Setting Him Free

by Alexandra Marell

  "It's always too late, Dario. Remember that. But unlike your dear papa, bless his soul, you were given a second chance. Please be gentle with this old house. Take care to leave its memories intact. There are ghosts here that must not be disturbed."

  Still the same old Mariella. Dario schooled his features with difficulty as she shrugged into her black cardigan. She would cross herself on the step, as she always did. Kiss her fingers and touch them to the ancient stone gatepost on her way out. Bless the bedrooms every time she cleaned them.

  With Mariella around, what ghost would dare show its face?

  Okay, a more discrete painting for the dining room. Weren't there a couple of Renoirs in the Venice palazzo? He made a note to call the estate manager in the morning to find out if they were still there or whether they'd found their way to his mother's New York apartment like most of the other impressionists.

  Mariella was right, the villa's charm lay in its history. Use that as a starting point and fly in Genevieve and the design team to make it all happen.

  Or even do it himself? Take some time out to heal and to think. To make a long overdue visit to the gold and obsidian mines and see for himself why Mauro, the mine manager, had seen fit to call him at three in the morning with reports of an exclusive new find that was set to rival tanzanite in rarity if the first reports were to be believed.

  "Have you spoken to Signora Marcante yet about the road?" Mariella reappeared tying a scarf under her chin. "You think you can persuade her to sell with a smile? You know she still hasn't forgiven you for breaking her window."

  He laughed. "I was all of ten at the time. Not even she could hold a grudge for that long."

  "Don't underestimate these people. She would not sell to your nonno, she will not sell to you."

  "I need the access legal and clear, Mariella. I can't bring the richest of the rich up from the harbour by donkey, now can I? Nonno was too mean to offer her the market value, that's all. I'll double it, triple it. She'll sell."

  "We'll see. Don't burn the kitchen. I will be back tomorrow."

  "I'll try not to." He stooped and placed a quick kiss on Mariella's cheek, now softened and sun-weathered with age. As usual, she flapped him away with an irritable swish of her hand.

  "Thank you for tending to Nonno all these years. I'll make sure you're well looked after, old friend."

  "You will have no use for me, I suppose, when your rich friends arrive."

  "You will always have a place here." Mariella played the martyr well, but she'd more than earned a good retirement. "I'll buy you a new house," he said, pushing away yet another pang of guilt. He couldn't see Mariella living easily with the high-class catering team needed to serve the villa.

  "I'll make sure you have a good pension."

  "I have a house, Dario. You owe me nothing."

  "I'll buy you one anyway. And pay your grandson through school. You've more than earned it."

  She treated him to one of her long-suffering sighs before turning for the front doors. "Live with the house, first. Listen and learn. It will tell you what it wants. It will tell you what you want, too."

  Would it? He watched her disappear through the double doors, feeling once again, like the naughty boy she'd scolded so often for stealing her biscotti. That she loved him like a son was beyond doubt. She just had a strange way of showing it.

  Before giving himself time to change his mind, he took out his phone and dialled the Rome office. Denaro Enterprises could run itself for a while. Let the villa speak to him. Give his leg time to heal. And find a way to charm Signora Renata Marcante into selling the bungalow and the small plot of land that straddled most of the access to Villa Cristina.

  In other words, find a way to change five hundred years of family history. They hadn't called the old witch Nonna Strega for nothing.

  A challenge, but not one he couldn't handle. Breakfast on the terrace and then climb the old goat path to gather some of the wild poppies for Signora Marcante. Add a little personal touch to the smile and find out if his grandfather's death might have miraculously brought years of animosity to an end.

  "Hey!"

  A whirlwind of white fur nearly knocked him off his feet, lunging into the space between his legs and the doorframe then hurtling down the corridor towards the open double doors. Before he could gather his wits, the cat flew down the veranda steps and disappeared into the bushes, his breakfast clamped firmly between its teeth.

  * * * *

  Nonna Renata was dying.

  Elena Marcante smoothed out the linen sheet covering her sleeping grandmother and wondered if this time it might be for real. The past year had seen her age alarmingly and there had been none of the dramatics that usually accompanied one of Nonna's calls to her deathbed. More than once the family had made the mad dash from England to the Island of Sorellina, expecting the worse only to find the old matriarch sitting on the porch, humming a tune, miraculously recovered.

  This time, Elena had been delegated to visit and determine the extent of the emergency. She found Nonna asleep in bed, a shawl about her shoulders, a white cat tucked into the curve of her hip.

  "How is she, Cristina?"

  The cat's green eyes regarded her, unblinking. Nonna Renata's cats were always white and always called Cristina, despite it being the name of the hated villa at the top of the track. It makes life easier, her grandmother would say, with a knowing smile. Cristina gave a small meow of acknowledgement and set about cleaning her paws.

  What had Nonna been up to? The marble-topped nightstand was heaped with papers and letters, some with waxed seals, others with writing too faded by time to read. Atop the pile, a newer document dated the previous month.

