Last Voyage of the Valentina

by Santa Montefiore

  When Thomas walked into the bedroom his face was flushed and his eyes burning. “Are you all right, darling?” Margo asked, frowning. “Are you unwell?” He hadn’t been himself lately.

  “I’m perfectly well,” he replied. “Let’s make love.”

  Margo was surprised. They hadn’t made love in, well, ages. She couldn’t remember the last time. There was always so much on her mind: Summer, Boris, the children, Alba, the village fête, the church flowers, the Women’s Institute, not to mention all the entertaining they did. There simply wasn’t time for lovemaking.

  They climbed beneath the sheets. Margo would have liked to read her book. She was past the difficult first chapters now and the characters were really beginning to live. With a sigh of resignation she switched off the light and lay down expectantly. Thomas turned off his light and rolled over to kiss her.

  “Aren’t we a bit old for this?” she said, embarrassed.

  “It’s only our bodies that have aged, Margo,” he breathed into her neck. “Surely our spirits are still young.”

  His voice sounded desperate, as if he needed her to agree. Margo sensed in his soul a terrible unrest. He hadn’t been the same since Alba came down with the portrait of her mother. Those memories had been nicely stored away like silt at the bottom of a clear pond. Now Alba had gone and raked her fingers through it, leaving the water cloudy. As he made love to her, Margo couldn’t help wondering whether Thomas was thinking of Valentina.

  Alba listened to the rain tapping on the skylight. She was happy and satisfied. Fitz, however, was not. He was still unable to get close to her. “How much closer can one possibly get?” she would argue, pressing her warm body against his. But that was not what he meant. He didn’t expect Alba to understand. Perhaps it was just her nature, but he knew there was a part at the very core of her being that remained a stranger to him. He simply couldn’t help feeling she was acting. He didn’t believe she was superficial, he knew she had secret depths, he just didn’t know how to get to them. Give it time, he reassured himself.

  “Darling, please come with me?” she pleaded, running her hand across his chest.

  “Of course,” he replied, assuming she was referring to the weekend.

  “No, I mean to Italy.” There was a long pause.

  Fitz took a deep breath, anticipating her reaction. “You know I can’t.”

  “Is it Sprout?”

  “No.”

  “Is it work?”

  “Not really.”

  “Viv wouldn’t mind. You could say you were setting up her book tour. I’m sure there’s a bookshop in Incantellaria.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

  “Don’t you love me?” She sounded hurt.

  “You know I love you. But Alba, this is something you have to do alone. I’ll just get in the way.”

  “Of course you won’t get in the way. I need you,” she pleaded, a steely undertone to her voice.

  Fitz sighed. “Darling, I don’t even speak Italian.”

  “That’s the lamest excuse I’ve ever heard. I had expected you, of all people, to be more loyal.” She sat up sulkily and lit a cigarette.

  “It’s got nothing to do with loyalty. I’m one hundred percent loyal to you. Look on it as an adventure.”

  She looked at him as if he had done the most wicked thing. “I’m so disappointed in you, Fitz. I thought you were different.”

  Now it was his turn to be affronted. “How can I drop everything to follow you around Italy? I have a life and, although you are very central to it, there are things I just can’t leave for other people to do. I’d love to take a long holiday with you in a pretty place. But right now is not a good time.”

  She got up and flounced into the bathroom and slammed the door. Fitz stared up at the skylight, where the rain was still splashing off the glass in a torrent. Since they had met he had been wary of upsetting her. He had witnessed the fire of her temper and made a conscious effort to avoid igniting it. He had been too afraid of losing her. He now realized, as she sulked in the bathroom, that his inability to get close to her might have something to do with that pretense. They hadn’t been honest with each other. He wasn’t doing her any favors pandering to her every whim; he was simply encouraging her to be manipulative and spoiled. If their relationship was going to work it had to get real.

  When she came out she was in her pink dressing gown with fluffy pink mules on her feet. “I’m not used to being treated like this,” she said, her mouth tight and petulant. She folded her arms in front of her and glowered at him. “If you’re not going to support me, why are you with me?”

