Sea of Lost Love

by Santa Montefiore

  “Thank you,” she replied, regaining her composure.

  “Fa niente, signora,” he said, his gentle gaze lingering on her a little longer than necessary.

  Celestria climbed down without help, too busy with her own thoughts to notice the flirtatious communication between Nuzzo and Mrs. Waynebridge. She strode over to the door, pressed the bell, and waited. For a while nothing happened. Then she heard the scuffle of feet, the unbolting of locks, and finally the little door opened to reveal the wide, handsome face of Federica Gancia. To her relief, Celestria knew at once that this woman had not been her father’s mistress; she was far too old!

  Federica Gancia settled her warm, whiskey-colored eyes on Celestria’s pale face and smiled, revealing delightfully crooked teeth. “Welcome, Miss Montague. Do come in; you must be tired.” Her English was perfect, with only the slightest hint of a foreign accent. She looked behind Celestria to where Mrs. Waynebridge hovered in her shadow, clutching her handbag to her chest. “Did you have a pleasant journey? We are a long way from England.” Mrs. Waynebridge was startled that the woman was addressing her, and hastily nodded. Federica thanked Nuzzo, and Mrs. Waynebridge risked one last look back as he shook the reins and proceeded up the track into town. “I hope he made himself clear,” said Federica, still waving. “Nuzzo’s a wonderful character, but he speaks no English. I would have sent my husband, Gaitano, but he is in Brindisi this evening.”

  Celestria and Mrs. Waynebridge stepped into a cobbled courtyard surrounded on all four sides by a cloister. It was lit with a dozen large church candles that blazed in the twilight, illuminating the deep red color of the walls. Under the arches there were piles of fat, brightly colored cushions embroidered with gold thread that caught the light and glittered. A couple of cats watched them, their eyes bright and unblinking, like silver coins. Above them the pale sky revealed the first twinkling star and, in a small window cut into the wall, a soft gray dove cooed sleepily. Mrs. Waynebridge gasped when she saw the bird, for the dove symbolizes love. She glanced at Celestria. She was certain that love wasn’t destined for her, at her age, and was about to say so, but she was suddenly too weary to speak, and, besides, her young companion was gazing around her, silenced by the strange magic of the place that vibrated in the hypnotic glow of the flames and lingered on the air that was heavy with the scent of lilies.

  In spite of her exhaustion, Celestria’s heart suddenly warmed and expanded, filled with something unfamiliar but delicious. She knew instantly why her father had loved it there; it felt like home.

  “Welcome to the Convento. I’m so pleased you have come to stay. Your father is a dear friend of ours.” Celestria stared at Federica, suddenly aware that she had not heard about his death. For a moment she hesitated, unsure how to break the news. She glanced at Mrs. Waynebridge. Her face was sunken with fatigue, and Celestria knew that she would receive no help from her. Federica’s expression grew solemn. “What is the matter?” she asked, her hand clasping the Madonna pendant that hung over her large bosom.

  “My father is dead,” said Celestria.

  Federica stared at her. “I don’t know what to say,” she murmured. She took a deep breath, a frown lining her brow and pinching the skin between her eyes. She stared at Celestria for a long moment as if fighting to make sense of what she had just heard. Finally she placed a hand on Celestria’s arm, and her voice, when she spoke at last, was thin and hoarse. “I am sorry for your loss and for my own. You must both come inside for a drink and something to eat. You must be tired.”

  Federica took them across the courtyard to a little door that led to a narrow passageway and out into the kitchen garden, where large terra-cotta pots of basil and sage stood in clusters, a cozy home for a young family of sleek black cats. Celestria looked up and caught her breath at the sight of the enormous moon, suspended seemingly only yards from where she stood, a phosphorescent sphere in the darkening sky. Never before had she seen a moon so pregnant and so vast as the one she saw that night over Marelatte. Without comment Federica opened the kitchen door. Inside, the air was fragrant with the aroma of freshly ground coffee. One wall was decorated with a collage of rough wooden breadboards, another with black ladles hanging in a row. The long shelf that ran above the sink and sideboard was weighed down by cheerful-looking pots and jugs of varying size and color, like one might find in a Moroccan souk. Celestria would soon find out as she explored the place that Federica Gancia was an avid collector. If she fell in love with an object, to buy one wouldn’t do; she had to buy the lot. From coffeepots and breadboards to African art and Mexican dolls, she bought in large numbers and arranged them together in clusters. Each room was themed and more beautiful than the last. She had a unique sense of color and texture, creating warmth and vitality in the rooms that had once been simple monks’ cells. At the other end of the kitchen was a door that led out into the garden and the orange grove beyond.

