‘Your sister must be extremely well connected.’
‘And practical. Her husband is—was—in a senior position in the government. Thanks to him, I’ve had my currency changed, accommodation recommended, and my papers accepted at every border without question. I promised to ensure that someone on my list knows that I have arrived, and someone knows where I am headed next so that my sister can keep track of me. So, you see, I’m not really very intrepid at all.’
‘I beg to differ. Intrepid, and modest with it,’ he insisted, eyeing her with flattering respect. ‘How long have you been travelling?’
‘I left England back in June. Since then I’ve been to France, Spain, Portugal and now Italy.’
‘Good Lord, that’s quite a tour. Will you be publishing your journals when you return home?’
‘Shall I? Tales of a Single Lady Traveller,’ Estelle opined, slanting him a mischievous smile. ‘It’s the whole point of travelling, isn’t it, to share one’s experience with the world, to prove that travel is elevating.’
Mr Malahide eyed her sceptically. ‘I could be wrong, we have only just met, but you don’t strike me as either a diarist or an educationist.’
‘You are sadly right. To be honest, I have not once felt in the least bit elevated by any of the paintings or the tapestries or even the statues in the Uffizi, though I assure you, it is not for want of trying. They say, don’t they, that the more one stares at a painting, the more one appreciates it. Well, I have stood in front of countless Old Masters trying to absorb their greatness. I am beginning to think,’ she concluded sorrowfully, ‘that I am a heathen. Or perhaps my female mind is too feeble for the task.’
She was pleased to note that he was not in the least bit taken in. ‘And I am beginning to think that your female mind, far from being feeble, takes great pleasure in making fun of conventional wisdom. I’d also hazard a guess that what you really like is to observe real people, rather than portraits on a wall. An Englishwoman alone would sit in that café only long enough to finish her coffee,’ Mr Malahide added, seeing her surprise. ‘You take your time, content to simply watch the world go by.’
‘Ah, but that may be because I am simply empty-headed.’
‘I already know that is far from the case.’
‘But indeed, Mr Malahide, my ignorance of culture knows no bounds. My education was—well, let’s say sporadic, at best. My parents, like many others, it seems to me, considered education wasted on girls, and therefore money spent on governesses squandered, so we three sisters had scant experience of either.’
‘Three sisters?’
‘I have mentioned Eloise. I also have a twin. Phoebe is a chef—chef patron, actually, for she owns her own restaurant in London. Le Pas à Pas, it’s called—have you heard of it?’
‘I’m afraid not. I haven’t had cause to visit London in some time. Is it a popular restaurant?’
‘The most lauded in the whole city,’ Estelle said proudly. ‘It only opened in April, but already she has plans to open another.’
‘I know little of such things—I’m afraid I view food as fuel—but isn’t it quite unusual to have a female chef patron?’
‘Extremely. In fact Phoebe may even be unique.’
‘So the pioneering spirit runs in the family?’
‘If it does, then my sisters have the full quota between them. I’m no pioneer, Mr Malahide, I’m simply a purposeless wanderer, who has taken up far more than her share of the conversation.’
‘Sure,’ he replied in a much-thickened accent, ‘are we Irish not famed for having the gift of the gab?’
‘Nevertheless.’ Estelle pushed her empty dish to one side. ‘That’s quite enough about me. Tell me, what brings you to Florence?’
‘I’ve come to study mathematics. I know,’ he said, holding his hands up and laughing at her bemused expression, ‘a confession guaranteed to stop any conversation in its tracks. I’m also well past student age, but that’s what I’ve been doing none the less, for the better part of the last year. And now I can see you’re revising your opinion of me entirely, from someone you’re happy to while away a convivial hour or so with, to a crusty academic who prefers equations to words.’
‘Or a puzzle you’ve tempted me into solving, more like,’ she retorted. ‘You’re as likely a crusty academic as I am a—a...’
‘Blue-stockinged diarist?’
