Last Voyage of the Valentina

by Santa Montefiore

  “I’ll come back and visit you.”

  “Don’t you love me anymore?” she asked in a small voice and Alba heard the tearing of those seams again, this time louder and more viciously split.

  “Oh, Cosima. Of course I do. I love you so much it hurts. I don’t want to leave you. I want to marry Fitz and live here. But his work is in London. He’s not Italian like I am. It’s hard enough leaving the family, but leaving you will be the hardest part of all. But let’s try to look on the bright side. I’ll write to you and telephone you and send you dresses from London. They’re much prettier than the dresses I bought you today. Much, much prettier. And I’ll come back and visit you. One day, when you’re bigger, you can come and visit me.” They sat in silence, their arms tightly wrapped around each other, as the day slowly seeped away.

  Alba remained another ten days with the Fiorellis. While she was still among them Cosima forgot about her impending departure. Children live in the moment and with Alba there, the moment was a happy one. She put on her fashion show and the applause was louder than it had been before, but she didn’t know the grown-ups were overcompensating. Alba showed Fitz all the places that were now dear to her: the old lookout point, the lemon grove, and the stream. She showed him her paintings, all hung up in her room and around the house, where Immacolata had put the best of her great-granddaughter on display. Fitz was impressed. He picked them up, studied them carefully, complimenting her over and over again.

  Immacolata sulked. Although she no longer wore the clothes of mourning, she wore the face: long and gray and fixed into a permanent scowl. Only at the harbor, when Alba was on the point of leaving, did it break its mold. “I’m only cross because I love you,” she said, taking Alba’s face in her hands and kissing her forehead.

  “I’ll telephone you and write and visit. I promise I’ll come back soon,” Alba explained in a sudden attack of panic.

  “I know you will. Go with God, my child, and may He protect you.” She crossed herself vigorously, then let her go. Alba embraced Beata and Toto but reserved her biggest hug for Falco. They held each other for a long moment before pulling away.

  Cosima allowed herself to be swept into Alba’s fierce embrace. They both wept. Fitz took Alba’s hand and helped her into the boat. The small group stood forlornly on the quay. It was a sad parting. As the boat motored out of the harbor Cosima lifted her small hand and waved.

  29

  C ook had scones and homemade jams for tea. Scones were delicious any time but never more so than in winter, when the damp and cold demanded to be compensated with something warm and sweet. Verity Forthright popped one into her mouth, which had begun to water long before she had arrived at Cook’s cottage on the Arbuckle estate. The scones were small, bite-sized, and they melted on the tongue. She picked up the linen napkin, part of a set of six that old Mrs. Arbuckle had given Cook one Christmas, and dabbed the corners of her mouth. “Edith, my dear, you really are unsurpassed in the kitchen. These scones are so tasty.” Cook buttered one for herself.

  “I think I’ll make scones for Alba’s homecoming tea,” she replied thoughtfully. “Of course, I’ll roast potatoes with the lunch. I recall Fitzroy liked my roast potatoes.” Verity’s mouth watered again.

  “It’s all rather sudden, isn’t it?” she said, narrowing her eyes and dropping a large dollop of jam onto her second scone.

  “Alba’s never been conventional. That’s not her way. Apparently, Mrs. Arbuckle tells me, Fitzroy went all the way out to Italy to ask her to marry him.” She smiled at the romance of it.

  “Fortunate for him, she accepted. Would have been a wasted journey otherwise,” she said. Cook poured them both cups of tea.

  “She telephoned from Italy with the good news. I think they make a lovely couple. Lovely,” she said. “He’s calm and kind and she’s fiery and volatile. They complement each other.”

  “That’s not what you thought six months ago,” Verity reminded her.

  “It’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind.”

  “Maybe he’s managed to calm her down a bit. She needed calming down. She needs to wear longer skirts too. He’s a sensible man; perhaps he’ll make her more respectable. I know Mrs. Arbuckle would like that.”

