Realizing that he was hungry, he stopped at a small cafe. The proprietor spoke enough French to take an order but not enough to carry on a conversation, leaving Randolph free to continue his thoughts over wine andpollo alla cacciatora.
He was not in love with Elizabeth Walker, nor was he coxcomb enough to think that she loved him. No matter. He was not convinced that love was an asset to a marriage.
What mattered was friendship, and in a short time they had become good friends. He knew that most people would think he was a fool to be considering marriage to a woman he had known only a week, but they'd spent a great deal of time together. Long enough that he felt he knew her better than either of the other women who had been important to him.
He thought the chances of her accepting him were excellent. She seemed to enjoy his company, he was presentable, and his wealth would allow her the time and money to paint. Yes, a marriage between them could work out very well.
They were both old enough to know their own minds. If she was willing to marry him, there would be no reason for a long engagement.
Now he must find the courage to ask her.
The morning air was cold but the sky was glass clear; December 24 promised to be the warmest day since Randolph had arrived in Naples. His driver and carriage showed up scarcely a quarter hour late, which was stunning punctuality by Neapolitan standards. Vanni was a cheerful fellow with a splendid baritone and villainous shaggy mustaches. His English was no better than Randolph’s Neapolitan, but over the last several days he had learned to drive directly to Elizabeth Walker’s pensione.
Elizabeth was ready when the carriage arrived, looking quietly lovely in a dark red gown suitable for the holiday season. Punctuality was no surprise in her case. It was one of the things Randolph liked about her.
“Good morning,” she said cheerfully. “Are you game for a drive in the country? My friend Sofia has a mission for us. It's the end of the olive harvest and she has asked that we collect her year’s supply of fresh oil. A respectable cook insists on knowing where her olive oil comes from, and Sofia swears that her cousin presses the best oil in Campania.”
“Which means it’s the best in the world?” he asked with a smile.
“You are beginning to understand the Neapolitan temperament, Lord Randolph.” Elizabeth lifted a lavishly packed basket. “As reward for our efforts, Sofia has packed a most sumptuous picnic for us.”
He helped her into the carriage, then he and Vanni stowed the basket of food and a large number of empty stone jugs behind the passenger seat. After a staccato exchange with Elizabeth, Vanni turned the vehicle and began threading his way through the crowded streets.
Leaving the city, they headed south to the farmlands near Vesuvius. To Randolph it seemed odd that lifeless volcanic ash eventually became rich soil, but fertile fields confirmed the fact.
The ride through the hills was spectacularly lovely. Having someone to share the sights made them lovelier yet. After two hours of driving they reached their destination, an ancient rambling farmhouse surrounded by silvery olive trees.
The two Britons were welcomed joyfully and given a tour from the vineyards to the hand-operated olive press. As a farmer himself, Randolph enjoyed it thoroughly. He and Sofia’s cousin exchanged farmer comments through Elizabeth.
After Sofia’s jars were filled, Randolph and Elizabeth were offered oven-warm bread dipped in fresh-squeezed olive oil. Randolph accepted his in the spirit of being a good guest. His first bite showed him that he had been honored with a matchless delicacy, the local equivalent of the first strawberries of spring. When he finished the first piece, he accepted a second, then a third, to the unconcealed satisfaction of his hosts.
As Elizabeth took a proper leave, a lengthy business, Randolph wondered how many members of the local English colony had experienced such simple pleasures. Probably very few.
It was impossible to imagine the likes of Mrs. Bertram enjoying “unrefined” rural life. If not for Elizabeth, he would have seen only the usual sights, met only socially prominent Neapolitans, and never known what he was missing.
Bread and oil take the edge from an appetite. After they left the farm, they decided to delay their midday meal and visit Balzano, a nearby hilltop town with a famous church.
The inside of the large church was dim after the bright sunshine. Randolph paused in the door while his eyes adjusted. Vaguely aware that several people stood in front of the altar, he inhaled the scents of wax and incense.
“Look,” Elizabeth murmured, “they’ve erected thepresepio.”
He followed her down the aisle and discovered that the figures he’d thought were local worshipers were wooden statues, life-size, lovingly painted, and very old. The grouping formed a Nativity scene featuring Mary, Joseph, two shepherds, the Three Kings, and a family of sheep.
Softly his companion explained, “You see how the manger is empty? That is because the Child has not yet been born. During the service tonight, a real infant will be placed in the manger. They say it was St. Francis of Assisi who invented the presepio. He enacted it with a real mother and father and their babe to remind people that Christmas was a season for holy celebration rather than profane pleasures.”
“An effective demonstration of the fact that the origin of the word ‘holiday’ is ‘holy day,’ “ Randolph agreed. “Tonight by candlelight it will seem very real.”
After viewing the rest of the church, they decided to stroll through the narrow medieval streets before leaving the town. As they neared the bustling market square, they were intercepted by an enterprising peddler who pulled a handful of small figurines from his basket and pressed them on Elizabeth with a torrent of enthusiastic words.
“These arepastori, figures for a Nativity scene.” Elizabeth handed one to Randolph. “You might find them interesting. They are made of lapis solaris.”
He accepted the figurine, seeing only a rather crudely formed Madonna. “Stone of the sun?”
She nodded. “The material holds light and will glow in the dark for hours. It was invented by an alchemist who was searching for the philosopher’s stone. He never found that, but lapis solaris became very popular for rosaries and crucifixes and the like.”
Randolph regarded the small figure thoughtfully. “I’m not sure if the basic idea is sublime or ridiculous.”
“Both.” Elizabeth’s lovely hazel eyes danced. “Because he can see that we areinglesiof rare discernment, he will offer us a completepresepioof lapis solaris for a price so low that it will shame him before all of Balzano if we tell anyone.”
