Last Voyage of the Valentina

by Santa Montefiore

  “I imagine she was once a lovely-looking young woman.” He recalled Jack warning him off Valentina because all daughters grow up to look like their mothers. Valentina did not live long enough to disprove his theory.

  “I worked in the trattoria with Toto and Falco,” Alba continued.

  “Toto all grown up, eh?”

  “He has a daughter called Cosima.” Suddenly her face turned solemn and she took a deep breath. “The point is, Daddy, that I understand now why you protected me from your past. I’ve behaved appallingly. I want to apologize.”

  Thomas lit his cigar, puffing on it until the little end glowed with fire. “It wasn’t your fault. Perhaps I should have told you sooner. There was never a good moment.”

  “Well, there’s no better moment than the present for this,” she said, handing him the third portrait. “Falco said I should give it to you, although I wasn’t sure I should.”

  “Where the devil did you find this?” He didn’t know whether to be pleased or shocked. How he had searched for it. How it had tormented him.

  Alba braced herself. “I’ve solved it all, Daddy. I’ve solved the murder.”

  “Go on.”

  “Fitz and I went to Palazzo Montelimone.”

  “You did, did you?” His expression was inscrutable.

  “Falco and Immacolata told us not to go, so I knew there was something there that they didn’t want me to find. An extraordinary man lives there called Nero. He said he inherited the ruin from his lover, the marchese. Anyway, he showed us this little folly. The marchese’s sanctuary. He had kept it all as the marchese had left it. The portrait was hidden in there, by the bed. Nero broke down and confessed. Valentina was the marchese’s lover, and it was he who murdered her. I knew she hadn’t been an innocent bystander in a Mafia hit. When I heard that she had been dressed in diamonds and furs, I just knew it didn’t add up.” She watched the smoke of her father’s cigar form a cloud around him. “Lattarullo said that even the best detectives in Italy hadn’t worked it out. But that’s not all, Daddy.”

  “What else did you dig up?” he asked. His voice was steady, for he already knew. There was only one more piece left to the puzzle.

  “Falco admitted that he killed the marchese.” Thomas nodded in acknowledgment. “He said it was a matter of honor.”

  “It was more than honor to me.”

  Alba stared at him, her eyes wide with a mixture of horror and admiration. The final piece to the puzzle had caused the whole picture to shift. He caught her staring and did not look away. There was something unfamiliar in his eyes. A ruthlessness she had never seen before.

  “You were with him, weren’t you?” she whispered. “Falco wasn’t alone, was he? You were with him. You both killed the marchese.”

  Thomas answered her quietly. “I did nothing then that I wouldn’t do again.”

  He handed her back the third portrait. “You should keep this, Alba. By rights, it belongs to you.” He got up, stretched, and threw his half-smoked cigar into the fire. “Shall we go back and join the others?”

  That night when Thomas went to bed he felt light-headed with joy. “Darling,” he said. “It’s time to get rid of the boat.” Margo was speechless. “I don’t think we should sell it. I think we should scuttle it. Sink it. Send it to the bottom of the sea along with everything it represents. It’s time to let it go.”

  Margo rolled over and rested her head on his chest. “Won’t Alba mind?” she asked.

  “No, she’s going to marry Fitz and live somewhere else. Either here or London. The Valentina is too small for the two of them.”

  “They don’t seem to agree where to live,” said Margo.

  “They will. They’ll just have to compromise.”

  She leaned up and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Tommy,” she said.

  “You know, you just called me Tommy,” he said in surprise.

  “Did I?” she exclaimed, laughing. “I didn’t notice. Tommy! I rather like it.”

  “So do I,” he said and pulled her against him. “And I like you, darling. I like you very, very much.”

  In the morning Thomas did something he should have done years ago. He walked into his study and closed the door. He sat at his desk and opened his address book. He fingered his way down to H. Then he dialed the number. After a few rings a voice he had known all his youth answered. The years fell away and he felt like a young officer again.

  “Hello, Jack old boy, it’s Tommy.”

