by Craven, Sara
‘You are too late, Claudia.’ Giulio’s fine mouth curled slightly. ‘The signorina seems to share your view, and offered her resignation yesterday evening.’
‘Oh?’ Claudia Falcone seemed startled. ‘And who will take her place?’
‘Teresa’s cousin, Dorotea, as soon as she can be contacted.’ Giulio gently turned Emilia to face him. ‘What is it, little one?’
‘Nonna said I was a thief.’
The contessa shrugged. ‘I said merely that I was not prepared to take her to the Masserinis for lunch until her behaviour improves and she can be trusted.’
‘Then you can have lunch with me instead, cara.’ Giulio ran a finger down the child’s tear-stained cheek. ‘Go and wash and change.’
Emilia’s smile was like the sun emerging from clouds, but the final glance she sent her grandmother as she went into the casetta was pregnant with malice. Marco trailed after her.
The contessa said, ‘My dear Giulio, you cannot desert your guests in this way. Angela will be wondering what has become of you.’
‘Then you will be able to tell her, Claudia—before you go to lunch with the Masserinis.’ His meditative gaze went to his stepmother’s hand. ‘You are wearing the Falcone ring once again, I see.’
The contessa gave her tinkling laugh. ‘But naturally, caro. Simonetta’s jewellery is always so fabulous.’
His voice was too gentle. ‘You think it appropriate to use a family heirloom, centuries old, to compete with that—that arrivista?’
Her mouth thinned. ‘How dare you insult one of my friends?’
‘You are mistaken. Simonetta Masserini is impossible to insult.’ He paused. ‘I request once more, Claudia, that you return the ring to me immediately. It is no longer your property.’
‘And I repeat, dear Giulio, that I shall be happy to return it—but to your intended wife, and no other—as tradition demands.’ She turned an arctic gaze on Lucy. ‘Still here, signorina? You are supposed to be helping my grandson to change.’
‘And I suggest you change too, Lucia.’ There was amusement in Giulio’s eyes, mingled with something deeper and more disturbing, as he looked her over. ‘Firenze demands rather more formal dress, I think.’
He himself was wearing slim-fitting dark trousers and a plain white shirt, with the sheen of silk, unbuttoned at the neck, and with the sleeves turned back casually over his forearms. All traces of his earlier dishevelment had been removed, Lucy noted as she ran the tip of her tongue over her dry lips. ‘You expect me to go with you?’ she enquired uncertainly.
He shrugged. ‘Naturally. Until your replacement arrives, you will carry out your duties in the usual way. And Emilia. needs a companion in the car in case she is frightened or ill again.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Will fifteen minutes give you enough time?’
Lucy nodded and whisked into the casetta. As she went upstairs to find the children she could hear the contessa obviously remonstrating with Giulio in furious Italian, and his cold, clipped responses.
The children were listening too, she discovered, and ushered them firmly away from the window and closed the shutters.
‘They are quarrelling about the big red ring that Nonna wears,’ Marco reported as Lucy hustled both of them into the shower.
‘It does not belong to her. She should not have it,’ Emilia said passionately as Lucy shampooed the chlorine out of her hair. ‘I have heard Papà say so to Mamma—oh, so many times.’
‘It’s a private argument between grown-ups, and none of our business,’ Lucy said firmly. ‘Now, what are you going to wear?’
Emilia for once was no problem, dressing herself importantly in a brief red skirt and white blouse before shutting herself in Lucy’s bedroom with the hairdryer.
However, it was a day’s work to wrestle Marco into the velvet shorts and satin shirt which Lucy reckoned the contessa would deem suitable attire for the occasion.
‘I hate these clothes,’ he grumbled. ‘But I like going to lunch with Nonna’s friends,’ he added slyly. ‘They give me presents.’
‘You get altogether too much,’ Lucy said severely, combing his hair sleekly back from his forehead.
When they were both dressed, she sent them downstairs with picture books, and strict instructions not to get dirty—or quarrel—while she changed.
I’m playing with fire, she told herself as she changed hurriedly into a simple pale yellow shift, tying her hair back with a scarf of the same colour. But I don’t care. I don’t care about anything except that I’m going to be with him again—just for a while.