  “Just because I refuse to go to Italy with you doesn’t mean that I don’t love you,” he explained, but she wasn’t listening. When Alba was cross she heard nothing but her own voice.

  “This is the most important thing I will ever do in my life. I can’t believe that a man who claims to love me doesn’t want to share it with me. I don’t think we should be together anymore,” she said tearfully.

  “We can’t split up because of a trivial argument,” he reasoned, his gut twisting with regret.

  “That’s just it. You think it’s trivial. To me, my mother is the most important person in my life. Finding her is the biggest thing I’ve ever done. To me it’s not trivial at all.”

  “Splitting up over it is. Alba, you must understand the world doesn’t revolve around you. You’re beautiful and adorable but you’re the most selfish human being I’ve ever met. If I give in to you I wouldn’t be true to myself or to you. If splitting up is what you want, I’ll leave right now, with enormous regret.”

  Alba’s lips quivered and she looked up at him from under her eyelashes. She had pushed but he had not budged. They always budged. “Yes, I want you to leave.”

  He shook his head sadly. “I know you don’t really want to do this. It’s a matter of pride, isn’t it?”

  “Just leave!”

  He dressed and packed up his belongings while she watched him. They didn’t speak. The boat rocked and creaked in the choppy Thames, bumping every few seconds against the rubber tire that protected Viv’s boat from the Valentina. Fitz suddenly felt seasick. He hoped that if he took his time she might reconsider. As much as he longed for her to change her mind, he was too proud to beg and too much a man of principle to bend to her will. The scent of paraffin from the stoves that heated the boat rose up on the damp as the rain continued to fall in sheets. He didn’t like the idea of being out in such weather in the middle of the night. He hadn’t brought his car and had no umbrella. Sprout would be miserable in the rain. He had made himself very comfortable downstairs in Alba’s warm kitchen.

  “Right, I suppose it’s goodbye then,” he said, giving her a last chance to change her mind, but her mouth was firmly set into a thin line of resolve. “I’ll see myself out.”

  Alba heard the door close behind him, then there was silence but for the forlorn creaking of the boat and the low moan of her own sobbing. She sank onto the bed and put her face in her hands.

  Her attention was diverted by the sound of dripping. It was louder and slower than the rattling of the rain on the skylight. She lifted her face out of her hands to see a leak in the roof. The water was falling in large plops, like fat tears, onto the rug below. She heaved herself off the bed, her body weighed down as if by a suit of armor. She took the bin from the bathroom and put it under the drip. It made a loud metallic noise, then a wet plop as it filled up. She wished Fitz hadn’t gone. He would know what to do. Usually Harry Reed or Rupert would do repairs for her, or even Les Pringle from the Chelsea Yacht and Boat Company, who came daily to fill up the water tank. But she didn’t want Harry or Rupert anymore. She wanted Fitz.

  Miserably she climbed into bed and curled up on the electric blanket that had begun to steam against the damp. She persuaded herself he might send her flowers in the morning, or a gift from Tiffany. She’d take him back and all would be right again. She wouldn’t be alone. For the rest of
the night she slept with the light on.

  Fitz stepped onto the gangplank and felt the rain go straight down his back. He pulled his coat up to his chin and hunched his shoulders. Sprout cringed and whined miserably. The Embankment was quiet. The odd car came and went but there was no sign of a taxi. He couldn’t walk home: it was miles away. He had no choice but to knock on Viv’s door. There was a long wait until the lights were switched on. She had not been up writing that night. When she appeared at the door she looked surprised.

  “Oh, I thought you were Alba,” she said sleepily. She looked very different without her makeup on. But before he could explain she added, swiftly ushering him through the door and shutting out the rain, “I won’t say I told you so, I’m not a gloater, and yes, you can stay the night. Sprout can sleep in the kitchen. Just one thing. For God’s sake, don’t send her flowers in the morning; it’s terribly cliché and I know you are in the right.”

