The Temptation of Gracie

by Santa Montefiore

  Gaia and Damiana were surprised to discover that Donato, the wild and flirtatious Lothario who had kissed all the girls in town, had not only kissed Gracie, but apparently fallen in love with her. He appeared at La Colomba with a large bouquet of flowers the day after the wedding only to be told by Gaia that Gracie was working and couldn’t be disturbed. On the Sunday Uncle Hans arrived back having successfully sold a fake Renoir to an American collector. He was in high spirits. He had bought Gracie two new dresses from Paris and letters from her mother and Joseph, who he had seen in London. When Donato turned up at the house every evening the following week with more flowers, Gaia told him that Signor Hollingsworth was now home and working Gracie to the bone. Donato would have to wait.

  When Gaia asked Gracie about Donato, Gracie was frank. ‘He’s a good kisser,’ she replied with a grin. ‘But so he should be with all the experience he has gleaned over the years.’

  ‘But do you love him?’ Gaia asked.

  ‘No,’ Gracie replied.

  ‘I think he loves you.’

  ‘Perhaps he thinks he does, but he doesn’t. I’m another conquest, that’s all. If I chased him round the piazza he’d soon tire of me.’

  ‘So wise for one so young,’ said Gaia with a frown. ‘But will you go out with him?’

  ‘When I have a free evening, perhaps,’ Gracie replied with a shrug. ‘But while my uncle is home, I am very busy.’

  It was a month before Uncle Hans went away again. Rutger continued to work in the studio while Gracie toiled in her uncle’s, behind the door that always had to be locked. In the evenings she went to town with Gaia, who had begun a tentative romance with a young man called Filippo Pieri, and saw Donato. They held hands in the shadow of the castle, and Gracie gazed up at it and wondered whether she’d ever lay eyes on Count Bassanelli again. She pressed Donato for details about the Montefosco family and he was only too happy to indulge her curiosity with elaborate stories of their grand house parties. He promised to take her up to the castle in the autumn when the countess had returned to Rome. By the light in her eyes he could see that a private tour of the castle grounds interested her more than bunches of flowers ever could. However, in spite of the promise of wandering the gardens of Count Bassanelli’s home, Gracie remained just out of reach to the man who was used to having any woman he wanted.

  At the end of the summer Gracie’s grandmother died. Uncle Hans informed her gravely and by the stricken look on his face, his mother’s death had cut him deeply. They returned to London for the funeral, a sad, subdued pair. As the plane descended through thick cloud Gracie watched London come into view through the round window. In spite of the season, the city was damp and miserable in the rain, and looked even more so after the vibrant colours of Italy. For the first time in her life Gracie knew what it was to lose someone she loved. Her father didn’t count, because she had never known him. But her grandmother had been a constant, reassuring presence throughout her childhood. With a dry sense of humour and an eagerness to avoid being a burden to her daughter, she had involved herself in the raising of her grandchildren and Gracie had never imagined she wouldn’t be there, nodding off in her chair after tea. She realised now that by moving to Italy she had not only gained a new life but had lost her old life in the process. It would have been impossible not to – she couldn’t have lived in both places simultaneously even if she had wanted to.

  Italy had changed her and she no longer fitted the small terraced house where she had grown up. She no longer knew her brother Joseph and she understood now her mother’s sacrifice. She didn’t feel guilty for leaving them, for life is about change and nothing stays the same, but she felt sad that her grandmother had ceased to be a part of her life and now it was too late. That moment of awakening at the wedding had touched Gracie’s heart and opened it to love, but with love always comes the pain of loss. As the plane descended into Heathrow Gracie experienced loss for the first time and sobbed quietly into her handkerchief.

