The Italian Matchmaker

by Santa Montefiore

  ‘I suppose that is an advantage. Most journalists I know make it up!’

  After Mass the town filed out and dispersed. Fiyona scanned the herd of faces, even attempted to speak to one or two, but they looked at her in horror and shuffled away, muttering under their breath.

  ‘This isn’t going to be easy.’

  ‘I told you, no one wants to talk to a stranger.’

  ‘Then how did your nephew manage it?’ She made another unsuccessful attempt, then saw a face she recognised. ‘Rosa!’ She caught the young woman’s eye and waved.

  Rosa broke away from her family. ‘Hello, Fiyona. What are you doing here?’

  ‘Mass,’ Fiyona replied. Rosa raised her eyebrows. ‘This is Nanni, Romina’s brother.’ Rosa shook his hand. ‘Are those your children?’ Fiyona asked as Rosa’s family caught up with her.

  ‘Yes, and my husband Eugenio. My father, Panfilo and my uncle Toto, his wife, Paola and his mother, Beata.’

  ‘You have a big family,’ said Fiyona, smiling her warmest smile.

  ‘You haven’t met the half of it!’ laughed Rosa. ‘We take up most of the church.’

  ‘Do you live here in town?’ Fiyona asked.

  ‘Just outside. In the very house that Valentina lived in,’ she hissed so that Beata wouldn’t overhear.

  ‘Dressed up like that you look even more like her.’ Fiyona flattered her.

  ‘Would you like to come for a drink?’

  ‘I would love to,’ Fiyona replied. ‘Could I bring Nanni?’

  ‘Of course.’ Rosa turned to her father. ‘I’ve asked them home for a drink.’ Panfilo’s face clouded. ‘Don’t look at me like that, Papà! My mother’s shy of the palazzo,’ she explained.

  Fiyona was quick to turn up the charm. ‘Don’t worry, we wouldn’t want to intrude. It’s been so nice to meet you all. What a friendly, beautiful family you have, Panfilo. You must be very proud.’

  Panfilo felt embarrassed. It wasn’t in his nature to be rude. ‘No, please. I welcome you into our home,’ he said. Fiyona caught Nanni’s eye, linked her arm through Rosa’s and walked off towards Panfilo’s car.

  Alba busied herself in the house, tidying up the children’s toys, folding their clothes, putting away their pencils and books. Then she decided to walk out to the old lookout point where her mother lay buried under the olive tree.

  She was reminded of walking that path as a young girl, dreaming of Fitz, struggling with the choice she had to make – to remain in Italy with Cosima or return to England with Fitz. A bird of prey circled silently overhead, scouring the earth for mice and rabbits. She inhaled the scent of wild thyme and rosemary, swept her eyes over the hill where little yellow flowers flourished in the long grass, and felt her spirits soar. She would never tire of this landscape. Its beauty would always hold her captive.

  She felt a frisson of excitement at the prospect of seeing Fitz again. Would he have changed? Would she feel anything for him? Or would her love be no more than a memory corroded by time, or a mirage in her past? She thought of him married to Rosemary and laughed out loud that he had fallen into the arms of a pushy woman. Fitz had always been affable, charming and gentle – vulnerable to a strong and determined woman. Alba had left him broken-hearted, but she had promised him she would wait. She had, at first, but he had not returned. Italy had filled the void Fitz had left, and Cosima had taught her that there were many different ways to love. Ultimately, Cosima’s need had been greater than Fitz’s. The little girl’s welling eyes and disbelieving smile had shown her that she had done the right thing in returning. Then Panfilo turned up and she had fallen in love. ‘In love’ had faded with time, replaced by a love that was solid, deep and lasting. She wondered how things might have turned out had she not come back but married Fitz and lived in London. Would Fitz have had the strength of character to hold her? Would she have tired of him and gone back to her promiscuous ways? Would Italy have eventually been displaced by the shallow materialism and greed of the world she had returned to? What sort of woman would she have been?

