Книга - Farelli’s Wife

Farelli's Wife
Lucy Gordon


Wanted: wife or mother?Joanne graciously stepped aside when Franco Farelli married her cousin four years before–her love for him kept a secret. Now Franco is a widower with an adorable little boy, Nico, and Joanne can't resist paying them a visit….Her heart leaps when she sees Franco again; the attraction between them is still as strong as ever. Franco begs her to stay with them, if only for Nico's sake. But Joanne needs to believe Franco's desire for her isn't because she resembles her cousin, but because he wants her for herself….KIDS & KISSESWhere kids and kisses go hand in hand







“I came to take you back.” (#u62f922b1-09d9-5149-a2eb-c82f1c542368)About the Author (#u89be6ba3-ea23-52cb-8a42-29a70b0f28aa)Title Page (#ua14b7c53-bbad-50f0-ad92-227b23f35690)Dedication (#ued7d4e32-b603-5e8d-b7a8-abd815d77598)PROLOGUE (#ucbca6e7c-f3c0-51a7-8f32-9c4e0bf25475)CHAPTER ONE (#u80664a49-5de0-5e60-9055-29aeeaf573d2)CHAPTER TWO (#u14fdc3f4-5ef0-5ff4-9a79-ec40481d0a8b)CHAPTER THREE (#u012ca361-6454-50c6-a4c3-da85fcf987cd)CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


“I came to take you back.”

“I’m sorry you had a wasted journey, Franco,” she said firmly, “but I’m very busy for the next few days—”

“I told you I’d cleared it with your employers—”

“But you neglected to clear it with me. I do have some feelings.”

Franco gave Joanne a strange look, and she guessed he was remembering how she’d betrayed herself in his arms.

“I don’t ask for myself,” he said at last, “but for my son. You won Nico’s heart. Do I have to tell you how precious that is? Did you delight him only to amuse yourself, and to throw him aside when it suits you?”

“Of course not. That’s a wicked thing to say.”

“Then come back with me now. It will mean the world to him—and to me.”


Lucy Gordon cut her writing teeth on magazine journalism, interviewing many of the world’s most interesting men, including Warren Beatty, Richard Chamberlain, Roger Moore, Sir Alec Guinness and Sir John Gielgud. She also camped out with lions in Africa, and had many other unusual experiences, which have often provided the background for her books. She is married to a Venetian, whom she met on vacation in Venice. They got engaged within two days, and have now been married for twenty-five years. They live in England, with their three dogs.




Farelli’s Wife

Lucy Gordon







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


This book is dedicated to Flump,

a loyal friend and a beautiful dog,

whose loss inspired the poem in the

last chapter.


PROLOGUE

THE headstone stood in the shadow of trees. A small stream rippled softly past, and flowers crept up to the foot of the white marble. The engraving said simply that here lay Rosemary Farelli, beloved wife of Franco Farelli, and mother of Nico. The inscription showed that she had died exactly a year ago, aged thirty-two, and with her, her unborn child.

There were other headstones in the Farelli burial plot, but only this one had a path worn right up to it, as though someone was drawn back here time and again, someone who had yet to come to, terms with the heartbreaking finality of that stone.

Three figures appeared through the little wood that surrounded the plot. The first was a middle-aged woman with a grim expression and upright carriage. Behind her came a man in his thirties, whose dark eyes held a terrible bleakness. One hand rested lightly on the shoulder of the little boy walking beside him, his hands full of wild flowers.

The woman approached the grave and stood regarding it for a moment. Her face was hard and expressionless. A stranger, coming upon the group, might have wondered if she’d felt any affection for the dead woman. At last she stood aside and the man stepped forward.

‘Let me take Nico home,’ she said. ‘This is no place for a child.’

The man’s face was dark. ‘He is Rosemary’s son. This is his right—and his mother’s.’

‘Franco, she’s dead.’

‘Not here.’ He touched his breast and spoke softly. ‘Not ever.’ He looked down at the child. ‘Are you ready, piccino?’

The little boy, as fair as his father was dark, looked up and nodded. He laid the flowers at the foot of the grave. ‘These are for you, Mama,’ he said.

When he stepped back his father’s hand rested again on his shoulder.

‘Well done,’ he said quietly to his son. ‘I’m proud of you. Now go home with your grandmama.’

‘Can’t I stay with you, Papa?’

Franco Farelli’s face was gentle. ‘Not now. I must be alone with your mother.’

He stood quite still until they had gone. Not until their footsteps faded into silence did he move towards the gravestone and kneel before it, whispering.

‘I brought our son to you, mi amore. See how he has grown, how strong and beautiful he is. Soon he will be seven years old. He hasn’t forgotten you. Every day we talk together about “Mama”. I’m raising him as you wished, to remember that he is English as well as Italian. He speaks his mother’s tongue as well as his father’s.’

His eyes darkened with pain. ‘He looks more like you every day. How can I bear that? This morning he turned to me with the smile that was yours, and it was as though you were there. But the next moment you died again, and my heart broke.

‘It is one year to the day since you died, and still the world is dark for me. When you left you took joy with you. I try to be a good father to our child, but my heart is with you, and my life is a desert.’

He reached out a hand to touch the unyielding marble. ‘Are you there, my beloved? Where have you gone? Why can I not find you?’

Suddenly his control broke. His fingers grasped the marble convulsively, his eyes closed and a cry of terrible anguish broke from him.

‘Come back to me! I can bear it no longer. For God’s sake, come back to me!’


CHAPTER ONE

IF JOANNE concentrated hard she could bring the brush down to the exact point, and turn it at the very last minute. It took great precision, but she’d rehearsed the movement often, and now she could do it right, every time.

The result was perfect, just as the whole picture was perfect—a perfect copy. The original was a little masterpiece. Beside it stood her own version, identical in every brush stroke. Except that she could only trudge slowly where genius had shown the way.

The dazzling afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows of the Villa Antonini showed Joanne how well she’d performed her allotted task, and how mediocre that task was.

‘Is it finished?’ Signor Vito Antonini had crept into the room and come to stand beside her. He was a tubby man in late middle age who’d made a huge fortune in engineering and was now enjoying spending it. He showered gifts on his plain little wife, whom he adored, and had bought her this luxurious villa on the outskirts of Turin.

Then he’d purchased some great paintings to adorn it. But because they were valuable the insurers had insisted that they should all be locked away in the bank, which wasn’t what he’d wanted at all. So he’d sent for Joanne Merton, who, at only twenty-seven, had a fast-rising reputation as a copyist, specializing in Italian paintings.

‘Your copies are so perfect that nobody will know the difference, signorina,’ he said now, gleefully.

‘I’m glad you’re satisfied with my work,’ Joanne said, with a smile. She liked the little man and his wife, who’d welcomed her into their home and treated her like an honoured guest

‘Do you think,’ he asked wistfully, ‘that we could put your pictures in the bank vaults and keep the originals on my walls?’

