An Innocent Abroad: A Jazz Age Romance

An Innocent Abroad

by R
omy Sommer

Isobel
lifted her face to the glorious warmth of the sun. It pricked at her eyelids,
impossibly bright after the damp chill of England. She opened her eyes to
colours brighter and more exotic than any she’d ever seen. Pastel-washed houses
clung to precipitous mountain slopes green as emeralds, that dropped into the
azure Tyrrhenian sea. A world away from the grey, sullen seas of her childhood
holidays, this sleepy fishing village seemed as unreal as an Impressionist
painting, a landscape of emotion rather than form.

Positano
slept in the midday heat and she was blissfully alone, with nothing to disturb
her solitude but the shriek of a lone kestrel soaring high above. She sat at
the top of a broad flight of stone stairs overlooking the beach, where fishing
boats, their hulls faded by the sun, lay upended on the dark sand, and revelled
in the sun’s kiss, breathing in the heavy, briny air and the stillness.

Thank
heavens cousin Frances’ errand was taking so long. Isobel needed a respite from
her overwhelming relatives. A week she’d been in Italy, staying with the
American cousins she barely knew, and so far nothing had been as she’d
expected. If Mother had known the sort of company they kept or the freedom the
girls were allowed, Isobel doubted she’d have allowed her precious eldest
daughter to make the trip.

Even
if the Honourable Christopher Barrett was a house guest.

Isobel
smiled. She had no intention of enlightening her mother. New as all these
strange people and their even stranger mannerisms were to her, she was at least
free here from the weight of Mother’s expectations for a few blissful weeks.
Italy was a vast improvement on the damp wilds of Shropshire. Too soon the
summer would be over and her Season debut launched. She sighed.

Distant
voices, carrying across the water, disturbed her reverie. A fishing boat tacked
into the bay, growing from a speck against the bright silver of the waves to a
distinct shape. As her eyes grew accustomed to the glare of sun on sea, she
became aware that she was not alone in watching them.

On
the rough wooden pier stood a man as still and as silent as she. Isobel eyed
him curiously. Dark-haired and dark-skinned, he seemed as exotic as an Arab
from a paperback novel. Like many of the Italian peasants she’d seen, he wore
shabby trousers and a dark blue pullover. Yet as he turned towards her, looking
up to catch her stare, she knew there was something different about him that
set him apart.

Perhaps
it was the lazy grin that dimpled his cheek, or the easy grace with which he raised
a hand in salute to her. He moved with a lightness noticeably absent in the
natives of Campania.

Before
she’d arrived in Naples, she’d had no idea how sheltered her life had been, how
little she’d known of poverty and desperation. In one week she’d seen enough of
both to fill her heart with tears.

She
turned quickly away from the stranger, looking up instead at the village that
sheltered in the cleft of mountain, finding solace in the beauty and
tranquillity of the landscape. Whatever hardships the locals faced, at least
they lived in paradise.

The
majolica-tiled dome of the church glinted in the angling sunlight, rising above
the jumbled buildings that seemed to be squeezed into every available space,
rising in tiers up the steep slopes.

By
the time she looked back, the boat had pulled alongside the narrow jetty and
prepared to dock. The stranger on the pier caught the rope cast to him by the
fishermen on board, and fastened it with the quick skill of years of practice.

Not
wanting to be caught watching again, Isobel raised her face to the sun and
closed her eyes. Behind her eyelids, she pictured Positano as a painting, its
vivid colours captured on canvas, golden sunlight infusing the scene with the
same sensual heat she basked in now.

Moments
later a shadow fell across her. Frances at last.

Except
it wasn’t.
He
stood over her.

Up
close, he was magnificent, with eyes black as midnight, bright and expressive.
But it was his dimpling smile that sent a shaft of unknown sensation shooting
through her.

He
addressed her in barely-accented English. “
Buon giorno
. You are a
tourist?”

Even
as she heard her mother’s reproving voice in her head, she couldn’t resist
responding to that smile. “I’m staying with my cousins at the Villa del Monte.”

“Ah,
the Gallaghers. That villa has an unrivalled view.”

“You
know it?” But of course he did, this was a small community. After three summers
her cousins would be well known here.

“
Si
.
Today you are alone?”

“I’m
here with my cousin Frances.” And where, oh where, was Frances now? Isobel
squirmed, years of training warring with her instinctual feeling that she could
trust this dark stranger. She should not be talking in this easy way to a
common fisherman. Yet there was something in him too that compelled her to
speak the truth. “She’s already been gone longer than she said. She should be
back soon.”

His
generous mouth curved into a smile filled with such warmth and vitality she
felt herself melt. The dimple flickered again.

“I
am Stefano.” He made a small, formal bow, a gallant gesture at odds with his
casual workman’s attire.

“My
name is Isobel Harrington.”

“Isabella.”
He made her name sound like poetry, the kind of poetry that took her breath
away. “While you wait for your cousin, may I invite you to join me at the
taverna for a taste of our local speciality,
limoncello
?”

She
cast a glance over her shoulder at the shuttered taverna before turning back to
him, eyebrow raised. He laughed, a deep sound that sent ripples of pleasure
through her. It was an odd sensation, unlike any she’d experienced before. What
was it about Italy that brought her body to life in the strangest ways?

“I
know the owner. He will open for us.” He held out a hand to her, and she
stiffened, her whole body suddenly taut.

“I
shouldn’t …”

But
again he gave that irresistible smile. “No tourist to this coast should leave
without sampling
limoncello
.”

She
shouldn’t. But why not?

