Anne Mather - The Autumn Of The Witch

‘That is up to you, signorina .’

Stephanie heaved a sigh. ‘But what about my home – my family?’ She ran a hand over her hair nervously. ‘I – I have a boy-friend, too. We – we expect to get engaged at Christmas.’

That wasn’t strictly true, but she saw no reason to withdraw the statement, particularly as Santino merely shrugged his shoulders indifferently and made no comment.

Pietro however found her final remark disturbing. ‘You did not tell me you were almost betrothed!’ he accused her shortly.

Stephanie held up her head. ‘I didn’t think it was any of your business,’ she retorted, unwilling to accept his dissension as well.

Santino seemed vaguely amused by Pietro’s annoyance and Stephanie thought with a grim sense of foreboding what a cruel devil he could be. How could she place herself in this man’s hands, miles from anything or anyone she knew?

Now she lifted her shoulders in an expressive gesture and said: ‘I shall need time to think – to consider your proposition, signor .’

Santino considered her unsmilingly. ‘I do not have a lot of time, signorina .’

Stephanie took a deep breath. ‘You can’t expect me to decide something like this on the spur of the moment.’

‘Why not? It is a simple question: can you allow your father to be ruined when you have the power to prevent it?’

‘But that’s not fair—’ she broke out tremulously.

‘Nothing in life ever is, I am afraid,’ he observed coldly. ‘And now, if you will excuse me, I will allow Pietro to escort you back to your father’s house. I will give you …’ he consulted the thick gold watch on his wrist – ‘I will give you twelve hours. I shall expect your answer at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning. You may telephone me at this number. Just say yes or no. That will be enough.’

‘But, signor —’

Santino swung his leg across the chair and straightened. ‘ Arrivederci , signorina . Pietro!’

Pietro rose too, and excusing himself to Stephanie he accompanied Santino across the restaurant to the door. He seemed to be listening to something the older man was saying and Stephanie, watching them, felt the beginnings of despair. What could she do? How could she refuse? She knew she would never forgive herself if by her indifference she drove her father to desperate lengths.

When Pietro came back she got immediately to her feet and said: ‘I want to go home – now.’

‘Of course.’ Pietro stood back and allowed her to precede him across the room. Once outside, the chill evening air struck her face like an icy blast and she realized she was numb with cold. But it was an inner coldness, one which Santino Ventura had inspired, and she wondered if she would ever be free of it again.

Pietro hailed a taxi and once inside, he said: ‘I’m sorry,’ rather inadequately.

Stephanie glanced at him. ‘It’s not your fault,’ she managed tautly.

Pietro said nothing for a few minutes and then he went on: ‘What will you do?’

Stephanie gave him a tremulous look. ‘Don’t ask me that. I just don’t know.’

‘Will you tell your father tonight?’

‘No!’ The word was tom from her. ‘No, I couldn’t do that. I have to make the decision on my own.’

Pietro nodded, a strange expression in his eyes, and Stephanie had the oddest feeling that he had wanted that answer from her.

When the taxi reached the house, she slid out without waiting for him to help her. ‘Good night, Pietro,’ she said shortly. ‘It’s – it’s been – very edifying!’ and as her voice broke she fled up the drive to the doors, leaving him standing there.

To her intense annoyance, she encountered Jennifer in the hall. The older woman was wearing a crimson velvet house-gown that accentuated her dark beauty, and she was beautiful, Stephanie had to acknowledge.

‘Well, well, the prodigal’s return!’ she observed dryly, as Stephanie closed the front door. ‘Where have you been?’ Stephanie chose not to answer, walking swiftly across the hall to the stairs. But Jennifer’s next words halted her. ‘Allan has been here this evening. He wanted to know how you were. Your father told him that you had said you were meeting him at some party. Obviously, someone was mistaken.’

Stephanie swung round dejectedly. ‘And what did Allan say?’

Jennifer sighed. ‘He was rather annoyed, naturally. After all, he thought you were unwell.’