‘No,’ she said hastily. ‘Vito, I’m a copyist, not a forger. You know the condition of my work is that it’s never passed off as the original.’

Vito sighed, for he was a risk-taker, but just then his wife came into the room and Joanne appealed to her.

‘Cretino,’ she admonished her husband briskly. ‘You want this nice girl to go to gaol? Forget this silly idea and come and eat.’

‘More food?’ Joanne protested, laughing. ‘Are you trying to make me fat, Maria?’

‘I’m trying to stop you fading away,’ Maria said. ‘No girl should be as thin as you are.’

Joanne wasn’t really thin, but elegantly slim. She was fighting to stay that way, but Maria made it hard.

The table was groaning under the fruit of her labours: garlic bread and tomatoes, black olive pâté and fish soup, followed by rice and peas.

Despite her concern for her figure, Joanne couldn’t resist this mouth-watering repast. She’d loved Piedmont cooking since she was eighteen and had won a scholarship to study art in Italy. She’d been blissfully happy, tucking into the rich, spicy meals, or wandering through Turin, drunk on great paintings, dreaming that one day she would contribute to their number. And she’d fallen wildly, passionately in love with Franco Farelli.

She’d met him through his sister, Renata, an art student in the same class. They’d become good friends, and Renata had taken her home to meet her family, wine growers with huge vineyards just north of the little medieval town of Asti. Joanne had fallen in love with Isola Magia, the Farelli home, and been instantly at ease with the whole family: Giorgio, the big, booming papa who laughed a lot, and drank a lot and bawled a lot; Sophia, his wife, a sharp-faced, sharp-tempered woman who’d greeted Joanne with restraint, but made her welcome.

But from the moment she’d met Franco she’d known she’d come home in a totally different way. He’d been twenty-four, tall and long-boned, with a proud carriage that set him apart from other men. His height came from his father, a northern Italian. But his mother hailed from Naples down in the south, and from her he derived his swarthy looks, dark chocolate eyes and blue-black hair.

In other ways, too, he was an amalgam of north and south. He had Giorgio’s easygoing charm, but also Sophia’s volcanic temper and quick, killing rages. Joanne had seen that rage only once, when he’d found a young man viciously tormenting a dog. He’d knocked the lout down with one blow, and for a moment his eyes had contained murder.

He’d taken the dog home and tended it as gently as a woman, eagerly assisted by Renata and Joanne. That night the dog’s owner had returned with his two brothers, drunk and belligerent, demanding the return of their ‘property’. Joanne would never forget what had happened next.

Calmly Franco had taken out a wicked-looking stiletto, thrust the blade through some paper money and held it out to them.

‘This will pay for the dog,’ he’d said coldly. ‘Take it and never trouble me again.’

But the brothers hadn’t touched the money. Something they’d seen in Franco’s eyes had sent them fleeing out into the night, yammering with fear, never to return. The dog had been named Ruffo, and become his inseparable companion.

But such incidents had been rare. Franco had been more concerned with enjoying himself than fighting. For him there had always been a joke to be relished, a song to be sung, a girl to be wooed, and perhaps more than wooed, if she was willing. When he’d smiled his white teeth had gleamed against his tanned skin, and he’d seemed like a young god of the earth.

Until then Joanne hadn’t believed in love at first sight, but she’d known at once that she belonged to Franco, body and soul. Just looking at him had been able to make her flesh grow warmer, even in that fierce Italian heat. His smile had made her feel she were melting, and she would gladly have melted if, by doing so, she could have become a part of him.

His smile. She could see it now, slow and teasing, as though the world were his and he was wondering whom to share it with. And she knew, by instinct, what kind of a world it was: one of desire and satiation, of sinking his strong teeth into life’s delights while the pleasure overflowed, of heated taking and giving, living by the rhythms of the earth that received the seed so that there should be growing, reaping and growing again. She had known all this the first time she’d seen him, striding into the flagstoned kitchen and standing near the door, his black hair turned to blue by a shaft of light, calling, ‘Hey, Mama—’ in a ringing voice.

How could anyone resist that voice? It was rich with all the passion in the world, as though he’d made love to every woman he’d met. And Joanne, the girl from a cool, rainy country, had known in a blinding instant that he was her destiny.

Sadly, she had no illusions that she was his destiny. The estate was filled with lush virgins and ripe young matrons who sighed for him. She knew, because Renata had confided, between giggles, that Franco took his pleasures freely, wherever they might be found, to the outrage of his mother and the secret envy of his father.

But he had never even flirted with Joanne, treating her just as he had his sister, teasing her amiably before passing on his way, his exuberant laughter floating behind him. And her heart had been ready to burst with joy at his presence and despair at his indifference.

‘I couldn’t eat another thing,’ Joanne declared, regarding her clean plate.

‘But you must have some cream cheese and rum pudding,’ Maria said. ‘You’re working her too hard,’ she scolded her husband.

‘It’s not my fault,’ he protested. ‘I show her the pictures and say, “Work as you like,” and in a week she has finished the copy of the Carracci Madonna.’

‘Because she works too much,’ Maria insisted, slapping cream cheese on Joanne’s plate. ‘How many are still to do?’

‘Four,’ Joanne said. ‘Two more by Carracci, one Giotto and one Veronese. I’m saving the Veronese until last because it’s so large.’

‘I can’t believe that an English girl understands Italian paintings so well,’ Vito mused. ‘At the start I had the names of several Italians who do this work, but everyone said to me, “No, you must go to Signorina Merton, who is English, but has an Italian soul.” ’

‘I studied in Italy for a year,’ Joanne reminded him.

‘Only for a year? One would think you had lived here all your life. That must have been a wonderful year, for I think Italy entered deep into your heart..’

‘Yes,’ Joanne said slowly. ‘It did...’

Renata began inviting her every weekend and Joanne lived for these visits. Franco was always there because the vineyard was his life and he’d learned its management early. Despite his youth he was already taking the reins from his papa’s hands, and running the place better than Giorgio ever had.

Once Joanne managed to catch him among the vines when he was alone. He was feeling one bunch after another, his long, strong fingers squeezing them as tenderly as a lover. She smiled up at him. She was five feet nine inches, and Franco was one of the few men tall enough to make her look up.

‘I came out for some fresh air,’ she said, trying to sound casual.

‘You chose the best time,’ he told her with his easy smile that made her feel as if the world had lit up around her. ‘I love it out here at evening when the air is soft and kind.’

He finished with an eyebrow raised in quizzical enquiry, for he’d spoken in Italian, a language she was still learning.

‘Morbida e gentile,’ she repeated, savouring the words. ‘Soft and kind. But it isn’t really that sort of country, is it?’

‘It can be. Italy has its violent moods, but it can be sweet and tender.’

How deep and resonant his voice was. It seemed to vibrate through her, turning her bones to water. She sought something to say that would sound poised.

‘It’s a beautiful sunset,’ she managed at last. ‘I’d love to paint it.’

‘Are you going to be a great artist, piccina?’ he asked teasingly.