There
was no-one here to see, no-one to report on her behaviour. She was in Italy to
broaden her mind, and
limoncello
was as good a place to start as any.
What harm could come to her in a public piazza within view of the fishermen
unloading their catch onto the pier?

She
picked up the postcards that lay discarded beside her, and slowly, not entirely
reluctantly, held out her other hand to accept his. His fingers were rough
against hers, strong and supple. His hand enveloped hers with unexpected
tenderness.

She’d
never held a man’s hand before, not like this. Dozens of faceless footmen
didn’t count. This man, so warm, so alive, was a different creature altogether.

She
allowed him to pull her to her feet and lead her across the piazza to the
taverna. He didn’t let go of her hand as they walked, nor did she pull away as
she should have. The warmth that radiated through her from his touch was as sensual
as the sunshine had been only moments before.

Stefano
knocked on the door of the taverna, the sound echoing off the neighbouring
buildings. Footsteps sounded within and the door swung open to reveal the
owner, a stout man with a thick mop of dark hair and a scowl that turned to a
smile as he saw Stefano. He broke into voluble Italian that Isobel had no hope
of following.

The
owner seated them at a table on the verandah, beneath a fragrant canopy of
honeysuckle. The
limoncello
was served chilled, in small ceramic cups.

Then
they were left alone.

Isobel’s
chest tightened. Not the tightening of fear at being alone in the presence of a
strange man, but a strange breathy sensation she couldn’t name.

“Is
limoncello
like lemonade?” she asked.

“
Si
.
It is made from lemons.” Stefano’s eyes gleamed wickedly and he grinned as he
watched her take a deep sip. She spluttered as the strong taste burned her
throat.

“This
is alcohol!” she gasped.

“Italian
lemonade with a twist.” Then concerned, “you are not used to alcohol?”

She
wasn’t used to much of anything. Neither a prestigious English boarding school
nor a French finishing school had prepared her for this new world she was uncovering.
But she didn’t want him to know how ignorant she was. She wanted this man to
think well of her. She wanted him to look at her as a woman of eighteen, not as
the silly schoolgirl she felt herself to be. The admission tightened the knot
in her chest.

Tentatively,
she took another sip.

“Not
so bad?” he asked.

“I
like it.”

“Good.
There is much in Italy to like.”

She
smiled. “I love it here.”

“Then
you should find yourself a nice Italian husband and stay.” He was teasing her,
and even though she knew it, something rather like hope flared in her.

She
bit her lip, a sharp reminder of her reality. “That’s not possible.”

“Anything
is possible. If you want it enough.”

She
shook her head. “My parents wouldn’t approve.”

Stefano
leaned forward on the table, resting his chin on his hands as he contemplated
her. She resisted the urge to squirm beneath the intensity of his gaze.

“And
you do everything your parents wish?”

“Of
course. Don’t Italian girls obey their parents?”

He
laughed, the sound like the sunlight on the waves. “Not always. But you are
right, we expect our daughters to behave with modesty and obedience. I thought
that English girls were different. For example, you have no chaperone with
you.”

Her
back stiffened. Being unchaperoned was a new sensation, and suddenly the
freedom she’d relished a half hour ago loomed terrifying. Was this why he was
being so friendly – he thought English girls were
easy
? Just because
Frances had abandoned her did not mean he could assume she was wanton. And
where was Frances anyway?

She
set her glass down on the table, prepared to do battle to defend her reputation.
But Stefano only leaned back in his chair and smiled disarmingly. “I have
offended you. I apologise. I did not mean to suggest that English girls do not
behave with propriety. Only that they have more freedom than Italian girls.”

She
sighed, letting go of the momentary anger. The anger wasn’t for him, anyway,
but for all the strictures that had kept her from experiencing life for so
long. “You are right. In England young women have more freedom than ever
before. But that doesn’t mean we can do as we please. Most of us still choose
to fulfil our family’s expectations.”

“What
does your family expect of you?” His soft voice embraced her, as intimate as
the questions he asked.

She
should end this now. This was not a conversation to have with a stranger. A man
in rough clothing with eyes as deep as night.

Yet
something inside her wanted to answer him, and to answer honestly. Maybe it was
those penetrating eyes. Maybe it was exactly because he was a stranger, a man
whose judgment didn’t matter. Shouldn’t matter.

She
took another sip of the golden liquid, to brace herself. “My mother would like
me to marry a man from a good family and with a good fortune.” Preferably a man
with a pedigree dating back to the Conquest, as Mother herself had done.

“And
your father?”

“Father
would like me to be happy. But he has little say in these matters. Mother
always gets what she wants.” And right now what she wanted was Christopher
Barrett, heir to a Viscountcy and sufficiently wealthy to meet Mother’s other
requirement.

“What
do
you
want?”

Isobel
sipped at the
limoncello
. Slumberous warmth radiated through her limbs.
What did she want? She didn’t know.

The
only thing she was sure of was that, awkward though her stay with the
Gallaghers had been, she was not yet ready to return to England. Her gut
wrenched at the thought. Her return would herald her social debut. The expense
of it, the new clothes, the house in London that had to be hired. And Mother’s
constant reminders that it was her responsibility to repay the debt by marrying
well. And she hadn’t even had the chance yet to discover what
she
wanted. Who she was.

She
smiled at Stefano. “I’ll let you know when I find out.”

He
returned her smile with one so dazzling her limbs turned to jelly. Though that
might also have been the effect of the
limoncello
.

Then
he downed his drink and rose. “I must leave you. Please feel free to wait here
for your cousin and enjoy the beautiful day.”

She
suppressed a stab of disappointment.