The Temptation of Gracie

by Santa Montefiore

  ‘It is not a romance,’ said Gracie, lying back on the sun lounger and closing her eyes.

  ‘Will it become one, do you think?’ Jonas asked, stretched out on the lounger in a pair of trunks, legs crossed at the ankles, a cigarette smouldering between elegant fingers.

  ‘No,’ Gracie stated firmly.

  ‘Well, I did say he’s dull.’

  ‘He’s not dull,’ Gracie explained. ‘He’s more interesting than you’d imagine just by looking at him.’

  ‘I don’t really look at him, darling,’ said Jonas with a grin. ‘Really, he’s not worth looking at. But if you say he’s interesting, I’ll take your word for it. It takes all sorts to turn the world and, as I’ve already told you, you are a perfect match on the food chain.’

  ‘Oh, you and your food chain!’ Hans huffed. ‘You talk so much rubbish for a man who likes to think he’s of superior intelligence!’

  ‘Shhhh!’ hissed Gracie. ‘I’m trying to relax here. Just be nice to each other for once.’

  ‘I will be nice to Hansworthy for you, Gracie, and only for you,’ said Jonas.

  ‘It is not in your nature, Jonas dear,’ said Hans.

  Gracie laughed. ‘Pierre thinks you’re in love with me, Jonas,’ she said. She would not have been so bold had she not been tipsy. Sensing an energy passing between the two men she opened her eyes.

  Jonas was looking at Uncle Hans, those lips curling around a secret that now struck Gracie between the eyes. She recalled that night when she had interrupted her uncle in the kitchen with Guido Vanni and her heart gave a sudden lurch. Could it be that the object of Jonas’s affection was, in fact, Uncle Hans?

  ‘Well, he’s right. I do love you, Gracie,’ Jonas replied.

  ‘And I love you too, Jonas,’ said Gracie, pretending she hadn’t seen the look they had just given each other. ‘Why do you want to marry me off, Uncle Hans? If I marry Pierre I’ll live far away and you’ll have to find another restorer. Besides, Rutger is very fond of me and will be sad and lonely on his own.’

  ‘I’m not a fool, Gracie,’ Uncle Hans replied. ‘If you marry Pierre, you will still work for me, only you will move in a sophisticated circle in Paris. Pierre de la Croix comes from a wealthy family of collectors. Did he not tell you?’

  Gracie sat up. ‘No, he didn’t.’

  ‘How do you think I know him?’

  ‘How do you know anybody?’ Gracie replied.

  ‘Touché!’ said Jonas with a chuckle. ‘You know me and I’m no collector.’

  Uncle Hans dismissed Jonas with an irritable shake of his head. ‘Your presence here in this villa is by no means a fait accompli, Mr Blythe,’ he said, before continuing seamlessly, ‘I cultivated Pierre with care and attention and determination. I have sold paintings to his family for years, and his grandmother, who sadly passed away, gave me the task of selling part of her collection when she fell into debt following a bout of uninhibited extravagance. It gave her enough to spend the next ten years being equally reckless with her money.’

  ‘You’ve been set up, Gracie,’ said Jonas. ‘He’s a cynical old bird.’

  ‘Gracie might be a young woman of only twenty-two but she has the wisdom of a much older woman. She knows how I work, don’t you, my dear?’

  ‘I think I do,’ Gracie replied. ‘But I still don’t want to marry Pierre.’

  ‘You will,’ her uncle assured her. ‘You will realise that marriage is not always about love but about alliance.’

  ‘But if you can acquire both why settle for half a man?’ said Jonas sensibly.

  Gracie laughed. ‘Why, indeed?’ She thought of Tancredi who would tick both boxes were she to confide in Uncle Hans.

  ‘You can love just about anyone if you want something from them,’ said Hans.

  Jonas arched an eyebrow. ‘The bigger the desire, the greater the love,’ he said.

  ‘Or you can simply love someone for themselves,’ Gracie added, feeling increasingly drowsy in the sun. ‘I don’t care how much money or status a man has. I want to love a man who loves me back regardless of material things.’

  ‘How romantic you are, darling,’ Jonas gushed. ‘Really, I admire your nobility of spirit. Hansworthy and I are not so pure of heart.’

