The Temptation of Gracie

by Santa Montefiore

  ‘We have a little problem,’ he said, and the calm, quiet tone of his voice only incremented Gracie’s fear.

  ‘We have had little problems before, Hans,’ said Rutger, equally calm and quietly spoken. ‘And we have surmounted them.’

  ‘Indeed we have. Forgery is not a business without risk. However, this is unexpected and inconvenient.’

  ‘I cleaned it, Uncle—’ Gracie began.

  ‘No, you did not.’ Uncle Hans’s gaze was cold enough to freeze fire. Gracie’s breath caught in her throat. ‘Had you cleaned it you would have very quickly ascertained that the painting was not genuine. It is not a good forgery, but an amateur forgery any fool could have and should have detected.’

  Again Gracie thought about telling the truth, and again she ignored the opportunity on account of her panic. If being honest was not an option the only alternative was to be entirely dishonest. ‘I didn’t clean it, Uncle,’ she confessed, tears brimming. ‘I didn’t think it needed it. I made an error . . .’

  ‘You made a great error, Gracie, which could get us all into trouble.’

  ‘What can I do?’

  ‘Pray.’

  With that Uncle Hans stalked into his studio and slammed the door behind him. Gracie didn’t look at Rutger. She could feel his disapproval as if it were a cloak of iron around her shoulders. Unable to withstand the atmosphere in the room, she fled. What had love driven her to do? Had she known her painting would be scrutinised by experts in a world-famous museum she would have done a proper job of it as Uncle Hans had so painstakingly taught her to do. She would rather die now than admit to having forged it herself; Uncle Hans’s disappointment in her careless work would be far worse than being sent to prison for collaborating in his criminal business.

  Gracie bicycled down the track into the countryside. She didn’t think about where she was going, she just wanted to go far away and not come back. She had let Uncle Hans and Rutger down, two of the people she loved most in the world, and for what? To please a man whose love for her she now questioned. As she cycled, the red vines and yellow hills a wet blur through eyes blinded by tears, she began to doubt the wisdom of her choices. Had Tancredi made any move to divorce his wife? He had talked about it often, promising her a life together when the time was right, and it had always been she who had shrunk from the idea of it out of terror of the world he inhabited. Had he perhaps taken advantage of her uncertainty because it was convenient for him? She recalled that he hadn’t tried to persuade her. He hadn’t even tried to reassure her, instead he had talked about marriage as one talks about a fantasy that is unlikely ever to manifest. She knew he didn’t want their affair to end, of that she was certain, but she wasn’t sure he had the courage to terminate a marriage that would scandalise his family and society in Rome. The Montefosco family were very Catholic and divorce was immoral. He would not only be defying his family but also his faith. He had taken his vows before God, vows that no man could put asunder. Gracie couldn’t count on his mother for her support either. As louche and bohemian as she appeared to be, Gracie sensed that when it came to the structures of her world, the countess was probably as inflexible and traditional as everyone else. A man had a mistress, some no doubt had various, but he did not marry his mistress, certainly if that mistress was from a lower class. Gracie had heard it said that no one was more snobbish than the Romans.

  It was drizzling when she cycled back up the track towards the villa. She hadn’t noticed the vaporous cloud moving inland from the sea. It now lingered in the valley in a cold, damp mist. Her hands were numb on the handlebars for she had forgotten, in her haste, to wear gloves. She lifted her gaze to Colladoro but the castle perched above it was hidden in the fog. Once, she had looked up at the crest of the hill with her heart full of longing, now her heart was full of doubt and it pained her to look at the castle with all the promise it had once represented. Just as well it was concealed, she thought miserably.

  As she reached the villa Gaia was in the doorway, waiting for her. Her arms were folded and she had pulled her cardigan tightly around her fulsome body. She was shifting from one foot to the other in the cold. ‘What are you doing cycling off in this weather?’ she asked as Gracie left her bicycle against the wall and came running up the path, her hair wet and flat against her scalp. ‘You’ll catch your death of cold.’

  ‘I had to get out of the house,’ Gracie replied.