  She reached the olive tree and sat down on the grass. She remembered Fitz arriving in Incantellaria to ask her to marry him, her initial joy, and later her fear of leaving the family she had only just discovered. She recalled their escapade to the palazzo; climbing over the gate warped by time, rusted by many rainfalls; sneaking up the drive overgrown with shrubs and littered with branches, thorns and twigs. How the gardens had taken over and invaded the house, creeping in through the crumbling walls like snakes; the sinister cold that had pervaded the place, as if it were situated at the top of a mountain with its very own climate; the smell of rotting vegetation and neglect. But Fitz had accompanied her inside and she had felt more courageous with him beside her.

  Finally they had reached a room that had a very different feel from the rest of the palazzo. Unlike the others, that one had vibrated with the warmth of the living. The remains of a fire were still hot in the grate and the air quivered with life. A leather chair was placed in front of the fire. They had had the strange feeling that they weren’t alone. They had been right.

  Alba recalled the albino, Nero. The man the Marchese had adopted as a little Neapolitan boy. He had been frail, with no front teeth, slowly drinking himself to death out of remorse and regret, pining for the man he had loved and lost. Because of him the palazzo had been given over to the ravages of nature. It had crumbled around him until all that remained was the room he lived in. The room in which the Marchese was murdered. He had wept when she had told him that she was Valentina’s daughter and she, in turn, had wept when she learned that the Marchese had killed her mother. Fitz had helped put together the pieces of that tragic jigsaw; unveiling a final picture of love, jealousy and revenge.

  After that, Alba vowed she’d never go up there again. While her father had believed Valentina loved him she had been lying in the folly with the Marchese. She had even given him the naked portrait Thomas had drawn of her and hung it by the bed which she had found with Fitz and returned to her father. He had been shocked to see it after all those years, having been so tormented by its disappearance at the time. But he hadn’t wanted to be reminded of the woman who had so cruelly betrayed him and had given it back to her. She’d never forget the ruthless glint in his eyes when she had relayed how she and Fitz had turned detective and solved the Marchese’s murder. Falco had admitted responsibility, but it was only then that she had realised her own father’s part in the plot. Rosa saw only the romance of her grandmother’s seemingly glamorous life, but Alba knew the truth: that it was tawdry and dishonest. Valentina had hurt those who loved her the most. Thomas had never got over the deception. He had plunged the knife into the Marchese’s neck but the Marchese’s gleeful smile had never left him. ‘You can kill me, but don’t forget that I killed you first,’ he had said.

  Knowing the truth about her father had brought Alba and Thomas very close. Now nothing could come between them. No secrets, no lies, only the truth that she had eventually shared with her family. It wasn’t right to keep secrets from each other. She had learned that through experience.

  Now she thought of Panfilo and his involvement with the palazzo. She feared the interest Romina had generated in renovating it. Now there would be an article in an international magazine, digging up the secrets they had no right to expose. People would come to Incantellaria out of curiosity to visit the scene. The story would no longer be hers but belong to the world. Her father had trusted her, now she had to trust her own family. She wasn’t sure she could trust all of them. Rosa had inherited Valentina’s genes and that frightened her.

  Eventually, she got up and walked back through the olive grove. She imagined her family would be back from Mass. She heard laughter before she reached the house. Panfilo’s voice rose above the others. She smiled as she thought of him. She was truly blessed. As she got nearer she saw that other members of the family had arrived – Toto’s wife, Paola, and her children and grandchildren. The little ones play
ed in the garden with Garibaldi, while the grown-ups drank prosecco and nibbled on crostini at the table beneath the vine. Alba greeted them warmly, then settled her pale eyes on the two strangers in their midst. ‘This is Fiyona, and Nanni is Romina’s brother,’ said Rosa.

  Alba made an effort not to show her displeasure. ‘Welcome,’ she said, sitting down beside Panfilo. ‘So, you’re staying up at the palazzo?’

  ‘It’s really beautiful,’ volunteered Fiyona, watching Alba as if she were there to be studied, like an insect beneath a microscope.

  Alba noticed her accent immediately. ‘You’re English.’

  ‘So are you.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘London.’

  ‘I grew up in London, too. I lived on a houseboat on the Thames.’

  ‘Aren’t they rather damp in the winter?’

  Alba could almost smell the paraffin and smiled with nostalgia. ‘I loved it.’

  ‘Is it still there?’

  ‘No. It fell apart.’ She didn’t want to explain why they had scuttled the Valentina.