  ‘I was once pure of heart,’ said Hans. ‘But disappointment tainted my view of the world.’

  Gracie began to doze off. The last thing she heard was Jonas, blowing out a cloud of smoke and adding, almost under his breath, ‘And then you met someone who restored your faith in love, is that not so, Hansworthy?’

  The day before Gracie was due to return to Italy she told Pierre that although she found him gallant and charming and all the things he had promised he would be, she did not reciprocate his feelings. He did not take it well. So convinced was he that with time he could change her mind, he refused to let the matter go. ‘I will come to Tuscany and show you just how determined I am,’ he said as Gracie tried her best to dissuade him. She longed to see Tancredi and she didn’t want Pierre arriving on the scene and making things difficult. She knew Uncle Hans was disappointed, which made her feel guilty. After all, he had given her more than she could ever thank him for. She wished with all her heart that she could please him in another way, but he was intent on finding her a husband who suited him, and he too refused to let the Pierre matter go. He never once threw the accusation of ingratitude at her, but she believed he thought it all the same: the one thing he wanted from her was something she was unwilling to give.

  Jonas was sorry to say goodbye. ‘You must come to Paris,’ he said. ‘The fashion in Paris is divine.’ He embraced her fiercely. ‘Don’t marry Pierre,’ he whispered. ‘You’re much too far above him on the food chain.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘I know what I said and I take it back, which I rarely ever do. Darling, you’re a rabbit and he’s a wolf. He’ll eat you. So would Hansworthy if he wasn’t your uncle!’

  ‘And he won’t eat you?’ she asked, cocking her head to one side and grinning at him mischievously.

  ‘No, because I’ll eat him first!’

  Gracie was so happy to be back at La Colomba. Driving up the dusty track towards the house was like returning into the warm embrace of an old, familiar friend. She glanced up at the hill where the Castello stood bathed in the amber glow of late afternoon and wondered whether Tancredi was there with his eye on the valley below, waiting for her homecoming.

  The villa came into view and there was Rutger in his overalls, patiently anticipating their arrival. Gracie jumped out of the car and threw her arms around him. He chuckled and patted her back awkwardly, for he was not a man comfortable with physical demonstrations of affection. She inhaled the smell of turpentine and oils that clung to his hair and savoured the feeling of being home at last. Gaia hugged her so tightly her feet nearly left the ground, and the other servants discarded their reserve and hugged her too. Everyone talked at once. With all the excitement the quiet, shady villa burst into a light of its own.

  Gracie didn’t have to wait long before she was enfolded in Tancredi’s arms again. On account of the countess filling the castle with guests they had to meet on the remote hillside beside an abandoned farmhouse where they often picnicked. It was a sheltered spot surrounded by golden fields of wheat and striped green plantations of vine. There they sat in the dappled shade of a plane tree with only the birds and crickets to witness their love.

  ‘It has been the slowest month without you,’ he said, tenderly kissing her forehead.

  She leaned against him and sighed with happiness. ‘And for me too,’ she replied. ‘I’ve been counting down the days.’

  ‘Did your uncle find you a suitable man to marry?’ he asked with the nonchalant chuckle of a man who knows he is loved above all others.

  ‘He did, but I’m afraid he doesn’t appeal to me.’

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’ Tancredi asked, enjoying the game.

  ‘He’s not you,’ she said and he squeezed her and kissed her
again.

  ‘What did you tell your uncle?’

  ‘That he is not to my liking. Uncle Hans is not really thinking about me, he’s thinking about cementing relationships that will be good for his business. Pierre de la Croix belongs to a wealthy family of collectors.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Tancredi. ‘Shame we can’t tell him about us, yet.’

  ‘Yet?’

  ‘In time, I will divorce Petronella and marry you. Then we can tell him. I think an alliance with the Montefosco family will please him very much.’

  She smiled, encouraged by the mention of marriage. ‘To Uncle Hans that would be a match made in heaven.’

  ‘And to you?’

  ‘And to me . . .’ she replied softly, hesitating a moment for beneath the gilded fantasy of marriage lay the murky reality of entering a sophisticated, glamorous world in which she did not belong. ‘It would be a match made in heaven too,’ she said to please him. But the truth was she wished they could live like this for ever, meeting in secret, sharing their love with no one but each other.

