbled thoughts into something resembling order; reminding herself that soon she would be back in England, and Rupert would be with her. At the end of September they were to be married, Rupert hadn’t called it off, and this time next year Greg Lincoln would be back in America, Penelope would have forgotten Rupert, and all would be well.
She would be settled into a new routine, a life of domesticity as Rupert’s wife.
“I shouldn’t count on it,” piped up that annoying little voice, unbidden but as devastatingly persistent as ever!