It was two incredibly sedate and tidy children that Lucy was able to conduct to the villa.
Fiammetta was in the salotto, flicking through a magazine, which she threw aside to embrace the children and adjure them to be good.
‘And Lucia,’ piped Marco. ‘She must be good also.’
‘Sì. ’ The ghost of a smile twinkled in Fiammetta’s eyes. ‘And Emilia will be there to make sure of it.’ She extended a hand to Giulio. ‘Have a care, mio caro. Sometimes, I think, you go too fast.’
‘You have wisdom beyond your years.’ The words and the kiss he dropped on her wrist were equally light, but the glance they exchanged was loaded with amused significance.
Lucy, noting it, frowned, then promptly relegated it to the back of her mind as the contessa swept in, imperiously demanding her grandson.
After Marco had been duly waved off with his grandmother, Giulio brought his own car round to the front of the house.
‘Oh.’ Lucy checked in surprise when she saw the sleek, low-slung saloon. ‘But this isn’t your car.’
‘It is one of them,’ he returned laconically. ‘I thought it would be the most comfortable, as there are three of us.’
‘I want to sit in the front,’ declared Emilia.
‘No, little one.’ Giulio firmly strapped her into the back seat, in spite of her protests, then paused, his brows lifting, as Lucy got in beside her.
‘What is this?’
She said quietly, ‘I think I should be with her—in case, as you say, there’s a problem.’
His mouth twisted. ‘Are you sure you are not considering some problem of your own?’
‘Quite sure.’ Lucy gave him a straight look. ‘I’m not the one having nightmares.’
There was a brief silence, then he said, ‘Forgive me, Lucia. I should not have needed such a reminder.’ He smiled at Emilia. ‘You see, cara. You can pretend to be a great lady—a princess with your own conducente, and your lady-in-waiting beside you.’
‘And where is my prince?’ Emilia pouted a little.
‘I think you may have to be patient for a while. But he will come one day, never doubt it.’ Giulio swung himself lithely behind the wheel and started the engine.
‘So, the day is ours,’ he added, over his shoulder. ‘Avanti! Where shall we go, principessa?’
‘To Firenze, Zio Giulio; you said so.’
‘Ah, yes, but perhaps I’ve forgotten the way. You will have to give me directions, or we could end up in Rome. And you will have to speak loudly, because I’m old and growing deaf.’
Emilia giggled delightedly and sat up, peering out of the window, waiting eagerly for the first road sign.
There were sometimes muddles over which way was right and which left, and once the approach of a lorry rendered the child mute and visibly frightened, but, helped along by Lucy’s soft-voiced interventions and encouragement, the game lasted cheerfully all the way to Florence.
‘Thank you,’ Lucy murmured to him as they left the car. He had parked in the middle of a vast square, dotted with bronze copies of Michelangelo’s most famous statues, including the towering David. ‘That was very kind of you.’
‘And you think cruelty is more natural to me, perhaps?’
She was taken aback. ‘Why—no.’
‘Grazie.’ He sounded faintly amused. ‘Maybe I just wanted to avoid another reprimand,’ he added silkily.
‘Oh.’ Feeling s
uddenly awkward, Lucy looked around at the rows of tourist buses disgorging their clients, at the vendors’ stalls selling postcards and ceramics, and the inevitable ice-cream sellers. ‘What is this place?’
‘The Piazzale Michelangelo. The one place that everyone who comes to Firenze must visit, if they see nothing else. Look.’ Threading a way between the pavement artists and watercolour sellers, he led her and Emilia to the balustraded wall.
Below them, bisected by the languid Arno, lay Florence, all pale stone and gleaming terracotta, her towers and domes gilded by the sunshine like some glorious medieval painting. And beyond, in the distance, rose the Tuscan hills, misted in shades of grey, blue and purple.
‘It’s almost too lovely,’ Lucy whispered.
‘Sì.’ His voice was gentle, almost reflective. ‘Lovelier than any dream.’
Lucy turned her head and found that he was watching her, his eyes fixed on her face. Instinctive colour flared in her cheeks, and she hurriedly transferred her attention back to the view.