  After the funeral Gracie spent time with her mother and Joseph while Uncle Hans met important people from the art world in London’s West End. The house felt very different without Oma in it, but they put on brave faces and Gracie cheered them up with tales of Italy. Her mother loved listening to Gracie’s stories and Gracie delighted in seeing the smile on her face as she told them. Joseph now worked in a hardware shop and received a small wage. He was dating a local girl and Greet told Gracie in confidence that he would probably marry her. Greet sewed and was grateful for the money her brother sent her every month. When Gracie thought of Uncle Hans’s wealth she was surprised he didn’t send them more. He could have bought his sister a palace with the money he earned from his forgeries. But Greet didn’t complain. She wasn’t used to luxuries, she said.

  Gracie, on the other hand, was. She found her old home stifling and was uncomfortable wearing the fine clothes Uncle Hans had bought her in front of her mother, who never had time to make dresses for herself. She would have happily given her mother her dresses on leaving had Greet lived the sort of life that required stylish clothes. But she didn’t and they would have languished in her cupboard being eaten by moths, so Gracie packed them for Italy and gave her a couple of cardigans instead.

  ‘Why don’t you and Joseph come and live with Uncle Hans now?’ Gracie asked on the last evening as they were in the kitchen drying their soup bowls. She wondered why they hadn’t all moved out there years ago. There was certainly room in La Colomba for the lot of them.

  Her mother smiled at her sadly. ‘I would love to, but my home is here,’ she said quietly.

  ‘But it rains all the time in London. Tuscany is like heaven.’

  ‘This is the house your father bought for us,’ she explained. ‘It is the home he would have come back to at the end of the war had he lived. It is all I have left of him, Gracie.’ She swept her weary eyes over the shabby walls and dingy furniture. ‘And I like it,’ she added firmly. ‘I like it just the way it is.’

  ‘I wish I had known him,’ Gracie said suddenly.

  Her mother’s smile faltered. ‘I wish you had too, Gracie. He would have been very proud of you. I think he would have wanted more for Joseph, but he is young. There is time for him to find a better job.’

  ‘Are you going to be all right without Oma?’ Gracie asked.

  ‘I am stronger than I look. I will be fine. You mustn’t worry about me. We survived the war, didn’t we?’

  At the mention of the war Gracie thought of Uncle Hans. He had never talked about those years when he had lived in Amsterdam. ‘What did Uncle Hans do during the war?’

  Greet’s face seemed to snap shut and she began to wipe the sink and surrounding wood with vigour. ‘Well, as you know Holland was occupied by the Germans in 1940. Hans did the best he could under the occupation. He did what he had to in order to survive. He restored and sold paintings, just like he had always done. As soon as the war was over he moved to Italy. He was accused of collaborating with the Germans, selling them works of art, and would have been in trouble had he not left. Of course he restored and sold paintings to the Germans. How could it be avoided?’ Gracie wondered whether he had sold them fakes. She hoped he had.

  Gracie returned to Tuscany in the middle of September. The autumn sun was still hot, but it hung lower in the sky, turning the harvested fields a tender pinky-orange, making everything about the land look soft. Gracie’s happiness at returning to the country that had claimed her heart was marred by the sorrow of having left her mother. She wished Uncle Hans had insisted she come and live with them at La Colomba. She didn’t understand why he hadn’t. Gracie hated thinking of her grieving for her mother with only Joseph to take care of her.

  In Colladoro life continued from where it had left off, but something inside Gracie had shifted. Just knowing that Oma was no longer in the world filled her heart with a heavy sorrow. She regretted not visiting her more. She regretted not talking to her more. She regretted not telling her she loved her. It was too l
ate now. All she could do was whisper her love into her pillow at night and hope that Oma heard her, wherever she was.

  Gracie spent time with Donato. She managed to enjoy evenings with her friends in town and resumed her work. She forgot about Donato’s offer of a private tour around the gardens of the castle, not because she was no longer curious, but because time had assuaged the urgency and reality had eclipsed the fantasy. She enjoyed being with Donato. She didn’t love him but she was fond of him and that was ample for the girl who was neither rich nor beautiful nor, in her opinion, special. Damiana had married a farmer’s son from across the valley and she now worked on the family farm instead of at the castle, which she much preferred because there was greater opportunity to slack off, her new husband being indulgent and enamoured. However, she no longer had tales to tell of the countess and her flamboyant son so the blood supply of information from the castle to Gracie’s heart was duly cut off and, as a consequence, her ardour waned. Together with Gaia and Filippo the six of them were a tight group of closely bonded friends. Gracie rarely raised her eyes to the castle walls and dreamed and, if she caught herself doing so, she swiftly reined in her thoughts.

