Property of a Noblewoman

by Danielle Steel

  “Sí Signora? Cosa sta cercando?” She knew he was asking what she was looking for, and she would have felt stupid answering “My mother,” and he would have thought she was crazy. He probably did anyway. She didn’t feel properly dressed to be trespassing, in sandals and jeans and her battered old Borsalino straw hat.

  “Scusi,” she said, feeling flustered as she apologized to him. “Che casa bellissima,” she said, pointing at the house and telling him how beautiful it was.

  “È una proprietà privata,” he reminded her. It was private property. And she decided to shoot for the moon, at the risk of seeming even more foolish or intrusive.

  “Mia mamma era in questa casa molti anni fa,” she said, feeling lame, telling him her mother had been in the house many years before, which was the best she could do in her rusty Italian. “La Contessa di San Pignelli,” she said, groping for an excuse for her intrusion. “Sono la sua figlia.” He frowned then as he looked at her. She had told him she was Marguerite’s daughter.

  “Davvero?” For real? “It is true?” he said, switching to English, which was easier for her, if not for him. He looked intrigued.

  “My son came to see the house some months ago. I believe you met him, Phillip Lawton. He sent you some photographs of my mother and stepfather, the count and countess. He gave me your card. Signore Salvatore,” she said shyly, and he looked thunderstruck.

  “He did not tell me they are his grandparents.”

  “It’s a long story, but he didn’t know then.”

  “And you are the beautiful countess’s daughter. The photographs are in the house.” He waved vaguely at the castello, fascinated by her now, as Valerie smiled back at him, grateful that he had remembered Phillip, and not told her to leave.

  “I’m terribly sorry to intrude on you like this,” she apologized, still feeling flustered and rude. “I came to Naples to see where my mother lived with the count. It’s silly, I know. She’s dead now, and I wanted to come to Italy to see her home.” She didn’t explain that she’d never known her in her entire life, and had only just discovered that Marguerite was her mother. It was too convoluted to explain in either language.

  “Do you wish to see the house?” he asked politely, and she couldn’t stop herself from nodding. She was desperate to. It was why she had come, and the main reason for her trip.

  He took her on a more extensive tour than he had given Phillip. He showed her the count and countess’s bedroom, where he slept now, their private suite with a beautiful library of antique books, and the little study where Umberto had worked at whatever he did, which Valerie didn’t know or want to ask. There was a lovely boudoir and dressing room that had been her mother’s that was empty now, with antique wallpaper that had been hand-painted, and looked like something from Venice in the seventeenth century and probably was. There were sitting rooms, and spare bedrooms that Saverio had turned into guest rooms, majestic chandeliers lit with candles, a noble dining room with a long table and tapestries and graceful chairs, the living room he used to entertain, and a big homey kitchen also with the view of the bay. The house was large and distinguished but not too large to be comfortable and inviting. She wished she could close her eyes and imagine her mother there, and she saw one of the photographs Phillip had sent him, on a grand piano, in a silver frame, in a place of honor. And as Phillip had, she noticed the impressive contemporary art the new owner had successfully mingled with the antiques, which had married well. He had either a good decorator, or great taste. The tour ended in the kitchen, where he offered her a glass of wine, and she hesitated. She didn’t want to overstay or exploit his kindness unduly.

  “I’m so sorry to disturb you,” she said, looking uncomfortable, and he smiled.

  “I know how it is with families. My mother die when I was a young boy . . . I always want to know about her. Like you perhaps?” he asked as he poured the chilled white wine into a glass and handed it to her, and then one for himself. He walked her out to a terrace where they sat down, and could view the perfectly manicured gardens, which he had restored. “A mother is very special,” he said, and took a sip of the cool wine. “I like your son very much when I meet him. He is a good man.” She smiled at the compliment for Phillip.

  “Thank you. I think so too. Do you have children?” she asked him, and he smiled easily and held up two fingers.

