“Per garanzia. Yes. It makes sense.”
“It does?” Tommaso was confused.
“I’ll explain. Let me start from the beginning… Okay. When you told me about that document, I immediately thought to look for it in the house, but then I realized it made no sense for Antonio to keep it. He would have destroyed it, don’t you think?”
“Yes.”
“But he couldn’t, because he didn’t have it. Paolo did.”
“How did you guess that?”
“Flora told me that Antonio’s house was broken into, that everyone thought it’d been Paolo’s doing. After that, my father seemed to come into money suddenly. It must have come from Antonio. It was blackmail. If he didn’t pay up, Paolo would have unearthed this document and all the land would have been returned to your family.”
“Paolo had this on his brother the whole time. No wonder Antonio had been paying him. I can’t believe it’s over. All these years… and now it is. I can’t quite believe it.” There were tears in his eyes, and I held him to me.
“You might say it has all just begun,” I whispered.
Epilogue
“Welcome to Cascina Carpentieri!” Tommaso called, grinning wide, his right hand holding up a glass of red wine. We all joined in the toast, and clapped as soon as our hands were free. I was so happy for him. This was the moment he thought he’d never have, when his father’s land would finally be his again… And then, Tommaso surprised me.
“This couldn’t have been possible without you, Callie. Please, come up,” he said, and extended his hand to me. I felt myself blushing, but I was happy to stand beside him in a room full of our families and friends.
Flora was there with Marco Leone, who kept finding an excuse to wrap an arm around her, or hold her hand, or rest a hand on her leg; and surprisingly, Flora was drinking in the tenderness like a thirsty flower.
Tommaso’s mother, Alice, was there, her eyes brimming over with tears of long-awaited joy. This open outburst of emotion showed how intense her happiness and relief were, because she was a reserved, quiet woman. She’d welcomed me into Tommaso’s and her life kindly but cautiously – I planned to win her over, of course, showing her that I was there to stay.
Yes, I was there to stay. Up at Firefly House, carefully piled on the bedside table in my little pink bedroom, was the paperwork to apply to the Turin School of Naturopathy, the same school Flora had attended.
I made my way around the table and stood beside Tommaso, surveying his guests’ smiling faces – Nonna Tina and her sister; Adriana and the husband who refused to dance; Paola and her family; and even Signor Tava, who’d whispered to me earlier: “Giving the Carpentieris their home back has been one of the high points of my career. High point, for sure,” and he’d downed another glass of wine, his expression softening even further after he’d done so. And there was Paola’s brother, Alberto, deep in conversation with Sofia – yes, Sofia. She seemed to have thawed, somehow, though she maintained a certain aloofness.
In the middle of the table was a real banquet: Nonna Tina’s homemade pasta with more sauces than I thought existed, courtesy of Alice, and on the side, a small table covered in desserts made by Leone. Just looking at it made my mouth water.
Tommaso clicked his glass against mine, and kissed me there and then, in front of everyone. I didn’t hear cheering or clapping, though I knew they were happening; I was too lost in my bubble of joy, looking at Tommaso’s face, so full of love, and looking at all those people who’d gathered for him, to wish him well. And then a huge, hairy body jumped up against mine, and among laughter and licks, we reassured Morella that she was very much part of the celebration.
“Are you happy, Rissi?” Tommaso whispered in my ear.
“Like a wolf with a pack,” I replied.
We’d just finished the last bits of Century Cake, accompanied by a sweet wine called passito, which was like a dessert and wine in one, when Tommaso rose from his chair and called everyone together for a small tour of the property. We were all on the way out, when Flora caught me with a gentle touch on my arm.
“I didn’t have the chance to tell you, but I have some stuff belonging to my great-grandparents, and I was having a look through when I found this. I thought you might be interested. I haven’t read the letters yet.”
It was a small parcel of letters in yellowed envelopes, kept together by a lavender ribbon. The addressee was Suor Maria Costanza Scotti, Convento di Maria Immacolata. Costanza? Could it be… I turned the parcel around and read the sender’s name. Yes: ‘Elisa Stella’.
I held them to my chest, almost reverently. “Thank you so much…”
“You’re welcome. Quick, they’re leaving,” she said, holding my arm.
“I’ll be there in a moment,” I said, hoping I could get away with it. I was desperate to read those letters. Maybe I could disappear for just a moment…
“Rissi?” I heard Tommaso calling.
“Coming! I’ll catch up with you!”
“She’s annihilating the last bits of Century Cake,” Flora laughed, making her way outside. As she opened the glass door onto the open fields and its harmonious patterns of vine, a breeze came in; and in it, for the first time, I could smell autumn. I stepped outside and stood in the fresh air, stealing a moment for Elisa and me to be together again.
Montevino, May 14, 1947
Dearest Zia Costanza,
We miss you! But we are all so happy that you found peace in Santa Maria’s Convent. Mamma saw it coming, she said, but I didn’t. It was a surprise to me when you announced you were taking the veil. Your presence still lingers here and sometimes I find myself looking for you, and then remembering you are away!