She wished he wouldn’t call her piccina. It meant ‘little girl’ and was used in speaking to children. Yet it was also a term of affection and she treasured it as a crumb from his table.

‘I think so,’ she said, as if considering the matter seriously. ‘But I’m still trying to find my own style.’

She hadn’t yet learned that she had no individual style, only a gift for imitation.

Without answering he pulled down a small bunch of grapes and crushed a few against his mouth. The purple juice spilled out luxuriantly down his chin, like the wine of life, she thought. Eagerly she held out her hands and he pulled off a spray of the grapes and offered them to her. She imitated his movement, pressing the fruit against her mouth, then gagged at the taste.

‘They’re sour,’ she protested indignantly.

‘Sharp,’ he corrected. ‘The sun hasn’t ripened them yet. It’ll happen in its own good time, as everything does.’

‘But how can you eat them when they taste like this?’

‘Sharp or sweet, they are as they are. They’re still the finest fruit in all Italy.’ It was a simple statement, unblushing in its arrogance.

‘There are other places with fine grapes,’ she said, nettled at his assurance. ‘What about the Po valley, or the Romagna?’

He didn’t even dignify this with an answer, merely lifted his shoulders in a slight shrug, as if other vineyards weren’t worth considering.

‘What a pity you won’t be here to taste them when they’re ripe,’ he said. ‘That won’t be until August, and you’ll have returned to England.’

His words brought home to her how near their parting was. Her time in Italy was almost over, and then she wouldn’t see him again. He was the love of her life but he didn’t know, would never know.

She was desperate for something that would make him notice her, but while she was racking her brains she saw a movement among the vines. It was Virginia, a voluptuous and poorly named young woman who’d occupied a lot of Franco’s attention recently.

Franco had seen her and turned laughing eyes on Joanne, not in the least embarrassed. ‘And now you must go, piccina, for I have matters to attend to.’

Crushing disappointment made her adopt a haughty tone. ‘I’m sorry if I’m in the way.’

‘You are,’ he said shamelessly. ‘Terribly in the way. Run along now, like a good girl.’

She bit her lip at being treated like a child, and turned away with as much dignity as she could muster. She didn’t look back, but she couldn’t help hearing the girl’s soft, provocative laughter.

She lay awake that night, listening for Franco. He didn’t return until three in the morning. She heard him humming softly as he passed her door, and then she buried her head under the pillow and wept.

The time began to rush past and the end of her final term grew inexorably nearer. Joanne received a letter from her cousin Rosemary who would be taking a vacation in Italy at that time. She wrote:

I thought I’d come to Turin just before you finish, and we can travel home together.

Joanne and Rosemary had grown up together, and most people, seeing them side by side, had thought that they were sisters. They’d actually lived as sisters after Joanne’s parents had died and Rosemary had urged her widowed mother to take the girl in.

She’d been twelve then, and Joanne six. When Rosemary’s mother had died six years later Rosemary had assumed the role of mother. Joanne had adored the cousin who’d given her a home and security, and all the love in her big, generous heart.

As Joanne had grown up they’d become more alike. They had both been unusually tall women, with baby blonde hair, deep blue eyes and peach colouring. Their features had been cast from the same mould, but Rosemary’s had been fine and delicate, whereas Joanne’s had still been blurred by youth and teenage chubbiness.

But the real difference, the one that had always tormented Joanne, had lain in Rosemary’s poise and charm. She had been supremely confident of her own beauty and she’d moved through life dazzling everyone she met, winning hearts easily.

Joanne had been awed by the ease with which her cousin had claimed life as her own. She’d wanted to be like her. She’d wanted to be her, and it had been frustrating to have been trapped in her own, ordinary self, so like Rosemary, and yet so cruelly unlike her in all that mattered.

At other times she’d wanted to be as different from Rosemary as possible, to escape her shadow and be herself. When people had said, ‘You’re going to be as pretty as Rosemary one day,’ she’d known they’d meant to be kind, but the words had made her grind her teeth.

She could remember, as if it were yesterday, the night of the party, given by a fellow student. Joanne and Renata had been going together, with Franco escorting them, but at the last minute Renata had sprained her ankle and dropped out. Joanne had been in ecstasies at having Franco all to herself.

She’d bought a new dress and spent hours putting up her hair and perfecting her make-up. Surely that night he would notice her, even perhaps ask her to stay in Italy? Her heart had been singing as she’d gone down to where he’d been waiting outside on the terrace.

He’d been dressed for the evening. She’d never seen him formally attired before, but then she’d been struck afresh by how handsome he’d been with his snowy shirt against his swarthy skin. He’d looked up and smiled, raising his eyebrows in appreciation of her enhanced appearance.

‘So, piccina, you’ve decided to take the world by storm tonight?’ he teased.

‘I just dressed up a little,’ she said, trying to be casual, but with a horrible suspicion that she sounded as gauche as she felt.

‘You’ll break all their hearts,’ he promised her.

‘Oh, I don’t know about all their hearts,’ she said with a shrug.

‘Just the one you want, eh?’

Could he have suspected? she wondered with sudden excitement. Was this his way of saying that he’d finally noticed her?

‘Maybe I haven’t decided which one I want,’ she said archly, looking up at him.

He chuckled, and the sound filled her with happy expectation. ‘Perhaps I should help you decide,’ he said, and reached out to take gentle hold of her chin.

At last! The thing she’d prayed for, wept for, longed for, was happening. He was going to kiss her. As he lifted her chin and his mouth hovered above hers she was on the verge of heaven. She raised her hands, tentatively touching his arms.

And then it was all snatched away. There was a step in the passage, and a woman’s voice floated out to them.

‘I’m sorry to arrive without warning—’

Franco stopped, his mouth an inch above hers, raising his head, alerted by the voice. Joanne felt the shock that went through his body. He’d heard only Rosemary’s voice, but already some special timbre in it seemed to tell him what was about to happen. He stepped away from Joanne, towards the door.

The next moment Rosemary appeared. Joanne, watching with jealous eyes that saw every detail, knew that all the breath had gone out of him, so that he stood like a man poised between two lives. Later she realized that this was literally true. Franco had seen his fate walk through the door, with long blonde hair and a dazzling smile. And he’d instantly recognized that this was what she was. He was no longer the same man.

Dazed, hardly able to believe what had happened, Joanne turned her eyes to see Rosemary staring at Franco with the same look that he was giving her. It was all over in a flash, and there was nothing to be done about it.

There were hasty introductions. Rosemary greeted everyone and threw her arms about Joanne, while somehow never taking her eyes off Franco. He was like a man in a dream. It was his idea that Rosemary come to the party with them. Joanne wanted to cry out at having come so close to her desire, but what would be the use of that? Even she could see that what was happening had always been meant.

At the party Franco monopolized Rosemary, dancing almost every dance with her, plying her with food and wine. His good manners made him attend to Joanne’s comfort, watching to make sure that she wasn’t a wallflower. There was no danger of that since she was popular. She danced every dance, determined not to show that her heart was breaking, and when Franco saw that she had a supply of partners he forgot her and spent every moment with Rosemary.