  31

  A lba wasn’t sad to see the boat scuttled. It felt like the right thing to do, after all that had happened. They dragged it out into the middle of the Channel, drilled a leak into the gas pipe, then waited as the gas built up in the bilges before dramatically catching fire with the pilot light. She stood with Margo, Fitz, and her father and watched it sink. It took longer than she expected. For a while it resisted the pull, then finally it was gone and the sea lay flat and still as before. She imagined it falling silently to the bottom, landing on sand where fish would swim in and out of the windows and coral would grow up the hull. The boat was the last link with Valentina. Now they could all get on with their lives. She noticed her father had his arm around Margo’s waist and that he was gently caressing her hip. She noticed too that she called him Tommy and that he seemed to like it.

  She moved into Fitz’s mews house, converted the spare room into a studio, and drew endless portraits of Sprout. Sprout was only too happy to sit for her and seemed not to tire of her chat as she told him of their wedding, set to take place in the spring. He even raised his ears at the right moments and sighed in sympathy when she complained of feeling overwhelmed by it all. Margo was indefatigable. She had hired a tent and caterers. Beechfield buzzed with the coming and going of the people Margo had hired to do the flowers, the cars, the invitations, the gardens, the lighting, the music. There was much to organize and she threw herself into it with great enthusiasm. She and Alba spoke every day on the telephone and at last they had something in common that they both enjoyed discussing. To Alba’s surprise, Margo listened to her ideas and was happy to go along with them. To Margo’s surprise, Alba seemed not to mind taking her advice and never once threw a tantrum or sulked.

  “Edith says that Mrs. Arbuckle and Alba are getting on like a house on fire,” said Verity, taking off her coat for bell-ringing practice.

  “Nothing like a wedding to bring people together,” Hannah said.

  “Or tear them apart,” added Verity with a snort. “Weddings are like Christmas; all those ghastly people one hasn’t seen for decades for jolly good reason. Ghastly things.”

  “Oh, Verity. Don’t tell me you don’t like Christmas,” said Hannah, placing her scarf on the bench and patting her bun to check that it was in place.

  “What’s the point?” she asked, shrugging off the bitterness she felt at having no family left with whom to celebrate. Only her husband, and she thought him more tiresome than the most tedious relative.

  “It’s for the children, really,” said Fred, taking his rope and giving it a good pull. “That’s my girl!” he exclaimed when it rang.

  “It’ll be a lovely day, Alba’s wedding,” said Hannah. “Mrs. Arbuckle always does the church flowers beautifully, so the flowers will be spectacular. After all, it’ll be spring and she’ll have lots of choice.”

  “I can see Alba with white flowers in her hair,” said Fred softly.

  “Oh, Fred, you old romantic,” teased Hannah. Verity just looked cross. They stopped talking at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Reverend Weatherbone had a distinctive spring in his stride and they all knew it was he before he reached their small attic.

  “Good morning,” he said jovially. His hair was sticking out at the sides in gray wings, like on a bird that’s just landed. “I hope you’ve thought of a suitable rendition for Alba’s wedding.”

  “I’ve taken the liberty of composing one myself,” said Fred.

  “Good,” nodded the vicar.

 
; Verity looked put out. “You didn’t tell us about composing anything,” she said.

  “He told me,” lied Hannah, then muttered a quick apology. After all, she was in God’s house, in the presence of the vicar. She was getting less tolerant of Verity in her old age.

  “Well, I’ll let you know whether I think we should play it or not once I’ve heard it.”

  “Isn’t it delightful that Alba and Fitzroy are tying the knot in our small church? It’s a great honor for me,” said Reverend Weatherbone. He couldn’t help but add an afterthought, or rather, one that had occupied a great deal more of his mind than was suitable. “I wonder what her dress will be like.”

  “Short, I should imagine,” said Verity.

  “Traditional,” Hannah interjected. “Alba is a traditional girl at heart. Look where she comes from.”

  “Italy?” said Verity, raising an eyebrow.

