There are a lot of people I wish to thank: Tim Kelly, my dear Irish friend, who helped me with my research for the trilogy, has once again been invaluable. We have had a lot of fun with this book and I thank him so much for his time and enthusiasm. Robert and Nancy Phifer from Boston have also been wonderful. We’ve known each other a very long time, having met when I was on book tour in the USA eons ago. I’m always grateful for their readiness to help and the swiftness of their email replies, and I treasure their friendship.
A heartfelt thank you to my dynamic friend and agent, Sheila Crowley, and her brilliant team at Curtis Brown: Abbie Greaves, Alice Lutyens, Luke Speed, Enrichetta Frezzato, Katie McGowan, Claire Nozieres and Callum Mollison.
Thank you to my publisher, Simon & Schuster, who have published me for so long they are like family now: Ian Chapman, Suzanne Baboneau and their excellent team: Gill Richardson, Dawn Burnett, Rich Vliestra, Laura Hough, Dominic Brendon, Sian Wilson, Rebecca Farrell and Sara-Jade Virtue.
I also want to thank my parents Charlie and Patty Palmer-Tomkinson, my mother-in-law April Sebag-Montefiore, my husband Sebag and our children, Lily and Sasha.
Don’t forget to read the breathtaking book by bestselling author, Santa Montefiore . . .
The
TEMPTATION
of
GRACIE
England, March 2010
The muffle of cloud that had settled over Badley Compton Harbour was so dense that the little fishing boats tethered to buoys in the middle of the bay had completely vanished. So too had the pretty white cottages which were stacked in rows up the hillside and the crown of green at the top where Ruby Red cows grazed on sweet grass and clover, and small birds played about the hedgerows. It was all gone now, as if it had never been.
Gracie Burton sat at the mirror of the salon, her short hair wrapped in tin foil, her diminutive body draped in a black gown, and gazed at the fog through the big glass window. She swept her eyes over the shimmering pavements and glistening stone wall to where one would normally see the sea, then turned back to the photograph in the magazine on her lap where a Tuscan castle glowed like amber beneath a bright Italian sun. She was seized by a deep and urgent craving. She had read the article several times already, but she read it again now, and it was as if she were growing a small sun inside her that was all her own.
Set high on top of the undulating Tuscan hills, with an uninterrupted view of the breathtaking Italian countryside all the way to the sea, Castello Montefosco is a rare jewel. Built by the Montefosco family in the twelfth century it can boast a long list of prestigious guests including Leonardo da Vinci and various popes. The widowed Count Tancredi Bassanelli, whose mother was a Montefosco, has now opened the doors of his beautiful home to paying guests, who will have the privilege of learning how to cook authentic Italian food under the expert eye of his octogenarian cook, Mamma Bernadetta. Don’t expect to see much of the count, he is a private man, but you will enjoy the outrageous beauty of the gardens and terraces, the magnificence of his ancestral home full of treasures and the cookery lessons with the eccentric and talented Mamma Bernadetta.
Gracie let her eyes linger on the photograph. The castle was everything an Italian castello should be: harmoniously proportioned with a crenulated roof, tall shuttered windows set beneath half-moon pediments, sandstone faded to a pale grey-yellow by centuries of burning summer sun and bitter winter winds. It dominated the crest of the hill like a grand old king, rising majestically out of the cluster of medieval houses that had grown up around it in a forest of stone. Gracie closed her eyes and inhaled. She could already smell the wild thyme and rosemary, the honeysuckle and jasmine, the luxurious gardenia, dewy grass and aromatic pine. She could hear the gentle chirruping of crickets and see the velvet sky twinkling with a thousand stars like a vast canopy of diamonds spread out over the Tuscan hills. Her chest flooded with longing, a longing that she hadn’t felt in years, deep in her heart. It frightened her, this feeling, because she had forgotten what to do with it. She had forgotten what it felt like to be young, to be in love, to be reckless, adventurous and brave. She had forgotten how to live. She had stuffed herself into a shell and remained there, hidden and safe, for decades. Now this photograph had forced her out like a cork from a bottle and all the fizz was coming with it and she didn’t know what to do, except to go to Tuscany, as soon as possible.