Many times she wondered what would have happened if Rosemary had seen her in Franco’s arms. Would she have taken him, knowing how Joanne loved him? But the question was pointless. Franco pursued Rosemary fiercely through the evening that followed and every day afterwards until he made her his own. He was like a man driven by demons until he came to the safe haven of his love.

It was still painful to recall how she slipped away from the dance and stumbled across them in each other’s arms, in the darkness. She backed away, but not before she heard Franco murmuring, ‘Mi amore—I will love you until I die,’ and saw him kiss her passionately. It was so different from the teasing kiss he’d almost bestowed on herself, and she fled, weeping frantically.

Apart from herself, the only person not pleased by the wedding was Sophia. Joanne overheard the family scene in which Sophia begged Franco to marry a local girl, and not ‘this stranger, who knows nothing of our ways’. Franco refused to quarrel with his mother, but he insisted on his right to marry the woman of his choice. He also demanded, quietly but firmly, that his bride should be treated with respect. Joanne was struck by the change in him. Already the easygoing lad who’d once let his mother’s tirades wash over him was turning into a man of serious purpose. Sophia evidently felt it too, for she burst into angry tears.

‘Poor Mama,’ Renata observed. ‘Franco’s always been her favourite, and now she’s jealous because he loves Rosemary best.’

The whole neighbourhood was invited to their wedding. Joanne longed not to be there, but Rosemary asked her and Renata to be her bridesmaids. Joanne was afraid that if she refused everyone would guess why.

When the day came she put on her pink satin dress, smiled despite her heartbreak, and walked behind Rosemary as she went down the aisle to become Franco’s wife. Joanne saw the look on his face as he watched his bride’s approach. It was a look of total, blind adoration, and it tore the heart out of her.

A year later she pleaded work as an excuse not to attend the baptism of their son, Nico. Rosemary wrote to her affectionately, saying how sorry she was not to see her again, and enclosing some christening cake and photographs. Joanne studied them jealously, noting how the same look was still on Franco’s face when he looked at his wife. Even in the flat photographs it blazed out, the gaze of a supremely happy man whose marriage had brought him love and fulfilment. She hid the pictures away.

After that there were more pictures, showing Nico growing fast out of babyhood, becoming an eager toddler learning to walk, held safe by his father’s hands. Franco’s face grew a little older, less boyish. And always it bore the same look, that of a man who’d found all he wanted in life.

Rosemary stayed in touch through occasional telephone calls, and long letters, with photographs enclosed. Joanne knew everything that happened on the Farelli farm, almost as well as if she’d been there. Renata married an art dealer and went to live in Milan. Franco’s father died. Two years later his mother visited her sister in Naples, where she met a widower with two children and married him. Franco, Rosemary and baby Nico were left alone on the farm: alone, that was, except for a woman who helped with the housework, and the dozens of vineyard workers who wandered in and out of the house.

Rosemary often repeated her loving invitations. She wrote:

It seems so long since we saw you. You shouldn’t be a stranger, darling, especially after we were so close once.

Joanne would write back, excusing herself on the grounds of work, for her skill in copying paintings to the last brush stroke had made her a successful career. But she never gave the true reason, which was that she didn’t trust herself to look at Rosemary’s husband without loving him. And that was forbidden, not only because he cared nothing for her, but because Joanne also loved Rosemary.

She had no other close family, and the cousin who was also sister and mother was dearer to her than anyone on earth, except Franco. She owed Rosemary more than she could repay, and her fierce sense of loyalty made her keep her distance.

She was lonely, and sometimes the temptation to pay a visit was overwhelming. Surely it could do no harm to meet little Nico, enjoy the farm life for a while, and be enveloped in the warmth and love that Rosemary seemed to carry with her at all times?

But then Rosemary would write, innocently ending the letter, ‘Franco sends his love’. And the words still hurt, warning her that the visit must never be made.

She’d been eighteen when she’d fallen in love with him, and it should have been one of those passing teenage infatuations, so common at that age. Her misfortune was that it wasn’t. Instead of getting over Franco she’d gone on cherishing his image with a despairing persistence that warned her never to risk seeing him.

To outward appearances Joanne was a successful woman, with a string of admirers. The chubbiness of her early years had gone, leaving her figure slender and her face delicate. There were always men eager to follow her beauty and a certain indefinable something in her air. She let them wine and dine her and some of them, blind to the remote signals she sent out without knowing it, deceived themselves that they were making progress. When they realized their mistake they called her heartless, and to a point it was true. She had no heart for them. Her heart had been stolen long ago by a man who didn’t want it.

Then Rosemary returned to England for a visit, bringing her five-year-old son. They stayed with Joanne for a week, and some of their old closeness was restored. They talked for hours into the night. Joanne was enchanted by the little boy. He looked English, but he had the open-heartedness of his Italian father, and would snuggle on her lap as happily as on his mother’s.

Rosemary watched the two of them fondly, while she talked of her life in Italy with the husband she adored. The only flaw was Sophia’s continuing hostility.

‘I don’t know what I’d have done if she hadn’t remarried,’ she confessed. ‘She hates me.’

‘But she was always nagging Franco to get married,’ Joanne recalled.

‘Yes, but she wanted to choose his wife. She’d have picked a local girl who wouldn’t have competed with her for his heart, and given him lots and lots of children. Franco really wants them. Sophia never lets me forget that I’ve only managed to give him one.

‘I’ve tried and tried to make her my friend, but it’s useless. She hates me because Franco loves me so much, and I couldn’t change that—even if I wanted to.’

Her words made Joanne recall how Sophia’s manner to herself had altered without warning. She’d been friendly enough, in her sharp manner, until one day she’d caught Joanne regarding Franco with yearning in her eyes. After that she’d grown cool, as though nobody but herself was allowed to love him.

Rosemary’s face was radiant as she talked of her husband. ‘I never knew such happiness could exist,’ she said in a voice full of wonder. ‘Oh, darling, if only it could happen for you too.’

‘I’m a career woman,’ Joanne protested, hiding her face against Nico’s hair lest it reveal some forbidden consciousness. ‘I’ll probably never marry.’

She was the first to learn Rosemary’s thrilling secret.

‘I haven’t even told Franco yet, because I don’t want to raise false hopes,’ she admitted. ‘But he wants another child so badly, and I want to give him one.’

A week after her return to Italy she telephoned to say she was certain at last, and Franco was over the moon.

But the child was never born. In the fifth month of her pregnancy Rosemary collapsed with a heart attack, and died.

Joanne was in Australia at the time, working against a deadline. It would have been impractical to go to Italy for the funeral, but the truth was she was glad of the excuse to stay away. Her love for Rosemary’s husband tormented her with guilt now that Rosemary was dead.