  “Can I offer you some wine, or perhaps coffee?” she asked, her golden eyes tired and troubled. “Luigi has left hot soup and prosciutto for supper. We bake our own bread, and it’s delicious.” Mrs. Waynebridge waited for Celestria to lead the way, hoping she’d ask for tea.

  “A glass of wine for both of us, Signora Gancia,” Celestria replied, and Mrs. Waynebridge’s heart sank. Alfie had drunk like a sailor, but she had always been careful to limit her own alcohol to a glass of sherry in the evening, at the end of a busy day. It made her garrulous, which wasn’t appropriate in Upper Belgrave Street, where discretion was paramount, nor at home, where Alfie had liked to be quiet. Since being widowed she had never dared drink on her own, lest she start to chatter and not know how to stop. Now she was too tired to care.

  “Please call me Freddie; everyone does. Signora makes me feel old.”

  Celestria didn’t know why the woman minded feeling old: she was old—she must have been well into her sixties. She poured the wine and led them through the dining room, decorated with vast bowls of fresh pomegranates and pears, into a room with low vaulted ceilings where scruffy, threadbare sofas and armchairs were arranged around a fireplace that, at this time of year, remained unlit. Two places had been laid for supper at a round table that probably seated eight. Celestria’s mouth watered at the sight of prosciutto and freshly baked bread. They sat down and tasted the wine. Mrs. Waynebridge felt her spirits rise. Wine had never tasted so good, she thought, taking another large gulp. Federica sat down and poured herself a glass. She took a sip and a moment to compose herself, then turned gravely to Celestria.

  “I am so terribly sorry to hear that your father has died. In reality, it is a shock. I was so deeply fond of him. He was almost like one of my family. You have no idea. How can I possibly explain?” She sighed heavily, and her eyes glittered in the mellow candlelight. “May I ask how he died?”

  “He drowned at sea. It was an accident.” Celestria was too ashamed to look at Mrs. Waynebridge. She took a large swig of wine and consoled herself that her lie was only a small one.

  “How terrible. You must be distraught!” The older woman touched Celestria’s hand. “Why did you choose to come here?”

  “Because my father loved it so much. I want to feel close to him. I also need to get away from England and have some time on my own. It’s been the hardest summer of my life.”

  Federica’s eyes softened, and she smiled sadly. “I’m so pleased you chose Puglia. Your father fell in love with this place. He came whenever he could.”

  “Did he have business here?”

  Federica laughed. “There is no business here, my dear. He came like you. To escape the world.”

  Mrs. Waynebridge was so delighted by the feeling of a full belly and light head that she didn’t care how much Celestria lied. Besides, she understood. Suicide wasn’t something one necessarily wanted shouted from the rooftops. “He were a busy man,” said Mrs. Waynebridge, and at the sound of her voice, it was Celestria’s turn to look startled. Mrs. Waynebridge hadn’t uttered a word since they arrived.


  “I’m sorry, we haven’t been properly introduced,” said Federica to Mrs. Waynebridge, extending her hand. “The sad news has made me forget my manners.”

  “This is Mrs. Waynebridge,” said Celestria, her mouth full of bread and prosciutto. “She has worked for my family for Lord knows how long. How long, Waynie?”

  “Over forty years. I lost count about ten years ago. You see, I worked for Celestria’s grandmother when I was only a girl. I looked after Mr. Montague like me own son. I never had children; it wasn’t me destiny. There were once a dead robin in the birdbath, which said it all, really. Dead robin: a barren womb. Alfie thought me mad, but I weren’t wrong. It’s logic, isn’t it? Nowt good will come of a dead bird. Or a dead anything, for that matter, but I never learned the meaning of dead animals, only birds.” Celestria gazed at Mrs. Waynebridge in horror. After having barely uttered a word since Spongano, she was now unwilling to stop.