‘Whenever I have been away, this is always the first place I return to,’ he went on, after a pause.
‘Is that the Ponte Vecchio?’ She craned her neck, feigning intense interest, trying to disguise her swift, burning awareness of his physical proximity, of his arm almost brushing hers on the stone of the balustrade, the hint of the expensive cologne she would always associate with him, and, more intimately, the unique male scent of his skin, warm and alive and tantalising her senses.
‘Yes. It was the one bridge over the Arno left standing after the war. My father always said no one would ever know why the Germans spared it. As it is, many of the goldsmiths there have been able to hang up their signs without interruption since the time of Cosimo de’ Medici.’
‘Your ancestor,’ Lucy said, straight-faced.
He laughed. ‘One of them, perhaps.’ He paused. ‘You wish to buy something on the Ponte Vecchio—some trinket to remind you of Firenze?’
‘I think I’ll have to stick with rather cheaper souvenirs,’ she said ruefully, and straightened, looking for Emilia, who had become bored, and wandered off to look at one of the exhibitions of paintings a few yards away. ‘But I’ll never forget this view as long as I live,’ she added, conscious that she sounded like a polite schoolgirl. ‘Thank you for showing it to me.’
He shrugged. ‘Maybe this is my day for acts of kindness.’ He straightened too, looking down at her, the amber eyes veiled by the sweep of his lashes. ‘Yet I know very well I have not always been kind in my dealings with you, Lucia. And probably, in the end, I will have to be cruel—in order to be kind.’
His hand descended on her shoulder, swinging her suddenly and urgently towards him, and for one heart-stopping instant she felt the swift, bruising pressure of his mouth on hers, the shock of his body moulded frankly and demandingly against hers.
Then, with equal speed, before any of their fellow sightseers could register what was happening, she was free again, standing in the sunlight, a hand raised to her startled, throbbing lips, watching him walk away from her. Knowing that, one day soon, she would have to watch him walk away for ever.
And that, she thought numbly, would be the ultimate cruelty. But who could say she hadn’t been warned?
CHAPTER TEN
BY THE time she caught up with Giulio and Emilia at the car, Lucy had steadied her hectic breathing, and managed to meet his sardonic gaze with a measure of composure.
‘The little one is demanding ice cream,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we should have lunch before anything else. Do you agree?’
Without waiting for her reluctant nod, he swept them back into the car, and drove down into the city, eventually leaving the car in a quiet side-street off the Piazza della Signoria.
‘Now we walk,’ he ordained. He took Emilia’s hand. ‘We’ll take the tourist trail for Lucia.’
He led the way briskly across the piazza, Emilia bouncing beside him.
‘You recognise this?’ he tossed over his shoulder.
Lucy was about to respond with a tart ‘How could I?’ when she realised that her surroundings were oddly familiar. She stared at the huge statues from Greek mythology, the commanding figure of yet another bronze David, the fountain, and the wide flight of stone steps leading up to an arched colonnade.
She laughed suddenly. ‘Of course. A Room with a View. The scene where the young man was stabbed.’ She halted. ‘Have you seen it too?’ she asked with surprise.
‘In London, the year it came out.’ Giulio paused too. ‘It made me homesick.’
‘And it convinced me I had to come here at all costs.’
‘At all costs?’ he repeated thoughtfully. ‘Are you sure you have not already paid too highly for your journey?’
She said in a low voice, ‘I’m not sure of anything any more.’
Giulio nodded, his face expressionless, and strode purposefully on.
Lucy found herself traversing a busy market, with crowded stalls selling table linen, souvenirs and Florence’s famed leather goods. She wanted to linger, but Emilia seized her hand.
‘Lucia, come and see II Porcellino.’
Lucy found herself confronted by a bronze statue of a wild boar, his snout incredibly smooth and shining in contrast to the rest of him.
Giulio leaned down and spoke in her ear, his warm breath fanning her cheek. ‘The legend says if you stroke his snout, columbina, you will come back to Firenze.’
