by Sara Craven
‘I hear there has been a problem with Emilia,’ she said unhappily, closing the door behind them.
‘Emilia had a problem, certainly,’ Lucy returned evenly. ‘The present she bought you in Firenze was destroyed. She was very upset.’
‘And my mother is—oh, so angry.’ Fiammetta sighed. ‘She says that Emilia is out of control—on the path to delinquency.’
Lucy bit her lip. ‘I’m sure that’s an exaggeration.’
‘Well, I do not know what to believe.’ Fiammetta’s tone had become pettish. ‘Sometimes I think Mamma is right and Emilia does need the discipline of a strict school.’ She sighed again. ‘If only. Sergio were here. He would know what to do.’
Amen to that, thought Lucy. Aloud she said persuasively, ‘Then why not postpone any decision until his return? I’m sure the contessa couldn’t object to that.’ And, seeing that Fiammetta did not look entirely convinced, she went on, ‘In the meantime, I’ll try and keep Emilia apart from your mother.’ She paused. ‘She and Marco like to play with Teresa’s children down at the vineyard, so we’ll spend more time there.’
‘Cara Lucia.’ Fiammetta gave her a weak smile. ‘What should I do without you? Especially now that Giulio has gone back to Firenze.’
Lucy was on her way to the door, but that stopped her in her tracks. ‘Gone?’ Her voice sounded wooden. ‘I didn’t realise...’
‘Very early this morning,’ Fiammetta confirmed. She sighed. ‘He is such a comfort to me that I sometimes forget he has his work—his own life.’
Lucy had herself firmly under control. She said, ‘But surely he’ll come back in the evenings?’
Fiammetta shook her head. ‘He does not usually spend time here during this season,’ she explained. ‘He came only for me—because there was a crisis. Now he probably will not return until September—for the vintage.’
‘I—see.’ Lucy swallowed. ‘I thought that as Angela—Miss Brockhurst—was here he might make an exception to the rule.’
‘I think Angela will be joining him in Firenze.’ Fiammetta paused. ‘Which leaves us with the problem of her guest. So embarrassing.’ Her glance was suddenly speculative. ‘It has seemed to us that he takes an interest in you, Lucia.’
Lucy forced an answering smile. ‘Most unlikely.’ Oh, dear God, if you only knew, she thought.
‘But why not?’ Fiammetta spread her hands. ‘He is young and quite attractive.’
And it would provide a neat solution to the current difficulty, Lucy silently supplied.
She said pleasantly, ‘I’m not looking for romance, signora. I’m a relief nanny, that’s all.’ She paused. ‘Is there any word of Dorotea—when she can take up her duties?’
Fiammetta sighed again. ‘It seems she is taking a vacation and cannot be contacted immediately. So vexing, when you too, Lucia, must wish to get on with your life. After all, you cannot always have been a nanny.’ The pansy eyes were suddenly shrewd, and Lucy felt faint colour steal into her face.
She said, ‘I shall just have to be patient for a little while longer. Now, I’d better go and see to the children.’
‘You will have the house to yourself today.’ Fiammetta examined the immaculate enamel on her nails. ‘I am going to the clinic for a check-up, and Mamma accompanies me.’ She glanced towards the window. ‘I am sorry the weather is poor. What will you do?’
‘I expect I can keep them amused,’ Lucy said with spurious brightness, and went off to the dining room.
The children were in their seats, bickering loudly, while, at the other end of the table, Angela and Philip were engaged in a low-voiced but clearly furious altercation.
As Lucy hesitated in the doorway, Angela jumped to her feet and pushed past her rudely, muttering something in which ‘like living in a zoo’ were the only discernible words.
Philip rose also, watching her go. He gave Lucy a grim smile. ‘Welcome to another lousy day in paradise.’
Lucy felt a flicker of compassion for him as she hushed the children and helped herself to some ham and cheese. If he really cared for Angela, he must be feeling totally gutted, she thought as she sat down.
She said quietly, ‘I suppose you’ll be going home.’