  Gaia grabbed her arm. ‘I have a message from Tancredi,’ she whispered. Gracie looked at her wearily and Gaia noticed her eyes dim and frowned. ‘He telephoned. He wants you to go to the Castello tomorrow afternoon. He’s driving down from Rome tonight.’

  Gracie knew why he was coming to see her. He wanted to celebrate his uncle’s humiliation. She gave a wan smile; his uncle’s humiliation might just be her uncle’s downfall, she thought bitterly. ‘Brave of him to telephone here,’ Gracie said, stepping into the villa.

  Gaia followed, happy to close the door on the cold. ‘Must be important.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Gracie.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Gaia asked.

  Gracie sighed and turned to her friend, her gaze heavy with resignation. ‘He’s not going to marry me, is he?’ she said.

  Gaia hesitated, which conveyed her thoughts more honestly than the words that followed. ‘I’m sure he will, one day,’ she said.

  ‘No, he won’t. I should have listened to you back when I discovered he was married.’ She chuckled joylessly. ‘The irony is that I don’t want to be Countess Bassanelli living in a palazzo in Rome. I just want to be with him, here, in Colladoro.’

  ‘You can’t have both,’ said Gaia. Gracie shrugged. Gaia followed her into the kitchen. ‘What’s brought this on? Signor Hollingsworth is in a terrible mood this afternoon and Signor Janssen is no better. Has someone died?’

  That was meant to be a joke, but it was a little too close to the bone for Gracie’s taste. ‘I failed to clean a painting and it has been revealed as a forgery,’ Gracie told her.

  ‘I don’t know why you’re in trouble for that,’ said Gaia, putting her hands on her hips. ‘That’s just unfair.’

  ‘If I had cleaned it properly, I would have discovered it was a fake.’ She was beginning now to believe her own lie.

  ‘If anyone should recognise a fake it is Signor Hollingsworth and Signor Janssen.’ Gaia noticed the surprised look on Gracie’s face and grinned. ‘You don’t think you fooled me, do you?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘That painting you tried to hide from me in Signor Hollingsworth’s studio. I know what you do in there. But knowing what you do does not mean I’m going to betray you so don’t look so worried. Only, those two men should be ashamed of themselves for allowing you to get mixed up in all this. You have my word that, if it ever comes to it, I will defend you with every bone in my body.’

  ‘It won’t come to that,’ said Gracie, knowing Gaia meant exposure.

  Gaia clicked her tongue. ‘Of course not. I’m sure Signor Hollingsworth is shrewd enough to have blocked all the entrances to his lair.’

  Dinner was the usual formal affair in the dining room with Uncle Hans and Rutger. Hans, who had been in a bad mood since Christmas, barely made any conversation at all, which left Gracie to talk to Rutger, who was too kind-hearted to be cross with her any longer. Gracie had for years listened to her uncle’s anecdotes, often at the expense of some poor soul who had somehow incited his wrath, but she had never in her wildest imaginings supposed that she might be on the receiving end of his fury. She wondered how long his sulk was going to last. But she needn’t have wondered because when she came downstairs the following morning, he was gone.

  Finding Rutger in the studio she asked him where her uncle had disappeared to. ‘He had some urgent business to attend to,’ said Rutger, settling onto his stool to start the day’s work.

  ‘When will he be back?’

  ‘When the wind brings him.’


  ‘Has he gone abroad?’

  ‘He has gone to Paris.’

  Gracie was relieved he hadn’t gone to New York, that would have suggested the problem she had created was far worse than she had imagined. It was quite normal for Hans to go to Paris. ‘Is he still furious with me?’ Gracie asked.

  Rutger did not look up from his easel. ‘Think no more about it,’ he mumbled distractedly. ‘Your uncle’s work would fool the greatest experts on the planet.’

  ‘I hope you’re right.’

  ‘In that respect, I am always right. As for your uncle, well, he leads a complicated life. Of that I know nothing. What will be, will be.’ Gracie didn’t know what he meant, but as it had nothing to do with her, she simply nodded and set to work.

  Gracie cycled to the castle that afternoon. The rain had moved away in the night, leaving the countryside wet and shimmering in the sunshine. She should have been happy, after all, her plan had worked, but she felt a gnawing apprehension in the pit of her belly.