She looked at her reflection and the fizz died away a little. She was sixty-eight, and although relatively well-preserved, she was still old. Where had the years gone? she asked herself. Not that she had ever been beautiful, so mourning the loss of her looks was never going to be her misfortune. However, there is a loveliness about a young woman simply because she is young, and that quality in Gracie had withered a long time ago.
She ran a rough hand down her cheek. Time had sucked the juice out of her skin but the elements had also played a part during her daily dog walks up and down the beach in all weathers. Her nose, she noticed, hadn’t changed. It still dominated her face with its aquiline curve, giving her the look of a bird, an old bird now, a strange bird then, never a beautiful bird. Her eyes had always been special, though. Everyone used to say so and she had clung to that compliment when as a girl she had yearned to be pretty. They were large and grey-green, the irises encircled by a darker shade of grey, which had given her a feral look that people had once found compelling. Her eyes were less noticeable now, she thought, on account of her wrinkled face. Time had stolen the one thing that had set her apart. She hadn’t cared how she looked since she was a young woman, but she cared now, suddenly, very much.
‘You all right, dear?’ said Judy, who cut her hair and gave it a colour rinse every now and then. Young and fashionable, Judy had a pierced nose, a tattoo and a ring on every vividly manicured finger. ‘Won’t be long,’ she added. ‘Would you like another cup of tea?’
‘Thank you,’ Gracie replied, still gazing at her reflection. She feared she’d look a hundred if she didn’t tint her hair brown. She glanced down at her hands, the rough hands of a potter and gardener; the coarse hands of a woman who had never bothered with creams or manicures. The article drew her gaze again and she stared at it and allowed it to swallow her whole.
‘Oh, that looks lovely,’ said Judy, returning a few moments later and putting the mug of tea on the little shelf in front of the mirror. ‘Where is it? Spain?’
‘Italy,’ said Gracie.
‘Lovely,’ the girl repeated.
Gracie sighed with longing. ‘Yes, it is. Would you mind if I borrowed the magazine?’ she asked.
‘You can take it. It’s out of date now anyway. I think it’s the February issue.’ Judy knew that Mrs Burton never went anywhere and she gave her a sympathetic smile. ‘Doesn’t cost anything to dream, does it, dear?’ she said.
Gracie returned home to her small whitewashed cottage that looked out over the harbour. The two rescue mongrels she had bought after her husband died eight years before greeted her enthusiastically. ‘You’ll be wanting a walk, I suspect,’ she said, putting the magazine on the hall table and bending down to give them a pat. She changed into boots and squashed her freshly coiffed hair beneath a woolly hat. A moment later she was making her way down the foggy road in the direction of the beach, the two dogs trotting excitedly beside her.
Gracie Burton had lived in Badley Compton for just over forty years. Ted, her late husband, had taken her to the Lake District for the occasional holiday, but like her he had preferred to remain at home. They hadn’t had much money, but even if they had, they wouldn’t have indulged in extravagant cruises or expensive trips abroad. Ted, who had been twenty years older than Gracie and a freelance journalist by trade, had liked his golf, his evenings in the pub and his books. Gracie liked books too. She travelled the world vicariously through the pages of the stories she read, but until now she hadn’t been inspired to go anywhere. As she strode down the pavement she smiled, a nervous and excited smile, for she had decided, quite spontaneously and ex
tremely uncharacteristically, that she was going to go to Italy. For a woman as cautious and unadventurous as Gracie Burton, this decision was extraordinary.
Gracie was by nature a solitary woman. She didn’t crave company but she knew that if she allowed herself to withdraw completely from the community she might disappear altogether, and Ted had made her promise, on his deathbed, that she would make an effort to reach out to people. Consequently, she had allowed herself to be drawn into the Badley Compton Ladies’ Book Club rather like a small stone that gets carried downriver by much bigger ones. It had started as a book club, but evolved into an anything-we-can-do-to-be-busy club, and was organised by the self-proclaimed queen of Badley Compton, Flappy Scott-Booth, whose husband was very rich, and attended by a flurry of four eager women, who, like attentive ladies-in-waiting, agreed with everything their queen said. Gracie, the fifth and lowest in the pecking order, found herself doing all the menial tasks in the arrangement of charity events, bridge nights, coffee mornings, the annual town fête as well as book club lunches and other small get-togethers. She wondered, while her mind drifted, how on earth she had allowed herself to be so zealously gathered up and taken for granted. But she didn’t complain. She was patient and accepting, working quietly and diligently while the limelight shone on the other more enthusiastic ladies. Gracie relished her dog walking, because, for those precious hours alone on the beach, she was entirely in her own company.