  “Mrs. Arbuckle likes things just so,” said Cook, putting down her teacup. “She’s genteel. She wasn’t born to it like old Mrs. Arbuckle. Mrs. Arbuckle married it and that’s quite different. Such people are always affected, I think. She minds very much about class and breeding. Fortunately, so she tells me, Fitzroy is from a very good Norfolk family. She knows a cousin of his. He’s, as she puts it, a ‘proper’ person.”

  “Mrs. Arbuckle will be happy Alba’s getting married at all, I imagine,” said Verity. Cook was aware that she was fishing for gossip but she was too delighted at the news to resist talking about it.

  “Alba’s always been a great worry to her. To both of them. Arriving at the house as she does, with a storm brewing in her eyes. It’s that mother of hers, you see. Those Italians are a fiery lot. Mrs. Arbuckle likes people from her own world and Alba’s never really fitted in. It’ll be a burden off her shoulders. Caroline will be next, mark my words.”

  Verity wasn’t the slightest bit interested in Caroline. She stuffed a third scone into her mouth, then steered the conversation back to Alba.

  “Don’t you think the captain will be a bit sad to give his daughter away? After all, you’ve often told me that out of all his children, Alba was the most special.”

  “I believe so, not that he would ever say such a thing. I see it in his eyes, you know. My Ernie always said that I have the intuition of a witch. She has the power to hurt him in a way that no one else can. It breaks my heart to see him suffer on account of her malice. He gives her everything, everything. That girl has never done a day’s work in her life, thanks to the generosity of the captain. However, the strangest thing happened a while back.” She hesitated. She had sworn not to tell Verity, knowing that it would be passed around the village even before the old vulture had had time to digest it. However, the weight of knowledge was too heavy to bear alone. Verity’s mouth stopped midchew and she sat very straight. Cook wished she hadn’t started. But then, she reasoned to herself, she’d only tell Verity the good bits. “A letter arrived from Alba,” she stated.

  “A letter?”

  “Addressed to the captain. I recognized her handwriting and the Italian postmark.”

  Verity washed the scone down with tea. “And?”

  “Well, he went into his study to read it. I was busy in the drinks cupboard so I could see his expression as he read it. It was long, pages and pages in her large, careless writing. I could see through the paper that she had done a lot of crossing out.”

  “You were quite close then?”

  “Very. The captain didn’t even notice I was there, so engrossed was he in the contents of the letter.”

  “What did it say?”

  Cook sighed and shrugged. “I don’t know, but when he had read it he was transformed.”

  Verity looked puzzled. “How?”

  “Well, he looked younger.”

  “Younger?”

  “Yes. And happier. Gone were those dark circles under his eyes. If you ask me, there was something in the letter that gave him back his youth.”

  “Honestly, Edith, you’re exaggerating.”

  “I most certainly am not. It was most peculiar. It was as if he let something go. Something heavy and sad. He just let it go.”

  “Then what?”

  “He just sat there, rubbing his chin and staring up at the portrait of his father that hangs on the wall.”

  “His father?”

  “Yes, old Mr. Arbuckle. I don’t know what he was thinking about, but he sat there a long time, just thinking.”

  “What do you think the letter said?” asked Verity, bringing her teacup to her lips with a loud slurp.

  “Well, I heard Mrs. Arbuckle and the captain talking in the sitting room som
e time afterward. I was in the hall, you see, laying up for dinner. When it’s just the two of them they often like to eat there, on the refectory table.”

  “Yes, yes, what did they say?”

  “Well, they spoke in hushed voices. I think they knew I was out there; they could hear me clanking around, you see. It’s hard to keep the cutlery quiet. So they spoke carefully and I didn’t pick it all up. I heard the sentence, ‘Alba now knows the truth.’ Then he said with some jubilation, ‘She apologized.’ That struck me, you see, because I don’t imagine Alba’s ever apologized for anything in her life.”

  Verity frowned. “Apologized for what? What truth?” Cook felt herself grow hot. Enough, she said to herself. You’ve told Verity enough. Verity’s face was uncomfortably close to her own. It was no good. It was all going to come out.

