Fleming, Leah - The Captain's Daughter

by The Captain's Daughter (mobi)

  There was toast after noisy toast as glasses were raised and laughter and wine flowed; not rough wine this time but fine Italian Chiantis, Barolos. Local cheeses and chocolates were passed around during the neverending Italian speeches. Ella had the urge to capture the scene in a drawing but cameras were snapping to record the event. She was storing it all up in her mind’s eye.

  She found herself distracted when seated next to Piero Marcellini, who appeared as if by magic by her side. There was no getting away from the man. Why shouldn’t Roddy invite the owner of the villa? She’d had to confess to him her profession and he proved to be a man knowledgeable about art. He was hard to ignore and Clare kept giving her knowing looks and whispering. ‘Vittorio de Sica has no chance against him,’ she hissed, which was all rather silly, but after a few glasses of excellent red wine Ella was past caring.

  The oldest of the Bartolini men got to his feet and made a toast to absent friends and Father Francesco, Patti’s brother, who had saved Roddy’s life. Piero was translating as much as he could. He said that the country dialect was so thick you could only catch the gist. ‘He says war divided us for a while. Now we are united. The great Atlantico parted the Bartolini brothers all those years ago, but families are strong and now we are united never to part. It is what Francesco would have wanted, and Angelo. We wish him long life and good health!’

  ‘Who are they?’ she whispered, close enough to admire the subtlety of his aftershave. ‘Maria was Angelo’s first wife, before Kathleen. She was lost on the Titanic with her

  baby.’

  ‘Yet another of the Titanic’ s victims . . . how sad,’ she murmured. ‘Alessia wasn’t lost, though,’ Patti chipped in. ‘No, she was lost only to our family, mis-

  laid, or so my father used to believe. Uncle Giovanni,’ she shouted in her most theatrical voice, ‘tell them all about the shoe, Frank’s shoe!’

  The old man rose up again and was waving something at the far end of the table in the candlelight.

  ‘What is he saying?’ Ella was straining to hear but he spoke too fast. ‘Something about a scarpetta , found by Francesco’s father at the dock when the ship

  brought the rescued passengers, a baby shoe he always believed was his child’s,’ Piero ad-ded.

  ‘That’s the shoe we gave to Frank for good luck, but it didn’t work,’ whispered Kathleen, shaking her head across the table.

  ‘Because he gave it to them, to Nonna Elisabetta there. I saw him do it,’ added Roddy. ‘Frank told me she said it was proof he was his father’s son. She said it was made around here. He refused to take it away with him on the day he died.’

  There was silence as the old man passed the little shoe round the table and their guests handed it along, shaking their heads. ‘It kept us safe, though,’ said Giovanni. ‘So many were betrayed and ruined but we survived.’

  Piero handed it to Ella, and Clare leaned over and grabbed it. ‘It’s just like the one in that case, the one—’

  ‘Let me look at it.’ Celeste fingered it, shaking her head. ‘I’ve seen one like this before.’ Realization dawned. ‘Good Lord! Ella, it can’t be?’

  Everyone was looking in her direction. She couldn’t speak. How could this possibly be the same one?

  ‘It’s now or never,’ Celeste said.

  Ella drew a deep breath, flushed with wine, heat and amazement. ‘No, please, say noth-ing yet, I have to be sure.’ She paused, looking round the table for the old woman, standing up holding the tiny shoe. ‘I have seen a shoe like this before. Its partner was in a suitcase of baby clothes with a nightdress edged with fine lace. It was rescued from the sea . .’ She felt herself breaking down. ‘I can’t say any more.’

  No one spoke for a moment.

  ‘Can this be true?’ said the priest. ‘Then it is indeed a sacred shoe. Does Nonna hear what is being said?’ They looked to the old woman, who was crying.

  ‘This is too much,’ Ella cried, shooting up out of her chair. ‘Stop, stay.’ Piero grasped her wrist but she shook him off, fleeing to the safety of her

  room.

