Table of Contents
Title Page
Also by Santa Montefiore
Copyright Page
Dedication
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Part Two
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Part Three
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Acknowledgements
Santa
Montefiore
SIMON & SCHUSTER
London • New York • Sydney "Toronto • New Delhi
A CBS COMPANY
Born in England in 1970, Santa Montefiore grew up in Hampshire. She is married to historian Simon Sebag-Montefiore. They live with their two children, Lily and Sasha, in London. Visit her at www.santamontefiore.co.uk and sign up for her newsletter.
Praise for The Butterfly Box:
This is a good, old-fashioned saga with all the classic ingredients. Frederica
has genuine pathos and charm, and those qualities permeate the whole book’
Penny Vincenzi, Mail on Sunday
‘Refreshing .. . Delightfully written’ Daily Mail
Thoroughly readable’ Evening Standard
‘Absorbing’ Vogue
Praise for Santa Montefiore:
‘Santa Montefiore is the new Rosamunde Pilcher’ Daily Mail ‘A superb storyteller of love and death in romantic places in fascinating times -her passionate novels are already bestsellers across Europe and I can see why. Her plots are sensual, sensitive and complex, her characters are unforgettable life forces, her love stories are desperate yet uplifting - and one laughs as much as one cries’ Plum Sykes, Vogue
‘A gripping romance ... it is as believable as the writing is beautiful’ Daily Telegraph
‘Anyone who likes Joanne Harris or Mary Wesley will love Monteflore’ Mail on Sunday
‘One of our personal favourites and bestselling authors, sweeping stories of
love and families spanning continents and decades’ The Times
The novel displays all Monteflore’s hallmarks: glamorous scene-setting,
memorable characters, and as always deliciously large helpings of yearning
love and surging passion’ Wendy Holden, Sunday Express
‘Engaging and charming’ Penny Vincenzi
Also by Santa Montefiore
The Secrets of the Lighthouse
The Summer House
The House By The Sea
The Affair
The Italian Matchmaker
The French Gardener
Sea of Lost Love
The Gypsy Madonna
Last Voyage of the Valentina
The Swallow and the Hummingbird
The Forget-Me-Not Sonata
Meet Me Under the Ombu Tree
Santa
Montefiore
SIMON & SCHUSTER
London • New York • Sydney ‘Toronto • New Delhi
A CBS COMPANY
First published in Great Britain by Hodder & Stoughton, 2002
An Hachette Livre Company
This paperback edition first published in 2014 by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
A CBS COMPANY
Copyright © Santa Montefiore, 2002
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.
The right of Santa Montefiore to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
With thanks to Gibran National Committee for granting their permission to
quote from Kahlil Gibran’s The Prophet
Simon & Schuster UK Ltd 1st Floor
222 Gray’s Inn Road London WCiX8HB
www.simonandschuster.co.uk
Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi
A Cl P catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Paperback ISBN 978-1-47113-210-0
Ebook ISBN 978-1-47113-211-7
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely
coincidental.
Typeset by Hewer Text UK Ltd, Edinburgh Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CRo 4YY
To my parents
Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself.
Love possesses not nor would it be possessed;
For love is sufficient unto love.
Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet
PART ONE
Chapter 1
Viña del Mar, Chile, Summer 1982
Federica opened her eyes onto a different world. It was hot, but not humid for the sea breeze carried with it a cool undercurrent from where it had dallied among the waves of the cold Pacific Ocean. Her room was slowly coming to life in the pale morning light that spilled in through the gap in the curtains, casting mellow shafts onto the floor and walls, swallowing up the remains of the night, exposing the regimental line of sleeping dolls. The constant barking of Señora Baraca’s dog at the end of the street had left the animal with little more than a raw husk, but he still continued to bark as he always did. Some day he’d lose his voice altogether, she thought, which wouldn’t be a bad thing; at least he wouldn’t keep the neighbours awake. She had once tried to feed him a biscuit on her way to school but her mother had said he was probably riddled with all sorts of diseases. ‘Best not to touch him, you don’t know where he’s been,’ she had advised, pulling her six-year-old daughter away by the hand. But that was the problem; he had never been anywhere. Federica breathed in the sweet scent of the orange trees that floated up on the air and she could almost taste the fruit that hung heavily like lustrous packages on a Christmas tree. She kicked off the sheet that covered her and knelt on the end of her bed, leaning out through the curtains onto a world that wasn’t the same as the one the sun had set on the day before. With the rising of the new sun a quiver ran through her skinny body, causing a broad smile to spread across her pale face. Today her father was coming home after many months travelling.