You have only been to the convent a few weeks and not much has changed. Alba brings us all so much joy, but you know what’s in my heart, Zia Costanza!
Hope is so deceitful. Every day I hope from the moment I wake up to the moment I go to sleep, and every day my hope is disappointed. And yet, hope is something you can’t go without. Like morphine when you’re in pain.
I say to myself: This is the day I let Leo go; this is the day I stop waiting, and accept he will not come back.
This is the day I accept that Alba will have no father, and live through my days, as a mother and a doctor, the best I can.
I try that, and I almost make it…
And then news comes that someone, somewhere around here has made it back, and hope makes its way into my heart again.
A few days ago, a man from Camosso returned, Giovanni Fornero, remember him? He was a carpenter, before the war. Just like that: he turned up at his own front door, half the weight he was when he left, so much changed that his wife almost didn’t recognize him. He’d spent two years in a camp in Poland, and then he was too sick to travel… but he’s alive. And he’s home.
Yes, hope is deceitful.
Yours always,
With all my love,
Elisa
Montevino, 12 August, 1947
Dear Zia Costanza!
Hope is deceitful. But sometimes it keeps its promises…
I was sitting under the chestnut tree, while Alba was down in the village with Mamma, and Papa was in the village with his friends. My heart was aching for Leo as it always does. And then I saw someone making their way through the garden. Someone thin, who limped slightly. Someone who needed a doctor, I thought. I got up slowly, summoning the energy to rise out of my sadness and embracing my duty.
“Buongiorno! Ha bisogno?” I called.
And then, as the man came closer, I almost fell to my knees.
Because the man, thin and limping as he was, with a beard and with his clothes hanging on him like rags on a scarecrow, was Leo. My Leo.
Oh, dearest Zia. I can’t describe the happiness in seeing him again, but the pain in seeing him so thin and sickly; and then the joy again in knowing he’s here and he’ll never leave again! He’s still Leo, he’s still my love, my husband. Yes, he’s malnourished
, and traumatized, and there are signs of so much suffering in his face. But it’s him!
He was so exhausted, he could barely talk. We held each other for a long time, crying and laughing together! I laid him onto my bed. Of course, as you know, we don’t have a marital bed, we have nothing together! Because war stopped us from being a normal husband and wife, from being a family. But to see him there, in my childhood bed, was wonderful beyond words. He slept for hours, and I lay beside him, taking in his face like I’d seen it for the first time. I held his hand. I never, never want to let him go again.
When he awoke, he was a little more like his old self. His face, so weary and almost contorted with too much emotion, began to take its old, handsome shape, and he smiled. He looked at me and touched my face and held me, and we cried together once again.
“I’ll never leave your side,” he said. “Did I not promise that?”
And that was so strange, you know, because he’d said that to me, yes, but in a dream!
Oh, Zia, he needs food and sleep and medicine! He’s not sick, as far as I can tell, but he’s drained of all life, because of the deprivations they put them through. It’s a miracle he didn’t starve. I can feel his ribs when I hold him.
I gave him coffee and milk and bread, I helped him wash and change, and shave his beard. My Leo, the shadow of himself, but his eyes still shining, still strong.
“I’d like to sit outside, Elisa. I’ve been in a camp for so long. They rarely let us out…”
“Of course. Come,” I said, and laid a blanket under the chestnut tree for him, so he would not catch any cold. He lay with his back against the tree, and I could almost see it, Zia Costanza, the burden of memories leaving his shoulders with a big sigh. I know it will take longer than this, before the terrible things he saw and went through become a thing of the past, but it’s a beginning.
He closed his eyes… and then I heard Mamma came back with Alba.
“Mamma! Mamma, Leo is back!” I shouted.
“Oh, Gesù, Giuseppe e Maria!” she cried out, coming into the garden and giving Alba to me so that she could kneel beside Leo and hold him tight. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, il nostro ragazzo! Our boy! It’s a miracle!”
“Your daughter,” I whispered, and Mamma stood up and stepped away a little, to give them some space. You know Alba, she’s a placid child – she didn’t cry, even in the arms of that strange man. She looked up at him that way she does, curious but calm. Thoughtful. And just to add to the river of tears we were all crying, tears fell down Leo’s cheeks, quietly. For a moment I held my breath, but he broke into a smile and held her tight, but softly, as not to alarm her.
“My daughter,” he said. “What did you call her?”
“Alba Leona,” I said. “Leona… after her papa.”
And that was their first encounter, Leo and Alba, both crying, with Leo too weak to hold her for long.
Now, as I write these words, Leo is asleep in my bed with Alba’s cot beside him. Mamma and Papa are downstairs – you should have seen Papa’s face when he saw Leo! Yes, adding to our river of tears!
I can’t sleep. I can’t even think. All I want to do is look at Leo’s face and our daughter’s face and take in the moment as long as I can.
Sorry if this letter was chaotic. I can’t do any better today. Oh, my dear Zia, come back soon to see Leo, and all of us!