  What have I done? This was my mother’s secret, not for sharing amongst strangers. It was a story best left unspoken like the secrets in any woman’s heart, better left undisturbed like the wreck on the ocean bed. This strange coincidence is too much for me to understand. Could it be true? And if it is, what happens next? ‘How do you know about this, Mom? What’s all the mystery?’ Roddy sat back on his chair smoking a cigar in the flickering candlelight, staring at the empty table, the spilled wine, amaretti crumbs, the crumpled table linen.

  ‘All I’m saying is we have some lace baby clothes in the airing cupboard at home that came from the Titanic , and the shoe, well, there’s one of them too.’

  ‘Not any more. I cut them up for my dolls,’ Clare said. ‘So whose clothes were they?’ Patti asked. ‘I don’t get it. Why the disappearing act?’ Celeste sipped her umpteenth espresso and sighed. What a strange evening, everyone

  wondering what was going on, curious, asking questions. Ella had hidden in her room re-fusing to return, overwhelmed by the turn of events.

  ‘I was there the night a baby was rescued. I believed what I was told, that it was the cap-tain who put the baby into the lifeboat. May grabbed on to her as her own. That is certain, but memory is such a strange thing. It plays tricks and a person can see what they’ve seen or what they think they’ve seen. Now I can’t recall any of it. The rest . . .’

  ‘But what baby?’ Patti turned to Kathleen. ‘What is going on here?’ ‘Are you saying what I think you are saying, Mom?’ asked Roddy. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I’m not sure now, but when I saw the little shoe . . . It may be just a

  coincidence.’

  ‘There’s one thing that won’t lie and that’s those baby clothes, what’s left of them,’ Arch-ie said. ‘I’m surprised the mice haven’t got to them by now.’

  ‘Surely there’ll be something left in the case,’ she said, turning to Clare, who shrugged. ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Celeste said. ‘It’s not our history, or at least it’s not mine. Your mother will know what to do. Let her sleep on it all. She’ll do what’s right. We must give her space to work this out for herself. She has always been so loyal to May. She will tell us the rest when she’s ready.’

  ‘Come on, it’s time for bed. Tomorrow could be an interesting day,’ Archie said. ‘But what is going on, what with the baby shoe? Whose is it?’ Patti cried impatiently. ‘Let’s see what tomorrow brings,’ said her husband.

  127

  Ella woke with the vestiges of the strangest dream still in her mind. She was in a large empty house, walking along a gallery filled with pictures on the walls, of ships and churches and landscapes. As she walked around these treasures of memory, her feet echoed on the marble floor. It was cold, the wind rattled the doors and she was afraid. She saw a picture of an aeroplane skimming over the water and another of a great ship sinking into the ocean. She could taste the salt water in her mouth and feel the chill. She was thrashing and bobbing and then swimming along this neverending gallery until she found herself pulled towards a secret corner where a woman was smiling, opening a door. She knew that face, a face she’d cherished all her life. May was nodding and smiling as she opened the door to wave her through to safety and daybreak.

  She made her way to Clare’s room.

  ‘Now you know everything,’ Ella said as she lay on the bed next to her daughter. ‘I did want to tell you earlier but it’s such a sad story. Then that business with the shoe last night . . .’

  ‘Do you think they’re a pair?’

  ‘I don’t know, they’re very similar. There’s a way we might find out, though.’ ‘It’s all a bit spooky. Could we really be Bartolinis? That would make Patti your stepsister

  . . . Wait till we tell everyone we’re Italian.’

  ‘No! This is a private matter between us for the moment. There must be no fuss in the papers. This is our secret. I
t may be all just a coincidence,’ Ella warned, not wanting to raise false hopes. ‘We have to find out more about the lace.’

  ‘There’s not much left, I’m afraid, but that border on my tennis slip.’ ‘There’ll be enough. We’ll go into Sansepolcro and check out the lace shops, take a closer

  look. We might find the key to it all there.’