  ‘What a shame. Some of them are very old.’

  ‘And sturdier than mine.’

  ‘Well, I live in Bloomsbury, in a house that’s equally damp in winter,’ said Fiyona with an affable chuckle. ‘Lucky you living here!’

  ‘The sun always shines in Italy,’ said Panfilo, patting his wife’s knee under the table.

  ‘And if it doesn’t, there’s pasta,’ Nanni added, rubbing his big tummy.

  ‘I don’t think you want for anything here,’ said Fiyona, gazing around appreciatively. ‘Incantellaria is paradise on earth. Have you seen what Romina and Bill have done to the palazzo? I gather it was a total ruin when they bought it.’

  ‘No,’ Alba replied shortly, not wanting to explain why.

  ‘Papà’s going to photograph it tomorrow for the Sunday Times magazine,’ said Rosa.

  ‘You won’t be disappointed,’ said Nanni to Panfilo. ‘My sister has immaculate taste. She has returned it to its former glory.’

  Alba bristled. ‘And what makes you think it was ever glorious?’

  ‘It was clearly a masterpiece in terms of architecture,’ Nanni argued, on the point of giving them a short lecture on the neo-classical period.

  ‘And the decoration is incredible,’ Fiyona added. ‘You must go and see it. Surely, you knew that palazzo before it fell down?’

  ‘I have no desire to go up there,’ said Alba tightly.

  ‘Do you know who lived there before?’ The table fell silent. No one wanted to speak about that place and they were all aware of Alba. Fiyona, however, was undeterred. The prosecco had dulled her usually sharp senses. ‘I know the famous Marchese Ovidio di Montelimone lived there once. But who lived there after he died? And why was it allowed to go to ruin?’

  ‘We don’t like to talk about the past,’ said Panfilo, sensing his wife’s simmering anger at such intrusive questioning by a stranger.

  ‘But the past is so fascinating,’ said Fiyona, stumbling on drunkenly. ‘History should be made to live again. Sometimes it’s only with hindsight that mysteries can be solved.’

  ‘Why are you so interested in the history of the palazzo?’ Alba asked.

  ‘Because she’s a journalist, Mother.’

  Alba blanched, stunned that her own daughter could betray her. ‘A journalist?’

  Fiyona hadn’t expected Rosa to blow her cover. ‘I write for the Sunday Times magazine,’ she admitted. ‘I’m sorry, I thought you knew.’

  Alba stared at Fiyona with such vitriol that the younger woman shrank. When Alba spoke she did so in English in order to make herself absolutely clear. ‘You inveigle your way into my home, take my hospitality, drink my prosecco and eat my crostini, knowing all along that my mother was Valentina Fiorelli, murdered by the Marchese who lived in that palazzo you call glorious, with the intention of finding out as much as you can so that you can lift the lid on secrets kept for over fifty years?’ She turned on her daughter. ‘Oh, Rosa, you are naïve if you think this woman courted you for your friendship. Well, don’t let me stop you all enjoying yourselves. Stay, have another drink why don’t you? But if you’ll excuse me, I’d rather not socialise with someone who’s going to hurt the members of my family who were there when my mother was murdered and who, for the last fifty-six years, have tried to forget.’

  She stalked into the house. Panfilo shook his head regretfully. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said politely, ‘but I think you should leave.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Fiyona, rising unsteadily to her feet. ‘Come on, Nanni.’

  Nanni shook his head. ‘My sister will be mortified that we have offended you.’

  ‘Don’t forget that Valentina was Alba’s mother,’ said Panfilo to Fiyona. ‘And her father is still alive. If you have to write an article about the palazzo, write it with sensitivity for those still living.’

  Fiyona swallowed hard. ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’ll drive you back,’ Eugenio volunteered.

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll walk,’ said Nanni. ‘I know the way.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Rosa was furious that her mother had humiliated her in front of everyone.

  Fiyona took Rosa’s hand. Her lipstick had leaked into the lines around her mouth and bled on to her teeth. She had clearly drunk too much. ‘I’m sorry, Rosa. But don’t worry, two million people will read about you.’

  Nanni led Fiyona up the hill. ‘What a disaster!’ he exclaimed, mortified.

  ‘My fault. I pushed too hard.’