Ramon Campione was a giant of a man. Not only in stature - at well over six foot he was tall for a Chilean and tall for an Italian, which was where his family originated from - but in his gigantic imagination, which, like the galaxy itself, seemed never-ending and full of surprises. His adventures took him to the far corners of the earth where he was inspired by everything different and everything beautiful. He travelled, wrote and travelled some more. His family barely knew h
im. He was never around long enough for them to find the person behind the writing and the magical photographs he took. In the mind of his daughter he was more powerful than God. She had once told Padre Amadeo that Jesus was nothing compared to her father who could do so much more than turn water into wine. ‘My papa can fly,’ she had said proudly. Her mother had smiled apologetically to the priest and rolled her eyes, explaining to him
quietly that Ramon had tried out a new contraption in Switzerland for flying off the mountain on skis. Padre Amadeo had nodded in understanding but later shook his head and worried that the child would only get hurt when her father toppled, as he surely would some day, off the tall pedestal she had so blindly placed him upon. She should focus such devotion on God not man, he thought piously.
Federica longed for it to be time to get up, but it was still early. The sky was as pale and still as a large, luminous lagoon and only the barking dog and the clamour of birds resounded against the quiet stirring of dawn. From her bedroom she could see the ocean disappearing into the grey mists on the horizon as if the heavens were drinking it up. Fler mother often took them to Caleta Abarca beach, as they didn’t have a swimming pool to cool off in, although the sea was almost too cold for bathing. Sometimes they would drive to the small seaside village of Cachagua, about an hour up the coast, to stay with her grandparents who owned a pretty thatched summerhouse there surrounded by tall palms and acacia trees. Federica loved the sea. Her father had once said that she loved the sea because she was born under the sign of Cancer whose
symbol was a crab. She didn’t much like crabs though.
After a long while she heard footsteps on the stairs then the high-pitched voice of her younger brother Enrique, nicknamed Hal after Shakespeare’s ‘Prince Henry’. That had been Ramon’s idea - although his wife was English she had no interest in literature or history unless it was about her.
‘Darling, you’re dressed already!’ Helena gasped in surprise as Federica jumped across the landing and into Hal's bedroom where she was dressing him.
‘Papa’s coming home today!’ she sang, unable to remain still even for a moment.
‘Yes, he is,’ replied Helena, taking a deep breath to restrain the resentment she felt towards her absent husband. ‘Keep your feet still, Hal darling, I can’t put your shoes on if you keep moving.’
‘Will he be here before lunch?’ asked Federica, automatically helping her mother by opening the curtains, allowing the warm sunshine to flood into the dim room with the enthusiasm that belongs only to the morning.
‘He’ll be here sometime before noon, his flight gets in at ten,’ she replied patiently. ‘There, sweetie, you look very handsome,’ she added, smoothing
back Hal’s black hair with a soft brush. He shook his head in protest and squealed before wriggling off the bed and running out onto the landing.
‘I put on my best dress for him,’ said Federica, following her mother down the stairs with buoyant footsteps.
‘So I see,’ she replied.
‘I’m going to help Lidia cook lunch today. We’re making Papa’s favourite dish.’
‘What’s that then?’
‘Pastel de choclo and we’re making him merengon de lucuma as a welcome home cake,’ said Federica, flicking her straight blonde hair offher shoulders so that it fell thickly down her back. She had pushed it off her forehead with a hair-band, which along with her small stature made her appear younger than her six years.
‘Papa’s coming home today,’ said Federica to Hal as she helped her mother lay the table.
‘Will he bring me a present?’ asked Hal, who at four years of age remembered his father only for the presents he gave.
‘Of course he will, sweetie. He always brings you presents,’ said Helena, placing a cup of cold milk in front of him. ‘Anyway, it’s Christmas so you’ll be getting loads of presents.’ Federica supervised Hal while he dipped his spoon into the tin of powdered chocolate and dropped it into his milk. She then grabbed the cloth from the sink to mop up the chocolate that hadn’t quite made it to the cup.
‘Fede, the croissants are ready, I can smell them beginning to burn,’ said Helena, lighting a cigarette. She looked anxiously at the clock on the wall and bit her lower lip. She knew she should take the children to the airport to pick him up as other mothers would. But she couldn’t face it. The awkward drive from Santiago airport to the coast, all the while making conversation as if everything was positively rosy. No, it would be much better to see him at home, the house was big, more space for them to lose each other in. How silly, she thought bitterly, they had lost each other a long time ago somewhere in the vast distances they had placed between themselves. Somewhere in the faraway lands and imaginary characters that seemed so much more important to Ramon than the people in his life who were real and who needed him. She had tried. She had really tried. But now she was empty inside and tired of being neglected.