  “Two. Un ragazzo a Roma,” a boy in Rome, she understood. “E la mia figlia a Firenze. My daughter work with me in my gallery. My son is the director of my gallery in Rome. Art,” he said pointing at the paintings inside the house. “Your son sells art for Christie’s,” he said, remembering, “e gioielli.” Jewels.

  “Yes. I only have one son.” She held up one finger with a smile. “And I’m an artist.” She pantomimed painting, and he looked impressed.

  “Brava!” he complimented her, and they sat looking at the view for a moment, as she thought about her mother again. She could almost feel her here, where she had lived for a long time, and hopefully been happy. It was a warm, inviting place, and he explained to Valerie that he loved it, and touched his heart, as he had with Phillip. “You go to Capri now? Or Amalfi? Sorrento? Positano? On holiday?”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “Firenze.” Florence. She hadn’t wanted to go to a beach resort alone, and she knew that Capri was overrun with tourists at that time of year, and it hadn’t appealed to her. The cities with their art treasures did. She’d been debating about going to Venice too. There was more to see there than in Positano or Capri, and museums and galleries she loved to visit.

  “Me too,” he said. “I go back to Firenze in a few days, to work. I am here to rest,” he said, but wasn’t convincing. He had driven in at full speed in the Lamborghini, which didn’t seem restful to her. “I come here one time, two time in a month to relax.” That made sense to her. “Otherwise, Firenze, Roma, Londra, Parigi. Business.” She nodded her understanding of the cities where he worked, and they sat peacefully for a while, and then she stood up, having imposed on him for long enough. “Please call me when you come to Firenze, visit my gallery and meet my daughter,” he said hospitably. “You have lunch with us.”

  “I’d like that very much,” she said, as he walked her back to where her driver was waiting with the car. A man in a Mercedes drove into the courtyard then, and Saverio waved at him, as though he’d been expecting him. “I’m sorry I stayed so long. Thank you for the tour of the house.” She looked moved and he smiled warmly at her.

  “Not at all. It was a pleasure and an honor.” He bent to kiss her hand, and she felt like someone very important when he did, even the pope. She wasn’t used to the European traditions that were symbols of her gender and rank.

  “Mille grazie,” she said, as the other man walked up to them and spoke rapidly to Saverio in Italian, and her host introduced them. “Valerie Lawton,” she supplied.

  “Signora Lawton, a presto . . . a Firenze,” he said, and left her then, and walked into the house with his guest talking animatedly. He couldn’t have been nicer, just as Phillip had said. And yet again, with an uninvited guest. It had been a perfect visit for her, and she had seen enough. She had visited her mother’s bedroom, her dressing room, where they ate, their living room and gardens. And it was Saverio’s house now, not theirs. She was faintly embarrassed at what she’d done, barging in on him, but she was glad she had come to Naples nonetheless. But she knew she didn’t need to come back again, she had seen it, and walked through her mother’s home.

  She spoke to the concierge at the hotel that night and made arrangements to go back to Rome the next day. She wanted to spend a few more days there, and then she would go to Florence, as she had planned. She didn’t know if she’d have the courage to call the owner of the château when she was in Florence. She didn’t want to bother him at work this time. Maybe she’d just wander into his gallery out of curiosity. But her pilgrimage was complete now. The rest of her trip would be just for pleasure. And Marguerite Pearson di San Pignell
i could rest in peace.

  Chapter 23

  VALERIE’S SECOND STAY in Rome, after returning from Naples, was even more interesting than the first. She looked up several galleries and museums she had wanted to visit, went to the Catacombs, which she’d always wanted to do, and discovered a myriad of small churches tucked away in narrow side streets, and she began to know her way around the city on foot. She loved being there, even alone, and she told Phillip all about it when he called her. They agreed on what a nice man Saverio was, and she told him about her visit to his home, and how welcoming he had been.

  “He’s a great guy. Our family seems to keep dropping in on him, and he’s a good sport about it.”