‘Precisely! Good grief, I hardly know what to make of you now. Do you intend to become a teacher? Or a college fellow—if that is the correct term?’
‘Neither. I study for the sheer pleasure of acquiring knowledge, having granted myself a year’s sabbatical. Though that’s up at the end of August.’
‘And what is it, may I ask, that you took a sabbatical from?’
‘Real life?’ His smile faltered. ‘I turned thirty last August, just before I left Ireland, and it seemed to me that I needed to—to get away for a while. So that’s what I did.’
Get away from what? Estelle wondered, but before she could ask, he pre-empted her. ‘I’m lucky, I’ve an excellent estate manager, but it would be unfair to expect him to hold the fort indefinitely, so I’ll need to return home soon. What about you, is there any end in sight to your sojourn?
There should be. After almost a year, she had a right to expect to have resolved her dilemma, or come up with alternative plans for how she intended to spend the rest of her life. Estelle pushed this increasingly persistent worry to one side. ‘I have nothing in my sights, save luncheon.’
She meant it flippantly, simply as a means of changing the subject, but Mr Malahide checked his watch, looking dismayed. ‘I don’t know where the time has gone. We’ve been sitting here for more than an hour.’
‘Really?’ Estelle exclaimed, ‘I had no idea. I—I’ve enjoyed our conversation, Mr Malahide.’
‘I have too, Miss Brannagh, very much. I’ve talked little but mathematics for nigh on nine months, and barely a word of it in my own language.’
‘You must have an excellent command of Italian.’
‘I studied here when I was younger and picked it up then. Your own linguistic skills must be impressive, given that you’ve managed to negotiate France, Spain and now Italy.’
‘Impressive is not the word I’d have chosen. I learned from textbooks, not from a tutor. I’ve been the unwitting source of hilarity in several inns and restaurants. Eggs, I have found, are one of the trickiest words to pronounce in any tongue. In France I ordered oafs, in Spain hoovos, and here in Italy, oova.’
He laughed. ‘Then what talent do you possess, for I refuse to believe as impressive a young woman as yourself is not blessed with some gift?’
‘I am fond of music,’ Estelle said, rolling her eyes inwardly at this understatement. ‘I have a good ear and a facility for playing almost any instrument.’
‘Now I am truly impressed, for though I enjoy music very much, I’m tone deaf and have a singing voice reminiscent of a distressed Wicklow lamb. Did you know there is a strong connection between music and mathematics?’
‘I did not.’
‘Shall I bore you with it over lunch? That is, if I’ve not intruded too much on your time already?’
Estelle had received many invitations to dine. Having naively accepted several in the early days of her travels, she had quickly realised that an invitation issued by a single man to a single woman tended to imply a hunger for something other than food, rather than a genuine desire to get to know someone. Thus, it was her policy to refuse all but those issued by names on Eloise’s list. It was perfectly acceptable for a woman to eat alone, she had discovered, and she had enjoyed doing so. Which made it all the more curious that she accepted this invitation with alacrity.
‘That’s not an offer a person hears every day,’ she said, pushing back her chair. ‘I’d be delighted to join you for lunch.’
Chapter Two
Resisting the urge to take her to one of Florence’s more prestigious ristorante, Aidan decided to risk sharing his favourite humble osteria. ‘The food is simple,’ he said, ‘but it’s much more typical of the region. The kind of dishes that would be served at home, the receipts handed down from mother to daughter.’
‘I thought you viewed food as fuel, Mr Malahide?’
He shrugged sheepishly. ‘I’m Irish, a bit of blarney comes naturally. The truth is, I like food well enough, provided it’s honest and authentic.’
‘That is precisely the kind of food my sister Phoebe loves,’ Miss Brannagh replied, to his surprise, ‘despite the fact that she trained in Paris, in the kitchen of the great Pascal Solignac’s restaurant, La Grande Taverne de Londres.’
‘Judging by the somewhat contemptuous tone in your voice, you are not a fan.’