This sudden notion of going to Italy had only just seeded itself in Gracie’s mind when she casually mentioned it to Harry Pratt, who liked to sit on the bench near the bus stop and watch the coming and going of boats in the harbour. She came across him on her way back from her walk and asked if he was all right. After all, there was nothing to see but cloud. He enjoyed the tranquillity of it, he replied, for he was reminded of his flying days when he had been in the RAF during the war. He’d often flown into thick fog over Dover, he explained. Gracie was so excited at the thought of the adventure ahead that she told him. Harry Pratt stared at her in astonishment, for not only did Gracie rarely talk about herself, but she barely ever left Badley Compton. She was as much a feature of the town as the bench he was sitting on. ‘Good Lord,’ Harry exclaimed, bright blue eyes gleaming. ‘What the devil do you want to go to Italy for?’
‘I’m going to learn to cook Italian food.’ Gracie beamed such a wide smile that Harry wondered whether she was on something. It made her look like a young girl and Harry blinked in wonder at the sudden transformation.
‘And you have to go all the way to Italy for that, do you?’ he asked.
‘That’s the fun of it,’ she replied, before walking off with an unusual bounce in her step.
Harry Pratt had to share the news and share it at once. No sooner had Gracie disappeared down the road than the old man hurried into Café Délice opposite the bus stop, which was always full of people he knew. He pushed open the door and was greeted by a noseful of warm, sugar-scented air and a number of expectant faces looking up from their coffee and croissants. Big Mary Timpson was behind the counter hovering over the feast of sticky buns, pastries and gateaux displayed enticingly behind glass. ‘Good afternoon, Harry,’ she said, and her Devon drawl curled softly around her words like icing around a cake. Fat and cheerful with plump, rosy cheeks, a ponytail of platinum-blonde hair and a perky candy-cane-striped apron stretching over her voluminous bosom, Big Mary Timpson had time to talk to everyone, and time to listen too. Since she had opened fifteen years before, Café Délice had been the hub of town gossip.
Harry Pratt took off his cap and ran a rough hand through thinning grey hair. He swept his twinkling eyes over the faces and was spoilt for choice. He knew every single one. ‘Double espresso with whipped cream for you, Harry?’ Big Mary asked, taking down a pink cup and saucer from the shelf behind her.
‘And a slice of apple tart,’ he added and pulled out a stool. He sat between two small tables, not wanting to commit to either one, and decided to share his news with the entire café. ‘Did you know that Gracie is going to Italy?’ he said. He directed his question at Big Mary, but his gaze darted from face to face, delighting in their surprise.
‘Gracie? Gracie Burton? Our Gracie? What do you mean, going to Italy?’ Big Mary gasped, forgetting about the coffee and putting her hands on her wide hips. ‘Really going to Italy?’
‘She’s going to learn to cook Italian food,’ Harry announced gleefully.
‘Why?’ Big Mary asked after a long pause.
Harry grinned raffishly. ‘For fun,’ he said and he didn’t elaborate, not only because he didn’t have many more details to share, but because the idea of Gracie Burton going to Italy for fun was so completely extraordinary, unbelievable even, that Harry wanted to savour it – as well as the effect it was having on everyone in the café.