The year that followed was the most miserable of her life. Despite their long parting, Rosemary had stayed in touch so determinedly that she had remained a vital part of her life. Joanne only truly understood that now that she was gone, and the empty space yawned.

She had several requests to work in Italy, but she turned them all down on one pretext or another. Then a debilitating bout of flu left her too weak to work for some time, and her bank balance grew dangerously low. When the offer came from Vito Antonini she was glad of the chance to make some money.

He lived only sixty miles away from Franco. But she could shut herself up to work, and never venture into the outside world. There was no need to see him if she didn’t want to. So, despite her misgivings, she accepted the job and flew to Italy, telling herself that she was in no danger, and trying to believe it.


CHAPTER TWO

‘WHY you never take the car?’ Maria demanded one day. ‘When you arrive I say, ‘We don’t need the second car. You use it.’ But you never do. Is very unkind.’

‘Don’t be offended, Maria, please,’ Joanne begged. ‘It’s just that I’ve been so busy.’

‘Don’t you have any friends from when you were here before?’

‘Well—my cousin’s family lives near Asti—’

‘And you haven’t visited?’ Maria shrieked in horror, for like all Italians she was family-minded. ‘You go now.’

Vito backed his wife up, and the two of them virtually ordered her out of the house.

‘You stay away tonight,’ Maria ordered. ‘You won’t have time to drive back.’

‘I’ll have plenty of time,’ Joanne insisted. ‘I’m only going for a couple of hours.’

They argued about this until the last minute, Maria demanding that she pack a bag, Joanne firmly refusing. She was going to make this visit as brief as possible, just to prove to herself that she could cope with meeting Franco. Then she would leave and never go back.

She was dressed for the country, in trousers and sweater. But both had come from one of Turin’s most expensive shops, and she added a gold chain about her waist and dainty gold studs in her ears. She didn’t realize that she was making a point, but the costly elegance of her attire marked her out as a different person from the gauche girl of eight years ago.

As soon as she got out onto the road and felt the beauty of the day, and the sun streaming in through the open window, Joanne was glad. She’d been shut up too long with the smell of oil paint and turpentine, and she needed to breathe fresh air.

She took the route through the little medieval town of Asti. Already there were posters up advertising the palio, the bareback race that was run every year around the piazza. The jockeys were all local lads, and Joanne’s mind went back to the time Franco had taken part.

She’d been nervous as she’d taken her place in the stands with the family and almost every worker from the Farelli vineyard. The palio was so fierce that mattresses were fixed to the walls of all the surrounding buildings to save the riders and horses who crashed into them. Even so, injuries were common.

After the first lap it had been clear that the race was between Franco and another rider.

‘That’s Leo,’ Renata said excitedly. ‘He and Franco are good friends—except today.’

It was neck and neck on the last lap. Then Leo went ahead. Franco made a desperate attempt to catch up. The crowd’s cheers turned to screams as the horses collided and both riders were thrown. Miraculously the following riders managed to jump over them, and neither man was hurt. But Joanne’s heart was in her mouth as they all hurried around to see Franco afterwards.

Sophia clung to him, almost suffocating him until Giorgio gently prised her away. Leo hurled his whip to the ground, complaining, ‘I was winning. I had the race in the palm of my hand. And he robbed me.’

Franco offered Leo his hand. Leo stared at it until everyone thought he would refuse to shake. At last he put out his own hand, saying through a forced smile, ‘I’ll get even with you next year, Farelli. See if I don’t.’

But Franco had never competed again. By the next race he’d been married to Rosemary, looking forward to starting a family.

Joanne parked the car and spent an hour wandering the streets she’d once known so well. She decided she might as well have lunch here too, and enjoyed a leisurely pizza. She would have denied that she was putting off her meeting with Franco, but she didn’t hurry.

But when she resumed the journey she was further delayed by a traffic jam. For two hours she fretted and fumed behind a trail of trucks, and it was late afternoon before she neared the Farelli vineyards. She parked the car off the road and got out to lean over a fence and survey the land. The vines were growing strongly and everywhere she looked she saw the brightness of summer. It reminded her of her year in Italy when she’d fallen in love with Franco.

What would he be like now? Her last picture of him had been taken eighteen months ago and showed him older, more serious, as befitted a man of responsibilities. Yet even then a mischievous devil still lurked in his eyes. But he must have changed again since the death of his beloved wife. Suddenly she was afraid to see him. He would be a stranger.

But she couldn’t give up now. Courtesy demanded that she see Rosemary’s widower and child before she left the district. She started up again and drove on to the turning that led to the house. At once memory began to play back. The dirt track was still the one she’d seen the day Renata had brought her here for the first time. There were the ruts left by the trucks that regularly arrived and departed.

The big, sprawling house too was the same, yellow ochre in the blazing sun, the dark green shutters pulled closed against the heat, the roof tiles rusty red. And everywhere there were geraniums, the brightly coloured flowers without which no Italian country home seemed complete. Geraniums around the doors, in window boxes, in hanging baskets: red, white, pink, purple, every petal glowing vividly in the brilliant light.

Chickens strutted pompously back and forth in the yard, uttering soft, contented clucks. The Farelli family was wealthy, but the house was that of a prosperous farmer, with homeliness prevailing over luxury. That was its charm.

Did nothing ever change here? There was the long table under the trees with the benches at either side. Above it stood the wooden trellis roof with flowers wreathing in and out and hanging down from it. How many times had she sat beneath those flowers, as if in paradise, listening to the family backchat over a meal? Paradise that might have been hers, that could never have been hers. Paradise lost.

The front door was open and she walked inside. Rosemary had made this place her own, but it still felt familiar. The few new pieces of furniture blended in with the warm red flagstones. The huge fireplace, where the family had warmed themselves by log fires, was unchanged. The old sofa had been re-covered, but was otherwise still the same, the largest one Joanne had ever seen.

The staircase led directly out of the main room. An old woman whom Joanne had never seen before came bustling downstairs, wiping her hands on her apron. She was dressed in black, save for a coloured scarf covering her hair. She stopped very still when she saw Joanne.

‘I’m sorry to come in uninvited,’ Joanne said quickly. ‘I’m not prying. My cousin was Signor Farelli’s wife. Is he here?’

‘He is with the vines on the south slope,’ the woman said slowly. ‘I will send for him.’

‘No need. I know where it is. Grazie.’

In the poor light of the stairs she hadn’t noticed the old woman’s face grow pale at the sight of her. And she went out too quickly to hear her murmur, ‘Maria vergine!’ or see her cross herself.

She remembered the way perfectly. She followed the path to the stream, stepping gingerly across the stones that punctuated the fast-running water. Once she’d pretended to lose her nerve in the middle of those stones so that Franco came back and helped her across, steadying her with his strong hands.

After that the path lay around by the trees until the first slope came into view, covered in vines basking in the hot sun. Here and there she saw men moving along them, checking, testing. They turned to watch her and even at a distance she was aware of a strange frisson passing through them. One man looked at her in alarm and hurried away.