  ‘Speaking of the Montefoscos,’ he continued, ‘Aunt Livia now considers herself an eminent art collector. She is trying to persuade Mother to exhibit Grandfather’s paintings with her in New York. She has a contact at the Metropolitan Museum of Art who thinks it’s a good idea. The Great Montefosco Collection.’ He laughed. ‘Can you imagine?’

  ‘Of course, I can imagine. It’s a fabulous collection,’ she said. ‘Especially now that the paintings have been cleaned and restored.’

  ‘They will exhibit our fake,’ he said and the idea clearly tickled him because she felt him shiver with pleasure.

  But Gracie did not share his delight. A feeling of unease passed across her heart. The painting she had copied was never intended to stand up to the scrutiny of experts in New York. However, Tancredi was unconcerned.

  ‘It is a silent, passive revenge for me to know that the painting Uncle Bruno will show off at the Metropolitan is a forgery. I don’t need a public humiliation. I know it and that is enough.’

  Gracie hoped the exhibition would never happen.

  Chapter 23

  In the months that followed, Gracie forgot about the exhibition. Tancredi never mentioned it and Gracie assumed that the countess had decided not to lend her half of the Montefosco collection. For certain, Bruno’s half was not likely to be sufficient on its own.

  In December Gracie returned to London for Christmas with her family. It had been a year since her last visit. This time she travelled alone for Hans chose to go to the French Alps to ski. Joseph’s little boy was now nearly four months old and his wife was pregnant with their next child, which everyone hoped would be a girl. Joseph himself had grown fatter. He was no longer the scrawny boy he had been when Gracie had left to live in Italy with Uncle Hans, but a broad-shouldered and sturdy young man who was account manager at a prestigious advertising company and not shy of boasting about it either. He had certainly come up in the world, Gracie thought. As for her mother, Greet looked a little older, a little wearier, a little thinner. Gracie hadn’t seen her for twelve months and in that time, she had aged considerably. However, she insisted she was quite well and thanks to her children and brother she didn’t want for anything. ‘I have modest needs,’ she said. ‘Now I have a grandchild, my cup runneth over. When are you going to marry and have children, Gracie? I didn’t allow Hans to take you to Italy so that he could imprison you in his house and keep you away from potential husbands,’ she grumbled.

  ‘I’m still young,’ Gracie insisted.

  ‘That is debatable,’ said Greet tightly. ‘I was a married mother of two when I was your age. Time flies by and soon you will lose your youth and no man will want you. Mark my words, the best men are being snatched up by the clever girls right now. You will be left with only the dregs.’

  Gracie brushed off her mother’s comments without a care. She knew she wouldn’t be left with the dregs because she already had the best.

  While Gracie was in London she took the opportunity to visit the National Gallery and the Victoria and Albert Museum. She went for walks with her mother around Hyde Park and invited her to tea at Fortnum & Mason, where they ate scones with cream and jam. Joseph managed to get tickets for a West End show and they dined afterwards in a fashionable new restaurant in Soho where the maître d’ knew Joseph and greeted him with much fawning, which put Joseph in an exceedingly good mood for the rest of the evening.

  When Gracie left London for Italy at the beginning of January she was not sorry. She wished she could bring her mother to live at La Colomba because then she’d never have to return to London again. She and Joseph had never been close and their living so long apart had only exacerbated their estrangement. Were it not for her mother Gracie would have no reason to visit London at all.

  Uncle Hans returned to La Colomba at the end of February, having spent a month in Paris following his Christmas break in Chamonix. Yet, in spite of the canvases he had brought with him and the contacts he had made, he wasn’t his usual ebullient self. It was as if he had brought the Paris weather back with him and it hovered over his head in a thick grey cloud, making him morose. It was only when Gracie opened the parcels he had bought her that she realised Jonas had been there too. There were brightly coloured dresses with short skirts and pointed-toe shoes to match, lamb’s wool twinsets and tights, all carefully chosen to best enhance her colouring and figure, as only Jonas could do. However, when she mentioned Jonas’s name Uncle Hans gave a derisory sniff and said, ‘Mr Blythe is like milk that has turned, and there is nothing worse than sour milk.’ Gracie noticed the caustic edge to his humour which hadn’t been there before. It sounded like their friendly teasing had gone too far.