  “It’s all rather baffling. But if you ask me, since Alba went to Italy to find her mother’s family, she must have discovered something else. I don’t know what…” Verity was staring at her with the eyes of a snake. “Oh, Verity,” she said suddenly. “I can’t keep it from you. I have to share it with someone. I heard the word…” She paused, then added in a loud whisper, “Murder.”

  When the word had been absorbed and digested, Verity gasped. “Good God. You don’t think the captain murdered his first wife, do you?”

  Cook wrung her hands. “No, I don’t. But what else could it be?”

  “Why would Alba apologize for that?”

  “Dear Verity, Alba was apologizing for finding out.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’d never imagine the captain capable of murder,” said Cook.

  “Remember, there was a war on. He was killing Germans left, right, and center and a jolly good thing too! And if Valentina was anything like as temperamental as Alba, I wouldn’t blame him!”

  “May God strike you down!” chided Cook.

  “Not until I’ve had the last scone,” said Verity and she popped it into her mouth.

  Cook felt relieved to have unburdened her secret to her friend. Verity didn’t enjoy the same sensation. Her nausea had had nothing to do with Cook’s revelations and everything to do with the scones. To her shame, on her way home, she had to stop the car at the end of the drive and vomit into the bushes.

  When the taxi that carried Fitz and Alba into central London swung into Earls Court, Alba forgot the sorrow of leaving Incantellaria and wriggled about in her seat with excitement. It was a clear October day. The sunshine tumbled in through the window and fell on the engagement ring that twinkled on her hand.

  “I can’t believe we’re home,” she said with a sigh, watching it sparkle and moving her fingers to catch the light. “To think of my cupboards full of beautiful clothes. I could die of happiness.” Fitz worried about the state of her boat. Knowing Alba, she wouldn’t have emptied the fridge before leaving and the place would smell horrible. “I feel I’ve been away for an age.”

  “I hope your boat is still there.”

  The taxi drove into Cheyne Walk. Alba sat up and looked through the front window.

  “There she is!” she announced, pointing. Then, “Bloody hell!”

  Fitz leaned forward, his heart sinking at the thought of her desiccated home. He paid the taxi and followed Alba down the pontoon with the suitcases.

  “I barely recognize it,” she said in delight. “It’s even had a new coat of paint!”

  “Viv!” he said, dropping the cases. “She’s covered the deck with plants and flowers. It almost looks as immaculate as hers, except yours is more eccentric, like you.” Alba put the key in the lock and opened the door.

  “It even smells of Viv,” she said with a laugh, sniffing the incense that hung in the air. Viv had washed and ironed all the clothes she had found hanging in the bathroom and cleaned the place from top to bottom. Alba opened the fridge. “She’s bought milk!” she shouted. “We can have a cup of tea!” Fitz carried in the suitcases, then walked up the shining corridor to the kitchen.

  “How did she get in?” he asked.

  “She has a key. I gave it to her eons ago, in case it caught fire or something when I wasn’t around.” Fitz pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

  “Forget the tea,” he said. “I’ve got a much better idea.”

  Alba shot him a mischievous look. “You and I aren’t so dissimilar after all,” she laughed. She led him upstairs to her bedroom beneath the skylight. The room was neat and clean; the leak had been mended. On the bed lay a note.

  As this will be your first port of call, I decided to leave the note on the bed. I probably won’t be there on your return as Fitzroy didn’t seem to know when he would be coming home. I only hope that you have done the decent thing and agreed to marry him. Poor darling, how he has pined! I took the liberty of dusting down the boat, it was a terrible mess and putting me off my breakfast every morning I suffered the sight of it. Not to mention the smell of squirrel excrement. Why they can’t do it somewhere else is beyond me. Welcome home, darling, and forgive an old bird for being bitter and twisted. The goat was a hoot and I forgive you too?! Back soon. In France with Pierre (ask Fitzroy). Love has never been so good. Kisses in abundance, Viv

  Alba looked steadily at Fitz. “Love has never been so good,” she said and caressed his bristly face with her hand. “Did you pine?”

  “Yes,” he replied. “Viv persuaded me to go and find you.”

  “Good old Viv.”

  “She’s a good friend, Alba.”

