by Anne Mather
‘Ceci, what did you tell that man?’ she asked, still hoping that the girl might have suggested he go and find a trattoria in the village for half an hour or so while she conducted her business. But she was disappointed.
‘I told him you’d make other arrangements to get back to Pisa,’ declared Ceci unrepentantly. ‘You will.’ She said this as Grace looked anxious. ‘Now, let’s sit on the loggia. I’m sure you’re dying for a long cool drink.’
Grace gave her a tired look. ‘Ceci, you know I can’t stay here.’
‘I know Nonna would be most upset if she knew you doubted her hospitality,’ responded Matteo’s daughter smoothly. ‘Now, you sit here, and I’ll go and tell Signora Carlucci that we have a guest for dinner—’
‘No—’
But Ceci had already gone, and Grace was left to kick her heels among the exotic overflow from the marchesa’s garden. She didn’t sit down. She felt as if she’d done nothing but sit down all day. But she did shed her sticky jacket, breathing a little more easily when her bare arms were no longer encased in such formal attire.
She was standing by the windows, staring out at the lengthening shadows, when a voice said, ‘Grace?’ in a faintly disbelieving tone, and she turned to find the marchesa herself leaning on her cane just inside the door. The old lady stared at her blankly for a few seconds, and then, as if having assured herself that she wasn’t hallucinating, she came slowly into the room. ‘I thought I heard a car.’ She shook her head. ‘Where’s Matteo?’
This was the second time that someone had suggested that she might know where Matteo was, and this time Grace didn’t attempt to avoid an answer. ‘I—assume he’s still in London,’ she said tightly. Then, before she could lose her nerve, she began, ‘Marchesa, I hope you’ll forgive me for coming here.’
The marchesa halted some distance from her, and judging from her expression Grace thought the old lady looked a little confused. As well she might, Grace mused uneasily, aware of her own presumption in thinking the marchesa might be willing to take her side against that of her beloved grandson.
‘I suppose Ceci was here to greet you,’ she said, gesturing towards an arrangement of cane chairs. ‘I suggest we sit down. Then you can tell me what you meant by that remark.’
Grace gave an inward groan. ‘Look, I probably should explain—’
‘Yes, I’m hoping you will.’ The marchesa lowered herself carefully into one of the chairs. ‘Have you ordered tea?’
‘I think Ceci—’ Grace broke off and, leaving the window, came across to where the old lady was sitting. ‘I don’t think you understand.’
‘I’m sure I don’t,’ agreed the marchesa, tapping the adjoining chair with the head of her cane. ‘Sit down, child, do. I’m too old to tip my head back to look at you.’
Grace sighed, but she dropped down into the chair as requested, and sandwiched her damp palms between her knees. ‘I’m sorry. I should have waited until tomorrow morning. But I’ve only got a couple of days, you see.’
The marchesa frowned. ‘First of all, tell me why you’ve left Matteo inLondon.’
‘Why I’ve—’ Grace pressed a startled hand to her chest. ‘I haven’t left Matteo anywhere.’
The marchesa frowned. ‘But you have seen him?’
‘Some time ago, yes.’ Grace admitted it reluctantly, feeling her embarrassment burning in her face. ‘But that’s not—’
‘Why you’re here?’ The old lady looked concerned. ‘Forgive me, my dear, but I don’t understand. Matteo left for London yesterday, expressly to see you.’
Grace was glad she was sitting down. ‘I beg your pardon?’ she said, in a voice that sounded little like her own. ‘I—think you must have made a mistake.’
‘Have I?’ The marchesa’s frown deepened, and she looked up in some relief when her great-granddaughter came back into the room. ‘Ceci,’ she said weakly, ‘your father did say he was going to see—’ She broke off, waving a frail hand in Grace’s direction. ‘Didn’t he?’
‘Sì, Nonna.’
Ceci answered in the positive, and Grace saw the old lady’s tension subside. ‘Thank God!’ she declared. ‘I was afraid I was getting senile.’
‘Not you, Nonna,’ Ceci assured her gently, coming to put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. ‘I’ve ordered something long and cool for Grace. And I thought you might like some tea.’