At last she reached the south slope. Here too there were memories everywhere, and she stopped to look around her. This was where she’d walked one evening to find Franco alone, and their brief tête-à-tête had been interrupted by one of his light-o’-loves.

Lost in her reverie, she didn’t at first see the child appear and begin moving towards her, an incredulous expression on his face. Suddenly he began to run. Joanne smiled, recognizing Nico.

But before she could speak he cried, ‘Mama!’ and hurled himself into her arms, hugging her tightly about the neck.

Dismay pervaded her. ‘Nico, I—I’m not—’

‘Mama! Mama!’

She could do nothing but embrace him back. It would have been cruel to refuse, but she was in turmoil. She’d barely thought of her resemblance to Rosemary, and Nico had met her before. But that had been eighteen months ago, an eternity in the life of a young child. And the likeness must have grown more pronounced than ever for him to confuse them.

She should never have come here. It had all been a terrible mistake.

‘Nico.’

The man had approached while she was unaware, and stood watching them. Rosemary looked up and her heart seemed to stop. It was Franco, but not as she had ever seen him.

The light-hearted boy was gone for ever, replaced by this grim-faced man who looked as if he’d survived the fires of hell, and now carried them with him.

He’d filled out, become heavier. Once he’d been lean and rangy. Now there was power in every line of him, from his thickly muscled legs to his heavy shoulders. He wore only a pair of shorts, and the sun glistened off the sweat on his smooth chest. An outdoor life had bronzed him, emphasizing his clear-cut features and black hair.

One thing hadn’t changed and that was the aura of vivid life he carried with him, so that his surroundings paled. But it was belied by the bleakness of his expression.

‘Nico,’ he called harshly. ‘Come here.’

‘Papa,’ the child called, ‘it’s Mama, I—I think—’

‘Come here.’ He didn’t raise his voice, but the child obeyed him at once, going to his side and slipping his hand confidingly into Franco’s big one.

‘Who are you?’ Franco whispered. ‘Who are you that you come to me in answer to—?’ He checked himself with a harsh intake of breath.

‘Franco, don’t you know me?’ she begged. ‘It’s Joanne, Rosemary’s cousin.’

‘Cousin?’ he echoed.

She went closer and his eyes gave her a shock. They seemed to look at her and through her at the same time. Joanne shivered as she realized that he was seeing something that wasn’t there, and shivered again as she guessed what it was.

‘We met, years ago,’ she reminded him. ‘I’m sorry to come on you suddenly—’ She took a step towards him.

‘Stop there,’ he said sharply. ‘Come no closer.’

She stood still, listening to the thunder of her own heartbeat. At last a long sigh escaped him and he said wearily, ‘I’m sorry. You are Joanne, I can see that now.’

‘I shouldn’t have just walked in like this. Shall I leave?’

‘Of course not.’ He seemed to pull himself together with an effort. ‘Forgive my bad manners.’

‘Nico, don’t you remember me?’ Joanne asked, reaching out her arms to the little boy. A light had died in his face, and she could see that he did now recall their first meeting.

He advanced and gave her a tentative smile. ‘I thought you were my mother,’ he said. ‘But you’re not, are you?’

‘No, I’m afraid I’m not,’ she said, taking his hand.

‘You look so like her,’ the little boy said wistfully.

‘Yes,’ Franco said in a strained voice. ‘You do. When my people came running to me crying that my wife had returned from the dead, I thought they were superstitious fools. But now I can’t blame them. You’ve grown more like her with the years.’

‘I didn’t know.’

‘No, how should you? You never troubled to visit us, as a cousin should. But now—’ he gazed at her, frowning ‘—after all this time, you return.’

‘Perhaps I should have stayed away.’

‘You are here now.’ He checked his watch. ‘It grows late. We’ll go home and eat.’ He gave her a bleak look. ‘You are welcome.’

Franco’s workers gathered to watch them as they walked. She knew now why she aroused such interest, but still it gave her a strange feeling to hear the murmurs, ‘La padrona viva.’ The mistress lives. Out of the corner of her eye she saw some of them cross themselves.

‘They are superstitious people,’ Franco said. ‘They believe in ghosts.’

They’d reached the stream now and Nico bounded ahead, jumping from stone to stone, his blond hair shining gold in the late afternoon sun. It was the same colour that Rosemary’s had been, as Joanne’s was.

A man called to Franco and he turned aside to talk to him. Nico jumped up and down impatiently. ‘Come on,’ he called to Joanne, holding out a hand for her.

She reached out her own hand and felt his childish fingers grip her. ‘Hey, keep still,’ she protested, laughing, for he was still bounding about.

‘Come on, come on, come on!’ he carolled.

‘Careful!’ Joanne cried as she felt her foot slip. The next moment they were both in the stream.

It was only a couple of feet deep. Nico was up first, holding out his hands to help her up. ‘Perdona me,’ he pleaded.




Of course,’ Joanne said, blowing to get rid of the water and trying to push back wet hair from her eyes. ‘Oh, my goodness! Look at me!’

Her soft white sweater had become transparent, and was clinging to her in a way that was revealing. Men and women gathered on the bank, chuckling. She joined in, sitting there in the water and laughing up into the sun. For a moment the light blinded her, and when she could see properly she caught a glimpse of Franco’s face, and its stunned look shocked her. She reached out a hand for him to help her up, but it seemed that he couldn’t move.

‘Will anyone help me?’ she called, and some of the men crowded forward.

‘Basta!’ The one word from Franco cut across them. The men backed off, alarmed by something they heard in his voice.

He took Joanne’s hand and pulled her up out of the water and onto the bank. As she’d feared, her fawn trousers also clung to her in a revealing fashion. To her relief the men had turned their heads away. After Franco’s explosion not one was brave enough to look at her semi-nakedness.

‘I’m sorry, Papa,’ Nico said.

‘Don’t be angry with him,’ Joanne said.

Franco gave her a look. ‘I am never angry with Nico,’ he said simply. ‘Now let us go home so that you can dry off.’

‘I went to the house first,’ Joanne said, hurrying to match her steps to Franco’s long strides, ‘and the old woman there told me where you were.’

‘That’s Celia, she’s my housekeeper.’

Celia emerged from the house as they approached and stood waiting, her eyes fixed on Joanne. She exclaimed over her sodden state.

‘Celia will take you upstairs to change your clothes,’ Franco said.

‘But I don’t have anything to change into,’ she said in dismay.

‘Didn’t you bring anything for overnight?’

‘I’m not staying overnight. I mean—I didn’t want to impose.’

‘How could you impose? You are family.’ Franco spoke with a coolness that robbed the words of any hint of welcome. ‘But I was forgetting. You don’t think of yourself as family. Very well, Celia will find you something of her own to wear while your clothes dry off.’

Celia spoke, not in Italian but in the robust Piedmontese dialect that Joanne had never quite mastered. She seemed to be asking a question, to which Franco responded with a curt ‘No!’

