Franco, the present Count, lay still as his life slipped away. Vittorio knew that his father’s mind had often been confused recently. And surely this was merely another example. Yet there was a desperation in the dying man’s manner that warned him of something different; something fearful.
‘Don’t worry about it. Papà,’ Vittorio urged, sitting by the bed again. ‘It’s all in the past.’
‘It will never be in the past until it’s put right,’ the Count murmured. ‘We were friends. We’d met here, in Italy, when he came on holiday. We became friends, and when I went to England a few weeks later I visited him. He was younger than me, and that made him fun to be with. We enjoyed a good time, going out for the evening, having a drink, charming women. And we placed a bet. It was just innocent fun—until his gamble paid off! He didn’t know. He was too woozy with drink by then. So I cashed in his winnings, then supported him home and put him to bed.’
‘What did you do then?’ Vittorio asked quietly.
‘I’d had the bank draft made out in my name. I did intend to cash it, and pass the money over to George once he was sober, but I fled before he could wake up.’
‘And he never suspected?’
‘How could he? I never told him about winning. The next day I cashed the draft and returned home to Italy. I never meant to do wrong. I’d just succeeded to the title, but my pleasure was tempered by the discovery of the debt hanging on the estate. Now suddenly I could clear the debt. The world was bright again. It was wonderful to have people showing me respect, calling me Count Martelli.’ He managed a wry smile. ‘Vittorio—my son—you’ll soon know that feeling.’
‘Don’t, Papà,’ Vittorio said with soft violence. ‘I don’t want you to die.’
The elderly Count squeezed his hand. ‘You’re a good son. But my time has come.’
‘No,’ Vittorio said fervently. ‘You must stay with me a little longer.’
The thought of losing the father he loved was intolerable. His mother had died giving birth years ago. His father had raised him since then, and together they had been a team, each meaning more to the other than anyone else ever could. Now the man who was the centre of his life was to be snatched from him, and the pain was agonising.
‘Fight it, Papà,’ he pleaded. ‘Another day, another month, another year. I’m not ready to do without you.’
‘You won’t have to. I’ll always be there with you—in your mind, your heart, wherever you choose.’
‘I choose to keep you with me in every way,’ Vittorio whispered.
‘My son—my son—there’s just one thing I would ask of you.’
‘Whatever it is, I’ll do it.’
‘All these years I’ve got away with what I did, and now that the end is near—’ he shuddered ‘—I must seize my last chance to make amends—with your help. Promise me—swear.’
‘I’ll do anything I can. My word.’
‘Find Benton. Ask his forgiveness. If he needs money—’
‘I’ll give him whatever he needs. He’ll forgive you and you can rest in peace.’
‘Peace? I can no longer remember how that feels.’
‘But you will have it, Papà. Wherever you are. I promise.’
‘Thank you—thank you.’ Franco whispered the words over and over.
Vittorio rose quickly to pull the curtains across the window.
‘Don’t do that,’ his father begged. ‘You’ll shut out the light.’
‘I was afraid the sun was too dazzling for you.’
‘It won’t be for long.’ He gave a sigh. ‘Sunlight never lasts. You think it will. You think the light has come into your life for ever. But suddenly it’s gone and there’s only darkness.’
Vittorio sat down again, taking his father’s hands in his. ‘Darkness can be fought,’ he said. ‘I’m going to fight this for you.’
‘One day you’ll have your own darkness to fight. You can never tell when it will come, or what will cause it. You must always be ready for what you’ve never expected. Take care of yourself, my son. Take care—when I’m no longer with you...’
His voice faded.
‘But you will always be with me. You must be. Can you hear me? Can you hear me Papà? Papà!’
But there was no response. Franco’s eyes had finally closed and he lay still.
Vittorio dropped his head against his. ‘I promise,’ he whispered. ‘I gave my word and I’ll keep it. Wherever you are—hear me, believe me, and rest in peace.’
CHAPTER ONE
THE WORLD WAS full of light and glamour. Excitedly Jackie danced this way and that, rejoicing in the vision of her beautiful self that appeared in the mirror. Music played in the distance, inviting her into a universe in which she was the heroine.
But abruptly the dream ended. As she opened her eyes the real world fell back into place. The mirror’s reflection showed not the luscious beauty of her fantasy but Jackie Benton, a slender young woman with a face that was intelligent, but not beautiful.
She sighed, easing herself out of bed.
Surrounding her was the austere bedroom where she spent every night. By now she had hoped to leave it behind, move to a new home and a more exciting life. But fate had arranged things differently, confining her to Benton’s Market—the little shop where she lived and worked.
She’d spent most of her life in the tiny apartment over the shop that her father, George Benton, had started twenty years earlier. He had fought to make it a success, always struggling with money worries, and raising his daughter alone when his wife had left him.
In his last years Jackie had been forced to run the shop alone—something that had given her an unexpected satisfaction.