‘What would I do without you, my dear?’ The marchesa patted the girl’s hand in response. She turned back to Grace. ‘So—you say you did not come here because Matteo invited you. Might I ask when you left England? Was it this morning?’
Grace expelled a breath. ‘This morning, yes.’ She was still confused and she feared it would take more than Ceci’s kindness to reassure her. She hesitated. ‘I did speak with—with Julia a few days ago. She’s in London, too, as I’m sure you know. Matteo is most probably with her.’
Which was as it should be, she reminded herself fiercely, suppressing the traitorous excitement she’d felt at the old lady’s words. Whatever business Matteo had with her, it was not something to get excited about, and she was glad she had left as she had and avoided a confrontation with him.
Neither the marchesa nor her great-granddaughter had made any response to her interpretation of events, but Grace intercepted the look they exchanged with a feeling of unease. She had the feeling that something was going on here that she didn’t know about, and she wondered if it had anything to do with the reasons that had brought her to Italy.
The maid’s appearance with a tray broke the awkward silence that had fallen between them, and Grace accepted a glass of chilled lemonade with some relief. She was thirsty, and the tension she was feeling was causing the pulse in her head to thump like a hammer. She hoped she wasn’t getting a headache. That was all she needed with the prospect of a taxi ride back to Pisa airport ahead of her.
‘So, my dear.’ Apparently the marchesa was still prepared to give her a hearing. ‘Perhaps you’d like to tell me what brought you here?’ She held up her hand, a diamond ring fit to rival Julia’s sparkling on her finger. ‘Not that I’m not pleased to see you, of course. But I am—curious.’
Grace put down her glass, using her thumb to wipe the moisture from the corners of her mouth. Then, almost involuntarily, she looked at Ceci, and the marchesa nodded in shrewd understanding.
‘Go and ask Signora Carlucci to have a room prepared for our guest, my dear,’ she said, patting Ceci’s hand again, and although Grace made an instinctive gesture of denial the girl was already on her way out of the room. ‘Now,’ went on her hostess, ‘you can speak freely.’
Grace hesitated. ‘I don’t know where to begin.’
‘The beginning is usual,’ declared the old lady drily. ‘Despite what you said, I apprehend that this is about my grandson. Come along. What has he done now?’
Grace’s lips twitched. ‘You make him sound like a small boy.’
‘No. Perhaps a rather gullible older one,’ replied the marchesa crisply. ‘We’ll see. Please go on.’
Grace took a breath. ‘When—when Matteo came to see me some weeks ago, I inadvertently betrayed a family confidence to him.’
The marchesa frowned. ‘A family confidence?’
‘That’s right.’ Grace started to pick up her glass again and then thought better of it. ‘My—my brother-in-law had just been—well, dismissed from his job.’
‘And this was the confidence?’
‘Part of it.’ Grace forced herself to go on. ‘Giles—that’s my brother-in-law—I’m afraid he likes gambling—’
‘There’s no need to go into intimate details, my dear.’
‘There is.’ Grace shook her head. ‘That was why he was fired, you see. Because he—borrowed—some money from his firm’s petty cash.’
‘Ah.’ The old lady took a sip of tea from a bone china cup. ‘He was lucky to get away with just being fired. Not all employers are so generous.’
‘Well, his employers weren’t, you s
ee.’ Grace’s shoulders sagged. ‘They were going to prefer charges. Giles was facing possible prosecution.’
The marchesa tilted her head. ‘Was facing? I take it he’s not any more?’
‘No.’ Grace shook her head again.
‘And this is because of something Matteo has done?’ murmured the old lady astutely. ‘But you don’t seem pleased about it. Is there something else I should know?’
Grace heaved a sigh. ‘Not something I want to talk about,’ she said, after a moment. ‘I—just don’t think Matteo should have interfered. Particularly not when—when it wasn’t anything to do with him,’ she finished lamely.
‘I see.’ The old lady looked pensive now. ‘But, as you now know, Matteo is not here.’
‘It wasn’t Matteo I came to see,’ said Grace impulsively. ‘I wanted—I hoped—you might agree to let me pay the money back.’
The marchesa gave her a bewildered look. ‘But this has nothing to do with me.’
‘I know that.’ Grace paused. ‘But I’d rather not have to deal with Matteo.’