‘Your clothes will soon dry,’ he told Joanne. ‘In the meantime Celia will lend you something. She will show you to the guest room. Nico, go and get dry.’

It was the child who showed her upstairs, taking her hand and pulling her up after him. Celia provided her with a huge white bath towel and some clothes. She bore Joanne’s garments away, promising to have them dry in no time.

An unsettling playback had begun in Joanne’s head. This was the very room she’d shared with Renata when she’d first come here. There were still the same two large beds, and a roomful of old-fashioned furniture. As with the rest of the house the floor was terrazzo, the cheap substitute for marble that Italians used to keep buildings cool.

The floor-length windows were still shielded from the sun by the green wooden shutters. Celia drew one of these back, and opened the window so that a breeze caused the long curtains to billow softly into the room. Joanne went to stand there, looking out over the land bathed in the setting sun. It was as heartbreakingly beautiful as she remembered it, the Italy of her dreams, blood-red, every colour more intense, every feeling heightened.

She tried on the dress. It was dark, made of some thin, cheap material, and it hung loosely on her slender frame, evidently made for someone wider and shorter. It was a pity, she thought, that Franco hadn’t kept some of Rosemary’s clothes, but, after all, it had been over a year.

And then, with a prickle up her spine, she remembered the words he’d exchanged with Celia. And she suddenly understood that he did, indeed, have some of Rosemary’s clothes, and Celia had wanted to fetch them, and Franco had forbidden it.

She went down to find Nico waiting for her at the foot of the stairs. After the initial confusion he seemed less disturbed than anyone at seeing his mother’s image, and Joanne blessed the instinct that had made Rosemary bring him to England. Clearly he remembered her from that visit.

He proved it by holding up a colouring book she’d given him. ‘I’ve done it all,’ he said. ‘Come and see.’

He seized her hand and pulled her over to a small table in the corner. Joanne went through the pages with him, noticing that he’d completed the pictures with a skill unusual in children of his age. He had a steady hand, taking colours up to the lines but staying neatly within them in a way that suggested good control. It reminded her of her own first steps in colouring, when she’d shown a precision that had foreshadowed her later skill in imitating.

When they’d been through the book Nico shyly produced some pages covered in rough, childish paintings, and she exclaimed in delight. Here too she could see the early evidence of craftsmanship. Her genuine praise thrilled Nico, and they smiled together.

Then she looked up and found Franco watching them oddly. ‘Nico, it’s time to wash your hands for supper,’ he said. He indicated the pictures. ‘Put everything away.’

‘Yes, Papa,’ Nico said, too docilely for a child. He tidied his things and went upstairs.

‘It’s strange to find the house so quiet,’ Joanne said wistfully. ‘When I first came here there were your parents and Renata, with everyone shouting and laughing at the same time.’

‘Yes, there was a lot of laughter,’ Franco agreed. ‘Renata visited us recently, with her husband and two children. They made plenty of noise, and it was like the old days. But you’re right, it’s too quiet now.’

‘Nico must be a lonely little boy,’ Joanne ventured.

‘I’m afraid he is. He relies on Ruffo a lot for company.’

‘Is Ruffo still alive?’ she asked, delighted.

Franco gave a piercing whistle out of the window. And there was Ruffo, full of years, looking vastly wise because the black fur of his face was mostly white now. At the sight of Joanne he gave a yelp of pleasure and hurried over to her.

‘He remembers me. After all this time.’

‘He never forgets a friend,’ Franco agreed.

She petted the old dog with real pleasure, but she also knew she was using him to cover the silence that lay between herself and Franco. She began to feel desperate. She’d known that Franco would be changed, but this grave man who seemed reluctant to speak was a shock to her.

‘So tell me what happened to you,’ he said at last. ‘Did you become a great artist?’

His words had a faint ironical inflection, and she answered ruefully, ‘No, I became a great imitator. I found that I had no vision of my own, but I can copy the visions of others.’

‘That’s sad,’ he said unexpectedly. ‘I remember how badly you wanted to be an artist. You couldn’t stop talking about it.’

It was a surprise to find that he recalled anything she’d said in those days.

‘I have a good career. My copies are so perfect that you can hardly tell the difference. But, of course,‘ she added with a sigh, ‘the difference is always there, nonetheless.’

‘And do you mind that so much?’

‘It was hard to realize that I have no originality.’ She tried to turn it aside lightly. ‘Doomed to wander for ever in someone else’s footsteps, judged always by how much I echo them. It’s a living, and a good one sometimes. It just isn’t what I dreamed of.’

‘And why are you in Italy now?’

‘I’m copying some works for a man who lives in Turin.’

‘And you spared us a day. How kind.’

She flushed under his ironic tone. Franco plainly thought badly of her for keeping her distance, but how could she tell him the reason?

‘I should have called you first,’ she began.

‘Why should you? My wife’s cousin is free to drop in at any time.’

She realized that his voice was different. Once it had been rich, round and musical. Now it was flat, as though all the music of life had died for him.

A harassed-looking girl came scurrying out of the kitchen carrying a pile of clean plates, pursued by Celia’s voice bawling instructions. The girl fled outside and began laying plates on the table.

‘Despite the short notice Celia is preparing a banquet in your honour,’ Franco informed her. ‘That’s why she’s a little tense. My foreman and his family are eating with us tonight.’

‘I love to remember the meals we had under the trees.’

‘You were always nervous about the flowers hanging from the trellis. You said they dropped insects over you.’

‘You did that. You slipped a spider down the back of my dress once.’

‘So I did,’ he said with a slight smile. ‘That was to punish you for revealing to my mother that you’d seen me with a woman she disapproved of.’

‘I didn’t mean to betray you,’ Joanne protested. ‘It slipped out by accident.’

‘I paid for your accident. My mother slapped me and screamed at me. I was twenty-four, but that didn’t impress her.’

They shared a smile, and for a brief moment there was a glimpse of the old, humorous Franco. Then he was gone.

‘Why don’t you have a look around, while I wash up?’ he said. ‘You’ll find the house much the same.’

‘I’d already begun to notice that. I’m glad. This was a happy place.’

She could have bitten her tongue off as soon as the words were out. It was as if Franco were turned to stone. His face was like a dead man’s. Then he said simply, ‘Yes, it was happy once.’

He walked away, leaving her blaming herself for her own clumsiness. This visit was turning into a disaster. Franco had said his foreman’s family was eating with them ‘tonight’, which suggested that they’d been invited specially. Obviously her presence was a strain, and he needed some relief.

It had been madness to come here.


CHAPTER THREE

JOANNE wandered outside. The fierce heat of the day had subsided and a soft breeze had sprung up. At such times life at Isola Magia had always been at its most relaxed and contented, but now she could feel the growing tension. Even so, the beauty of the land struck her afresh.

Here was the terrace and the exact same place where Franco had nearly kissed her on that fateful night. Geraniums still hung from above, trailing in gorgeous purple majesty. A glance showed Joanne that it was the same plant that had flowered faithfully year after year, always putting forth the same beauty while life and death passed underneath.