  Alba was first disappointed, then furious, when she received nothing the following day from Fitz. No flowers, no gift, and no telephone call. She waited in her dressing gown, not bothering to get dressed. She wasn’t going to see anyone and if Fitz did come by, there would be less to take off. She just lay on her bed painting her nails red for comfort. Finally, at the end of the third day she realized that he wasn’t going to make contact, at least for the moment. She would have to go down to Beechfield Park on her own.

  Her father and stepmother’s reaction to her decision to travel to Italy was entirely as she had expected. This time she picked her moment during dinner. Lavender had appeared, dressed in a silk dress with the pearl choker Hubert had given her for one of their wedding anniversaries. Her short-term memory was terrible but she recalled everything from the distant past as if it had happened yesterday and took great pleasure in recounting to the entire table the story of its purchase. Cook had made a cottage pie which she served with peas and carrots and Thomas opened a bottle of wine. When asked about Fitz, Alba lied.

  “He’s had to go to France on business. He’s organizing Viv’s book tour. She’s big in France.” Margo imagined they had had a row. Alba was not at all her usual imperious self.

  During the pudding, without waiting for Cook to leave the room, Alba dropped her bombshell. “I’m going to Italy to find my mother’s family,” she said. Margo looked horrified. Henry, Caroline, and Miranda held their breath.

  “I see,” said Thomas.

  “I feel that since you won’t tell me about her, I will have to find out for myself. As Viv says, ‘God only helps those who help themselves,’ so I’m counting on his guidance too. Reverend Weatherbone would approve, I’m sure.” Her tone was flippant.

  “Darling,” Margo began, trying not to sound flustered. “Are you sure you want to delve into the past?”

  “Absolutely,” Alba replied.

  “Surely it’s better left where it is.”

  “Why?” Her question was delivered with unexpected serenity and Margo felt a fool for having said it.

  “Because,” she stammered.

  “Because, my dear,” interjected her husband, “it all happened a very long time ago. But if it is what you want then we cannot stop you. We can only advise you against it. For your own happiness.”

  “I can’t be happy unless I have gone back to my roots,” Alba explained, surprised at her own composure.

  “Do you know where those roots are?” he asked.

  “Incantellaria,” she responded. He suddenly felt dizzy.

  “Incantellaria,” echoed Lavender. The whole table turned their eyes to the old lady. “There is only death and unhappiness to be found in Incantellaria.”

  “Would you like another slice of tart?” asked Margo, offering her the plate. Then, suddenly noticing that Cook was still in the room, she added, “Cook, please could you bring us some more cream.” She was aware that the little silver jug was full, but she hadn’t been able to think of anything else. “I don’t think we should discuss this in front of the staff,” she said to her husband. “In fact, I don’t think we should discuss this at all. Alba knows our feelings. Your family is here. Why go all the way to Italy to dig up a whole lot of ghosts?”

  Alba was weary. “I’m going to bed,” she said, getting up. “I’m going to go with or without your support. I just thought it right that I should tell you. After all, Daddy, she was your wife!”

  Thomas watched his daughter leave the room. Instead of feeling that terrible hopelessness, he felt a sense of release. It was no longer his responsibility. She was no longer a child. If she wanted to go, he could not stop her.

  After dinner, Thomas retreated into his study to smoke a cigar and drink a glass of brandy. He sat in his leather chair and stared up at the portrait of his father, until his vision blurred and his eyes began to glisten. Behind the dignified pose of Hubert Arbuckle lay the portrait of Valentina, a dark secret.

  Yet she wasn’t forgotten. Thomas had tried but failed to forget her. Now the scent of figs reached him once again as if she were bending over his chair to plant a kiss on his temple. The lookout tower loomed out of the nostalgic mists of his mind and he was finally returning to Incantellaria.

  14

  Italy, May 1945

  T homas felt a rush of emotion as the boat sped into the little harbor of Incantellaria. He looked up to the top of the hill where the old lookout tower was silhouetted against the sky. He remembered Valentina as she had been. Her hair blowing in the wind, her eyes full of sadness, her cheeks enflamed with their lovemaking. She had appeared like that in his dreams too. Beguiling, mysterious, like a beam of light that was impossible to hold.

