The Captain's Daughter

by Leah Fleming

  As they’d climbed up towards Anghiari, Ella found herself slowing down, reluctant to give up this precious time, unsure how she felt about being tagged on to Celeste’s expanding family once again. She’d not plucked up the courage to tell Clare about May’s confession either. Every time she thought about it, her heart skipped a beat. Perhaps later, after a glass or three of wine.

  Roddy was being so generous and it felt mean-spirited to be resentful. If only she had a larger family of her own to share. It was funny how, as the years went on, she was feeling more and more awkward. She and May had been dependent on the kindness of strangers all their lives, for shelter and education. Celeste had been like a mother to her but her whole life had been shrouded in mystery and now it was almost too late to discover the truth. No one had ever claimed her, that was for sure.

  Interest in the Titanic and its memorabilia was still growing. There were books and articles, even societies forming. It wasn’t too late to share her mysterious history and discover more herself, but in a funny way she felt ashamed of being a nobody. As Anthony’s widow, she had a secure standing, and if Clare had children one day, she’d be a grandma in her own right. Surely that was enough?

  ‘You’re going the wrong way, Mummy!’ yelled Clare. ‘It’s to the left, not to the right.’

  ‘Damn, are you sure?’ The lanes were steep and narrow. ‘Let me see.’ She stopped the car to look at the map. How on earth was she going to turn round here?

  A sports car stopped behind them, seeing their dilemma, and a man came to the window. ‘Please . . . inglese? You are lost, I can help?’

  ‘Dove e Villa Collina, per favore?’ Ella asked, trying her best Italian on the stranger.

  ‘Ah, Signor Forester, yes? Turn around.’ He pointed, smiling. ‘No, better follow me. I will take you.’

  ‘There’s no need,’ Ella protested.

  ‘I take you. Follow,’ he commanded as if there was no argument.

  ‘Wow,’ said Clare. ‘He looks just like Vittorio de Sica.’

  ‘Who?’ Ella snapped, reversing down the lane, aware she was swerving.

  ‘The film star . . . Oh, never mind, just follow him. You’re hopeless, Mummy,’ said Clare, exasperated. They were both tired. It was almost dusk and they were nearly there. Ella mustered her flagging spirits for one last effort. You will enjoy this holiday whether you like it or not, she muttered inwardly as the entrance to Villa Collina came into view.

  As the days turned into weeks, they fell easily into a pattern of lazy mornings, lunch in the nearest café, siestas, sightseeing and long suppers under the stars, each relating their day’s activities.

  They drove into Arezzo to see the frescoes of Piera della Franscesca, marvelling at his Legends of the True Cross. They enjoyed lazy picnics by the river and Roddy visited as many of the old haunts as he could find. Some farmsteads were sadly now nothing but ruins, their inhabitants scattered. Other families had built new villas, and white stuccoed houses rose up from new sites on hillsides. But signs of neglect and poverty were everywhere. Life had been tough here after the war and local children were leaving for cities and the States.

  There was always a royal welcome of recognition from these kind people, older and more weathered by the sun and wind, their children now married with children of their own. The highlight was taking Kathleen, Patti and their children to the Bartolinis’ farmhouse. The reunion was tearful as they passed around precious photographs.

  It was here that Roddy heard what had really happened to Father Frank, mistaken for an escaping prisoner by renegade militia deserters, murdered in cold blood. His body had been left to rot, but had been found by a hunter and taken back to camp. There’d been an inquiry and the German commandant was removed for letting the old priest into the camp. But when the local partisans found out what had happened to one of their own, they’d taken it upon themselves to finish off each of these militiamen in cold revenge.

  Only then did Roddy realize the full cost of his escape. It was hard to take in the news without breaking down. Giovanni took his arm. ‘It was war, amico, these things happen. It will not happen again.’

  Roddy wasn’t sure. Human nature was both kind and cruel. He thought of Frank’s words all those years ago. The families that had sheltered him were quite capable of turning their guns on each other if crossed, the animal instinct in all of them was plain to see. The meaner streets of New York and Chicago were no different. He’d seen enough violence to last a lifetime. He wanted only peace for his kids.