It was exactly five minutes before the news leaked further. John Hitchens, who had been in the café having tea with his son and granddaughter, told his friend Pete Murray, who was on his way to the newsagent’s, who in turn shared the gossip with Jagadeesh behind the counter as he paid for cigarettes and a National Lottery ticket. When John arrived home he informed his wife, Mabel, who hurried to the telephone to tell Flappy, hoping that no one had got to her first. Flappy liked to be in the know about everything and Mabel liked to be in Flappy’s good books. It would be a mutually beneficial telephone call, she thought excitedly. ‘Please, please, please . . .’ she mumbled to herself as she clamped the telephone to her ear and waited for Flappy to pick up. A good seven rings later – Flappy always answered after seven to give the impression that she was busy – the queen of Badley Compton’s pompous voice resonated down the line.
‘Darnley Manor, Mrs Scott-Booth speaking.’
‘Flappy, it’s me, Mabel. I have news,’ Mabel hissed urgently.
‘Do tell,’ said Flappy in a tone that suggested she was interested but not too eager.
‘Gracie’s going to Italy,’ Mabel blurted breathlessly. Then she waited for the shriek of delight, followed by, ‘Goodness, Mabel, who told you?’ or, ‘How good of you, Mabel, to let me know.’
Instead there was a long pause. Flappy inhaled through her nostrils to control her surprise. How could Gracie be going to Italy and she not know about it? Gracie was the only ‘doer’ in the group, if she went away there’d be no one to do all the tedious organising of Flappy’s many events. Flappy was so affronted she could barely speak, but speak she did because she was a master at keeping up appearances. ‘Yes, I know, isn’t it extraordinary!’ she said at last in a tight voice.
Mabel was deflated. ‘You know already?’ she asked, put out.
‘But of course I know, my dear. I’m always the first to know everything in this town.’
Mabel rallied a little at the prospect of further details. ‘Then you’ll know more than me,’ she said. ‘When is she going?’
There was another pause, then Flappy said, ‘How about you tell me what you’ve heard and I’ll fill in any gaps.’ Mabel was too admiring of Flappy to notice the flaw in that suggestion and hastened to tell her what John had heard in the café. She waited keenly for something more from Flappy, but Flappy was not forthcoming.
‘We must hear it from the horse’s mouth,’ Flappy declared, her mind whirring with ideas. Gracie was notoriously secretive, but if she had told Harry Pratt of her plan then she wasn’t intending to keep it secret. Harry was famously loose-tongued. ‘I will give an impromptu soirée tonight,’ she announced impulsively. ‘Kenneth is away and I have the house to myself. Yes, I’ll summon the ladies and cook a splendid dinner.’
‘What will the soirée be for?’ Mabel asked eagerly, because she loved an occasion and Flappy’s soirées were always an occasion. The last one had been in celebration of the money they had managed to raise to repair the church roof and Flappy had hired a string quartet from Exeter to play especially for them. But there wasn’t enough time to put on that level of entertainment tonight. Flappy went silent for a moment as he
r busy mind made space for a new idea.
‘But for Gracie, of course. If she’s told Harry Pratt, she’ll know the whole town will have heard by now. We’ll have pasta and Prosecco and parlare Italiano . . .’ Flappy sighed contentedly. ‘Yes, it will be fun to parlare the bella lingua. After all, I’ve spent so many holidays in Firenze, Roma and La Costa Amalfitana, Italiano is second nature to me.’
Mabel wasn’t in the least surprised that Flappy was fluent in Italian. She always said a very hearty ‘bonjour’ to the French teacher who taught at the primary school and liked Big Mary’s cakes, and just from the way Flappy said ‘bonjour’ Mabel could tell that she was fluent in French too. There is no end to Flappy’s talents, Mabel thought admiringly.
‘Be a dear and summon the ladies, Mabel,’ Flappy commanded. ‘I will call Gracie myself.’ She hung up and hastened across the hall to the library to find the Italian dictionary so that she could flash a few well-chosen phrases at the dinner table.
Gracie was sitting in an armchair beside the fire, drinking a cup of tea and gazing longingly at the photograph of the castle, when the telephone rang. She wrenched her thoughts away from the Tuscan countryside and lifted the receiver. ‘Hello?’ she said.
‘Good, you’re home,’ said Flappy officiously.
‘Flappy!’ Gracie exclaimed and put down her mug.
‘Now, I know it’s short notice, but your presence is required at Darnley this evening.’
The Secret Hours Page 45