The Temptation of Gracie

by Santa Montefiore

‘I could, but I won’t. I have got away with it for twenty years. There is no reason why anyone is going to catch me now.’

  ‘And you want me to . . .’ Gracie could barely say the word.

  ‘Yes, you are going to forge paintings and I am going to teach you how to do it. Rutger has prepared you but now I will take you to the next step.’ He registered his niece’s anxiety and changed his tone, as he had done that day in the kitchen when his sister Greet had tried to dissuade him from taking her daughter away. ‘You have the potential to be brilliant, Gracie. I recognised that quality in you, which is why I brought you here. I knew you had the skill and the temperament to be a master forger. Who knows, you may one day make more money than I do.’

  ‘But I can’t,’ she said in a small voice. ‘I mean, it’s breaking the law.’

  Uncle Hans smiled in the calm, deliberate way he did when he wanted to manipulate someone into doing his bidding. ‘Do you want to travel the world, Gracie? Do you want to meet the most creative and dazzling minds? Do you want to live in a world that is exciting and opulent? Of course you do, because you are like me, Gracie. We are the same. I was once a child from a home like yours, with little money and no prospects, but I could paint. I could paint well and I had ambition. I rescued myself and made my fortune. Now I have rescued you from a life of toil and struggle, from the life you would have had had I not brought you here and given you the finest education that money cannot buy. No, money cannot buy you the knowledge that Rutger has given you, because Rutger is priceless. Do you see? I have given you something beyond value, as I promised your mother I would. We will work together, you and I, and you will help build my empire.’

  ‘But I could go to prison if I’m caught?’

  He shrugged and chuckled as if the idea of being caught was ridiculous. ‘But you won’t.’

  ‘Can’t I just continue to restore and work with Rutger?’ She looked to Rutger for support, but Rutger shook his head solemnly. He had known all along what Hans’s intentions were. Indeed, he had been key in their conception.

  ‘There is so much more you can do,’ he said.

  ‘I’m afraid.’

  Uncle Hans put a firm hand on her shoulder and she felt the weight of it even in the pit of her belly. ‘I have given you a roof over your head, an education beyond the wildest dreams of even the most talented artists, clothed you, fed you and looked after your every need. Have I not done enough?’ Gracie stared at him in bewilderment. Uncle Hans lowered his gaze, downcast. He shrugged in defeat and removed his hand. ‘Perhaps I have fooled myself into believing I have managed to fill your father’s footsteps. Or perhaps you know only of taking and nothing of gratitude—’

  ‘No, you’ve given me so much,’ Gracie cut in, desperate to show her appreciation. ‘This is more than a girl like me could ever have wished for.’

  ‘Good, so we understand each other,’ said Hans. Gracie nodded. She realised now that she could not deny Uncle Hans anything. Had he asked for her right arm, she knew, as she stood before him like a mouse before a snake, that she would have given it without hesitation, and offered him her left. How could she refuse after everything he had done for her? He was more than an uncle, he was the father she had never had, and she loved him. In any case, what was the alternative? She didn’t want to return to Camden, to a life of drudgery and poverty. She had flown beyond that now and seen new horizons. She did not want to look back.

  ‘If you really believe you can teach me how to paint a forgery that will dupe the art world, I am your willing student,’ she said and the smile that transformed her uncle’s face melted her fears and the horrifying prospect of committing a crime.

  ‘Then we have work to do,’ he said and Rutger nodded in agreement.

  ‘You have graduated from the School of Rutger,’ said Rutger with a wry smile. ‘Now you are to commence at the higher School of Hollingsworth. My job is done.’

  ‘I shall miss your lessons,’ she said and the old man patted her arm.

  ‘My final piece of advice,’ he said. ‘There is always more to learn. Just when you think you know it all you find there is another horizon. Don’t ever forget that.’

  And so, under the guidance of a cunning and skilled forger, Gracie learned to paint with the intention of deceiving. She didn’t consider the consequences of being found out. She was young, she was reckless and she was trusting of her uncle. The most thrilling part was in discovering how very good she was at her new craft.

