Saddle the Wind (58 page)

As far as their relationship went its failure came down to the fact that they were totally unsuited to one another. She had soon come to realize that Alfredo expected a wife to be submissive and compliant – to be there when needed, to be decorative, the perfect hostess, and a constant support for his actions, right or wrong. But to his dismay she saw things differently. And in any case she
could not
fit into such a mould and she had no intention of ever trying to. As a consequence Alfredo saw her as rebellious, defiant, and generally difficult – and as such she was a continuing challenge to his beliefs and his authority.

Apart from his need to dominate her, she also had to suffer his jealousy – a manifestation that further endorsed her growing doubts that they could ever live in harmony.

His passionate jealousy had first reared its head just three weeks after their arrival in Palermo following their marriage. It had been demonstrated with the arrival from England of a letter for her from George Marsh. In it, after voicing his hopes that she was happy, George had told her that Clara had been much affected at returning to find her, Blanche, gone away, and Jacko dead.

Alfredo’s reaction to the arrival of the letter had astonished Blanche. On taking it from the maid who had brought it to the salon he had asked Blanche who was writing to her from England. Taking the letter from him and looking at the envelope she had recognized the handwriting. It was from George Marsh, she had said.

Alfredo had watched her closely as she read the letter and afterwards asked her what Marsh had said. She told
him what Marsh had written about Clara’s reaction to her departure and the loss of the dog.

‘And what else does he say?’

‘What else?’ She looked at him in surprise. ‘There’s nothing else.’

‘Tell me what else he says.’

‘Alfredo –’ she gazed at him, astonished at the intense expression on his face, his piercing eyes, ‘I tell you there’s nothing else of interest. He sends us his best wishes and tells me about Clara. There’s no more.’

‘Clara, Clara,’ Alfredo said impatiently. ‘What else does he say?’

Blanche looked at him a moment longer in disbelief and then, turning, moved away. He was at her side in an instant.

‘Give me the letter.’

And before she could stop him he had reached out and torn the letter from her hand.

‘– Alfredo –’

Ignoring her protests, he tore the letter from the envelope, opened it out and quickly read it. Then in one staccato gesture he handed it back to her. She refolded it, replaced it in the envelope.

‘Are you satisfied now?’ she said disdainfully.

‘For the moment, yes. But I know the man is in love with you.’

‘Alfredo, please –’

‘I’m not a fool, so don’t take me for one.’ He stood glaring at her, then he said:

‘What are you going to do now?’

‘Do?’

‘Are you going to answer it?’

‘Of
course
I’m going to answer it.’

He paused. ‘I’d rather you didn’t.’

‘But I must.’

‘Don’t I make myself clear? I told you – I would prefer that you did not answer the letter.’

‘Don’t be foolish; of course I shall answer it. Anyway, it’s up to
me
. It’s
my letter
.’

His hand came out, snatched the letter from her hand. This time, however, he did not give it back but instead tore it across and across. Then with a contemptuous toss of his hand he threw the pieces at her.

‘There is your letter.’

As the pieces fell at her feet he was already turning, striding angrily away. In the open doorway he turned back to face her while she stared at him, aghast.

‘You still do not seem to understand,’ he said, ‘–
I
am master in my house, and
you
are now in Sicily. You’re not in England. And the sooner you realize it the happier we shall be.’

He went from the room then, while Blanche stared after him. She could hardly believe what had taken place. The contempt and the anger in his eyes; it had been like seeing a different person. After a moment or two she stooped and gathered up the torn pieces of George’s letter.

She and Alfredo had spent the remainder of that day with silence between them. But then that night he had come to her telling her that he was sorry for his behaviour. His contrition seemed total, and as he had held her in his arms and begged her to forgive him she had been surprised to discover the wetness of tears on his cheek. It was then she had hinted to him that she had an idea that she might be expecting a child. In the dim light of the lamp she had watched the joy on his face as he absorbed the news. A little later he had made love to her – though in his passion he had shown little regard for her own feelings. By that time, however, in the few weeks of their marriage, she had learned, and she no
longer expected more from him. And, she told herself in moments of solitude, it was part of the price she must pay for the things she wanted – the promise of security and a name for her coming baby; next to such gains her own personal satisfactions were insignificant trivialities. And there had never been a time when she had expected
everything
.