  “She’s only been to Italy once. That hardly makes her Italian. She’s very much one of us,” said Hannah, pursing her lips.

  “It’s in the blood,” said Verity. “She’s not at all like the rest of the family. Arbuckles are fair and Alba is brown.”

  “She’s exotic,” said the vicar. “She’ll make a beautiful bride.”

  “She will indeed,” Fred agreed, stroking the rope absentmindedly. “Mrs. Arbuckle will wear something special too, I should imagine.”

  “She’s not the girl’s mother, though, is she?” said Verity slowly.

  Reverend Weatherbone noticed her snake eyes narrowing ominously. It was only a matter of time before her forked tongue would slither out with some terrible revelation heard from Edith.

  He sighed. “No, not biologically, but she’s been more than a mother to Alba.” He injected authority into his voice, hoping to end the discussion there.

  “A shame Alba’s real mother won’t see her wed. I took such pride in my daughter on her wedding day. I’ll always remember it,” said Hannah.

  “I knew Alba as a baby,” said Fred.

  “And as a teenager, drinking in the Hen’s Legs,” Hannah reminded him, winking. He grinned back mischievously. Those days had been good.

  “Do you know how her mother died?” Verity asked. Reverend Weatherbone summoned his wisdom and rummaged around for compassion; there was precious little for Verity.

  “She died in a car crash,” he said. “It was a long time ago.” Just as he was about to change the subject, Verity interrupted.

  “No, she didn’t.”

  “I don’t know who you’ve been listening to,” said the Reverend.

  “Edith overheard them talking. The captain murdered her.” Hannah’s mouth swung open and Fred looked bewildered. Reverend Weatherbone put down his Bible.

  “What utter nonsense, Verity Forthright. You and Edith should be ashamed of yourselves, spreading vicious and unfounded rumors. This is God’s house and I am the keeper of it. While that is so, I will not tolerate lies to be spread among the good people of Beechfield.” His voice resounded down the nave, echoing off the walls as if it were the voice of God. “Do you understand, Verity?” His bright, shiny eyes bore into her and she shrank back beneath the weight of them.

  She swallowed hard. “That’s what Edith heard.”

  “Do you know what an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth means?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “It means, Verity, that as you sow, so shall you reap. I would be very careful what you sow, for you shall reap it all, tenfold. We are masters of our own fate. If I were you I would spread a little kindness about you. That too comes back tenfold. Now, wouldn’t that be a surprise? I look forward to hearing your composition, Fred. Let me know when you have practiced it sufficiently. Now, let us hear less about murder and more about marriage. Alba’s mother is with God and she will be present in spirit at her daughter’s wedding. Don’t think for a moment that she won’t.” With that he turned, sending his robes flying about him, and was gone.

  “That’s my girl,” chuckled Fred, pulling his bell again. “Ring out for the reverend!”

  Christmas at Beechfield Park came and went with the snow, and the New Year began with a large firework display for the whole village in the field above the house. Fitz and Alba watched the bright lights explode into showers of glitter, illuminating their faces with wonder. Fitz looked ahead to the new year with optimism and joy. Alba watched the children with their sparklers and thought of Cosima. How she would love them. Time did nothing to diminish her affection or assuage her anguish. Fitz didn’t notice that little by little he was losing her. That as each day passed, her mind was less on their future and more on her past.

  One winter weekend, when the rain threw itself against the windowpanes, Alba sat down with Margo to write the invitations. Margo put on Mozart and lit the fire, while Fitz played a game of squash with Henry. Miranda and Caroline, who were to be bridesmaids, had gone shopping in Winchester. Margo had noticed that Alba had withdrawn into herself recently. Grown quiet and thoughtful. This was meant to be the happiest time in her life and yet she didn’t seem happy. As they were alone in the cozy environment of the drawing room, she decided to do some gentle probing.

  “Darling, you seem a little distracted,” she began apprehensively, taking off her reading glasses and leaving them to hang on their chain. “You’re not nervous about the wedding, are you?”

  Alba didn’t look at her. “I’m fine,” she said. “It’s just all a little overwhelming.”