  “I saw the photo you sent him of my mother. He had it framed on the piano, which was sweet.”

  “I think he has a crush on her,” Phillip commented easily, and his mother laughed at the irreverence.

  “So where are you going now?” he asked her.

  “Florence. I’ll figure the rest out after that.” She had no set reservations after Florence and had wanted to play it by ear. And there was so much art she never tired of in Florence that she didn’t want to rush to leave. She was thinking of renting a car to drive through Tuscany, which she didn’t tell Phillip or he’d worry. “How’s Jane?” Valerie asked him.

  “Busy. She’s taking the bar exam in three weeks. I probably won’t get five words out of her till then. She’s staying at her place for a few days, so I don’t distract her.” She had told him he was like a kid, trying to kiss and cuddle her all the time, and she had to work. So he was banished, but he had plenty to do to keep busy at work.

  Valerie called Winnie that night too, as she had promised. She was fine, despite her allergies. She was in a bridge tournament, which kept her happy. Valerie told her she had been to Naples and seen the house, met its owner, and was back in Rome exploring the city.

  “Better you than I. It’s probably boiling hot there,” Winnie said plaintively.

  “It’s hot, but I love it.” Valerie sounded happy and relaxed. And the next day Valerie decided not to fly to Florence, but drive there instead. She rented a Mercedes, which would be solid on the road, and she would be safe. She had the doorman load her bags in the trunk, and she took the highway after she left Rome, and stayed on it until Perugia, where she left the highway and drove past Lago Trasimeno. Four hours after she left Rome, she reached Florence, and found her way to the Four Seasons Hotel Firenze, using the GPS. She felt supremely competent as she got there, and she’d had a great day on the road, and had stopped in Perugia for lunch.

  She left the car at the hotel, checked into her room, and then walked through the Piazza della Signoria and bought a gelato. It was a gorgeous hot afternoon, and she couldn’t wait to go to the Uffizi the next day. It was her favorite museum in Europe, and she and Lawrence had spent days there on their trips. It was Mecca to anyone who loved art as they did. It was Phillip’s favorite too.

  She walked around Florence for hours, and finally went back to the hotel and lay on her bed to rest. She laughed to herself in the room, thinking about how Winnie would have hated this trip and complained every minute of the way, about the walking and the heat, and Valerie’s determination to see everything and leave no stone unturned in her travels. It would have been Winnie’s worst nightmare and was Valerie’s dream. She wondered if her mother had been more like her.

  She fell asleep early that night and woke up as the sun came up over Florence, which she could see from her room. She stood looking out the window at the city in the early morning light, which looked like a painting. She went for a walk, and came back for breakfast at the hotel, and arrived at the Uffizi just as it opened. She stayed there until it closed for lunch, walked some more, and then went back for the afternoon. And as she wandered through the streets afterward, she remembered Saverio’s gallery, and looked at the address on his card, which she still had in her bag. She had no idea where it was, and stopped a policeman to ask. He told her in Italian, and indicated that it was very close, and she thought she understood and followed the direction that he had pointed, and when she turned a corner, it was there. It was a large handsome gallery, with a massive bronze sculpture in the window, and she was startled to see him through the glass, pointing emphatically at a painting and talking to a young woman.

  Feeling hesitant but curious, Valerie walked in, and Saverio turned to look at her and smiled in surprise.

  “Signora Lawton . . . welcome in Firenze . . . brava!” He seemed delighted to see her, as though they were old friends, and introduced her to his daughter, Graziella, whom he had been speaking to. The young woman spoke excellent English, and the two women conversed for a few minutes. She looked about Phillip’s age or a little younger. She went back to her office at the rear of the gallery a few minutes after they’d met, and Saverio continued to chat with Valerie in his easy, open way. “When did you arrive?” he asked her with a welcoming smile.

  “I drove here yesterday,” she said proudly, feeling accomplished, and he complimented her again with another “Brava!” “I’ve been at the Uffizi all day,” she said, and he nodded.