  In the spring of the following year Rutger studied a Monet she had painted. It took him three days to test it for a forgery. When he had reached his conclusion, he discussed it with Uncle Hans, falling easily into Dutch. Gracie listened, half hoping that they would declare the painting not good enough so she would not have to become the criminal her uncle wanted her to become.

  At last Hans turned to Gracie and nodded. ‘You are ready,’ he said. ‘It is time to launch your work into the world.’

  Chapter 9

  Convincing a buyer that a painting is genuine is far more complicated than the actual painting of it. It is one thing to mimic the style of a painter long dead but quite another to convince the contemporary mind of its validity. This is where Hans Hollingsworth applied his genius. He worked alone, found his own middle men and stage-managed the swindles himself. He also pocketed all the money. A master storyteller, he invented credible stories to give his forgeries the solid provenance required to hoodwink the buyer. With the charm of a boulevardier and the steady gaze of an honest man he had earned the reputation of being both decent and trustworthy. His English surname and sheen of wealth gave him a certain respectability, not to mention the contacts high up in the art world which he had cultivated over the years. Hans Hollingsworth was the perfect front man for a very dubious business.

  Gracie learned that Uncle Hans had an office in the centre of Paris where he would meet clients and representatives of clients. He never brought anyone to La Colomba. Now he went to Paris with Gracie’s painting and began negotiations with a client in Texas who was an avid collector of French Impressionist painting. While her uncle was busy trying to sell her forgery, Gracie returned to Rutger’s studio, helping him restore pictures.

  Then one day in June Rutger invited Gracie to accompany him on a special assignment. Countess Bassanelli’s father had died, leaving her half of his art collection. It had, up until now, been stored in Rome, gathering dust. The countess had decided to bring it to the castle to be catalogued and valued. The paintings in need of restoration would be sent to La Colomba for Rutger and Gracie to work on. The fantasies which Gracie had repressed now shifted sharply into focus.

  Gracie sat in the passenger seat of Rutger’s small car while Rutger drove up the track towards town. On either side fields of sunflowers turned their pretty faces to the sun and birds frolicked in the cypress trees. The sky was the brightest indigo blue and Gracie’s heart grew buoyant at the thought of visiting the count’s home. She didn’t imagine he would be there; she didn’t dare hope.

  They drove through the town to the imposing iron gates at the top, gates that Gracie had so often dreamed of entering. The paradise she had imagined was only too real. Donato’s father saw them from the lawn where he was mowing and hurried down to open the gates, his red face sweating beneath his cap. Somewhere among the gardenia and oleander was Donato, but Gracie was too busy gazing about her in wonder to think of him. This was the realm of fantasy where Donato had no place.

  The car made its way slowly up the slope, over stripy shadows which the avenue of cypress trees threw across the drive, and on towards the castle that peeped enticingly out from between them. At last they reached the summit and all the images Gracie had conjured up in her mind paled in comparison to the real castle. Its magnificence took Gracie’s breath away, not because it was big or grand, in fact, it was neither, but because of its age and quiet dignity, which reminded her of a cherished grandfather. There was something very wise about its expression, like an old farmer whose wrinkled, gentle face reveals a deep understanding of the magic that lies beneath the land. It was built in the Tuscan stone which is common throughout the land, but these walls had weathered over the centuries to the colour of milky tea and looked almost battle-weary, as if they had witnessed dramatic things before this tranquil retirement. The windows were framed by sage-green shutters and placed either side of the big door were enormous terracotta pots of purple bougainvillea, heaped high and cascading over the sides in an extravagant overflow. The beauty of the place delighted Gracie, whose English heart would never tire of such splendour.