Federica buttered a croissant and sipped her iced chocolate, chattering away to her brother with an excitement that made her voice rise in tone, irritating the raw nerves of her mother who stood by the window blowing smoke against the glass. Once they had been in love, but even hate was an expression of love, just a different face. Now Helena no longer hated him, that alone would have been a good enough reason to stay. But she felt indifference and it frightened her. Nothing could grow out of that. It was a barren emotion, as barren as the face of the moon.
Helena had made a life for herself in Chile because she had believed, as did her daughter later, that Ramon was God. He was certainly the most glamorous, handsome man Polperro had ever seen. Then his article had appeared in National Geographic with photographs of all the old smugglers’ caves and crumbling castles Helena had shown him, and yet somehow the photographs were suffused with a light that didn’t belong to Nature. There was something mystical about them that she couldn’t put her finger on. Every word he wrote sung out to her and stayed with her long after she had turned the last page. Now she recognized the magic as love, for it had followed them for the first six years, converting even the most mundane things, like filling the car up with petrol, into a magical experience. Their lovemaking had pertained to another plain far above the physical and she had believed that the power was within him and in him alone. Only after it had gone did she realize that the connection had been cut - like electricity, their ‘magic’ had been caused by the two of them and ceased the minute one of them felt disenchanted by it. Once it had gone it was gone for ever. That kind of sorcery is of high energy but low life span. At first they had travelled together, to the far corners of China, to the arid deserts of Egypt and the wet lakes of Sweden. When she became pregnant with Federica they returned to settle in Chile. Their ‘magic’ had followed them there too where the white powder coast and pastoral simplicity had enchanted her. But now it echoed with the emptiness she felt within her own being because the love that had filled it had drained away. There was no reason to stay. She was tired of pretending. She was tired of pretending to herself. She longed for the drizzly, verdant hills of her youth and her longing made her hand shake. She lit another cigarette and once more eyed the clock.
Federica cleared away her breakfast, humming to herself and skipping around
the kitchen as she did so. Hal played with his train in the nursery. Helena remained by the window.
‘Mama!’ shouted Hal. ‘My train is broken, it’s not working.’ Helena picked up her packet of cigarettes and strode out of the kitchen, leaving Federica to finish clearing up. Once the table was wiped and the crockery washed up she put on her cooking apron and waited for Lidia to arrive.
When Lidia bustled through the gate she saw Federica’s small eager face pressed up against the glass, smiling broadly at her.
‘Hola} Señorita,’ she said breathlessly as she entered the hall. ‘You’re ready early.’
‘I’ve even cleared away the breakfast,’ replied Federica in Spanish. Although her mother spoke excellent Spanish they had al
ways spoken English as a family, even when her father was home.
‘Well, you are a good girl,’ Lidia wheezed, following the child into the kitchen. ‘Ah, you angel. You’ve done all the work,’ she said, casting her dark eyes over the mixing bowls and spoons already laid out on the table.
‘I want it all to be perfect for Papa,’ she said, her cheeks aflame. She could barely contain her impatience and suppressed her desire to run by skipping instead of walking. That way the nervous feeling in her stomach was indulged a little but not too much. Lidia struggled into her pink overalls then washed her swollen brown hands. She suggested Federica do the same.
‘You must always wash your hands before cooking, you don’t know where they’ve been,’ she said.
‘Like Señora Baraca’s dog,’ giggled Federica.
‘Pobrecito,’ Lidia sighed, tilting her round head to one side and pulling a thin, sympathetic smile. ‘He’s tied up all day in that small garden, it’s no wonder he barks from dawn till dusk.’
‘Doesn’t she take him out at all?’ Federica asked, running her hands under the tap.
‘Oh yes, she takes him out occasionally, but she’s old,’ Lidia replied, ‘and we old people don’t have as much energy for things like that.’
‘You’re not old, Lidia,’ said Federica kindly.
‘Not old, just fat,' said Helena in English, walking into the kitchen with Hal’s toy engine. ‘She’d have much more energy if she didn’t eat so much. Imagine carrying that bulk around all day, no wonder she wheezes all the time.’
‘Buenos dias, Señora," said Lidia, who didn’t understand English.
‘Good morning, Lidia. I need a knife to mend this blasted train,’ said Helena in Spanish, not even bothering to force a smile, however small. She was too anxious and impatient to think of anyone else but herself.
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