  Tancredi was delighted with her, sweeping her into his arms and pulling her into the tower and kissing her. ‘I have wonderful news!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘I know it,’ she replied flatly. ‘Livia called yesterday and told Uncle Hans about the forgery. He’s not very happy.’

  ‘It makes no difference to him,’ said Tancredi sensibly. ‘No one will trace it back to you.’

  ‘I know,’ she replied, not wanting to reveal that her uncle had forged paintings for his grandfather which were most certainly among those due to be exhibited and those, if discovered, could definitely be traced back to Uncle Hans. ‘I should never have attempted to forge a seventeenth-century Baroque painting. It is almost impossible to do so convincingly. Only Uncle Hans can do it. I’m so ashamed.’ Gracie’s eyes shone.

  Tancredi cupped her face in his hands. ‘Gracie, you’re not unhappy, are you? You’ve made me so happy. You’ve made me the happiest man in the world.’

  ‘But I have painted the worst forgery in the world,’ she explained.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. In fact, I’m delighted that you have. Uncle Bruno has been suitably humiliated. I have the real painting, which was meant for me, which was always meant for me, and he is left with a dud.’

  ‘But don’t you see? The humiliation is all mine because I painted the dud!’

  ‘Nonsense! It’s brilliant. I couldn’t have planned it better had I sat down and wished for it. You’re a genius! You’re my genius!’

  He went to kiss her again but she pulled away. ‘Tancredi, we need to talk.’ She sat on his painting stool, cold hands folded in her lap. She’d forgotten her gloves again.

  Tancredi’s face was expunged of all joy. ‘What’s wrong?’

  She sighed laboriously. It hurt her to see him looking pained and yet she was compelled to confront him. ‘You’re not going to divorce Petronella, are you?’

  The joy returned to his face. ‘My darling, is that what you’re worrying about? Us? I love you.’ He went and knelt before her, putting his arms around her hips. ‘I’m working on it. You have to trust me. It’s a delicate process. Petronella’s family are powerful.’

  ‘Did you ever love her, Tancredi?’ she asked.

  ‘She was what I wanted at the time,’ he replied carefully.

  ‘Powerful?’

  ‘Gracie, let me explain. It’s complicated. Mine is a family in decline. An old family that was once rich and powerful, but which has been in deterioration for many years. I had the illustrious name she wanted and she had the wealth I wanted. But I’ve changed. I don’t want that now. I realise that material things don’t bring happiness. You have taught me that.’ Gracie looked at him through narrowed eyes. She wanted to say that she couldn’t have done a very good job, for he still prized the Piero Bartoloni painting above all else. But she remained silent as he tried to persuade her that he was no longer a material man, but a man of depth and passion and integrity. ‘I was lost, Gracie. I had wasted my youth being hedonistic, thinking only of my own pleasure, squandering the money I had been given, tarnishing our family name. I realised that I had been a fool. I wanted my grandfather to be proud of me. Petronella’s family were wealthy enough to restore our family to its former glory. I knew my grandfather would approve. I thought that was the way back into his favour. Marrying Petronella would go some way to compensate for the unhappiness I had put my family through.’ He must have noticed the uncomprehending expression on her face and added sheepishly, ‘I liked her too, of course. We were friends.’

  ‘But she’ll bear your children and then you will never leave,’ she said and the words caught in her tightening throat, because that thought was intolerable.

  Tancredi shook his head. ‘She does not want children,’ he said and Gracie realised, by his stricken look, that by marrying a woman like that he had inadvertently imprisoned himself.

  ‘I’m sorry . . .’ she began, her heart flooding with pity.

  ‘I should have told you,’ he said.

  ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘I couldn’t . . .’

  ‘I understand,’ she soothed, running a hand through his hair. ‘It’s unspeakable.’ She wanted to reassure him that she would give him lots of children. As many as he wanted. But he pushed the subject away and Gracie knew by his change of expression that he was used to burying his disappointment.

  She allowed him to draw her closer, but she felt a sense of hopelessness. In spite of his childless marriage, he was still unable to leave his wife. Gracie loved him for his faults as much as for his perfections, but it was those faults – weakness and cowardice – which would prevent him from ever standing up to his wife and asking for a divorce. She didn’t believe he had the courage to defy his family or his religion. In her heart she knew he would never be hers. There would come a moment, one day, when she would have to walk away.