  Once they had parted he had fought in the taking of the island of Elba, before being transferred to the Adriatic. On August 15, 1944, he had commanded his torpedo boat in the invasion of southern France, the lesser-known sequel to the more famous Normandy landings—D-day. Immediately after the death of his brother, Thomas hadn’t cared whether he lived or died. He had engaged in combat with a recklessness seen only in those valiant men whose lives mean little to them. Then he had met Valentina and suddenly life was precious once more. Every skirmish had filled him with terror. Every time he had boarded enemy cargo ships, he had crossed himself and thanked God for preserving him another day, for each day inevitably brought him closer to her. His will to live was so strong that his courage was now greater than it had been before, for it was no longer flawed with recklessness.

  Afterward, Thomas was sent to the Gulf of Genoa where he patrolled the coast. He wrote to Valentina whenever he could. His written Italian wasn’t good, but he was able to communicate the longing in his heart in spite of his poor grammar and limited vocabulary. He told her how he gazed at the portrait he had drawn of her, up on the hill, beside the crumbling old watchtower, where the love they made had fused them together in an unbreakable bond. He wrote of their future. He would marry her in the pretty chapel of San Pasquale and take her back to England, where he would ensure that she lived like a queen with everything she could ever want. He received nothing from her. Only perfumed letters and food parcels from Shirley. Then one evening in September, after having successfully sunk an enemy merchant ship, he returned to base at Leghorn to find a letter waiting for him. The writing was curled and childish and foreign. The postmark was Italian.

  He studied the envelope for a long moment, his heart suspended. He desperately hoped it was from Valentina. Who else would write from Italy? Then his optimism faded. What if the letter was one of rejection? How would his fragile heart bear such a heavy loss? He fingered the letter, his face contorted into a worried frown. Then he sat down, took a deep breath, and opened it.

  It was only one side long, written on paper as diaphanous as butterfly wings, and dated August 1944. My dearest Tommy. My heart longs for you too. Every day I stand and wait at the watchtower on the hill, hoping for the sight of your boat motoring in to our little harbor. Every day I am disappointed. I have news for you. I wanted to wait until I saw you, but I fe
ar for you in this war. I fear that you will die not knowing. So I will tell you in this letter and hope that you receive it. I am pregnant. My heart is filled with joy for I am carrying the child we made together out of love. Mamma says he will be blessed for he was conceived at the festa di Santa Benedetta when our Lord demonstrated His love for us by shedding tears of blood. I pray for your safe deliverance from this war and that God will bring you back to me so that you may know your son or daughter. I wait for you, my love. Your devoted Valentina.

  Thomas read the letter several times, barely able to believe that a child of his was about to be born into the world. He pictured Valentina with her belly round and her eyes bright with the light of impending maternity. Then he was gripped with a shudder of alarm: she was vulnerable in that small cove. He stood up and strode across the room in agitation, envisaging all the terrible things that might happen to her without his protection. He yearned to go to her and yet he could not. His job was up in the north and the war was still raging like a forest fire. The Allies had contained it and the prospects were good, yet their fortunes could change in a moment.

  Then he thought of all the innocence that war had destroyed, the horrors seen by eyes too young to understand, and his heart flooded with fear. His child was to be born into all this terror. Was it right to bring an innocent into so cruel a world?

  “What are you looking so down about?” asked Jack, taking the seat beside him.

  “I’ve had a letter from Valentina,” he replied, shaking his head in amazement.

  “What’s happened?”

  “She’s carrying my child, Jack.”

  Jack gasped. “Christ!” Then after a long moment of contemplation he added seriously, “What the hell are you going to do?”

  “Marry her,” he replied without hesitation.

  Jack looked at him askance. “That’s a bit drastic, isn’t it? You don’t even know her!”

  “I know all I need to know about her. She likes lemons, the sea, and the color purple.” He smiled with tenderness as he recalled her childish soliloquy. “Christ, I’ve been hit between the eyes, first by love and now this!”