Clearly it had been the ambition of a lot of people, Lucy thought drily, but it was hardly a safe one in her particular circumstances. Nevertheless, she lifted a reluctant hand and ran it over the gleaming metal, urged on by Emilia, who then demanded some coins from her uncle to drop from the boar’s mouth into the grating below.
‘That is good luck too,’ she beamed.
‘Good luck for the children’s home which benefits from the money,’ Giulio added.
‘May I have some more money?’ the child wheedled.
Giulio ruffled her hair. ‘Later, little one. When we’ve eaten, I will bring you back.’
They ended up at a small restaurant in one of the narrow streets leading away from the Duomo, with pavement tables shaded by a dark green awning. A small, tubby man who was clearly the proprietor came bustling out to meet them, his face wreathed in smiles. He shook hands with Giulio, hugged Emilia ebulliently, with a promise that when she had eaten she would see the new litter of kittens in the courtyard at the rear, then turned a look of melting admiration on Lucy.
‘Bella donna,’ he breathed, disregarding Giulio’s more laconic introduction. ‘Bella donna.’
They were shown almost reverently to the best table, and wine, mineral water and warm bread appeared instantly.
‘Giovanni serves some of the best food in Firenze, and we’re having the specialities of the house,’ Giulio told her as a dish of crostini was brought—toasted bread spread thickly with rich, garlicky liver pâté. And this was followed by steaming platefuls of a stew made from thick chunks of sausage, haricot beans, sage and tomatoes. It smelled ambrosial, and tasted even better, as Lucy, who had planned to have a simple salad, soon discovered. She ate every mouthful. And afterwards there was tiramisu, thick and creamy and wickedly alcoholic.
‘Food for the gods, eh?’ Giulio smiled at her across the table, and forgetting she’d decided to be cool and distant, she smiled back.
‘You must come here often to be treated so well.’
He shrugged. ‘I live and work here, after all.’ He poured some more wine into her glass. ‘So, are you glad to be visiting Firenze?’
Lucy nodded. ‘Naturally, I’d planned to come here.’ She bit her lip. ‘But I was overtaken by events.’
‘As I was myself,’ he reminded her silkily. ‘But one visit is not enough. You must see more of my city before you leave.’ He saw her lips curve involuntarily, and his brows lifted. ‘Why do you smile?’
She shrugged. ‘I live and work in London, but I’d never refer to it as my city.’
‘Here in Tuscany, our sense of belonging runs very deep. For centuries men have fought and died for these same cities, whether as defenders or aggressors.’ He drank some wine. ‘And we Florentines like to win, sometimes at any cost.’
She looked at the careless strength of him, the firm lines of his mouth and chin, and could believe it.
She hurried into speech. ‘The poet Dante was a Florentine, wasn’t he?’
‘Si, and so was Beatrice, the girl he loved all his life. But Dante could not be content with poetry. He involved himself in politics, and was driven out of the city to Ravenna. There is a story in our family that he was given shelter in our home on his way into exile, which is why the present house bears his name even today.’ He smiled at her. ‘I like to think it is true.’
‘Did he ever return to Florence?’
Giulio’s face was suddenly sombre. ‘No; he had too many enemies for that. But now, each year, on the anniversary of his death, the city sends oil to light the lamps on his tomb, so peace has been made with him at last.’
‘I’m glad,’ Lucy said softly. ‘That’s a nice story. Even if it does mean he never saw his Beatrice again.’
‘Legend has it he only saw her once anyway,’ Giulio said drily. ‘As a young girl on her way to school. But she became his ideal, even though they both married other people.’
‘That is silly.’ Emilia, scraping the last vestige of ice cream from her dish, intervened. ‘People who are in love should marry each other, don’t you think, Zio Giulio?’
Giulio stroked her hair. ‘It is not always possible, cara. Besides, although Dante loved Beatrice, she may not have returned his love. So perhaps it was better that he carried his passion in his heart only, and married for reasons of policy and sense.’
‘I have finished all my food,’ Emilia announced. ‘May I go now and see the kittens?’
‘Yes. I will join you when I have drunk my coffee.’ He sent Lucy a faint smile, halting her instinctive protest. ‘Relax, columbina. She will come to no harm. Enjoy some peace while you can.’ He paused. ‘Is it good to escape?’