In spite of his self-recriminations, however, Alfredo’s exhibition of jealousy over George Marsh’s letter had proved to be not an isolated phenomenon. As the days and weeks passed there were frequent demonstrations of it, so that Blanche began to dread any occasions that would bring her into contact with other men – occasions such as dinner parties when some or other of Alfredo’s business associates would be invited. Usually, Blanche soon discovered, such events would be followed, when they were alone, by accusations levelled at her of flirting with various guests or encouraging familiarities with them. Her denials made no difference; Alfredo seemed unable to see past his own passionate jealousies and what he imagined to be the truth.

His jealousy and his demand for submission soon proved to be matched by the violence of his temper. On several occasions he had struck her and thrown various items at her; a bureau in the library still bore the signs of one of his violent outbursts, showing the deep scar sustained from the points of a pair of scissors which in his rage he had hurled at her. They had missed her by inches.

In time such incidents had brought to the forefront of her mind the notion that she and Alfredo should separate. How could she continue to live in a situation where her physical safety was at risk? – besides which the atmosphere was not one in which to raise a child. Alfredo, though, she knew, would never agree to a
separation, and she was afraid to raise the matter. She was certain that the only way to leave him would be to go without his knowledge, to creep away at some time when he was unsuspicious and unaware. Even that exercise, though, would prove very difficult. When Alfredo himself was present there was never an opportunity to make such a move, and when he was away from the house there was always Edgardo about the place, with his keen eyes and ears, watching, listening.

And anyway, where could she go? What could she do? She had hardly any money to speak of. All the shopping for the house was done by the cook, with money allocated by Alfredo, under his instructions the house-hold’s budget and books managed by Edgardo. Blanche received an allowance for clothes and personal expenses, but she had soon found that it was impossible for her to save more than a trifling amount without arousing suspicion. She had been putting aside a little money from time to time, whenever she could, saving it in a purse which she kept in a chest in her room, but the growth of the sum was slow.

As she had no financial means of support in the event of an escape, so neither did she have any nearby friends she could call upon for help in her need. From the very start of their marriage Alfredo had discouraged her forming friendships. It was as if he wanted her to be dependent solely upon himself, and resented her finding amusement or companionship from any other source. So it was that any budding friendships with any other young women in the district that might otherwise have blossomed to the benefit of them both had swiftly been stifled.

Blanche’s relationships with all her older friends had suffered in the same way. She had long ago ceased to keep up any correspondence with George Marsh and
Clara; such unpleasant scenes had ensued as a result of her trying to insist on keeping up the friendships that she had deemed it the wiser course to give them up. She had not written to or heard from the Marshes now in over four years.

And with Marianne the situation was almost the same. Since arriving in Sicily she and Marianne had met only three times. With Marianne and Gentry living in Messina, where some of Alfredo’s own business interests were centred, it would have been the easiest thing for Alfredo sometimes to have taken Blanche and Adriana along on his occasional business trips, and so to have allowed the two women to be reunited. It had happened just once, not too long after Adriana’s birth, but never since that time. On that occasion (as they had done several times since) Marianne and Gentry had invited Blanche and Alfredo and Adriana to stay at their hotel, the luxurious Metropole, but Alfredo had declined, instead reserving a suite for them at another hotel. In the event on that occasion it had still proved satisfactory for Blanche, for while Alfredo had gone about his work during those four days she and Marianne had been able to spend many hours together. Alfredo had clearly resented their closeness, however, notwithstanding that Marianne had done her best to show him a warm welcome by inviting the couple to dinner on two occasions during their stay.