She was clever and hardworking, able to retain information about all the stock, and produce it at a moment’s notice. Something which had at first impressed her father.
‘You really remembered all that?’ he would exclaim. ‘Well done! You’re in the right business.’
‘I get it from you,’ she had reminded him. ‘I remember when I was a child there were lots of times you made people gulp at what you could remember without having to look it up.’
It had been a happy moment, uniting father and daughter. He had been proud—not only of her memory but her ability to choose the best stock. Knowing this, she had felt her confidence grow, and she had begun to see herself as a serious businesswoman.
Just occasionally her father had given her a little warning advice. Once, when a temporary employee had flounced out in a temper, he’d said, ‘Did you have to be so hard on him?’
‘I wasn’t hard on him,’ she’d protested. ‘I just pointed out that he’d got something wrong. And he had.’
‘You might have been a bit more tactful.’
‘Oh, come on, Daddy,’ she had said, in a teasing voice. ‘What you mean is that a woman mustn’t tell a man that he’s wrong in case he’s offended. But we’re not living in the nineteenth century.’
He’d patted her hand. ‘You may not be, darling, but a lot of men are. You’re a bit too fond of giving orders.’
‘Too fond for a woman, you mean? You think I should just go along with him? Even when I know he’s an idiot?’
They had laughed fondly together, but she’d come to understand that he had been making a fair point. She had learned to speak with more care, but it was still exasperating to have to do so when she knew she was an expert.
She had gradually come to enjoy the feeling of being in command—not merely of their employees but of the whole running of the place. She had chosen stock and it sold well. She’d had the instincts of a talented businesswoman, and they had given her hope for the future.
But her hard work had come too late. Matters had started getting worse, owing to the mountain of her father’s debts that had piled so
high that even her commercial success could not completely deal with it. Finally her father had been forced to sell the shop.
By then his life had been drawing to a close. Rik, the new owner, had reluctantly allowed them to stay in the little apartment upstairs, and Jackie had continued to work in the shop—but only part-time, so that she could always hurry upstairs to check that her father was all right. She nursed him gladly, giving him everything in her power in return for the loving care he had always shown her.
‘It’s so hard for you...to be caring for me and working downstairs as well,’ he had said once. ‘Such a burden.’
‘Stop it, Dad. You could never be a burden to me. Never.’
‘Bless you, darling. I wanted to leave the shop to you. I’d have been proud to give you a legacy. I hoped once—But there. It just didn’t work out.’
She would have loved to own the shop. So much of its success was due to her work, and it still held the atmosphere created by her beloved father. But she had known she must abandon that dream.
Her father had died a few days later. And then Rik had offered her a lifeline.
‘You’re welcome to stay if you become full-time. You can go on living here.’
She’d thought carefully before agreeing. She disliked Rik—an ill-tempered man in his forties—But she had accepted the job because it would give her a little time to work out her plan to escape into a new life—one in which she would have her own business, organising everything, using the talents she’d so gladly discovered.
Her dislike of Rik was well-founded. He had a high opinion of his own knowledge and skills, but Jackie felt that he actually knew very little. He made silly mistakes for which he blamed her.
She had tried to save money, hoping that soon she would be able to afford to leave and explore new possibilities. But it had been a hopeless task. Following George’s death had come the discovery of more debts that he hadn’t managed to pay, even with the money he’d made from selling the shop. Her savings had soon been swallowed up by them. And she had no hope of saving much more, given the meanly low pay Rik allowed her.
‘I give you a fair wage,’ he would say. ‘You live here for nothing. If you worked somewhere else you’d have to pay for accommodation.’
It was true. Frantically she had hunted for another job, but hadn’t been able to find one that paid enough to solve the problem. Now she felt trapped, and with no obvious way out she just had to hope for a miracle!
She showered and dressed carefully. She presented a picture of efficiency—ideal for the work that consumed her life—but her looks didn’t please her. She considered herself far too plain.
She opened her laptop and logged on to her bank to check the state of her account. The result made her groan with despair. She had very little money, despite her attempts to live frugally.
Dispirited, she opened an astrology website, and read her prediction.
The fates are planning a startling new beginning for you. The sun in Jupiter will bring things you never anticipated, and decisions that will change your life.
In her dreams, she thought wryly. Last week it had said she was going to be a millionaire. And look how that had turned out.
She read the prediction again, trying to see it as the approach of the miracle she longed for, and then hurried downstairs and opened up the shop. She served a couple of customers, then spent some time looking around.
The shop had a variety of stock, including home wares and groceries. She often wished she could persuade Rik to show a little more imagination about the stock. But he had no sympathy for her ideas.
‘This is a practical place, full of practical items,’ he’d once told her sternly. ‘You’re too fanciful, Jackie. That’s your trouble. You want life to be fun, and it isn’t designed that way.’
‘Not always fun,’ she’d protested. ‘Just a little bit of excitement now and then. I remember Daddy felt the same.’