  “I know. There’s so much being organized around you, I bet you feel sometimes that you’re about to sink beneath it all.”

  “Yes,” Alba agreed, licking an envelope and sticking it down.

  “Have you and Fitz decided where you’re going to live yet?”

  Alba sighed. “Not yet. He’s really got to live in London as it’s not convenient to commute. But I want to be here.”

  “But what about all your friends?”

  “What friends, Margo? You know I don’t have any. I had boyfriends, but they’re hardly appropriate now. And Viv’s spending all her time in France with Pierre. Fitz is my friend. I want to be where he is. It’s just a shame it has to be London.”

  “Maybe only for a little while. Perhaps when you have children it’ll be suitable for you all to move to the country.”

  “I wish Cosima could be a bridesmaid,” she said and felt a swell of emotion. “She would so enjoy it.”

  “You miss them, don’t you?” said Margo, realizing the root of the problem.

  “I miss them all, but I miss Cosima the most. I can’t stop thinking about her. Talking to her on the telephone from time to time isn’t the same. There’s a delay and she’s shy of it. My throat aches so much trying not to cry, I sort of dread it.” She swallowed hard. “I feel desperate. She needs me and I’m not there.”

  “Have you and Fitz talked about living in Italy?”

  Alba laughed at the absurdity of the idea. “He could never live in that sleepy place.”

  Suddenly her stepmother’s face turned very serious and she put down her pen. “Darling, if you don’t feel ready to get married, you can still call it off.” Alba looked at her with astonishment, like a drowning person suddenly thrown an unexpected lifeline. “Your father and I won’t mind. We just want you to be happy.”

  “But you’ve organized everything. Gone to so much trouble. We’re about to send out the invitations. I couldn’t pull out now!”

  Margo placed her hand on Alba’s arm. Once it would have felt odd, but now it felt quite natural. Motherly.

  “Darling girl,” said Margo gently. “I would much prefer to cancel the wedding than have you sitting in London all miserable. There’s no point going through with it if you’re just going to divorce three years down the line. Imagine if you have children, what a ghastly business. If you want to go and live in Italy, we’ll all understand and support you. If your heart is there, darling, follow it.” Alba blinked back tears and threw her arms around Margo’s neck.

  “
I thought you’d be cross with me.”

  “Oh, Alba, how you misunderstand me.” She pushed her stepdaughter away and lifted the gold locket that hung on her bosom. “You see this?” she said. Alba nodded, wiping her face with her hand. “I always wear it. Never take it off, ever. That’s because it contains photos of my children. All four of them.” She opened it so that Alba could see. There inside neat little gold frames were small black-and-white photographs of her, Caroline, Miranda, and Henry as children. “I love you the same as I love them. How could I not understand?”

  “I’d better talk to Fitz,” said Alba finally, sniffing.

  “You had better,” Margo agreed and they put all the unwritten invitations back into the box.

  Alba dreaded breaking her news to Fitz. After all he had done for her, after all the time he had waited. It seemed so unfair that he was going to be hurt all over again. But as she climbed the stairs to his room she felt the quiet tingle of excitement stir within her. She pictured Cosima’s little face aglow with happiness, and Immacolata and Falco smiling with joy. She saw them on the quay, welcoming her home. She knew it was the right thing to do. She knew that Fitz couldn’t go with her. What would he do in such a small, provincial place?

  She waited on his bed for him to return from his game of squash. The light faded and heavy dark clouds gathered in the sky. The trees were bare, their branches like hundreds of wispy fingers against the desolate backdrop. Finally, she heard voices on the stairs, the cheerful banter between him and her brother. She felt nervous. It would have been so easy to go along with it all and pretend to be happy.

  Fitz registered her solemn face at once. “What’s happened?” he asked, his own good humor dispersing like bubbles.

  Alba took a deep breath and plunged in. “I want to go back to Italy.”

  “I see,” he said. “Since when?” Suddenly the air was heavy with sorrow. He sat on the bed.