  They made love in the room at the top of the tower – love that was made all the more intense by the inevitability of its demise – and Gracie clung to him as if these precious moments together were the last. Tancredi seemed to sense nothing of Gracie’s sorrow. He was much too preoccupied celebrating his triumph. When he looked into her shining eyes he just smiled tenderly and teased her for being sentimental. ‘I adore the way you feel everything so deeply,’ he said. ‘I can read your face like a book.’ And Gracie smiled back at him sadly, because she knew he couldn’t.

  The following weeks went by slowly, as if time was dragging its feet. Feet that were heavy and reluctant and afraid. A gloominess hung over La Colomba too, even though Rutger and Gracie went about their work in the habitual way. When at last Uncle Hans returned he brought with him a flurry of snow. Gracie awoke to a white world outside her window, but the romance of it did little to ease her disquiet. When she saw her uncle her anxiety deepened.

  Hans had lost a lot of weight. His face was gaunt so that his cheekbones protruded and his eyes appeared large and strangely startled. His clothes hung off him, like garments on a wire hanger, and he was distracted, smoking incessantly and drinking large glasses of whisky with trembling hands. In spite of returning with his usual hoard of old canvases and paintings bought at auction, he seemed not to take pleasure in them at all. Gracie wondered whether they had discovered more fakes in the Montefosco collection but she was too frightened to ask. Hans did not talk to her. Not that he ignored her, just that his mind appeared occupied with other matters. He did not bring her the usual dresses. He brought her nothing, and Gracie feared he was still cross and punishing her for her error.

  He talked to Rutger, however. The two of them disappeared into Hans’s studio and closed the door behind them. Gracie tried to put her ear to the wood, but she only managed to decipher the odd muffled word in Dutch. She assumed they were careful not to speak in front of her because it was she who had failed to recognise the forgery and therefore her failure that was quite possibly going to lead the detectives to their door. She bit her nails to the quick and was unable to concentrate on her work
. For the first time she wished she were not at La Colomba. She wished she was at home in Camden, in the damp, dreary house where once she had belonged.

  However, Gracie didn’t have the heart to go home. Not even for Christmas. Rutger returned to Holland but Gracie remained at La Colomba with Uncle Hans. She would like to have invited her mother out to Italy, but she knew not to ask her uncle. She realised now that if he had wanted his sister to visit him he would have invited her long ago. As for Joseph, she barely knew him now. They were as strangers. She reflected on the family she had left behind and the family she had made in her uncle, and in her morose state of mind, she regretted leaving all those years ago. She hadn’t realised then how important family was. She did now, because she felt she had lost it.

  On Christmas morning Gracie awoke to a weight on the end of her bed. When she opened her eyes she noticed it was a parcel, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. She pulled it towards her and set about opening it. Her heart gave a little flutter at the thought that Uncle Hans had forgiven her. Would he have bought her a present if he had not?

  She tore off the paper to reveal an antique wooden box complete with a key in a tiny gold lock. She turned the key and lifted the lid. Inside, there was a tray of paintbrushes, all neatly lined up in their own individual slots. She lifted the tray out of its niche with loops of satin ribbon. Beneath was a compartment of tools for the trade that Uncle Hans had taught her so well. She was bewildered. Why would Uncle Hans give her a box of brushes and tools when she had all the equipment she needed here at La Colomba? She closed the lid. Only then did she notice the initials engraved in gold lettering on the top. H.E.H for Hans Edward Hollingsworth.

  It was his box.

  Gracie jumped out of bed with a sharp sense of panic. She threw on her dressing gown and hurried along the corridor to her uncle’s bedroom. His door was closed. She knocked, then waited. There came no response from within. She knocked again, this time louder. She turned the knob. The room was dim, the curtains open to reveal through the window panes a white world awakening with the dawn. She swept her eyes over the bed, which was neatly made. His slippers were on the rug beside it. She noticed his dressing gown lying across the quilt. It was as if he had taken great trouble in making sure everything was tidy before leaving the room.