  After that Gracie knew not to bring up Jonas’s name again. She hoped that, whatever had occurred between them, they would work it out and become friends again, not least because she wanted the old Hans back. But as the months passed and Uncle Hans came and went as usual, his humour did not improve.

  Then, in the spring, Tancredi told her that Bruno and the countess were going to show the Montefosco collection after all, in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, the following spring. ‘The whole collection?’ Gracie asked, hoping that the Baroque painting she had forged would not be included.

  ‘The whole collection,’ Tancredi replied. Then he smiled. ‘Makes me happy to think of smug Bruno showing off a forgery.’

  ‘You aren’t worried that someone will notice?’ Gracie asked, anxiously biting the skin around her thumbnail.

  ‘Why would it matter? If it is discovered, so much the better. Uncle Bruno will be publicly humiliated. Perhaps it might create a scandal!’ He laughed. ‘He might even give it to me then and we can burn it. I will no longer have to hide the stolen original. I’d say that was the perfect solution to the problem.’ It certainly was a solution, Gracie conceded, and she didn’t know why she felt such fear. But she did. The shadow that had previously passed over her heart now lingered above it, refusing to go away.

  It wasn’t until October that Gracie’s fears were realised. Uncle Hans received a telephone call from Livia Montefosco informing him that the museum had declared the Piero Bartoloni to be wrongly attributed, most likely a fake. Hans, who had only seen the original, not Gracie’s forgery, was astonished. ‘I beg to differ, Countess Montefosco, for if it were a bad fake, as you are suggesting, it would have been revealed to us in the cleaning process. As it is, neither Rutger nor Gracie noticed. It must be the work of a brilliant forger.’

  Both Gracie and Rutger looked up from their easels, then they looked at each other. ‘If it’s a fake, it’s a damn good one,’ said Rutger, scratching his head. ‘You cleaned it, didn’t you, Gracie?’

  She nodded then shrugged. ‘I noticed nothing out of the ordinary,’ she replied. She hid her face behind her work as the blood surged into her cheeks, threatening to expose her guilt. The fact that one of the Montefosco paintings had been found to be a forge
ry was not in itself worrying for Uncle Hans, she told herself, because he had played no part in its purchase. However, Gracie knew very well that he had sold Tancredi’s grandfather the odd forgery, in fact he was quite proud of it, therefore it wasn’t a good thing that experts in New York might be compelled to take a closer look at the whole collection. Of course, that was unlikely, but in Gracie’s increasingly paranoid imagination it seemed entirely possible.

  From the sound of the conversation Livia Montefosco was furious. Uncle Hans spoke to her in his smooth, impassive way, reassuring her that it wasn’t, as she put it, ‘a humiliation in front of the highest echelons of New York society’, but a sadly all too common occurrence in a collection of that size and age. ‘Just because they have discovered one wrongly attributed painting in your collection does not mean there will be others. It is highly unlikely,’ he told her. ‘Highly unlikely.’ Gracie remained, heart in mouth, ruing the day she ever came up with such a hare-brained idea. The only pinprick of light in the gathering darkness was the thought of Tancredi’s pleasure in his uncle’s humiliation. But that was not enough to allay her fears and she sat there sweating, wondering whether she should come clean and confess her crime or remain quiet and hope the whole business would simply go away.

  The telephone conversation lasted half an hour, but to Gracie it appeared to last far longer. Each heavy minute was an unbearable weight to bear. Livia seemed to fluctuate from fury that Hans had not saved her from embarrassment by recognising the fake, to self-pity for what she considered to be a very public disgrace.

  When at last the call ended, Hans put down the telephone and turned round to face the room. Gracie dared look at him. The cool façade he had presented to Livia Montefosco was now replaced by an expression of real anxiety and something else, something ominous. Rutger pushed his magnifying spectacles onto the top of his head and put down his brush. Gracie felt the air still around her. If she had contemplated coming clean with Uncle Hans she swiftly changed her mind. The face that glowered at her was not the usual face her uncle wore, even when he was in a bad mood. This was very different. This unfamiliar face put fear into her heart.