They were walking along the banks of the Arno, the more scenic if less direct route to the osteria, and Miss Brannagh stopped to gaze up river to the view of the Ponte Vecchio. ‘I am not a fan of Monsieur Solignac the chef or the man,’ she said, her mouth curled into a sneer. ‘More importantly, I am very pleased to say, neither is Phoebe, nowadays. Excellent ingredients, traditional receipts, that is what she serves at Le Pas à Pas. The kind of food that people enjoy eating, not the kind that is served up to be admired.’
‘Is that what Monsieur Solignac does?’
‘I’ve never eaten his food, nor ever will. That man is a—’ Miss Brannagh caught herself short, biting her lip. ‘He treated my sister abominably,’ she finished, her eyes sparking fire, ‘but Phoebe—Phoebe has risen like a phoenix from the ashes. To see her presiding over her stove, in her own restaurant as I did just before I set out on my travels, made me immensely proud of her.’ She blinked, turning her gaze back to the river. ‘Excuse me.’
‘Don’t apologise. You clearly love your sister very dearly.’
‘I love both my sisters very much, we are very close, though of late, seeing them both blossom in their own ways, it’s made me wonder if we’ve been too close.’
‘Is that why you decided to travel the world, to escape them?’
Miss Brannagh laughed. ‘I’m not running from something or someone, I’m looking for something. Inspiration, you could call it. Both of my sisters are happily settled in their different ways. I envy them that—you know, the certainty they have, that they are making something of their lives. I’d like to do the same, but what I want I don’t seem to be able to find, and so far, I’ve not been able to think of an alternative.’
‘Would it be impertinent of me to ask what it is you’re looking for?’
‘Not impertinent but irrelevant, since I’ve had to accept that I am unlikely to find it.’ She shook her head impatiently. ‘I sound like a malcontent, when I am very much aware that I’m extremely fortunate to be able to do nothing at all, if I choose. You know I can’t imagine how we came to be talking about me again.’
‘Because you’re far more interesting than me?’
‘I cannot agree with you there. I know everything there is to know about me, and almost nothing about you, save that you are a mathematician—and I’ve never met a mathematician before. What is it about the subject that you find so fascinating?’
‘The fact that there is a rational answer to every problem,’ Aidan replied promptly. ‘No ambiguity, no doubt, no guesswork. Find the key, and the problem is solved.’
‘If only life were like that!’
‘My thoughts exactly.’ The dark shadow of the one question he knew now that he’d never resolve dampened his spirits for a second, but Aidan closed his mind to it. Looking down into the expectant face of the lovely Miss Brannagh, it was an easy thing to do. He felt he ought to pinch himself, just to make sure he wasn’t dreaming, but if he was, he didn’t want to wake up. Though for a man who might be dreaming, he’d never felt so alive. It wasn’t only her looks, though she was quite beautiful, with her heart-shaped face and big hazel eyes, lips that really were the colour of cherries, and that hair—true Titian red. Beautiful—yes, she most certainly was that, but it was her earthiness—dreadful word—which made heads turn as she walked past. Her figure was voluptuous. Her smile was generous. She possessed a certain vibrancy, like the warmth of the setting sun. She positively glowed with life. And she seemed determined to live it too. She could not be more different from...
‘You much prefer order, then, Mr Malahide? Mr Malahide?’
‘Order?’ He nodded furiously. ‘Indeed I do. And certainty, and logic. Predictable outcomes. Recognisable patterns—that’s where mathematics and music cross paths. Are you really interested?’
‘I truly am.’
She sounded as if she meant it. Though he had not meant to launch into a lecture, it seemed he had done just that when, coming to a halt he looked back with astonishment at the distance they had walked. ‘I did warn you I’d bore you.’
‘You didn’t. I was hanging on your every word. What’s more I actually understood at least half of what you said. You make it all sound so obvious.’