  After a breakfast of leftover puddings and cake, they piled into two cars and set off for the walled city. Patti and Kathleen were curious, dying to ask more questions, but Ella just smiled and kept saying, ‘Wait and see.’ How different she felt this morning after the dream; free to look round at the hazy beauty of the hillsides, the golden light on the houses as if looking at it for the first time. Could this really be her birthplace?

  How many other Tuscan wives from the district were on the Titanic? It would be easy enough to trace through the records, and the knowledge that her own father might be alive made her heart leap with excitement, but she must be sure. No point in raising his hopes only to dash them again.

  There were many small lace shops off the piazzas but the biggest one had windows full of drapes, tablecloths, sheets edged with lace borders, napkins, and baby linens.

  Patti was in like a shot, wanting to buy up all the stock, rattling away in broken Italian making herself understood.

  ‘Ask about the designs,’ Ella asked. ‘Who does this work?’ The lady was fulsome, pleased that the tourists were purchasing souvenirs. ‘You must go

  to the scuola di merletto. Speak to Signora Petri and her husband. They set up the school many years ago. The girls win many gold medals, their work is the best in Italy. She will tell you their story.’

  Celeste caught up with Ella as they made for the little school. ‘Are you all right? Did you sleep? I didn’t, not when I saw that shoe. It has to be the same as yours.’

  ‘Who knows?’ Ella whispered. ‘The truth is in the lace somewhere. Without any of ours, we can’t prove anything. You’ve seen it more times than I have, I never liked to look. It reminded me of May being ill. Do you think you can recognize any of the patterns? My mind’s gone blank but I’ve told Clare all I know this morning.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that. If nothing else, she knows now. I remember how angry you were—’

  ‘Shush, I know. I was so upset but now it’s time we laid all this to rest one way or anoth-er.’

  They stopped off for coffee, regrouped and made their way to the school where girls were sitting round the room twisting their bobbins on their cushions, looking up at this strange posse of foreigners. The room dripped with lace panels, tablecloths, collars, dis-plays in cabinets, certificates on the walls, pictures of lace dresses. It was the finest work Ella had ever seen.

  Patti explained their mission to learn about lace making and the history of the patterns on display. They were shown motifs and pattern books, and one of the girls demonstrated how the lace was pricked out according to Signor Petri’s designs. Ella could see animals, flowers, stars, even people in their borders. She asked Kathleen to show them the shoe they had kept from last night.

  ‘Is this from the region?’ Patti asked.

  ‘Yes, our girls do this fine work for special shoes, baptisms, sometimes for funerals. It’s an old one.’

  Patti explained its strange history. ‘Do you know who might have made it?’ Signora Petri shook her head. ‘Sadly, no. It’s a common design, the edging looks local

  but there’s not enough to identify one of our designs. You have more?’ Patti nodded. ‘There’s my wedding veil in the States, and in England perhaps . . . ?’ She

  looked to Ella, who nodded.

  ‘If you can send me some examples, I might be able to trace it through our records. There’s nothing distinctive in this, I’m sorry,’ she added.

  Ella looked around the room with a fluttering feeling inside her stomach. Did my mother work here? If they had stayed in Italy, would this be where I would be working too?

  They left feeling flat. ‘Let’s cheer ourselves up with ice cream,’ suggested Celeste. ‘My legs are telling me it’s time to sit down.’

  Ella’s mind was racing. It would take months for their samples to be posted and checked and she was impatient to find out more.

  There must be someone who could help. They were halfway back to the car when the answer shot into her head. Of course, how simple! There might still be samples closer than theirs to be found but this time they must go alone.

  128

  The next morning Ella took the car back down to the walled town to find the office of Piero Marcellini. If he was surprised to see her, he showed no sign of it, sending out for espresso and seating her in a comfortable old leather chair.