  “Mama wouldn’t let me come on my own, so poor old Waynie has had to join me. She’s never traveled farther than London!” she said, hoping to curb her companion’s loquaciousness.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Waynebridge,” said Federica, and Mrs. Waynebridge smiled happily, if a little unsteadily. She was glad she had come.

  While they ate, the pack of dogs that had been out on the hunt when they arrived now trotted into the sitting room. Federica welcomed them affectionately. “These are my four-legged friends: Pompea, Fiametta, Primo, Cyrus, and Maialino. I found Pompea first, and little by little the others followed. I have a growing family.”

  “Do you and your husband live here alone?” Celestria asked, watching her lean down to pat them. They were all mongrels, but Federica seemed to love them nonetheless.

  “We had a daughter who lived with us, but she died three years ago. She is buried across the road in the mausoleum we built especially for her. Her husband, Hamish, continues to live with us.” A shadow passed over her face. “You see, I, too, am familiar with the bitter taste of death.” She reached out and held Celestria’s hand. “I understand your loss because I live with my own.” Her voice was a husk. She swallowed, withdrew her hand, and gazed for a moment into her wineglass while she collected herself. Pompea nuzzled beneath her arm, and she lifted it to let him in. He rested his head on her lap with a heavy sigh.

  “The loss of a child is far worse than the loss of a father. At least Papa had enjoyed a little of life,” said Celestria, putting down her soup spoon.

  “One cannot stop living, although at times, God knows, it would have been easier,” said Federica, rubbing the silver Madonna pendant between her thumb and forefinger.

  “Do you have other children?”

  “I have a son who works in Milan and another daughter, who lives with her husband and children in Venice. Natalia was my youngest. Then, of course, I have my guests, some of whom, like your father, become family, too.” She lowered her eyes again and stared at the embroidered flowers on the tablecloth.

  Celestria watched Federica. She was a handsome woman with fine bones and soft, fair skin with remarkably few lines. Her long gray hair was drawn up and clipped to the back of her head in a thick, untidy ball. She wore no makeup, just shiny yellow beads, the silver Madonna pendant, and large gold earrings on fleshy lobes. She wore olive-green slacks with flat shoes and a long green cardigan that reached her knees. Celestria had assumed Italian women were dark-skinned and raven-haired like Sophia Loren. Federica didn’t fit the stereotype at all.

  After supper, Federica showed them to their rooms. They crossed the courtyard again and climbed the wide stone staircase that led up to the bedrooms. An irregular corridor followed the line of the cloister, around three walls of the building. The floor was covered with rich Persian rugs piled high with unsteady towers of books, and a small grand piano was placed at one end in a niche in front of a window.

  “Hamish plays,” she said. “Or should I say, used to play. He hasn’t played in a long time, but if you are fortunate enough to hear him, it will take your breath away.” As she passed the books she muttered under her breath. “These are beginning to get in the way. Thank goodness Gaitano is turning the little folly in the garden into a library. They are gathering in precarious towers all over the Convento. Books are his passion. He is never happier than when he is surrounded by books. To him they are like pets, to be stroked and caressed and cared for.” She opened a small wooden door that led into an exquisite bedroom. “This is your room, Celestria. Your father always stayed here.”

  Celestria followed her inside and was at once enchanted by the scent of lilies that filled the room. There was a four-poster brass bed covered in brightly woven textile throws of pinks and greens and yellows. The stone floor was covered with a rug, and at the other end of the room there was a large iron bath and a window that looked down to the courtyard.

  “I’ve never been so happy to see a bed!” she exclaimed happily. “It’s beautiful!”

  “Your father liked it, too,” Federica replied quietly. A shadow passed rapidly across her face. She gave Celestria a long hard look before inhaling through her nose, as if dismissing the thought that had just popped into her head. “Just to let you know, I have one other guest here at the moment, Mrs. Halifax. She’s English, too. A painter. A charming woman. I think you’ll like her. She’s very eccentric. She wears a different pair of shoes every day, and they’re very…colorful.” She smiled in complicity and raised her eyebrows. “I don’t know what to make of her, but I like her enormously.”

  “How many guests can you accommodate?” Celestria asked, noticing that someone had already brought her bag upstairs and placed it in the room.