He shook his head, sliding into the seat next to her. ‘Wrong. This is my holiday, and I’m going to enjoy it.’ He gave Lucy a sideways look and his voice lowered intimately. ‘I thought I’d drive over to Lucca. Fancy coming with me?’
‘Thank you,’ Lucy said evenly, ‘but it wouldn’t really appeal to the children, and Emilia’s not a very good traveller anyway.’
‘I didn’t suggest taking them. Hand them back to their mother and give yourself a break. Let’s face it, Luce, we’re both about as popular as a boil on the nose. And you don’t owe these people a thing.’
‘I gave my word,’ she said shortly. ‘I’m not going to break it.’
Philip shrugged. ‘Please yourself.’ To her relief, he pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. He smiled down at her, exercising his own brand of boyish charm. ‘I can wait.’
Then don’t stand still, Lucy thought as he left the room. Because moss might grow on you.
In spite of her inner turmoil, Lucy found the day passing much more quickly and pleasantly than she could have hoped. And having the house to themselves was a bonus.
They had another painting session, then the children made a batch of small sweet almond cakes under Teresa’s indulgent supervision. And the proceedings were rounded off by a prolonged and noisy game of hide-and-seek.
Marco was always easily found, giving himself away by shrill giggles of excitement, but Emilia was a far more difficult quarry, thought Lucy as she left Marco in the salotto happily playing with his new car while she resumed the quest for his sister.
She had just reached the top of the stairs when she saw Emilia coming along the gallery towards her, carrying something carefully in her hand.
‘Lucia—see.’ Her voice was censorious. ‘Nonna has left Zio Giulio’s beautiful ring on her dressing table. A robber might have stolen it. I shall give it to him when he comes so he can keep it safe.’
Lucy gave the crimson fire of the ruby an appalled look. ‘What were you doing in your grandmother’s room?’
‘Hiding,’ Emilia said simply. ‘But you did not find me, so I won.’
Lucy groaned inwardly. Why the hell hadn’t she declared the contessa’s room strictly out of bounds? she berated herself. Without knowing it, Emilia had supplied her grandmother with all the ammunition she needed.
She said gently, ‘I think the best thing would be to put the ring back at once.’
‘No.’ Emilia clutched it firmly. ‘I shall give it to Zio Giulio.’
‘He’s in Firenze.’
‘Then I shall take care of it for him until he comes.’ Emilia’s expression was mulish. ‘He does not want Nonna to have it anyway.’
‘That,’ Lucy said grimly, ‘is not our concern. And your uncle will not be coming back—at least not for the foreseeable future,’ she added.
‘What is that?’ Emilia frowned.
‘A very long time.’ Lucy held out her hand. ‘No arguments, Emilia. I’m going to put that ring back where you found it. Your grandmother would be very angry if she knew what you’d done, or that you’d been in her room at all.’
‘I do not care. I hate her.’
Lucy bit her lip. ‘But she would also be very cross with me for allowing you to do it, and she would send me away. Is that what you want?’
Emilia considered her doubtfully. ‘Would she truly do this thing?’
‘Undoubtedly,’ Lucy said briskly. ‘Now give me the ring, and we’ll pretend this never happened.’
The contessa’s room was untidy, with clothes spilling out of the wardrobe and draped over the bed. The sour-faced maid was in no hurry to get on with her work, thought Lucy as she picked her way through the various pairs of shoes littering the carpet.
The ring glowed in her hand like a living flame. The tem
ptation to slide it onto her finger, to see for one brief instant how it would look—how it would feel to be the chosen bride of the Falcone—was almost overwhelming. But that kind of dreaming was dangerous, so all Lucy did was deposit the ring among the general clutter of jars and bottles on the dressing table.
The air smelt cloyingly of Claudia Falcone’s perfume. Lucy half expected to turn and find the contessa standing at her shoulder.
Feeling horridly like an intruader, she emerged, closing the door behind her, and hearing the sound echo along the gallery.
Another secret, she thought unhappily as she went downstairs, to add to all the others that must never be spoken.
It was very still, and very hot. Lucy, perched on a large rock on the hill above the vineyard, tested the wash on her painting, then began carefully to block in the jumble of faded terracotta roofs below her.