  “And so are you. Thank you, Fitz, for sticking by me.”

  “You ran off with my heart; I had to chase after it.”

  “It’s mine now,” she said with a smile. “I’m going to keep it, and this time, I’m going to treat it with care.”

  He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her down onto the bed. This time making love to Alba was slow, intimate and tender. He wasn’t left feeling empty and dissatisfied. He gave her his soul and received hers in return. She was like a rare and beautiful butterfly that he could hold in his hands. She didn’t fly away.

  After they had lazed together in a warm bath, Fitz lay on the bed while Alba went through her cupboards deciding what to wear for her father and stepmother. He noticed that she didn’t throw the discarded items onto the floor as before but folded them up and put them back. She laughed at the blue suede clog boots and patterned tights, the tiny skirts and brightly colored coats. “I forgot how much stuff I had,” she muttered, passing her eye over the rows of handbags and shoes. “God, I was extravagant. And Cosima thought five dresses was the end of the world.” She caught her breath as she remembered the little girl waving on the quay. She turned to Fitz. “I don’t know what to wear. Nothing feels right. I don’t want to look like a tart anymore. I want to look like a young woman on the brink of becoming Mrs. Fitzroy Davenport. These clothes aren’t suitable for her.”

  Fitz laughed. “Oh, darling. You’ll get used to them again. In the meantime, why don’t you put on a pair of jeans and a sweater?”

  “I don’t want any of these clothes anymore!” A frown drew her eyebrows together. “I’ve moved on.”

  Fitz came up behind her and put his arms around her waist. “You look gorgeous in whatever you wear.”

  She shrugged him off and began to search frantically through her drawers. Finally, in exasperation, she pulled out a faded pair of denim jeans and a white shirt.

  “How’s this?”

  “Perfect for the future Mrs. Fitzroy Davenport.” She smiled, and Fitz was filled with relief. “What will Margo think when David and Penelope Davenport aren’t on the guest list?” he said with a chuckle.

  “With any luck she’s forgotten.”

  “Do you think I should come clean?”

  “Not a good plan.”

  “I should probably write out a fake address for them.”

  “That’s a better idea. You can always say they sent their regrets.” Alba tried to be jolly but something was making her uncomfortable. She looked
about the room that held within it so many memories. Memories that now belonged to a life she had grown out of. “Let’s go,” she suggested. “We can take a cab to your house, pick up your things, and take your car to Beechfield. I’d sooner get going.”

  “Don’t you want to telephone them first?”

  “No,” Alba replied. “I’ve always much preferred the element of surprise.”

  Fitz packed while Alba lay on the sofa reading the newspapers. Sprout was still at Fitz’s mother’s in the country, being fed a diet of chopped liver and steak, no doubt. Fitz’s mother had never quite got over her children’s leaving the nest. “He won’t want to come back,” Fitz shouted to Alba from the bedroom. “I couldn’t bear that. Life without Sprout would be miserable.” But Alba wasn’t listening. She wasn’t reading the papers either. Her thoughts were with Cosima and Falco.

  The drive down the country lanes was just what Alba needed to lift her spirits. The sight of the falling leaves, turned golden in the autumn sunlight, warmed her heart. The wind carried them on its tail, so that they danced pretty twirls before landing on the ground as light as snowflakes, and the odd pheasant flew out from the hedgerows, his feathers spraying into the air. The plowed fields lay bare beneath the sky, and large black birds pecked at the corn left there by the combines at harvest time. Autumn was, along with spring, her favorite season, for she relished the change, before summer lost its bloom, while winter lay sleeping. She hoped that maybe they could buy a small house in the countryside somewhere. Live a quieter life. She no longer felt at home in her houseboat and London had lost its appeal. She looked across at Fitz. She would make him happy.

  Her heart swelled as the car swept up the drive. The gravel was strewn with orange and brown leaves which Peter, the gardener, was doing his best to sweep away for burning. He tipped his cap at her and she waved back. She didn’t feel strange coming home as she had so often felt in the past. She felt she belonged there, for memories of her childhood were attached to every corner of the estate. Memories forgotten and now remembered.