  ‘We didn’t come here to be miserable, honey. We came here to celebrate and thank these kind people. We must invite all of you to our villa to dine with us and meet the rest of our family,’ Patti ordered, seizing the moment and saving the day. ‘We’ll send cars to fetch you all.’

  125

  Clare was watching the chattering lace makers with interest as they sat in their doorways with their cushions and stools along the narrow streets of Sansepolcro. The tall buildings sheltered the ladies from the heat of the sun as they wandered round the ancient city examining the shop windows, sitting in the piazza and watching the world pass by. They had dined in the Albergo Fiorentini the night before, savouring its wonderful dishes, aware that its high walls were full of souvenirs from Napoleonic times. When they heard the story of how one of Napoleon’s officers had defected and married a local girl, to establish this restaurant, Archie had nodded. ‘You can see why a soldier would prefer this to a route march, and the women are so beautiful here.’

  Celeste looked up in mock horror. ‘So I am to be abandoned here?’

  ‘There are far worse places on earth,’ laughed Ella, her skin bronzed like a local. She felt layers of tension slip away as she soaked in all the colours of the town: ochres, burnt sienna, terracotta . . . Everything blended into each other, the street, the walls and the rooftops a harmony of colours so easy on the eye.

  Sitting in the piazza now with the warmth of the sun on her skin, she felt relaxed for the first time in years. This place was having a magical effect on her. As she soaked in the ambience of this beautiful place, she sighed, knowing she’d left her sketchbook in the car.

  ‘Ah, signora, signorina.’ A man in sunglasses stopped at their table. ‘You are enjoying your stay in Villa Collina?’

  ‘Sì, grazie.’ It was their knight in the white Lancia who’d escorted them to the gates of the villa. He introduced himself as Piero Marcellini, a notary a lawyer in Sansepolcro.

  ‘I am glad you like it. It was my family home,’ he smiled. ‘It still is, but now we, how you say, rent to visitors in the season.’

  ‘It’s a beautiful home, Signor Marcellini.’ Ella blinked up at his tall frame.

  ‘Please call me Piero, Signora Forester.’ He whipped off his glasses and smiled.

  ‘I am Ella Harcourt, Mrs Harcourt, and this is my daughter, Clare.’

  ‘Ah, la bella Clara, she has been noticed. And Signor Arkot . . . ?’

  Ella shook her head and raised her hand. ‘Killed in the war.’ It was strange how she could say this quite calmly without shaking.

  ‘La guerra, sì, mi dispiace. I’m sorry, so many sad things. How long you stay here?’

  ‘Only another week and then we are driving back. I’m going to university,’ Clare chipped in.

  ‘Will your mother have dinner with me before you leave perhaps?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Ella replied, shocked to be asked and feeling herself blushing.

  ‘I will call then,’ Piero smiled, and with that he promptly strode across the square.

  ‘Mummy you’ve got a date. He fancies you.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Continental men are all like that.’

  Clare was laughing. ‘Why shouldn’t you have a date? You’re not that old. How exciting. What will you wear?’

  ‘Enough, it’s time to go.’ Ella jumped up, embarrassed.

  ‘But I wanted to find the lace shop,’ Clare said.

  ‘Another time. We’re supposed to
be helping get dinner ready for tonight. It’s the Bartolini feast, remember?’

  Ella was anxious to be off, unnerved by Piero’s unexpected attention. It was such a long time since she’d been noticed by a man. They were usually too old, or too young, but Piero was in his fifties, maybe younger, handsome in that dark Italian way with a strong profile. He would make a good subject to sculpt with his firm jaw and aquiline nose, long neck and wide eyes. She smiled, sensing she was more than a little attracted to his profile. Why not enjoy a night out? The sun had clearly gone to her head, softening her brain, but when you travel anything can happen, she mused. Now it was time to peel potatoes and set up tables and make sure Roddy’s special guests had a night to remember.

  There was no hurry, they were on holiday and soon they would be homeward bound, back to the humdrum old life. Yet the thought of leaving this sun was hard with only grey skies and harsh winters to come, cold nights and rain. Poor Selwyn would be waiting for her to tidy up his mess. Clare would be off to university soon. All that was left for Ella at Red House was work.