In the past week, the vineyard had become a sanctuary for herself as well as the children. Since Giulio’s departure, the contessa had not bothered to disguise her animosity. Conversation at mealtimes was now conducted exclusively in Italian, and usually sotto voce, thus excluding Lucy on both counts. And Fiammetta’s embarrassed efforts to remedy the situation had proved totally ineffectual.
Angela, who spent every day in Florence, though not, as far as Lucy was aware, any of her nights—at least, not yet, she qualified painfully—wore an air of glinting triumph that was almost tangible.
And, worst of all, Philip had quite openly transferred his attentions to Lucy, taking the adjoining seat at the dining table, making excuses to come down to the casetta, turning up at the pool when she was swimming with the children.
He was all smiles, confidential murmurs and admiring looks, apparently undeterred by oblique hints, studied indifference, even downright hostility, all of which Lucy had tried in turn.
With Fiammetta’s well-meaning encouragement, he was constantly inviting Lucy to go sightseeing with him, or to drive out to dinner in the evening, and if he’d been anyone else, she acknowledged with a sigh, she might have been tempted, just for the chance of escaping the Villa Dante for a few hours.
As it was, she persevered with her stony rejections of his advances. And, as he hadn’t seemed to have found his way to the vineyard, that was where she opted to pass her time.
Franco and Teresa’s comfortable house, teeming with children and animals, fragrant with cooking smells, had become a second home for her, the language barrier easily overcome with Marco and Emilia’s eager assistance as translators.
Teresa was the soul of discretion, but Lucy had noticed how her merry eyes clouded when the contessa’s name was mentioned. It was clear that she cooked at the villa for the sake of Count Giulio, the beloved padrone, and no one else.
Lucy was fascinated by the day-to-day workings of the vineyard, laboriously explained by Franco. The big modern cantina with the vast concrete vats where the grapes were stored after picking, before being transferred to stainless-steel casks, was impressive, but she preferred the old cantina with its ancient oak casks and the dry, musty air redolent of generations of vintages.
Walking between the terraces of vines which lined the valley, feeling the rough ground under her feet, the sun on her back, made her feel closer to Giulio in some indefinable way, even if she knew in her heart it was only wishful thinking, and that, in reality, she was only setting herself up for more heartbreak.
Because he was far away in Florence, a remote figure in a dark suit, conducting formal meetings, enshrined in a glittering cage of high finance which she could barely comprehend. Occupying a different world from her own, just as he always had. And always would. And she’d been all kinds of a fool to indulge in the dangerous dream that their worlds could somehow touch.
She was suddenly aware of movement behind her, the scrape of a shoe on the rough incline, a shadow falling across the painting clipped onto her easel. For one sickening instant, she thought that Philip had finally managed to trace her to her refuge, and froze.
‘Lucia.’ Her name was spoken quietly by the last voice in the world she was expecting to hear. Her hand jerked, sending a trail of terracotta droplets across her picture.
He swore softly, dropping to one knee beside her, his frowning gaze assessing the damage. ‘I did not mean to startle you.’ He sounded shaken. ‘But I did not expect to find you here either.’
‘I come here most days.’ Lucy forced control on her quivering senses.
‘Alone?’ His frown deepened.
‘Usually I bring the children.’ Her tone was stilted. ‘But today they’ve gone to the clinic with Fiammetta to visit Alison. So I thought I’d catch up on some painting while I had the chance.’
‘And I have ruined it.’ He sighed briefly and harshly. He got to his feet, dusting the knees of his trousers. ‘I am sorry, Lucia. You have real talent.’
‘Thank you.’ She hesitated. ‘I didn’t know—I mean—no one said you were returning today...’
He shrugged. ‘No one knew. It was an impulse on my part. I had some free time, so I thought I would take the children on the picnic I promised.’
‘Oh.’ Lucy caught her breath. ‘I thought you’d forgotten about that.’
Giulio shook his head. ‘You will find, columbina, that I forget very little.’ His voice was reflective, his gaze lingering openly on the deep unbuttoned V at the neck of her shirt, and the length of slim brown leg revealed by her brief shorts.