It was clear to Blanche that Alfredo had not viewed her reunion with Marianne and Gentry with pleasure – and neither had he enjoyed either of the dinner parties. Afterwards, returning to Palermo, he had made it clear that such an excursion would not take place a second time, though he refused to go into his reasons for taking such a stand. Blanche simply had to be content with his decision.

The two other occasions when Marianne and Blanche had met had been when Gentry had brought Marianne to Palermo (Gentry had business in the city) and they had called at the villa on the Via Catania. As on both occasions they had arrived unexpectedly Alfredo had been unable to prevent the meetings.

‘But Marianne is like my sister, my family,’ Blanche protested to Alfredo on one occasion, to which he angrily retorted: ‘But she is
not
your sister. And
we
are your family, Adriana and I.’

Was it, Blanche asked herself, that he resented any connection she had with her earlier life, her life before her marriage to him? There were such men, men who wanted to pretend that their wives or lovers had known no lives prior to the lives they shared. Or was his jealousy where Marianne was concerned less to do with Marianne and more to do with Gentry? It was possible. Alfredo was jealous of her where
any
man was concerned.

And yet with Gentry there had never been the slightest hint of the closeness that had once existed between them. On the few occasions on which they had met following Blanche’s arrival in Sicily – over those days during her visit to Messina and on the two occasions when he had brought Marianne to the villa on the Via Catania – their behaviour with one another had been the model of propriety. They had never once been alone together, and their conversation had been that of distant friends. In fact, Blanche later said to herself, from Gentry’s behaviour now on the few occasions when they met it was almost impossible to believe that there had ever been anything between them. Then, however, looking at Adriana’s dark hair and the set of her eyes, it would all come back. It had not been a dream.

And something else now. She was aware now that Gentry also knew about Adriana.

Though he must have wondered, Blanche had often told herself. He must, surely, in observing the date of Adriana’s birth, have counted back the weeks, and in doing so he must have seen the significance of the dates.

Blanche’s awareness of
his
awareness had come during the second of the two visits that he and Marianne had made to Palermo, when they had arrived without notice at the villa on the Via Catania. On that latter occasion Alfredo was still absent from the house on a trip to the sulphur mine at Sierradifalco and was not expected back till the evening. Marianne had arrived first at the villa, in a cab, and later during the afternoon Gentry, his business concluded for the day, had also appeared at the door.

On seeing Adriana again Gentry had bent to her, smiling warmly, his hand gentle and light upon her dark hair. Then, conspiratorially, he had whispered to her of a gift, and delving into his pocket had brought out a little necklace made of tiny shells and coloured beads. After Adriana had shown her delight over the gift she had happily allowed him to fasten it around her neck, after which Gentry sat back on his heels and exclaimed on how well the necklace suited her. ‘But you must see,’ he said, and straightening, he lifted her up in his arms and held her up before a glass.

While the little happening took place Blanche and Marianne were sitting over their teacups, Marianne with her head bent as she sewed a button onto her coat, a button which had come off on the journey from Messina. Blanche, however, all observance, had missed nothing. Smiling, watching the little scene with pleasure, her eyes moved from the face of Adriana to that of Gentry as they looked into the glass together, their faces side by side. And then so clearly she saw it, that likeness that was there between them, a likeness about the
eyes, the set of the brow. With the sudden realization – she had known it was there, but had never had it so clearly demonstrated – her eyes flicked from one to the other. And then suddenly she had found Gentry’s eyes looking back into her own, focusing on hers in the glass. And so it was that she knew beyond question that he knew also.

And as she watched his eyes left hers and he swiftly and softly kissed Adriana’s cheek before setting her down on the floor again.

And, of course, nothing was said.

Adriana had turned from the pond and was moving slowly away, her attention taken by the activities of a small group of children who played with a ball. She stood on the sidelines, watching them, one part of her wanting to join in, the other part afraid of them and – with their dirty faces, their ragged clothes – of their mystery.