  Proposed acquisition of Casa Marcante by Denaro Enterprises.

  Elena read the title with growing irritation. Little wonder Nonna had taken to her bed. This was one battle the Denaros' refused to stop fighting and one they would never win. Not while Nonna Renata still breathed.

  "Get well," she whispered, refusing to think of the decision she might be forced to make if her grandmother died. She'd call Genaro, the family lawyer tomorrow and ask him to send the standard refusal letter along with another plea to leave the old woman in peace. Denaro Enterprises could wait the few years she had left and negotiate with the next generation who had more reason to put money over tradition.

  Elena crept from the room to make herself a much-needed coffee, a to-do list already forming in her mind. Better to drop into town to see Genaro personally and while there, call on Dottore Vincenzo to find out how ill Nonna really was.

  The store-cupboard in the lean-to kitchen was uncharacteristically bare. Two cans of tuna and a half-pack of dried pasta, salt and a dish of dried basil leaves. No rows of preserves and bottled tomatoes. No strings of onion and garlic hanging in plaits from the ceiling hooks.

  She added a shopping trip to the list, ignoring for now, the inevitable argument it would cause. Nonna would be mortified at the thought of a guest having to provide for themselves.

  Elena rubbed her temples, massaging the pressure points in a bid to ease the tension. Nonna had guarded her independence so fiercely, flatly refusing to move in with her sister or any of her relatives, insisting on living out her days here at the house where she'd been born and raised and where she'd remained after her marriage to Nonno Alberto.

  "Elena. I knew you would come."

  Nonna Renata stood in the doorway, the shawl hanging loosely from her shoulders. Her gaze strayed to the silver-framed photograph of Nonno Alberto, brow creasing when she realised the votive candle had burned down.

  "Light one for him, Elena. He would like you to do that."

  "I will, Nonna. Here, sit down and tell me how you are."

  Nonna Renata accepted the arm about her waist without protest. Another bad sign. Elena swallowed a pang at the feel of bony shoulders and a slightness she'd never associated with her beloved Nonna.

  "You're looking well, Nonna."

  "Don'
t be ridiculous, of course I'm not." Nonna settled into the chair, adjusting her shawl with care. "Light the candle. Nonno is waiting."

  First things first. Elena bit back the smile. Forty years a widow and not a day passed without a prayer and a candle for her very late husband, Alberto Pasquadibisceglie. The grandfather Elena had never known with the unpronounceable name she'd always hated.

  Nonna Renata used her maiden name, as all Italian women did, a name Elena had adopted as soon as she'd been old enough to fill in the official change of name forms. A professional artist needed a name people could pronounce and remember. Elena Marcante had a nice ring to it.

  "You must take me to the cemetery this afternoon. This week I have not…" Nonna pulled a handkerchief from the sleeve of her cotton nightgown. "I'll be with him soon, Elena…"

  "Now now, Nonna." Elena dropped to one knee at her grandmother's side. "If you feel well enough, I'll take you this afternoon, how about that?" She rubbed a thumb over the papery softness of her grandmother's hand. "And then perhaps a drive to the Grotto, if you feel up to it? We'll throw a coin into the water and make a wish like we did when I was a child."

  "I need to see Genaro, the lawyer. Call him. Tell him he must come."

  "I will. But you must calm down. All this agitation isn't good for you."

  Nonna's hand curled about hers. "That family up there, they're trying to kill me with the worry. They think then you will sell. But you must not. You are the only ones I can trust not to sell. That's why I'm leaving the house to you and Margarita."

  So Nonna hadn't changed her will? The rest of the family wouldn't be pleased to hear that.

  "Nonna, you'll be around for a good few years yet. Let's have some coffee and we'll decide what needs to be done."

  "You must go to villa Cristina. With Giuseppe Denaro gone, they will double their efforts to take my home."

  "I will do that, too." Elena fended off the avalanche of requests with patience borne of years of practice. "My first call must be to Jacob back in England. To tell him I'll be a few days longer than I thought. He'll need to organise someone to man my stall while I'm away."

  "So, you still don't have a proper job, then? You are still living in sinfulness with this – Jacob?"

  "He's my business partner, Nonna. And the Craft-Collective is doing well, given the state of the economy. Did I tell you that the queen bought one of my scarves when she visited the village?"

  "The queen will see great grandchildren before I do."

  Elena couldn't contain the laughter. A spark of the old Nonna, at last. "Ahh, now there, I have good news for you. Margarita is pregnant again and this time the signs look good for a full-term delivery."

  "Your sister at least is doing her duty. Go, pay your respects to Nonno, then you must visit villa Cristina. I saw him go up there yesterday, driving over my flower beds in his fancy red car. You will tell him to leave me alone."

  Elena rose from her crouch and rolled shoulders stiff from travelling. Cristina appeared as if from nowhere and immediately jumped possessively onto Nonna's lap. Who would take her in if Nonna died?