  ‘To what do I owe the honour?’ he smiled.

  She told him everything she knew about her history and why the little shoe had upset her so much. She told him about the lacework and how she had tried to identify it.

  ‘I can’t say any more to the Bartolinis until I am sure. Angelo, Patti’s father in New York, knows nothing of this. I need someone to find Maria Caprese’s family, Angelo’s first wife. There may be some lace still here that might be identified as hers. I want to know if there is anything that might link us to her. Whatever we find out must remain in the family. It is not for public consumption, ever.’ She looked up at him. ‘If you would translate for us and be our witness, I would be most grateful.’

  ‘I would be delighted to help. The family will be easy enough to trace. We’re very good at registering people, Il Duce saw to that. Tonight perhaps, we can drive out . . .’

  Ella could see where this was leading. ‘Clare must come too. It is important she be part of this. I have kept her in the dark too long.’

  ‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘Shall I call for you?’

  ‘No, we will come to you.’

  ‘Why all the mystery?’ Clare laughed as they sneaked out after their siesta into the car. ‘Just an idea to speed up things, I hope. We’re going on a visit, not sure where yet, but

  Piero is taking us.’

  ‘I’m not playing gooseberry, am I? I wondered why you’re all dressed up . . .’ ‘Nothing like that,’ Ella smiled, knowing Clare missed nothing. ‘But this is important and

  we need a witness, just in case . . .’

  ‘Now you are intriguing me.’

  ‘We are going to visit Maria Bartolini’s family home. There may be some of her lace there. It’s worth a try.’

  Piero drove them into the hills in his sleek car that purred its way to just outside Anghiari, not far from where they had visited Patti’s grandparents, the ones who had sheltered Roddy in the war. Higher and higher they rose to a small hamlet, a cluster of little stone houses clinging onto the side of a hill. Hens and ducks scattered at their approach, dogs barked and faces appeared at the doors. Piero asked directions to the Caprese house and was pointed to a tiny cottage, little more than a room with stairs into a loft. A women in black opened the door, listened to Piero rattling off their story and beckoned them through the door with a toothless grin.

  Inside it was so dark it was hard to make out more than a table, a stove and someone stirring in the corner. It was an ancient lady bent double.

  ‘This is Maria’s mother, Alessia. She’s very deaf now and her eyesight is not what it was, and Katerina here is her late son’s wife. She says she never knew her sister-in-law. I am trying to establish if they have anything of Maria’s to show you but I don’t think the old lady can hear me.’ Piero was doing his best but it was not looking hopeful.

  ‘Do they have any photographs?’ Ella asked him to translate. Katerina pointed to a rough wall full of sepia portraits of long-departed ancestors, men

  in uniforms, matrons in stiff dresses. The family had seen better days and now the two wid-ows were scratching a living, as so many had to since the war.

  In the far corner was a photo of a young girl with dried flowers pinned round the frame like a halo. Dangling from the end was a p
ostcard with a picture Ella recognized only too well. Her heart was beating faster as she drew closer, sensing she was looking towards something she’d never dared to dream of before.

  It was Maria’s eyes that drew her into the face, eyes she would have known anywhere, eyes she’d seen so many times in the mirror and the shape of the lips and the narrow dent above them. It was the face that once had been her own face that now was her daughter ’s.

  Piero peered too and then stepped back, looking at both of them, smiling. ‘You don’t need any lace, do you? Just look at the three of you. Look, Katerina, what do you see?’

  Katerina looked and smiled, and took the picture off the wall to hand to the old woman shouting in her ear. They crossed themselves, shaking their heads, crying, laughing. Ella felt the tears rising as she kneeled before the old woman. ‘Nonna? I am Maria’s daughter . . .’ Her grandmother stretched out a bony claw to greet her.

  She stared across at Piero, grateful for his intervention, breathless at this discovery. Ka-terina was rushing for cups and a bottle of wine.