  Art forgery was not the only secret Uncle Hans Hollingsworth asked Gracie to keep. The other was not one he would have asked her to keep by choice and it was certainly not one he would have ever talked about. But a few nights after he had told Gracie about his true occupation, she had been gripped by a terrible hunger in the middle of the night and decided to sneak down to the kitchen for something to eat. She didn’t want to wait until morning and besides, excitement had made her restless. The world was now opening up to her and filling with endless possibility. She tiptoed down the wooden staircase and across the flagstone floor. The old grandfather clock ticked loudly in the hall. As she approached the kitchen she sensed someone there. It wasn’t the usual patter of mice, but a breathing sound, staggered and sharp. The lights weren’t on, but moonlight shone through the window, flooding the villa with an eerie silver radiance. She wondered what on earth it could be making this panting noise.

  She padded in on her bare feet. There, in his dressing gown, with his back to the wall, was Uncle Hans. On his knees in front of him was Guido Vanni, one of the servants. Gracie stared at Uncle Hans. His eyes were closed and his mouth was agape and he was panting like a dog. Sweat glistened on his forehead and nose and the veins stood out on his neck. Guido Vanni’s head was moving but Gracie wasn’t quite sure what he was doing. She knew, however, that it was something she shouldn’t be witnessing. Just as she realised she had caught her uncle doing something unsavoury, he opened his eyes. He stared at her and for the first time she saw horror in his bulging, glistening eyes. Gracie was frozen with panic. They seemed to stare at each other for an agonisingly long moment. Guido Vanni continued oblivious. Then Gracie managed to move her feet and hurry away.

  How she wished she hadn’t seen him. How she longed to turn back the clock. How she hated the sight of it re-enacted every time she closed her eyes. And yet, the following morning, when Uncle Hans appeared beneath the fig tree for breakfast, it was as if nothing had happened. He knew, as she did, that his secret was safe with her.

  Chapter 8

  The first time Gracie set eyes on Count Tancredi Bassanelli was in the summer of 1961. The whole town had gathered in the streets to witness the wedding of Tancredi’s sister, Costanza, who was marrying a wealthy Austrian in the local church of Maria Maddalena, which dominated the Piazza della Chiesa with its tall bell tower and grand portone as it had done for hundreds of years.

  The day could not have been more splendid. The bright green fields of spring had mellowed to softer hues of gold and the air was saturated with the floral scents of jasmine and rose. Sunshine blazed in a bright blue sky and birds soared overhead on a gentle breeze. Red geraniums shimmered on windowsills and purple bougainvillea fluttered on the ancient stone walls like clusters of exotic butterflies. Gracie had been in Tuscany now for six years. She had only been home to see her family once, and had felt so out of sorts there, among the childish things she had since outgrown, that she had been only too ready to return to Italy. Now she stood beside Gaia and Damiana in a pretty white dress Uncle Hans had bought her from Venice to watch the guests arriving in their finery, and she felt as much part of the place as they did.

  Damiana, who was notoriously catty, enjoyed criticising the ladies’ clothes as they walked across the cobbled piazza to the church of Maria Maddalena. ‘She should not have chosen that colour,’ she said about a woman in an orange dress. ‘It is very unforgiving and makes her look ill. And those shoes,’ she sneered about another. ‘Really, she is a young woman not a grandmother!
’ But Gaia and Gracie thought the orange dress extremely glamorous and the shoes very elegant and laughed at Damiana’s observations, which they suspected were largely made for their amusement.

  Gracie could barely stand still for the excitement. There were many festivals which punctuated the year with pageantry and partying, and local weddings, which were always entertaining to watch, but nothing had ever happened in Gracie’s experience that was as thrilling as the Montefosco wedding. It was like a royal wedding and although Damiana was enjoying criticising it, Gracie knew she was as electrified as everybody else.

  After the guests arrived the families of the bride and groom were driven right to the steps of the church in carriages drawn by white horses. The ancient carriages, which Damiana told Gracie had been in the family for hundreds of years, were adorned with so many flowers one could barely see the people inside them.

  It was then that Gaia grabbed Gracie’s arm. ‘There he is!’ she exclaimed as a clamour of clapping arose from the crowd. Gracie didn’t need to ask which one he was. He stood out from the other members of his family on account of his dashing good looks. He was tall, broad-shouldered with dark, wavy hair that bounced a little as he moved. His face was wide, handsome and when he smiled at the crowd Gracie felt a sudden jolt as if she had been struck in the heart. ‘Isn’t he delicious!’ Damiana groaned. ‘How lucky is the girl who wins him.’ Gracie said nothing. She just stared with her lips parted, not wanting to miss a moment.