  "I see you still have Cristina," Elena said as she rooted through a drawer for a new candle. "How old is she now?"

  "Sixty-two." No hesitation in Nonna's reply.

  "She looks well on it." No one ever contradicted Nonna's assertion that Cristina moved in on her wedding day and had been in residence ever since. "We'll have our coffee and then I'll walk up to the villa and have a word with Stefano. I wonder how long it will take him to fritter away the family fortune. Eh?"

  "Stefano? When does that wastrel ever show up here? No, it was Dario I saw. He sent the letter. He's the one who wants my house."

  "Nonna." Elena swallowed down the surge of emotion at the mention of the name she'd last heard at the end of a lunchtime news bulletin.

  Dario Denaro, heir to the Denaro fortune was tragically killed today when the vehicle he was travelling in left the road on the Khardung La Pass.

  "Dario is dead. Five months ago, in India. It was on the news. Remember?"

  Nonna's face set. "Well, he's back. Back from the dead so he can drive me to my own death."

  Cristina chose that moment to leap from her comfortable lap and streak through the open door to the garden. Elena turned to open the crockery cupboard, busying herself with finding cups and locating spoons. Breathing through the shock of hearing news she'd wished so desperately to be true.

  Mistaken identity. Nonna's eyes were not what they used to be. Stefano did look very much like his older brother.

  "So, you will go?"

  "Yes, Nonna. I will go." The fine hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Whether from the thought of meeting a ghost, or having to stand face to face with the man himself, she couldn't tell. Both prospects were equally as frightening.

  * * * *

  How many times had she made this journey? Cristina picked her way along the stony goat-path, eyes set firmly on the softly muted stones of the ruined temple that sat near the top of the mountain. The thrill of catching the first glimpse of her beloved had only grown stronger over the years.

  He sat, as always, on the edge of the outer wall, his gaze fixed on the ancient path used now only by the adventurous and the locals. To his right a double-edged sword, on his hands gloves still stained with the blood of his last battle.

  A weary prisoner of his own remorse.

  She broke cover and leaped onto the tumbled stones. He turned away and spoke words he'd repeated too many times to count.

  Tell me you forgive me, Cristina. I cannot look at you unless you forgive me.

  I forgave you long ago my love. How many more times do I need to say it?

  Until the sea below us runs dry and this mountain crumbles to dust.

  By Jupiter, the man was stubborn!

  Bernardo. You are forgiven. Look at me, my love.

  His shoulders tightened. How can I look at you when I don't see you?

  I'm here, my love. Trapped in this furry form but here all the same.

  "I cannot bear to see what I did to you."

  But I have news, Bernardo. And this time, the signs are good.

  You really believe you can make a Denaro and a Marcante fall in love?

  Have I ever stopped trying?

  If you'd come with me that night, none of this would have happened.

  If you'd waited for me, none of this would have happened.

  What kept you? Him?

  There was no other. I was having my hair dressed. Making myself beautiful for you.

  So near, she could reach out a paw and touch him, yet as far away as the stars in the heavens. They would meet and sometimes feel the joy of reunion, other times relive the old hurts. Then always sit here together on the warming stone, staring at the curve of the horizon. He lost to his grief and remorse, she increasingly wanting to scratch some sense into him.

  The sun would rise for the start of another day and Bernardo would fall silent, leaving her to pick her way back down the mountain to whatever place she currently called home.

  And tomorrow they would do this all over again.

  When the last streaks of orange gave way to the sparkling blue of the sea, Princess Cristina leaped silently from the stones and crossed the veil separating the seen from the unseen.

  Back in the land of the living, she descended to her name-sake villa and turned her mind to more practical matters. Dario was no longer the lanky youth with the cheeky grin who'd pretended indifference to the adoring looks and quiet devotion of the young girl who visited the bungalow at the end of the drive.

  Indifference, until that last magical summer before they stepped over into adulthood and different lives.

  Twenty years separated the furtive teenage lovers from the sophisticated divorcee and the free spirit. Did the flame still flicker, somewhere in the depths of their hearts, or had it been extinguished by life?

  Cristina walked the length of the wall and jumped down into the sunken
garden. The formal pool reflected back the shape of a cat, white with black-tipped ears, but if she stared long enough, the image would change and the memories flood back. Black hair hanging wild and free. Eyes the colour of a stormy sky. Full lips, the hint of a knowing smile.

  And behind her, Bernardo lifting her hair, bending to kiss her nape. Fingers curling around the curve of her shoulder.

  Cristina dipped a paw into the water, breaking the surface into a jigsaw of broken images.

  How did she make Dario and Elena feel her desperation?

  Buy the Cursed Princess at amazon.com and all other amazon outlets that sell kindle books.

  Copyright © 2005 Alexandra Marell

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written consent of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. The right of Alexandra Marell to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  First published 2005 Second Edition 2007 This edition 2012.

  All characters in this publication are purely fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Edited by Anne McCraw

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Chapter 1