Yours always,
Elisa
Dear Zia Costanza,
What wonderful news that you’re coming back for the Patron Saint’s Day. We can’t wait to see you. When you come, you’ll find us well. It’s been two weeks now since Leo returned. The poor man has to fend Mamma off constantly, because she’s forever trying to feed him! The changes in him are visible. He’s filled in already. And he’s beginning to do some work around the place, in spite of our protests! You know him! We decided we’ll stay here, at Firefly House, to help Papa and Mamma out. Now that Pietro… our Pietro is gone.
Papa gave us a wrought-iron bed that belonged to my grandparents. It’s beautiful. Finally, we can live as man and wife. Leo doesn’t sleep well. He has terrible nightmares and wakes up screaming. I hold him until he calms down. I know that it will be a long time before the wounds of the soul that war gave him will heal and he’ll find some peace.
Since he came back, there’s been something in the back of my mind, eating away at me. I knew he would see them: Alba’s eyes. I knew he would see her milky skin and blonde hair standing out among us, dark-haired as we all are, with tanned skin.
I wrestled within my mind, whether to bring this up myself or wait, but thankfully, he took the decision from me.
We were in the High Woods, gathering kindling; he’s still too weak to chop wood, but he needs something to do, he can’t stay idle, so he does all these little jobs I would normally do, until he gains his strength again.
“Let’s go to the cabin,” he said. I hesitated.
I have memories linked to the cabin.
Memories I’d rather keep buried.
But he extended his hand to me, and looked at me in a way that stopped me from arguing. Alba was playing among the fallen leaves, and we stood in front of the cabin’s wooden door.
“The night they took me away,” he began, and a wave of panic swept over me. I didn’t want to remember. I wanted to forget. It never happened, it never happened…
“Please, listen, amore mio. I have to tell you this,” Leo said, and took both my hands. “The night they took me away. The last thing I heard were your screams.”
I felt so ashamed, when he said that. I know what happened wasn’t my fault, but I still felt ashamed.
“Look at me, Elisa. There is no reason to lower your eyes,” he said. “No reason at all.”
“I…”
He shook his head, and laid a hand on my cheek. “I knew what was happening. They knocked me out, and took me away. I couldn’t come to you. There was nothing I could do.”
“You can’t blame yourself…”
“And you can’t blame yourself either.”
“I know.”
“I thought they’d killed you. But here you are. And there she is…” he continued, and turned to look at Alba, my milky white, blue-eyed little girl. “Our daughter. My daughter,” he said.
He bent down to pick her up, and smiled as Alba touched his face, his eyes, his mouth. He scrunched his eyes and laughed. “Birichina!” he said. “You rascal!” Alba giggled too, that giggle she has that never fails to melt me. Leo held her with one arm, and wrapped the other around my waist. He enfolded us all in his embrace.
“My wife, my daughter. My family,” he said. And the nightmare that happened there, in that place wasn’t erased – no, that could never happen – but it was laid to rest.
In the evening we sat together in the garden, all of us, Mamma and Papa, too, and we missed you, but we know you’re coming to visit soon. There is a hole in our heart, left by Pietro, our little Pietro. He is lost and a part of us was lost with him, and always will be.
But, oh, Montevino was so beautiful, with its red roofs below us, even with many of them destroyed and missing, many are being built again… and the linden trees smelled so good – you’ll remember the scent of summer evenings in Montevino – and Alba, who’s usually so lively and unable to sit still, stayed on Leo’s lap, all placid, with her blonde hair and light eyes– a forever reminder of the invaders, and yet a forever reminder of our resilience, strength and courage, and of the love that binds us all.
All my love,
Elisa
I was startled when I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Amore, come, I’m showing the… What happened? Rissi, what’s wrong?” He’d seen my tears, the hand clasped to my mouth. “Is that bad news?”
“No. No. Good news, actually.”
“What?”
But it was too long to explain, so I just kissed him and thought I could be Elisa, and he could be Leo, and the war might have been raging inside us instead of outside of us, but
now we were together, and like Elisa said, tied by the love that binds us all.
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Books by Daniela Sacerdoti
The Lost Village
The Italian Villa
Seal Island Series
Keep Me Safe
I Will Find You
Come Back to Me
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The Italian Villa (Available in the UK and the US)
A Letter from Daniela
My dear reader,
Thank you so much for taking the time to read The Italian Villa. I hope you enjoyed Callie’s story as much as I loved writing it. If you’d like to stay up to date with what I’m writing next, then please sign up to my mailing list here.
There are so many demands on our time these days. Our senses are overloaded and our minds are frazzled, and we’re often way too busy to concentrate on something that moves deep and slow, like a good story, in the way it deserves.
In an era when everything is cheap and quick, the real currency is not money, but time. It’s your time that I’m most grateful for. A book is slow by nature; the story unfolds at its own pace, and if the characters stay in your heart for longer than it took you to discover what happened to them, then I’ll be even more grateful.
The Italian Villa: An emotional and absolutely gripping WW2 historical romance Page 23