  Count Bassanelli turned and lifted down a young girl from the carriage. She must have only been about twelve, but Gracie wished that she were that child, in his arms, grinning at him and saying something to which he responded with an affectionate chuckle. He took her hand and they walked up the steps together towards the ushers who stood on either side of the big doors. Count Bassanelli wore the same pale grey suit as the other men and yet his jacket seemed to be more defined at the waist and sharper at the shoulders. Perhaps it was just the way he walked, but to Gracie he was like a superior species of man. She barely blinked until he had been swallowed into the dark gullet of the church. She couldn’t wait for the ceremony to end and for him to walk out again so she could get another glimpse.

  Ten minutes later the bride arrived with bridesmaids in white dresses, their long hair adorned with little white flowers and pearls. Gracie thought they looked like a herd of lovely swans as they fussed about their dresses and the bride’s long train. Again the clapping rose into a crescendo and the bride smiled sweetly behind her veil and waved. ‘What a beautiful family,’ said Gracie.

  ‘They are very blessed,’ said Gaia.

  ‘I think the bride’s nose is a little on the pointy side,’ Damiana added and Gracie smiled at her eagerness to see fault where there really was none.

  ‘I think only beautiful women see fault in other beautiful women,’ Gracie said.

  ‘Are you saying that, because you’re not beautiful, you don’t?’ Damiana retorted. Then, realising that she might have caused offence, she added quickly, ‘You have a sweet face, Gracie, and beautiful eyes. There are many kinds of beauty.’

  Gaia was mortified that Damiana might have hurt her friend’s feelings. ‘No, Gracie, you don’t criticise other women because you’re kind, that’s why you have a nice face and Damiana has a mean face.’ She put her arm around Gracie’s shoulders. ‘Damiana here is a witch. I dread to think what she says about us behind our backs!’ They laughed together and Gracie was not in the least offended for Damiana had only stated the truth. They continued to chat until the church bells rang out and the big doors opened and the bride and groom stepped into the sunshine.

  But Gracie’s eyes were not on the bride and groom. She was anxiously standing on tiptoes and straining her neck to see the count. When he emerged at last it was as if the entire town stilled around her. Only he moved, elegantly, down the steps, smiling and clapping, white teeth bright against brown skin, and Gracie was sure she could hear him laugh.

  Then the world moved again and the guests threw rose petals at the couple who posed for photographs before climbing into a carriage to be driven up to the castle. Gracie watched the count until he too disappeared up the street with the child by his side, his arm around her, his head inclined to hear what she had to say. Gracie put a hand on her heart and sighed. How would it feel to be loved by him? she mused. But then she laughed at the absurdity of such a thought. A man like him would never look twice at a girl like her. He wouldn’t even notice she was on the planet.

  There was a party that night in the Piazza della Chiesa, courtesy of the Castello Montefosco. The surrounding houses were lit with strings of fairy lights that twinkled in the dusk. Long tables were laid out with bottles of wine and a banquet of ham and meat, pasta and vegetables, and the smoke from the barbecues attracted stray dogs which trotted out of the shadows to join the feast. A band played heartily and there was dancing. Gracie loved to dance. She let go of her longing and allowed the wine and the music and the heat to take her over. She danced with anyone who invited her, both young men and old, and kicked off her shoes to skip more easily over the cobbles. She laughed with abandon, flirted in a way she had never previously flirted, for her heart had been touched and now it ached for love.

  She wanted to be held, to be kissed, to be cherished and although she was realistic enough to know that a man like Count Bassanelli was beyond her reach, she did not believe it naive to hope that someone was out there somewhere for her. For the first time in her life she wanted to be desired. For the first time since arriving in Tuscany as a girl, she looked at the men with the eyes of a woman. The alcohol gave her a confidence she would never have otherwise had, her yearning for the count a recklessness which was out of character. She allowed Donato to hold her close, to press his cheek against hers and to brush his lips across her cheek. She didn’t care that he flirted with all the pretty girls, in fact, she was flattered that he was now flirting with her.

