The trattoria was about ten minutes’ walk away, on a market square. Unlike the residential square on top of the hill, this piazza bustled with activity. The trattoria’s proprietor greeted Miss Walker with enthusiastic recognition and hand-kissing, then seated them at an outdoor table.
After the proprietor had bustled off, Miss Walker said, “I trust you don’t mind alfresco dining? Raffaello wants everyone to see that his establishment is frequented by discriminating foreigners. Also, while the day is rather cool by local standards, he assumes that it will seem warm to English folk.”
“A correct assumption,” Randolph agreed. “It feels like a fine summer day in Scotland.”
Miss Walker chuckled. Then the proprietor returned with two goblets and a carafe of red table wine. After pouring wine for both of them, he rattled off a spate of suggestions. Miss Walker responded in kind, with vivid hand gestures, before turning to her companion. “How adventurous are you feeling, Mr. Lennox?”
Randolph hesitated. He'd never been the least adventurous, particularly where his stomach was concerned, but when in Naples ... “I throw myself on your mercy. I'll attempt anything that won't try to eat me first.”
Eyes twinkling, she gave an order to the proprietor, who bowed and left. “Nothing so fearsome. What I ordered is a simple Neapolitan dish. Peasant food, but tasty.”
For a few minutes they sipped their wine in silence. As he swallowed a mouthful, Randolph gazed over the piazza, enjoying the shifting throngs of people. Housewives, cassock-clad priests, costermongers, and workmen, all moved to a background of joyously conflicting street musicians. This was what he had come to Naples for: sunshine, exotic sights, enjoyable company.
His gaze drifted to Miss Walker, who was looking pensively across the square. Her appearance was unremarkable but pleasant, with nut-brown hair, a faint gold dusting of freckles, and spectacles that did not manage to conceal fine hazel eyes. She looked like the sort of woman who should be raising children and running a vicarage. She would counsel the villagers, help her husband with his sermons, and all would agree that the vicar was fortunate to have such a capable helpmeet.
What had brought her so far from the English countryside? “I gather that you have lived in Italy for some time, Miss Walker.”
She glanced at him. Very fine hazel eyes. “Over six years now. At first I lived in this area, but for the last two years I was entirely in Rome, teaching—or rather, standing guard over—the young lady whom I mentioned earlier.”
“How did you come to Italy in the first place?” he asked. “That is, if you don’t mind my asking.”
“After my parents died, there was no reason to stay in England, so I jumped at the chance to become governess to a British diplomatic family that was coming to Italy. When they returned home, I decided to stay on. I am quite valuable here, you see. Aristocratic Italian families like having English governesses, both as a mark of consequence and in the hopes that cold English temperaments will act favorably on hot-blooded daughters.”
“Do you never miss England?”
Her gaze slid away from his. “A little,” she admitted softly, taking off her spectacles and polishing them, a convenient excuse for looking down. “A sad consequence of travel is that the more one sees of the world, the more impossible it is to be satisfied with any one location. Sometimes— especially in the spring and summer—I long for England. Yet, if I were there, I should pine for Italy. Here at least I command a better salary than at home, and there is more sunshine.” Then, almost inaudibly, she added, “And fewer memories.”
It was a motive Randolph could understand. To change the subject, he said, “I envy your command of the language. I wish I had studied Italian, for I find it very strange to be unable to communicate. When someone addresses me, I find myself starting to reply in French, which I do know.”
Miss Walker replaced her spectacles and looked up, collected again. “The Italian taught in England would have been of limited value in Naples. Standard Italian is really the Tuscan dialect, for that was used by Dante and many of the other great writers. I knew Tuscan when I came here, but learning to communicate in Naples was almost like learning a new tongue.”
“Not just tongue. Also arms, torso, and facial expressions.”
“Very true. One cannot stand still and speak properly. Italians are so expressive, so emotional.” Absently she tucked an unruly brown curl behind her ear. “I suppose that's one reason why Italy fascinates the English.”
“Fascinates, yet repels,” Randolph said slowly, thinking of the flagellants in the religious procession. “I’ve seen more visible emotion in Naples than I have in a lifetime in England. Part of me envies such freedom of expression, but I would probably die on the rack before emulating it.”
She regarded him gravely. “Is it that you could not, or would not, act in such a way?”
“Could not.” Wryly Randolph thought that it was typical of his English reserve to find himself embarrassed at what he was revealing.
Luckily a waiter appeared and set plates in front of each of them. He studied the dish, which was some kind of salad consisting of vegetables, olives, and less definable substances. “This is the local specialty you warned me of?”
“No, this is antipasto, a first course consisting of bits of whatever is available. Antipasti are served throughout Italy.”
The salad was lightly dressed with olive oil, herbs, and vinegar. After finishing, Randolph gave a happy sigh. “This is the best thing I’ve eaten since I arrived.”
“Either you have been most unfortunate, or you are new to Naples.” She neatly speared the last bite of her own salad. “The Italians, like the French, take food very seriously indeed. The main course will not appear for some time, for our hosts don't believe in rushing anything as important as a meal.”
“I’ve only been here for four days,” he explained. “I came on impulse, looking for some sunshine for Christmas, and felt sadly betrayed to arrive in Italy and find rain.” As the plates were cleared away, his eye fell on her portfolio, which was peeping from the canvas bag. “Are your drawings for public view, or do you prefer to keep them for yourself?”
She eyed him doubtfully. “They are not private, but neither are they very interesting.”
“If they are of Naples, I’m sure I will enjoy them.”
“Very well.” She pulled the portfolio out and handed it to him. “But remember, you have been warned.”
Randolph opened the portfolio. The not-quite-finished drawing on top was the one she had been working on when the altercation broke out. Most of the sketch was devoted to a hazy, atmospheric rendering of the bay and the volcano beyond—how did she achieve such an effect with only pencil?—but what made it unusual was the skinny cat in the right foreground. The beast sat on the wall, sinuous tail curling down the weathered stone, its feral gaze fixed on the city below.