‘Well that’s because it is, when you have the key, as I said.’ Aidan grimaced. ‘Sadly, what I’ve discovered is that while I’m very good at using the key to unlock the problem, I don’t possess the creative vision, I suppose you’d call it, to actually discover the key myself. Studying here, in the shadow of some of the great, ground-breaking mathematicians, has forced me to acknowledge my limitations.’
‘I think you underestimate yourself. You’ve explained it to me in a way I can understand, and what’s more, you made it sound almost interesting.’
‘That’s an achievement, all right,’ he agreed, laughing. ‘Any time you find yourself with a spare hour or two, let me know and I’ll bore you some more. You’d be astonished how much more sense the world makes when you understand the mathematics that underpin it, from nature to the artefacts in the Uffizi that you so despise.’
‘Shh, that is our secret.’ Miss Brannagh glanced theatrically over her shoulder. ‘And I don’t actually despise art, I just don’t understand why people get so passionate about it.’
‘Aren’t you passionate about music?’
‘Yes, but it is a personal pleasure. I don’t feel the need to bore all and sundry on the subject.’
‘Well that’s me put firmly in my place.’
Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘I didn’t mean...’
‘I’m teasing you.’
‘Oh! We used to tease each other mercilessly at home, but I’m afraid I’ve rather lost the knack, Mr Malahide.’
‘Call me Aidan, and I promise to help you rediscover your ability to tease and be teased.’
‘Then you must call me Estelle, and I would caution you to be careful what you wish for.’
He grinned. ‘Oh, I think I’m prepared to take that chance. Now, here we are at last.’
* * *
Aidan watched her anxiously as they were seated in the rustic, verging on basic osteria, the proprietor raising his brows theatrically when he saw Estelle preceding him into the cool of the dark little room, silently mouthing Bella.
‘As I said, it’s an unpretentious eatery.’
To his relief, she saw the charm in the old-fashioned inn. ‘I love it. It’s the sort of place where you just know the food is going to be excellent.’
‘There’s not much choice. Not any choice, really. We eat whatever Signora Giordano has concocted from what was fresh in the market today. And we drink the wine from Signor Giordano’s father’s vineyard,’ Aidan added, as the proprietor approached with a terracotta jug and two thick glasses. ‘How are you, signor?’ he asked, in Italian.
‘God has spared me for another day,’ Signor Giordano replied in his usual lugubrious manner, his attention fixed on Aidan’s guest. ‘Signorina, you have brought the sunshine into our dining room this afternoon.�
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He flicked a cloth over the already clean-scrubbed wooden table, before pouring the wine and rattling off the day’s menu, beaming when Estelle asked for clarification, beaming even more widely when she smiled her approval.
‘Your command of Italian is a great deal better than you led me to believe,’ Aidan said when they were finally left alone with a basket of crusty bread, a dish of Tuscan olive oil and a platter of pinzimonio, raw vegetables which today included red peppers, cucumbers, radish and chicory.
Surveying the platter hungrily, Estelle merely shrugged. ‘In essence Italian, French and Spanish are very similar.’ She picked up a baton of peeled cucumber, salted it and dipped it in the olive oil before biting into it. ‘Everything here tastes of sunshine.’
The oil glistened on her mouth. Fascinated, Aidan watched as she picked up her wine glass, took a sip, licked her full bottom lip, then carefully selected a slice of pepper, repeating the process. It had been so long since he’d experienced any sort of desire, it took him a moment to recognise it for what it was. Her kisses would taste of olive oil and wine. Making love to her would be a feast of sensation, a long, lingering delight of soft, giving flesh and hot, hungry lips and caressing hands. Not a duty. Not a means to a desperate end. A pleasure, pure and simple.
‘Aren’t you hungry?’
Appalled by the carnal turn his thoughts had taken, Aidan grabbed a piece of bread and tore it in half, sweat prickling his back, the physical proof of his desire pressing uncomfortably against his leg. ‘Pacing myself,’ he muttered, taking a swig of wine.
The Truth Behind Their Practical Marriage Page 2