There was the apple tree just under the window of the guest bedroom. Joanne had seen Franco stand beneath that tree on the night before his wedding, looking up at Rosemary’s window. His bride had come to the window and gazed down at him with her heart in her eyes, and neither had moved for a long time. Joanne had crept away, feeling that it was sacrilege to watch.

She tried not to be self-conscious at the glances she received, wondering whether people were staring at her face or the unflattering dress. It was a relief when Franco and Nico emerged from the house and indicated for everyone to gather around the table.

Nico slipped his hand into Joanne’s. ‘Can I call you Zia?’ he asked shyly, using the Italian word for ‘Aunt’. ‘I’d love that,’ Joanne said. ‘Will you show me where to sit?’

He led her to the table, and introduced her to everyone as ‘Zia Joanne’. Umberto, the foreman, was there, with his wife and three children. The family greeted her politely, but with the look of awe that she was beginning to recognize. Franco sat at the head of the table, and Nico placed her between his father and himself. Franco poured her a glass of wine. His manner was attentive, but his eyes didn’t meet hers.

As he’d said, Celia had whipped up a banquet in an amazingly short time, black olive pâté, spinach and ricotta gnocchi, and a delicious dish made of white truffles, the local speciality. It was washed down with the local wine.

Elise, Umberto’s wife, had worked in the vineyards when Joanne had been there eight years ago, and remembered her. She questioned her politely, and Joanne talked about her career and her work in Vito’s house. Franco spoke to her courteously, but she had the feeling it was an effort. Nico said little, but sometimes she turned and caught him smiling at her.

It was like floating in a dream. Everything that was happening was unreal. She knew every inch of this place, yet it was as though she’d never been here before. She knew Franco, yet he was a stranger who wouldn’t meet her eyes.

But then she looked up and found that he’d been watching her while she was unaware. And there was something in his eyes that wasn’t cold and bleak. There was despair and misery, reproach and dread; but also anger. For a moment his iron control had slipped and she saw that Franco Farelli was possessed by a towering, bitter rage.

Rage at what? At fate that had taken the woman he loved? At herself, for coming here and stirring up his memories?

She felt suddenly giddy. Heat rose in her, and she was transported back years to the last time she’d sat at this table, trying to hide her feelings for a man who didn’t love her. There was a roaring in her ears and she felt as though the world were spinning.

Then it all stopped. Everything was back in its right place. Franco was talking to someone else. It might all never have happened.

But the soft pounding of her blood told her that it had happened. Nothing had changed, and yet everything had changed. He was no longer the fierce stranger he wanted her to think, but a man at the limit of his endurance.

At last Umberto and his family departed. The sun had sunk below the horizon, leaving only a crimson lining on the clouds, and that too was fading.

Celia appeared bearing a small tray with a bottle of prosecco, a very light, dry white wine, that was almost a soft drink. Italians drank it constantly, and Joanne even recalled being offered a glass as she had waited to be served in a butcher’s shop.

Celia placed the bottle and glasses on the table, and added a little plate of biscuits that she set close to Joanne with an air of suppressed triumph. While Franco poured the wine she tasted one of the tiny biscuits, then checked herself.

‘Is something the matter?’ he asked.

‘I’m sorry, I can’t eat these. I’m allergic to almonds, and I’m sure I can taste them.’

Franco took a biscuit, tasted it, and frowned as he studied the sugar coating. To Joanne’s astonishment his face grew dark with anger.

‘Celia!’

The old woman came hurrying back. Franco asked her a question in Piedmontese, and Celia answered with a look of puzzled innocence. The next moment she backed away from his blast of cold fury, and hurried to snatch the biscuits from the table.

‘What happened?’ Joanne asked.

‘It’s nothing,’ he said curtly.

‘But you mustn’t be angry with poor Celia just because I didn’t like the food.’

‘It wasn’t that. Leave it.’

For the moment they’d both forgotten Nico, watching them with eyes that saw too much for a child. He moved closer to Joanne and whispered, ‘They were Mama’s favourite.’

Franco winced. ‘Yes. I don’t know what Celia was thinking of. They haven’t been served in this house since—for over a year.’

‘She must have thought that, since I’m Rosemary’s cousin, I might like the same things,’ Joanne said calmly, although she was feeling far from calm. She suspected what Celia was really thinking, and it was something far more eerie.

Franco seemed to pull himself together. ‘Doubtless she thought that,’ he agreed. He was very pale. ‘Nico, it’s time for bed.’

But at once the child squeezed closer to Joanne, smiling up into her eyes. Instinctively, she opened her arms to him, and he scrambled onto her lap.

‘Let him stay,’ she begged Franco. ‘We used to cuddle like this when Rosemary brought him to visit me.’

‘He was a baby then,’ Franco said, frowning.

‘He’s not much more now. He’s too young to do without cuddles.’

Franco sighed. ‘You’re right.’

Nico had dozed off as soon as he’d settled down, nestling against her. Joanne looked down tenderly at the bright head, and thought sadly of Rosemary who would never see her son grow.

‘He’s asleep already,’ she murmured.

‘He trusts you,’ Franco said. ‘That’s remarkable. Since his mother died he trusts nobody, except me.’

‘Poor little mite. Isn’t there someone around here who can be a mother to him?’

‘The servants make a fuss of him, but nobody can take his mother’s place. Ever.’

Joanne turned her head so that she could brush her cheek against Nico’s silky hair, and instinctively tightened her arms about him- Nothing was working out the way she’d thought. She’d been reluctant to see Franco again, fearing to be tormented by her old feelings. She hadn’t allowed for the lonely child, and the way he would entwine himself in her heart.

‘It’s time he was in bed,’ Franco said.

‘Yes,’ she said softly, rising with Nico in her arms. His head drooped against her shoulder as she headed for the stairs, and she smiled down at him tenderly.

Celia was upstairs, and darted away as soon as she saw her to open the door to Nico’s room. Together they undressed the sleepy child, and slipped him between the sheets. He put his arms about Joanne again, and she hugged him back, her heart aching for the little boy who’d gone without his mother’s embraces for so long.

‘Will you sing to me?’ he whispered.

‘What shall I sing?’

‘The song about the rabbit.’

For a moment her mind went blank. Then she remembered that Rosemary had written a little nonsense verse that she’d sung to Nico. Gradually the words came back to her, and she began to sing in a husky voice.

‘Look at the rabbit, scampering home.

See how his tail bobs, bobs, bobs as he runs.

It’s late and he wants his supper,

Then he’ll curl up and go to sleep.

And he’ll snore, he’ll snore, he’ll snore.’

Nico gave a small delighted chuckle. ‘Sing it again,’ he begged.

Obediently Joanne sang the little verse a second time, and then a third.

‘Again,’ he whispered.

From the corner of her eye she could see Franco standing in the doorway, keeping back, not to disturb them. He didn’t move or make a sound, but she was aware of him with every fibre of her being, even while she concentrated on the child.





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