The Scarlet Thread by Evelyn Anthony

darling. I want you to make love to me.”
    He didn’t need to undress her, to teach her anything. She stripped off her clothes and stood white and naked before him. In the blaze of passion that engulfed him, she became another woman in his arms, another voice that cried out under him, and the name escaped him without his knowledge. “Angelina.” The silk-sheeted bed felt like the dusty earth of Sicily, and the sun of long ago burned his back.
    â€œAngelina.” She froze as he lay beside her afterward. He stroked her breasts and murmured to her in Italian, but she couldn’t move or answer. It had been painful, but she rejoiced when he hurt her because it fused them together. It was a fierce and primitive satisfaction, as much emotional as physical, when he spent himself inside her. And then she heard another name, uttered twice, at the moment of fulfillment.
    Steven was asleep, one arm anchoring her to the bed. She lifted it and slid away. The salt taste of tears was in her mouth. She was naked and cold, with sweat drying on her body and a soreness from the ruptured hymen. There was a little blood, as proof of her purity. She should have been so proud of that. She pulled the unworn nightdress over her head and got back into bed. Unhappiness welled up in her, until she rolled away to the very edge and sobbed into the pillow.
    When he woke in the morning and drew her toward him to make love again, she stiffened and drew back.
    â€œI hurt you, carissima ,” he whispered. “Forgive me. It’ll be better for you this time. Come here to me.”
    He tried to take the rigid body in his arms, to soothe and stroke her into responsiveness. She turned her pale face up to him. There were great dark circles under her eyes.
    â€œTell me about Angelina,” she said. “You called her name last night. Tell me about her.”
    I owe it to her , Steven convinced himself. I’ve hurt and humiliated her, and I’ve got to put it right between us. She’s my wife now. I’ll make her understand .
    He took her out onto the terrace in the early-morning sunshine and held her hand while he spoke of what had happened in Sicily seven years before. Clara listened, watching his face, judging every intonation in his voice. She saw the pain in his eyes as he relived the nightmare of the devastated hospital. When he spoke of finding the watch stained with her blood, he looked away.
    â€œYou married her,” Clara said. “You married her in the Church.”
    â€œShe was pregnant with my child,” he repeated. “What else could I do?”
    â€œNobody told my father about this,” she said. “That wasn’t very honorable.”
    â€œNobody knew,” Steven protested. “You are the only person in the world I’ve told about it. They’re dead, and it’s over. I love you, Clara. I don’t know how it happened last night, but you’ve got to forget it.”
    â€œYou didn’t have to marry her.” She spoke quite coldly now. “She wasn’t Sicilian. How did you know the child was yours? How many other men did she fuck besides you?”
    The crudity astonished him. He felt a sudden flare of anger. “Don’t ever use that kind of word again, Clara. And don’t talk about her that way. I’ve told you, she’s dead and you don’t need to be jealous. Now get changed and we’ll go for a swim.”
    â€œWhat did she look like?”
    He felt the anger come again at her persistence. He wanted to hurt her for what she’d said about Angela and the child. “Not like you. Blond and blue-eyed. Very pretty.”
    He saw her flinch. I love her , he said to himself, but she’s got to learn not to go too far with me . “I said we’d swim.” He turned to go inside. “I told you to get changed.”
    Women didn’t disobey their menfolk. If it wasn’t a father, it was a brother and then a