Lucy Gordon: Rinaldo’s Inherited Bride

Rinaldo returned with the large indeterminate animal Gino had stigmatised as ‘that daft mutt’. Brutus had an air of amiability mixed with anarchy, plus huge feet. Ignoring Teresa’s look of disapproval he parked himself under the table, close to his master.

Over pasta and mushrooms Gino said, lightly, ‘So I suppose one of us has to marry the English woman.’

‘When you say “one of us” you mean me, I suppose,’ Rinaldo growled. ‘You wouldn’t like settling down with a wife, not if it meant having to stop your nonsense. Besides, she evidently has an orderly mind, which means she’d be driven nuts by you in five minutes.’

‘Then you should be the one,’ Gino said.

‘No, thank you.’ Rinaldo’s tone was a warning.

‘But you’re the head of the family now. I think it’s your duty. Hey-what are you doing with that wine?’

‘Preparing to pour it over your head if you don’t shut up.’

‘But we have to do something. We need a master plan.’

His brother replaced the wine on the table, annoyance giving way to faint amusement. Gino’s flippancy might often be annoying, but it was served up with a generous helping of charm.

Rinaldo would have declared himself immune to that charm. Even so, he regarded his brother with a wry look that was almost a grin.

‘Then get to work,’ he said. ‘Make her head spin.’

‘I’ve got a better idea. Let’s toss for her.’

‘For pity’s sake grow up!’

‘Seriously, let Fate make the decision.’

‘If I go through with this charade, I don’t want to hear it mentioned again. Hurry up and get it over with!’

Gino took a coin from his pocket and flipped it high in the air. ‘Call!’

‘Tails.’

Gino caught the coin and slapped it down on the back of his hand.

‘Tails!’ he said. ‘She’s all yours.’

Rinaldo groaned. ‘I thought you were using your two-headed coin or I wouldn’t have played.’

‘As if I’d do a thing like that!’ Gino sounded aggrieved.

‘I’ve known times when-well, never mind. I’m not interested. You can have her.’

He rose and drained his glass before Gino could answer. He didn’t feel that he could stand much more of this conversation.

Gino went to bed first. He was young. Even in his grief for a beloved father he slept easily.

Rinaldo could barely remember what it was to sleep peacefully. When the house was quiet he slipped out. The moon was up, casting a livid white glow over the earth. The light was neither soft nor alluring, but harsh, showing him outlines of trees and hills in brutal relief.

That was the land to which he’d given his whole life. Here, in this soft earth, he’d lain one night with a girl who smelled of flowers and joy, whispering words of love.

‘Soon it will be our wedding day, love of my life-come to me-be mine always.’

And she had come to him in passion and tenderness, generous and giving, nothing held back, her body young and pliable in his arms.

But for such a little time.

One year and six months from the date of their wedding to the day he’d buried his wife and child together.

And his heart with them.

He walked on. He could have trodden this journey with his eyes closed. Every inch of this land was part of his being. He knew its moods, how it could be harsh, brutal, sometimes generous with its bounty but more often demanding a cruel price.

Until today he had paid the price, not always willingly, sometimes in anguish and bitterness, but he had paid it.

And now this.

He lost track of time, seeing nothing with his outer eye. What he could see, inwardly, was Vincente, roaring with laughter as he tossed his baby son, Gino, up into the air, then turned to smile lovingly on the child Rinaldo.

‘Remember when I used to do that with you, my son? Now we are men together.’

And his own eager response. ‘Yes, Poppa!’

He had been eight years old, and his father had known by instinct what to say to drive out jealousy of the new baby, and make him happy.

Poppa, who had believed that the world was a good place because there was always warmth and love and generosity, and who had tried to make him believe it too.

Poppa, his ally in a hundred childhood pranks. ‘We won’t tell Mamma, it would only worry her.’

But these images were succeeded by another, one he hadn’t seen, but which he now realised had been there all along: the old man, round faced and white whiskered, laughing up his sleeve at the little joke he’d played on his sons, and particularly on his forceful elder son.

Vincente hadn’t seen the danger. So there had been no warning, no chance to be prepared. Rinaldo had always loved his father, but at this moment it was hard not to hate him.

The darkness was turning to the first grey of dawn. He had walked for miles, and now it was time to walk back and make ready for the biggest fight of his life.

RINALDOFARNESEfinally dragged his eyes away from the woman who was his enemy. He had noted dispassionately that she was beautiful in a glossy, city-bred kind of way that would have increased his hostility if it hadn’t been at fever pitch already. Everything about her confirmed his suspicions, from her fair hair to her elegant clothes.

It was time for the mourners to speak over the grave. There were many, for Vincente had been popular. Some were elderly men, ‘partners in crime’ who had spent days in the sun with him, drinking wine and remembering the old times.

There were several middle-aged and elderly women, hinting wistfully at sweet memories, under the jealous eyes of their menfolk.

Finally there were his sons. Gino spoke movingly, recalling his father’s gentleness and sweet temper, his ready laughter.

‘He’d had a hard life,’ he recalled, ‘working very long hours, every day for years, so that his family might prosper. But it never soured him, and to the end of his life, nothing delighted him as much as a practical joke.’

Then he fell silent, and a soft ripple ran around the crowd. By now all of them knew about Vincente’s last practical joke.

A heaviness seemed to come over Gino as he realised what he had said. The light went out of his attractive young face, and his eyes sought his brother with a touch of desperation.

Rinaldo’s face revealed nothing. With a brief nod at Gino he stepped up to take his place.

‘My father was a man who could win love,’ he said, speaking almost curtly. ‘That much is proved by the presence of so many of his friends today. It is no more than he deserved. I thank each of you for coming to do him honour.’

That was all. The words were jerked from him as if by force. His face might have been made of stone.

The mourners began to drift away from the grave. Rinaldo gave Alex a last look and turned, touching Gino’s arm to indicate for him to come too.

‘Wait,’ Gino said.

‘No,’ Rinaldo was following his gaze.

‘We’ve got to meet her some time. Besides-’ he gave a soft whistle. ‘She’s beautiful.’

‘Remember where you are and show respect,’ Rinaldo said quietly.

‘Poppa wouldn’t mind. He’d have been the first to whistle. Rinaldo, have you ever seen such a beauty?’

‘I’m happy for you,’ his brother said without looking at him. ‘Your job should be easier.’

Gino had caught the lawyer’s eye and raised his eyebrows, inclining his head slightly in Alex’s direction. Isidoro nodded and Gino began to make his way across to them.

Alex caught the look they exchanged, then she focused on Gino. An engaging young man, she thought. Even dressed in black, he had a kind of brightness about him. His handsome face was fresh, eager, open.