  When he took her hand and led her at a run down a dark alley, far from the music and the dancing, she didn’t resist. She wanted him to want her. He pushed her against a wall and pressed his lips to hers and she closed her eyes and parted hers so that he could kiss her more fully. She hadn’t the experience to judge whether it was a good or a bad kiss, but the tingling feeling of awakening that careered through her whole body was sublime. He wound his arms around her and she slipped her hands beneath his jacket to feel his back through his shirt, which was damp with sweat. He kissed her neck and the bristles against her skin caused her to laugh out loud with pleasure and nervousness, for the strange feelings now building in her belly were new and alarming. Donato cupped her breast and the sensation was exquisite. He traced his thumb over the thin fabric of her summer dress and fell on her mouth again, kissing her deeply. Her mind drifted to the count and suddenly it was his thumb on her nipple and his lips on hers and the sublime sensation turned into something far more intense. She heard herself moan, which woke her abruptly from her reverie. She gasped in horror and pushed Donato away. He looked at her with dark eyes, feverish with lust.

  ‘You are driving me crazy, Gracie!’ he said, putting his hands on her waist. ‘Was that your first kiss?’ She nodded and he grinned. ‘How was it?’ But he didn’t wait for her reply. He kissed her again, more softly this time, and it didn’t matter to Gracie that he didn’t love her, that she didn’t love him. She loved the way he kissed her and, right now, that was all that mattered.

  Donato walked Gracie home as the pinky-orange light of dawn glowed in the eastern sky. He held her hand, pulling her close to kiss her every now and again, which made her laugh. ‘You’re a desirable woman, Gracie,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what happened to you tonight, but you changed. You became a butterfly.’

  ‘Or a swan,’ she replied with a wry smile.

  ‘Or a swan,’ he agreed, failing to detect the cynical tone in her voice. ‘I cannot stop kissing you.’ He laughed, kissing her again.

  ‘It was the wine, the music, th
e summer heat. The flowers, the beauty . . .’ She paused and savoured the tender play of light on the gently undulating hills and the wisps of mist that lingered in the valleys. ‘It’s just too beautiful,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Too beautiful sometimes to bear.’ And she thought of the count and wished he were holding her hand and kissing her instead of Donato.

  ‘Then you should drink more wine, dance to more music and enjoy the beauty more often.’ He smiled at her and she saw a sweetness in it that she hadn’t noticed before. ‘And kiss me more often,’ he added huskily.

  Gracie laughed. ‘It’s nice, kissing.’

  ‘Only with me,’ he replied.

  ‘Are there any girls here who you haven’t kissed?’ she asked.

  He looked offended and put his hand on his chest. ‘I only want to kiss you.’

  ‘For now,’ she added. ‘And for now, I only want to kiss you.’

  He frowned at her candour. ‘You are a strange woman, Gracie. A mysterious woman. I like that.’

  They reached La Colomba. The emerging light was turning the garden to gold and birds heralded the awakening day in the umbrella pines. Gracie thought of Gaia asleep in her bedroom on the top floor. She wondered whether she knew what Gracie had got up to with Donato. She wondered whether the whole town knew. ‘Thank you for walking me home,’ she said and kissed him.

  ‘Is your uncle home?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s away travelling.’

  ‘Good.’ Donato pulled her against him and pressed his lips to hers.

  She gently pushed him away. ‘I must go. I have to work tomorrow.’

  ‘It’s already tomorrow.’

  ‘Then I need to get some sleep.’

  ‘You even work on a weekend?’ he asked, astonished.

  ‘There are many paintings to be restored.’

  ‘Then I will let you go, little butterfly.’ And he reluctantly dropped her hand.

  Gracie was too agitated to sleep. She waited for Donato to leave and then she stole down to the pagoda where she lay on one of the reclining chairs and watched the garden slowly awaken. She thought of the wedding party up at the castle. It was strange to think of Count Bassanelli there, breathing the same air as her, watching the same dawn. If he looked over the crenellated wall he’d see La Colomba. If he looked through binoculars, he’d see her. Yet, he didn’t know she existed and probably never would. Maybe she’d end up marrying a man like Donato and be content with that. She’d always remember the first time she’d set eyes on Count Bassanelli and lost her heart. Perhaps she’d tell her daughters one day and they’d laugh at her romantic nature. But she would always count herself lucky that she could remember the very moment she had first learned about love.