There was another of those pregnant pauses, and Grace took the opportunity to finish her lemonade. She didn’t know when she’d get another chance of refreshment. Whatever the marchesa had said earlier, she had the feeling the explanation she’d given for being here hadn’t met with wholehearted approval, and it was far more likely that she’d be advised to take the matter up with Matteo himself. Perhaps when he returned from his honeymoon, she thought bitterly. She could imagine how humiliating that would be.
A footman appeared just then to turn on the lamps, and Grace got to her feet.
‘I’m sure you’d like me to leave now,’ she said, hooking the strap of her tote bag over her shoulder. ‘If I could just use your phone—’
‘What are you talking about, child?’ The marchesa seemed to thrust off whatever worry had caused a groove to appear between her brows and tapped the floor with her cane. ‘I thought I’d made myself very plain. Naturally, you’ll spend the night at the villa. I won’t hear of you travelling back to your hotel tonight. If you’ll give me the details, I’ll have Aldo go and collect the rest of your belongings—’
Grace moved a little awkwardly. ‘I—didn’t check in to a hotel, Marchesa.’
‘All the better, then.’ The marchesa studied her for a moment. ‘So where is your suitcase?’
‘I didn’t bring a suitcase,’ admitted Grace ruefully. ‘Just—just a change of underwear. That sort of thing.’
‘You young people,’ said the marchesa wryly, but she didn’t sound as if she was surprised. ‘Very well. Ceci will lend you anything else you need. I’m sure she’s got something in her wardrobe that you can wear this evening. We dine at nine, as you know.’
‘But, Marchesa—’
‘We’ll talk later,’ the old lady said firmly, and there was no gainsaying her. ‘Ring the bell, will you? I’m sure Signora Carlucci will have your room ready by now.’
Grace had a disturbing feeling of déjà vu as the maid escorted her to her room. Once again, she was to be accommodated in the east wing, and she felt a treacherous sense of pleasure when she was shown into the apartments she had occupied before. There should have been bitterness, and the memory of betrayal, but instead there was warmth and familiarity. She hadn’t realised how much she’d wanted to come back here, and she wondered if that was why she hadn’t tried harder to get in touch with the marchesa some other way.
She had showered and changed her underwear and was sitting at the dressing table drying her hair when she heard the now familiar knock at her door. But it couldn’t be Matteo, she assured herself. He was still in London. So she wrapped the folds of a bathrobe about her, and called, ‘Come in.’
It was Ceci. The younger girl was carrying a sheaf of garments draped over her arm, and she came into the suite of rooms with a diffident smile. ‘Nonna said you needed something to wear for dinner,’ she explained, indicating the clothes. ‘I don’t know if anything here is suitable. I’m afraid nothing of mine would do.’
Grace got to her feet. ‘Really, you shouldn’t have bothered...’
‘What? And have Nonna accuse me of letting her down?’ Ceci grimaced. ‘No, honestly, I’d have been happy to help you out, but I’m afraid I’m not as tall or as—as—’
‘Broad?’
‘—shapely,’ Ceci said firmly, ‘as you.’
Grace came towards her with a wry smile, touching the jewel-toned fabric of a skirt with an admiring finger. ‘But where did you get these from?’
‘They were my grandmother’s,’ admitted Ceci ruefully, and Grace withdrew her hand in alarm.
‘Your grandmother’s clothes!’ She caught her breath. ‘Well, it’s very kind of you, of course, but—’
‘They’re in excellent condition,’ protested Ceci at once, misunderstanding her. ‘They’ve been kept aired, and they’re pressed regularly—’
‘That’s not the point—’
‘Nonna’s always saying she’s going to send them to a church benefit or something. I suppose they might be worth something to a collector.’
‘Ceci...’ Grace sighed. ‘The clothes are beautiful! And I’m flattered that you should offer them to me. But—’ she shook her head ‘—I couldn’t wear your grandmother’s clothes. It wouldn’t be right.’
‘I don’t think Papà would agree.’
Grace’s face filled with colour. ‘Ceci—’
‘I mean it,’ said Ceci, laying the garments almost reverently on the bed. ‘It’s not as if he remembers his mother wearing them. And Nonna said it was fitting that you and she should be of a similar size.’