‘You father spent too much time looking for fun. It was his ruin.’
‘Something ruined him...’ She’d sighed. ‘But I don’t think it was that.’
‘Get on with your work and stop wasting time.’
* * *
On the flight from Rome to London, Vittorio sat sunk in thought, wondering where the search for George Benton would finally lead him. Common sense told him he need not search at all. If he simply refused, who would ever know?
But his conscience would know. His promise had brought his father peace in his final moments. If he broke his word the knowledge would be with him for ever. And somewhere in his heart he sensed that his father’s reproaches would always haunt him.
Everything had changed with Franco’s death. He’d spoken of the pleasures of being Count Martelli, and Vittorio had soon discovered that it was true. The first time someone addressed him as ‘Signor Conte’ he had hardly been able to believe he’d heard correctly. His employees now treated him with deference, almost awe.
But his father had also spoken of other things—of the hidden problems behind the glamour, that the rest of the world knew nothing about. And here, too, he had been right.
Vittorio had gone through Franco’s things, seeking clues about his father’s past life and George Benton. He’d found a photograph of the two men together, which must have been taken during their meeting in England many years before.
How old would Benton be now? Middle-aged? At the height of his powers? Ready to take revenge on the family that had cheated him out of a fortune? He wasn’t looking forward to their meeting, but there was no choice.
Franco’s papers had also included a newspaper cutting, mentioning a shop called Benton’s Market. There was a picture of a small, shabby-looking shop, and one of George Benton, looking older than in the other picture.
That was Vittorio’s clue. He had a lead.
At the airport he hired a taxi and spent the journey studying a map of London. The area he sought was just north of the River Thames in the east of the city. As they approached the area Vittorio asked the driver, ‘Is there a hotel near here?’
‘There’s one just around the corner. Mind you, it costs a lot.’
‘Fine. Take me there.’
The hotel was pleasantly luxurious. He booked a room for the night, then went out to explore.
Almost at once he saw a corner shop with its sign proclaiming ‘Benton’s Market’. He took a deep breath, clenching his fists, vowing not to lose his nerve now.
Nearby was a small café, with tables outside. He found a seat, ordered some coffee and took out the photograph of Benton. From this angle he could see through the shop windows clearly enough to know if the man was there.
But time passed and there was no sign of him—only a young woman arranging stock in the main window. Much of it was already in place, but she was intent on reorganising it, giving it all her concentration.
He admired the woman’s dedication and artistic flair. He would value such an employee himself, to work in the department store he owned and managed in Rome.
Suddenly he tensed as a man appeared from the rear of the shop. Could this be Benton? But he looked nothing like the picture. His face was thin and severe. His manner to the woman suggested ill temper. When he spoke Vittorio could just make out the words through the open door.
‘Must you waste time faffing about over this? There’s a pile of stuff at the back needs unpacking.’
‘But I thought we agreed—’ she began to say.
‘Don’t argue. Just do as I tell you. Get going.’
Looking exasperated, she retreated to the back of the shop.
Vittorio approached the shop, entering with the air of an eager customer.
‘I’d like to buy some apples,’ he said.
‘We’ve got some here,’ the man said. ‘No—wait. They were over there. W
hat has that stupid woman done with them?’
‘I’d also like to talk to Mr Benton, please.’
The man glanced up, scowling. ‘What do you want with him?’ His tone became suspicious. ‘You’re not another debt collector, are you?’
‘No, it’s a personal matter.’
‘Well, you can’t see him. He’s dead.’
‘Dead?’ Vittorio froze, feeling as though he’d heard a thunderclap. ‘When?’
‘A year ago. But his daughter still works here.’
‘Was that her I saw? Can I talk to her?’
‘You can, but not just yet. She’s got work to do. You’ll have to wait until she’s finished for the day.’
Feeling depressed, Vittorio departed. Returning to the café he settled again to watch the shop, trying to get his thoughts in order. Everything he’d planned was in a shambles. He must talk to Benton’s daughter and just hope that she was a sensible woman who would accept financial compensation and let the matter end.
Throughout the afternoon he saw many customers go into the shop. The young woman dealt with them efficiently, always smiling and friendly. Every one of them bought something from her.
Benton’s daughter was a natural saleswoman, it seemed.
He stayed there for four hours. He read the paper and then busied himself sending and receiving emails from his smartphone. The frustration of waiting was hard to endure but he forced himself. So much depended on this.
* * *
Inside the shop Jackie was working hard. Often she glanced out of the window, puzzled to see that the strange man was still there, sitting outside the café. She concluded that he must be a tourist, albeit a very well dressed one!
At last it was closing time. As she was preparing to leave, Rik arrived.
‘Don’t go yet,’ he said, scowling. ‘We need to have a talk about making new orders.’
‘But I can’t stay,’ she protested. She gave him a wry smile, saying, ‘And, let’s face it, you don’t pay me enough to make me want to do overtime.’
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