Free Tourmaline by Joanna Scott

private trouble, though when Claire extended her hand Adriana shook it with a confident, delicate firmness.
    “Narrrrrrrdi,” Murray echoed. “Adriana Narrrrrrrrrrdi, the family who owns the land adjacent to Lorenzo’s property, if I’m not mistaken….”
    “That’s right.”
    “Signorina, it’s a pleasure to welcome you to our house, though you’ll have to forgive me for speaking in English. I’m an idiot when it comes to languages…. Not like Francis, eh Francis? Francis, I almost forgot! Let me introduce you to Claire, my wife. Claire, this is Francis. He’s the one I was telling you about, the historian. He knows more about this island than most people know about themselves, though you could say the comparison necessarily favors Francis, eh Francis? Please, let’s sit down, relax, make yourselves at home while I get the drinks.”
    Adriana Nardi sat gingerly on the edge of her chair, pressed her knees together beneath the cloth of her dress — a plain, V-necked solid navy cotton dress. She played with the braided fringe of her white shawl as she listened to Francis Cape, who launched into an account of the Nardi family — one of the oldest and most notable families on the island, with ancestors who had dined with Napoleon and at one point had owned all of Monte Calamita.
    Murray brought out the pitcher, stirring it with a wooden spoon as he explained that he’d picked up the Bombay gin for a song in Genoa. Had Adriana ever been to Genoa? As she nodded Murray rattled, “Of course you’ve been to Genoa. Genova, rather. Narrrrdi. More proof that I’m inept with languages. There’s not a foreign name I don’t mangle.”
    Murray poured four cocktails, but Claire noticed that the girl didn’t drink hers after the first difficult sip. Nor did she speak much through the evening. Nor did anyone explain what she was doing there. Was she Francis’s mistress? Was Francis taking care of her for some reason? Francis Cape spoke more about the Nardis, moving into a general account of the island’s history. Murray joined in to talk about the Second World War and to explain how he’d come to Elba in the summer of 1944 and stayed for a month. “Do you remember the Americans, Miss Nardi? You would have been a child then. The Elban children used to watch us when we played football on the beach. A blissful month we spent in the middle of an ugly war, playing football on the beach at Le Ghiaie.”
    No, Adriana hadn’t watched the Americans playing football, but yes, she remembered the war. Her school had been destroyed when the Germans bombed Portoferraio — a fact she stated with a simplicity that evoked a long, awkward minute of silence.
    Francis finally broke the silence with a comment about the island’s importance in history as a strategic location, “an island easily ignored until there’s a conflict, and then everyone wants to claim Elba as his own. This has been true since the Etruscans began mining Elban ore. Isn’t this true, Adriana?”
    What is true, Adriana?
Claire wondered to herself.
    “It is true,” she said demurely.
    “You speak wonderful English,” Murray said with an admiration Claire considered excessive, given how little the girl had spoken. “Your English is better than mine,” he continued. “You could teach
me
some English. Maybe some Italian, too. That’s if it’s possible for an old dog to learn new tricks! I doubt it. What do you think, Claire? Is there any hope for me?”
    Claire didn’t bother answering, because right then Lidia came to the doorway, her presence announcing that supper was ready and the table set for four, though no one had warned her there would be visitors. Claire took Francis’s arm and led the way into the dining room. Murray escorted Adriana with his characteristic gentility, which only ever seemed comical, an effect increased when Murray stepped on one of Harry’s toy race cars and his leg swooped forward. He would have fallen if Adriana hadn’t