Grace didn’t know what to say. She didn’t want to offend the girl, but she wondered what the marchesa was doing, filling Ceci’s head with such nonsense. If this was another power-play against Julia, then she should be ashamed of herself. The Englishwoman might not have been her choice for a granddaughter-in-law, but with the baby Julia was carrying all bets were off.
‘Look,’ Grace said now, ‘I really am thrilled that you and your great-grandmother should offer me the chance to wear one of these gowns, but—’
‘You don’t like them?’
‘Of course I like them.’ Grace didn’t see how anyone couldn’t like such delicate things. ‘But—well, it’s not my place, don’t you see? It’s—it’s Julia you should be offering them to. Not me.’
Ceci squared her shoulders. ‘Julia’s gone away,’ she said, pushing her hands into the pockets of her riding breeches. ‘Nonna said I wasn’t to say anything, that it wasn’t up to me, but I think you ought to know.’
Grace stared at her warily. Of course Julia had gone away. She knew that She’d never forget that awful scene in Julia’s suite at the Dorchester. But why would the marchesa warn Ceci against discussing it when she knew Grace had seen Julia in London?
‘I don’t think that matters,’ she said now, recognising the anxiety in Ceci’s face. The girl was regretting what she’d said. She could tell. ‘Look, I won’t say anything about this conversation. Let’s forget it ever happened, okay?’
Ceci moved her shoulders in a gesture that could have meant anything, but Grace started when the girl pulled a hand out of her pocket to touch the other woman’s hair. ‘You’re so lucky,’ she said, ‘having hair like this. Mine takes forever to grow.’ She combed a hand through her own ruffled curls. ‘I’ve always wanted to be a blonde.’
‘But your hair’s beautiful,’ protested Grace, Ceci’s resemblance to Matteo never more evident than at that moment. ‘Believe me, blondes do not have more fun!’
Ceci dimpled. ‘Don’t you think so?’
‘No. Definitely not,’ Grace assured her. ‘But I’m sure you know that for yourself. You can’t have got through your first year of college without collecting your fair share of admirers.’
‘Well...’ Ceci was modest. ‘There have been one or two...’
‘Including the young man your father spoke about?’ suggested Gra
ce, feeling a bittersweet pang at the memory of her first evening at the villa, and the girl chuckled.
‘Domenico,’ she said, nodding. ‘He’s all right, I suppose. But too serious, if you know what I mean?’
‘Is there such a thing?’ Grace was ironic, and then, realising Ceci was studying her with a replica of her father’s intensity, she looped the long coil of hair over one shoulder. ‘And now, if you’ll excuse me, I must finish drying this...’
‘And you will wear one of Nonna Elena’s gowns, won’t you?’ Ceci persisted, heading towards the door, proving that she hadn’t been diverted from her original task. She smiled into Grace’s frustrated face. ‘Nonna will not be pleased if you disappoint her.’
Grace could believe that. Between them, Matteo and his grandmother had more than their fair share of arrogance, and she could quite see that if she turned up for dinner wearing the same clothes she had travelled in the old lady would be put out, to say the least. Particularly after she had gone to the trouble of providing her with an alternative.
And what an alternative. After Ceci had gone, Grace approached the pile of clothes she had left on the bed with reluctant interest. The girl had evidently not been able to decide what to choose and, as well as the skirt Grace had admired earlier, there was a flowing georgette trouser suit, two silk cocktail dresses, and an elaborate embroidered tunic. To wear with the skirt, Grace guessed, realising the two items would look well together.
But the garment which caught her attention was an ankle-length gown of gossamer-thin chiffon. Its style was simple enough: delicate cap sleeves and a modestly rounded neckline curved gently into the waist, before dropping, tubelike, to the hem. There was an equally delicate chemise to wear underneath, and the colour, a seadrift blend of grey and green, was more subtle than the others.
Grace knew, as soon as she put it on, that she would wear it. Despite her doubts, despite her misgivings, the marchesa evidently knew her better than she knew herself, and the old lady must have guessed she would not be able to resist such a lovely thing. It fitted her so perfectly, it could have been made for her, outlining the generous curves of her body with an elegance at once flattering and statuesque.