Stephanie chewed bitterly at her lip. ‘Damn!’ she exclaimed. ‘Damn, damn, damn!’

‘Such language,’ remarked Jennifer mockingly, and yawned. ‘God, I’m tired! Exactly where have you been anyway?’ She frowned.

Stephanie shook her head. ‘Out,’ she replied sharply.

Jennifer’s eyes glittered. ‘Charming!’ she murmured indifferently. ‘In any case, I could hazard a guess.’

Stephanie stared at her. ‘I doubt it.’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Jennifer was annoyingly tormenting.

Stephanie turned and began to mount the stairs. ‘Good night, Jennifer,’ she said quietly.

‘How about that Bastinado man?’ Jennifer called after her. ‘That young Italian. What was his first name? Peter – Pietro! That’s it, isn’t it? Pietro Bastinado. Ventura’s assistant. He couldn’t take his eyes off you earlier this evening. I bet that’s who you’ve been with, isn’t it?’ Jennifer looked at her triumphantly. ‘Poor old Allan!’

Stephanie stopped again and turning looked down at her stepmother. Jennifer regarded her mockingly and chuckled, ‘You can’t deny it, can you?’

Stephanie would not allow Jennifer to get away with it. She might tell her father and Stephanie could not risk that. ‘You’re making a mistake, Jennifer,’ she said tautly. ‘I’m not interested in Pietro Bastinado.’

Jennifer raised her eyebrows. ‘No?’ Her lips thinned. ‘Then who have you been with? You don’t know anyone else, other than that crowd you go about with, and it couldn’t be one of them, not one of Allan’s friends.’ She wrapped her gown closer about her and then her eyes flickered curiously back to her stepdaughter, a sudden thought manifesting itself in her mind. ‘You couldn’t possibly – I mean – you haven’t tried to see Ventura—’ She halted, staring at Stephanie intently.

Stephanie’s reactions were not quick enough to prevent Jennifer from seeing the guilt in her eyes, and the older woman stared at her furiously. ‘For God’s sake, Stephanie,’ she snapped, ‘you haven’t attempted to bargain with Ventura on your father’s behalf, have you?’

Stephanie shook her head slowly, but from the suspicion in Jennifer’s face it was obvious she didn’t believe her. Jennifer grasped the banister and stared angrily up at her and with an exclamation Stephanie turned and ran up the stairs. She heard Jennifer following her, calling her to stop, but she ignored her, running along the wide landing to her room, locking the door so that when Jennifer turned the handle it would not give.

‘Stephanie!’ Jennifer’s voice was taut with anger. ‘Open this door at once! I want to speak to you.’

‘Go away, Jennifer. I’m taking a bath.’ Stephanie stood in the entrance to her bathroom trembling a little.

Jennifer hammered on the door. ‘Stephanie, if you’ve seen Ventura and you’ve said or done anything to jeopardize those shares—’

Stephanie pressed her lips together and went into the bathroom fully, slamming the door so that Jennifer could hear her and turning on the bath taps to drown the sound of Jennifer’s knocking. Then she sat down on the wicker clothes basket and buried her face in her hands. Oh, God, she thought, whatever am I going to do?

She hardly slept at all. Tossing and turning in her comfortable bed, when sleep did come to claim her it was plagued with nightmares of demons and witches and castles engulfed in flame, and she awoke sweating with fear, the bed clothes a tortured mass at her feet. She rose in the early hours and went to the window, looking out on the still sleeping city. Somewhere in that mass of shops and offices and hotels, Santino Ventura was sleeping, no doubt dreamlessly, uncaring that he was probably going to destroy her life … Did nothing ever disturb him emotionally? Would no appeal reach that callous heart of his? Had he no thought at all for the humanity of the situation? She shook her head helplessly, recalling with piercing clarity everything he had said. Why had he chosen her? What possible difference could there be between herself and a qualified nanny? In fact practically anyone would be more suitable. She had had no experience of teaching, other than simple practices for the use of the patients in the psychiatric ward. She knew little Italian, and the child apparently did not speak English. It seemed an impossible situation.