Aware that her colour had risen, Lucy said hurriedly, ‘They’ll be so disappointed.’
‘I think they will,’ he agreed. ‘Especially as it is unlikely I shall have another opportunity.’
He must mean his engagement to Angela was announced, Lucy supposed unhappily. The other girl had never concealed her indifference to the children, and certainly wasn’t the type to enjoy the rough and tumble of al fresco eating in some field.
She said quietly, ‘What a shame.’
He shrugged again. ‘So much for impulses,’ he drawled. There was a pause. ‘So, who is at the villa?’
‘No one. Your stepmother and Miss Brockhurst have gone shopping, I think. But they’ll all be back for dinner.’
‘But I, alas, shall not. I have to return to Firenze.’ He paused. ‘You did not choose to accompany Fiammetta?’
‘She asked me. But I thought she might like to be alone with the children for once. That it would be good for all of them.’
‘And so you came to paint alone.’ There was an odd note in his voice. ‘A picture which I have ruined.’
‘Maybe not.’ She considered the painting, head on one side. ‘Perhaps I can turn the spatters into birds or butterflies. It might even be an improvement.’
‘You are very forgiving—and also an optimist,’ he said drily. ‘But leave your improvements until later.’ His hand was under her arm suddenly, lifting her to her feet. ‘Now you have a picnic to eat.’ Sensing her hesitation, he added, ‘You cannot leave me with a hamper of food and no one to share it with, Lucia.’
She should resist and she knew it. She should shun this exquisite forbidden pleasure, so unexpectedly offered.
A few hours alone with him, she thought yearningly. Their first shared meal alone since that night at the villa when he’d cooked her an omelette. Her heart soared and sang, and she knew she would not refuse him. That she could not.
She said sedately, ‘Very well.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
APART from the whisper of the engine, it was silent in the car. The breeze from the open window lifted tendrils of Lucy’s hair away from her face, and soothed her heated skin.
She could still hardly believe she was doing this.
She’d assumed Giulio intended to stage the picnic in a secluded comer of the villa’s grounds. Instead, she was seated beside him, being driven down some unfamiliar narrow road which appeared to be leading nowhere.
‘Patience.’ There was a note of laughter in his voice, indicating that he’d sensed her inner restiveness and was amuse
d by it.
‘I feel I should have left a message at the villa.’ Lucy bit her lip. ‘If Fiammetta comes back early with the children, she’ll wonder where I am.’
‘Is she your only concern?’
‘Not entirely.’ Lucy could visualise the contessa’s reaction if she ever discovered that the temporary nanny was cavorting round the countryside with her stepson.
She heard Giulio sigh almost impatiently. ‘Do you wish you had not come with me?’
‘No.’ Her mouth felt suddenly dry. Her hands were gripped tightly together in her lap. ‘It’s very kind of you.’
‘The kindness, as ever, is yours, Lucia.’ He sounded suddenly remote, and her swift, sideways glance revealed that he was frowning again. Perhaps, she thought, he was having second thoughts about the expedition.
She tried to think of some way to bring Angela and his commitment to her subtly into the conversation—to assure him that he did not have to worry. That she had no intention of reading too much into this unexpected treat. But she knew it was impossible.
Best to keep quiet and enjoy herself for as long as it lasted, she thought. A memory to store away and cherish during the bleak times ahead.
She came out of her reverie with a start as Giulio swung the car off the road and parked it in the shelter of a tree.
‘Now we walk.’ He took a picnic basket from the boot of the car, handing Lucy a rug. He led the way through a timbered gate and down a track winding its way through a grove of ancient olive trees, their leaves shining silver in the sun. Somewhere ahead of her, Lucy could see the glimmer of water, and hear a faint, muted roar.
When they emerged from the trees, she stopped, her lips parting in a gasp of pure pleasure. They were on the bank of a small river, its waters cascading over a series of steep rocks before emptying Almost vertically into a deep pool.
‘Do you like it?’ Giulio was smiling at her.
‘It’s wonderful.’ She cast a worried look around her. ‘But should we be here? It looks like someone’s private land.’