  A short, grey-haired man in a black Nehru jacket greeted them with a warm smile and showed them into the hall. It was cool, with high ceilings and putty-coloured walls, and Gracie immediately smelt lavender and looked around until she found the source, huge urns full of it, like purple grain, giving off an exquisite perfume. They followed the man through the castle and Gracie couldn’t help but peep inquisitively through open doors which gave tempting glimpses into rooms steeped in history and heritage and comfort. They emerged into the light and were led across a lawn to a terrace where a woman rose from a big wicker sofa to greet them. Gracie knew instantly that she was the countess. In a wide-brimmed sunhat, floral blouse tucked into wide-legged trousers and white espadrilles on her feet, she was elegant and understated. Her dark hair was tied into a chignon at the back of her neck and, as Gracie approached, she saw that the countess was not beautiful in an obvious way, but handsome with an aquiline nose, a dark, penetrating gaze and a sensual mouth that smiled with the confidence of a woman sure of her appeal.

  The countess put out her hand. ‘Very nice to meet you, Signor Janssen,’ she said, and the way she spoke Italian was soft and melodious, garnished with a timbre of laughter. ‘My father spoke highly of you,’ she said to Rutger and Gracie could tell that she was the sort of woman who couldn’t help but flirt with everyone. ‘And who is this?’ she asked, putting out a graceful hand to shake Gracie’s.

  ‘May I present Hans Hollingsworth’s niece, Gracie,’ Rutger replied.

  Those dark eyes scrutinised her and Gracie felt like a mouse before a bird of prey. ‘And you work for your uncle?’ the countess probed.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ Gracie replied.

  ‘And you are not Italian?’

  ‘English. I have been here seven years, Contessa,’ she said.

  ‘Congratulations. You speak Italian beautifully. I’m glad you brought an assistant, Signor Janssen,’ said the countess to Rutger. ‘My father left me a considerable number of paintings. Come, let me show you.’

  Accompanied by the smiling retainer, they followed the countess, who seemed to float over the grass, to the other side of the lawn. They passed a medieval tower that looked like it had been built even earlier than the castle. It stood on the crest of the hill beside a giant cedar tree. ‘That is where my son paints,’ she told them and the mention of Tancredi gave Gracie a jolt. ‘The tower was built in the thirteenth century,’ she went on and Gracie longed for her to tell them less about the tower and more about her son. But as they walked down the grassy path towards an old chapel the countess was only too eager to show off her knowledge of history.

  The retainer opened the heavy door with a rusty key. ‘This used to be the family chapel,’ the
countess informed them, stepping inside. ‘But it has not been used for a hundred years. It is a good place to store my father’s paintings.’ Indeed, it was. Stacked against every wall were frames hidden under white sheets. Gracie couldn’t wait to see what treasures lay beneath.

  ‘Bagwis will bring you water and lemonade. There is a lavatory through that door,’ she said, pointing to a small wooden exit to the right of the nave. ‘Is there anything else you need?’

  ‘We shall start at once,’ said Rutger, putting his bag on one of the chairs randomly placed around the chapel.

  ‘Very good. If you need me, you only have to shout, or ask Bagwis, and when you feel like a break, please, enjoy the gardens. I imagine it will take you a few days to go through all the paintings.’

  ‘At least,’ said Rutger, running his eyes around the room.

  The countess departed, leaving a lingering scent of tuberose, and Gracie and Rutger took the sheet off the first painting and turned it into the light. It was a portrait of a girl in a green dress by Johannes Cornelisz Verspronck, a seventeenth-century Dutch painter. Gracie gasped. ‘This is stunning!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘As you know, Verspronck was a Golden Age Dutch portraitist, probably a pupil of Frans Hals,’ Rutger said. ‘He painted mostly Catholic sitters. You see how delicately he painted the lace on the dress. It is so fine, so intricate, you can almost touch it.’