  If Piero Marcellini rang (and she doubted that he would) she would accept his invitation just because it would add a little colour to her life.

  Patti, Kathleen and the housekeeper were busy setting the long tables out on the terrace with white cloths and finding an assortment of chairs and benches to accommodate all their guests. There was going to be a crowd of villagers as well as the Bartolini relatives. Ella made for the kitchen to help prepare salads and Clare was ordered to pick fresh flowers for the table. It was going to be such a feast: zuppa di cipolle, tonno efagioli salata, pollo alla campagna, ricciarelli, gelati, to name but a few of the dishes. Every course was to be accompanied by a fine wine.

  ‘What do you think, Sis?’ Roddy said, surveying the table with pride. ‘Will it do?’ Ella liked it when he called her ‘Sis’. It made her feel part of the family even if she wasn’t. ‘Best bib and tucker tonight, you know my mom’s rule: collar and tie after six. But no ties in this heat.’

  ‘You’d better tell me who everyone is. Do any of them speak English?’ she asked.

  ‘Don’t worry we brought in our own translators and a few extra guests to help out. You don’t know what this means to me, having everyone together. For Patti and Kathleen to meet Angelo’s relatives is so very special. If it wasn’t for Frank . . . I just want everyone to enjoy the get-together. You won’t disappear, will you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ She prickled at the insinuation.

  ‘Sometimes I look at you and you look so far away. I know you miss Anthony. It makes me feel so guilty to be here and him not.’

  Ella reached out for his hand. ‘It’s not that, it’s just I envy you having such a big family.’

  ‘You are family too, you know that,’ he replied.

  ‘I know, but sometimes . . .’ She shook her head, unable to explain.

  ‘None of that. Tonight is for singing and dancing and making it a night to remember.’

  She looked at him and smiled. ‘You saw the film then?’

  ‘Of course. I wouldn’t have missed it. There’s still so much we don’t know about that night, isn’t there?’

  ‘You can say that again.’ Ella mused silently. ‘Let’s not think about that. This is your night, and if the food is anything to go by, it’s going to be a feast. I can’t wait to get stuck in.’

  Ella took extra care to dress for the occasion, coiling her hair up in a French plait with her best gold earrings. Thank goodness, Clare had made her bring a decent dress, a deep turquoise cotton with a full skirt that showed off her suntan, and the stone necklace they had chosen in Arezzo. She’d also bought espadrilles with straps round her ankles. She looked at herself in the dressing table mirror and smiled. ‘You’ve scrubbed up well, old girl, not bad for your age.’

  There was a lightness inside her, something she hadn’t felt for years as if she was a girl going to her first dance. She hoped it would be a night to remember.

  126

  Celeste sat with her champagne, watching the guests walk up the track to Villa Collina by the light of the setting sun. Everyone ate later in Italy. It was almost dark and the lanterns flickered along the path. First came the neighbours from the farm who tended the olive trees, dressed in dark suits and bright cotton frocks. Then a car brought old Nonna Bartolini to the door. The Ancient of Days was dressed head to toe in black, with a headscarf like a nun, edged with black lace. She bent over a stick, leaning on her grandson Giovanni for support, surrounded by his children in pretty cotton frilly dresses also edged with lace. Next came the local priest, Father Michael, and a tall, distinguished-looking man, who was the owner of the property. More Bartolinis and villagers arrived in pickup trucks and three-wheeled scooters. The noise grew as Patti and Kathleen greeted everyone with kisses, and Celeste felt so very English in her reticence. Archie was mingling and she looked for things to do to keep busy. Clare was handing round drinks on a tray and Ella had appeared looking so very continental and beautiful. It brought a lump into Celeste’s throat to see her so bright-eyed and relaxed. This holiday had done her so much good, it was as if the years had dropped off her. It was going to be a special evening and Celeste smiled with excitement. It was the sort of night when anything could happen.

  There was toast after noisy toast as glasses were raised and laughter and wine flowed; not rough wine this time but fine Italian Chiantis, Barolos. Local cheeses and chocolates were passed around during the neverending Italian speeches. Ella had the urge to capture the scene in a drawing but cameras were snapping to record the event. She was storing it all up in her mind’s eye.