  “I grew up there.” He smiled at her.

  “Was your family involved in art?” she asked, wondering if he’d understand her. He did, but shook his head.

  “No, my father was a doctor, and my mother a nurse. My father was very angry when I wanted to be an artist. But I have no talent, so I sell art by other people.” He laughed. “He thought I was crazy. But I didn’t want to be a doctor. He was very unhappy with me.”

  “Mine didn’t want me to be an artist either.” Her real father had been an artist, she knew now, but that was too complicated to explain.

  “You must show me your work,” he said with interest.

  “Oh no,” she said, feeling modest. She had recognized the important piece in his window, by a sculptor she admired. She wasn’t in his league by any means, or didn’t think so. And then Saverio turned to her.

  “You will have dinner with us. Yes?” She hesitated and then nodded. She had nothing else to do, and he was friendly and interesting to talk to, and they shared a passion for art. “What is your hotel?” She told him, and he promised to pick her up at eight-thirty, and she left the gallery feeling brave and adventuresome again, as she walked back to her hotel. It was fun meeting new people. She had come to Europe for experiences just like this, after her trip to see her mother’s home. Now she was free to play and relax, with the serious part of her travels over.

  She had no idea where they were going for dinner, and didn’t know what to wear, so she wore a simple black skirt, a lacy white blouse, and high-heeled sandals, with her white hair loose down her back and small diamond earrings Lawrence had given her for twenty years of marriage. And she carried a shawl in case it got chilly that night. She was waiting for him in the lobby when Saverio drove up in the red Ferrari. He looked very dashing in a well-cut blazer and white slacks with a blue shirt, his deep tan, and his mane of white hair. He came inside and found her and took her arm as they walked outside, and she got into the Ferrari with him and felt very racy, as he tore through traffic and wove among the other cars. She laughed as she glanced at him. It was slightly terrifying driving with him, but very Italian, and she liked it.

  “You make me feel young again!” she said with a broad grin over the noise of the engine.

  “You are young,” he said, smiling at her. “At our age, we can do whatever we want, and we are as young as we wish to be.” And then he added, “You look like your mother.” He watched her when they stopped at a traffic light.

  “I wish that were true,” she said ruefully, “but I don’t. I look like my father.” She had just discovered that recently in Santa Barbara, from the photographs Walter had of Tommy. But there was a similarity of expression with Marguerite, that Saverio had noticed immediately.

  “Then your father must have been a beautiful man.” She smiled at the compliment as they roared off aga
in when the light turned green. Saverio was very charming and exciting to be with, and probably a bit of a ladies’ man. But it suited him, and he was so Italian. And he made her feel attractive.

  They met his daughter at the restaurant, and her husband Arnaud, and they were delightful. She ran her father’s gallery in Florence, and her husband was French and worked for a local TV station as a producer. They said they had a little girl, Isabella, who was two. And just talking about her, Saverio’s eyes danced, and he showed Valerie a photo of her on his phone. She was wearing a tutu and had a halo of blond curls and a mischievous smile.

  “You have grandchildren?” he asked her, and she shook her head.

  “Phillip isn’t married.” She thought that explained it, but apparently not.

  “Allora?” Saverio said with a purely Italian gesture. “My son Francesco is not married, and has two beautiful children with a very nice girl.” Valerie smiled at what he said.

  “My son hasn’t done that yet,” she said politely, and hoped he wouldn’t. She was free-thinking and modern, but still had traditional values, although she knew she would have loved Phillip’s children, whatever he did.

  “Children always surprise you,” Saverio said, and they both laughed. His English improved with the wine they drank at dinner, and his daughter and son-in-law spoke very good English. They had a very enjoyable dinner, and then the young people left them, and Saverio took her to a bar and restaurant with a spectacular view of Florence and the night sky. He was not ready for the evening to end, and Valerie wasn’t either. She was having such a good time.