  ‘What did you want to find out?’

  ‘I like to have all the facts.’

  ‘Don’t you already have them?’

  ‘I’m sure Falco wasn’t alone when he murdered the Marchese.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘I bet it was Thomas, Alba’s father, who was with him.’

  ‘And you thought Alba would tell you that?’

  ‘I don’t know what I thought. I forgot where I was.’

  ‘You shamed us all!’

  ‘I’m sorry. I feel dreadful. They’re nice people.’

  ‘Then drop it, Fiyona. Let it go.’

  ‘But it would make such a good story.’

  ‘Not if you hurt people.’

  ‘I’m used to that.’

  They walked through the woods. The trees towered above them, leaves shimmering in the breeze, parting to allow a luminous kaleidoscope of light to scatter on the path before them. Fiyona felt drunk and dizzy. It was very hot. ‘I have to lie down a moment.’

  Nanni was irritated, but he had no choice. He certainly couldn’t carry her home.

  She lay on her back and threw an arm across her eyes. ‘That’s better.’ Then she began to laugh.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ he asked, lying down beside her.

  ‘I don’t know. Us, this, now. There’s something very funny about it.’

  ‘I see nothing funny at all. It’s okay for you. You will go home but we have to live in this place. My sister will kill you if Panfilo refuses to take the photographs tomorrow.’

  ‘Bugger. What can I do?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he sighed, closing his eyes.

  ‘I suppose a fuck’s out of the question?’

  27

  Panfilo found Alba fuming in their bedroom. ‘Don’t even try to persuade me that you photographing the palazzo is a good thing! What was that woman doing here anyway?’

  ‘Rosa invited her,’ Panfilo replied calmly.

  ‘Rosa’s a liability!’

  ‘She’s young and naïve.’

  ‘Those people up there are nothing but trouble.’

  Panfilo sat on the bed. ‘You’re irresistible when you’re angry.’

  ‘Don’t try to appease me that way, I’m immune.’

  ‘Look, they’re going to photograph the place whether you like it or not. If it’s not me, it’ll be someone else.’

  ‘I can’t bear that bloody woman sniffing around the past like a
detective. We’re talking about my mother . . . and Daddy. What if she finds out that Daddy killed the Marchese?’

  ‘She won’t,’ said Panfilo reassuringly. ‘Who’s going to tell her? No one knows but us.’

  ‘And Rosa.’

  ‘She’s naïve but she’s not stupid.’

  ‘She’s angry with me. You know how hot-blooded she is. She might not be stupid but she’s a bloody fool. I should never have told her. What if Cosima tells Luca and he tells his mother? That woman’s staying up at the palazzo, ears flapping like an elephant! I hate to think what they’re all saying!’

  ‘Calm down, Alba.’ He pulled her down beside him.

  ‘As you know, thirty years ago I discovered that Daddy murdered the Marchese with Falco. It was an act of revenge. “A matter of honour,” he said. We never discussed it, but we had a silent understanding. If he finds out that I’ve told people – if it comes out in a British magazine – he’ll be so disappointed in me. I can’t bear to hurt him. I can’t bear him to think less of me.’

  ‘Why don’t we just ask Rosa to keep quiet?’

  ‘No, leave it. I’ll talk to Cosima. She can find out from Luca. Unlike our daughter, Cosima can be trusted.’

  ‘Alba, that’s not fair,’ said Panfilo gruffly. ‘You’ve got to be more sensitive to Rosa. She’s your daughter. You know, you were once as hot to handle as she is.’

  ‘Rosa’s way beyond what I ever was. She worries me. You know she sneaks off in the middle of the night? God knows what she’s up to. I just hope she’s sensible enough not to have an affair.’

  Panfilo laughed. ‘I don’t think there’s a great deal of temptation in Incantellaria!’

  ‘If she wants something badly enough, she’ll find it. She’s longing for adventure. She’s champing at the bit. She just doesn’t know how lucky she is to have Eugenio.’

  ‘Maybe she needs her own home . . .’ he suggested carefully.

  ‘That’s not the answer.’ She stood up. ‘So, you’re still determined to photograph the palazzo?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied firmly. ‘I have a commitment.’

  ‘I don’t want to see what they’ve done to it.’