  She found herself distracted when seated next to Piero Marcellini, who appeared as if by magic by her side. There was no getting away from the man. Why shouldn’t Roddy invite the owner of the villa? She’d had to confess to him her profession and he proved to be a man knowledgeable about art. He was hard to ignore and Clare kept giving her knowing looks and whispering. ‘Vittorio de Sica has no chance against him,’ she hissed, which was all rather silly, but after a few glasses of excellent red wine Ella was past caring.

  The oldest of the Bartolini men got to his feet and made a toast to absent friends and Father Francesco, Patti’s brother, who had saved Roddy’s life. Piero was translating as much as he could. He said that the country dialect was so thick you could only catch the gist. ‘He says war divided us for a while. Now we are united. The great Atlantico parted the Bartolini brothers all those years ago, but families are strong and now we are united never to part. It is what Francesco would have wanted, and Angelo. We wish him long life and good health!’

  ‘Who are they?’ she whispered, close enough to admire the subtlety of his aftershave.

  ‘Maria was Angelo’s first wife, before Kathleen. She was lost on the Titanic with her baby.’

  ‘Yet another of the Titanic’s victims . . . how sad,’ she murmured.

  ‘Alessia wasn’t lost, though,’ Patti chipped in. ‘No, she was lost only to our family, mislaid, or so my father used to believe. Uncle Giovanni,’ she shouted in her most theatrical voice, ‘tell them all about the shoe, Frank’s shoe!’

  The old man rose up again and was waving something at the far end of the table in the candlelight.

  ‘What is he saying?’ Ella was straining to hear but he spoke too fast.

  ‘Something about a scarpetta, found by Francesco’s father at the dock when the ship brought the rescued passengers, a baby shoe he always believed was his child’s,’ Piero added.

  ‘That’s the shoe we gave to Frank for good luck, but it didn’t work,’ whispered Kathleen, shaking her head across the table.

  ‘Because he gave it to them, to Nonna Elisabetta there. I saw him do it,’ added Roddy. ‘Frank told me she said it was proof he was his father’s son. She said it was made around here. He refused to take it away with him on the day he died.’

  There was silence as the old man passed the little shoe round the table and t
heir guests handed it along, shaking their heads. ‘It kept us safe, though,’ said Giovanni. ‘So many were betrayed and ruined but we survived.’

  Piero handed it to Ella, and Clare leaned over and grabbed it. ‘It’s just like the one in that case, the one—’

  ‘Let me look at it.’ Celeste fingered it, shaking her head. ‘I’ve seen one like this before.’ Realization dawned. ‘Good Lord! Ella, it can’t be?’

  Everyone was looking in her direction. She couldn’t speak. How could this possibly be the same one?

  ‘It’s now or never,’ Celeste said.

  Ella drew a deep breath, flushed with wine, heat and amazement. ‘No, please, say nothing yet, I have to be sure.’ She paused, looking round the table for the old woman, standing up holding the tiny shoe. ‘I have seen a shoe like this before. Its partner was in a suitcase of baby clothes with a nightdress edged with fine lace. It was rescued from the sea . . .’ She felt herself breaking down. ‘I can’t say any more.’

  No one spoke for a moment.

  ‘Can this be true?’ said the priest. ‘Then it is indeed a sacred shoe. Does Nonna hear what is being said?’ They looked to the old woman, who was crying.

  ‘This is too much,’ Ella cried, shooting up out of her chair.

  ‘Stop, stay.’ Piero grasped her wrist but she shook him off, fleeing to the safety of her room.

  What have I done? This was my mother’s secret, not for sharing amongst strangers. It was a story best left unspoken like the secrets in any woman’s heart, better left undisturbed like the wreck on the ocean bed. This strange coincidence is too much for me to understand. Could it be true? And if it is, what happens next?

  ‘How do you know about this, Mom? What’s all the mystery?’ Roddy sat back on his chair smoking a cigar in the flickering candlelight, staring at the empty table, the spilled wine, amaretti crumbs, the crumpled table linen.