  “Eleven, but at the moment, being the end of the season, it’s rather quiet. In the summertime we’re always full. I have another lady arriving next week. Poor Gaitano and Hamish; they’re going to be quite outnumbered by women. Not that it matters. I don’t see much of them as it is. Hamish, well…what can I do?” She shrugged and forced a smile, but it was clear that there was something that bothered her greatly about her son-in-law. Her face tensed whenever she mentioned his name, which, for some reason, she felt compelled to do frequently. “Let me show you to your room, Mrs. Waynebridge,” she suggested.

  Mrs. Waynebridge was dazzled by the rich colors and smells of the place. The wine had softened her exhaustion, but had also robbed her of her balance. She took Celestria’s arm, suddenly feeling very old, and hobbled down the corridor behind Federica.

  Mrs. Waynebridge’s room was smaller, but, like Celestria’s, it was decorated with vibrant textiles and a large double bed. The walls were bare but for a few wall hangings and three small windows with shutters that gave out onto the courtyard below. “Your bathroom is down the corridor, first door on your right. The door after that is Mrs. Halifax’s room. I hope you won’t mind sharing the bathroom with her.”

  “Don’t mind at all, Mrs. Gancia,” Mrs. Waynebridge replied, suddenly longing to climb between the sheets. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll retire to bed. For an old bird what’s only been as far as London, Maray—whatever, is a long way to come.”

  Federica smiled sympathetically. “Good night, Mrs. Waynebridge. Sleep well. Breakfast will be in the dining room from eight o’clock, but feel free to come down whenever you are ready. Luigi will see that you are looked after.”

  “I might never wake up,” she replied, trying in vain to smile. Her cheeks sagged like the water balloons Celestria and Harry used to make as young children. “You sleep well, too, Celestria. I’m just next door if you need me.”

  As Celestria and Federica hovered in the corridor, Celestria asked the question she had been burning to ask all evening.

  “Does the name Salazar mean anything to you?”

  Federica nodded. “Of course. Francesco Salazar is a rather pompous lawyer here in Marelatte.”

  “I’ve been trying to tidy up my father’s affairs. I have correspondence from him and various things that I need to clear up. I
thought perhaps I could do that while I am here.”

  Federica frowned, and, for a moment, a shadow of suspicion darkened her face. “Of course,” she replied with a shrug. “I will get Nuzzo to accompany you.”

  “Monday would be good,” Celestria replied, wishing they hadn’t arrived on a Friday. What on earth were they going to do all weekend? As charming as it was here, she didn’t want to stay any longer than was necessary. “You didn’t by any chance meet a Hungarian called Countess Valonya, did you?”

  Federica shook her head. “I’m afraid not. I would remember a name like that.” She narrowed her eyes. “Are you looking for anyone else?”

  Celestria shrugged. “One never can tell.” She gave a little sniff and stepped into her bedroom, flopping onto the bed with a yawn.

  “Of course. If you need my help I will be happy to do all I can. You only have to ask. Va bene, I hope you sleep well.” Federica remained in the doorway, her mouth open as if about to say something else. Celestria turned and looked inquiringly, but the older woman closed her eyes and shook her head with an apologetic smile. “Niente,” she said, turning away. “See you in the morning.”

  “Good night,” Celestria replied, getting up to close the door. She knew that the wine, the soup, and the fresh sea air had prepared her for a long night’s sleep.

  18

  Celestria awoke to the bright Italian sun streaming in through the two small square windows behind her bed and the sonorous sound of bells from the church next door calling the people to worship. The song of birds filled the air, and a dog barked outside in the road. She inhaled, smelling the scents of pine and rosemary that were carried on the breeze, and the lingering bouquet of lilies. She stretched contentedly and gazed around her. In the light of day the room looked even prettier. The bold colors of the textile throws mixed with the muted reds and browns of the rugs gave the room warmth. Federica had clearly chosen the items out of love and not to match some rigid color scheme. She knew her father would have liked it as much as she did. She rolled onto her side and considered him. Alone in the room that only she shared with him, she allowed herself to miss him. Not in the way she had missed him in England, avoiding the pain and considering only the practicalities and inconveniences of his death, but the sadness of his absence. The fact that she would never see him again.