Alchemy (Siren Publishing Allure)

by Serena Fairfax

  Tamsin giggled and went to perch on his lap. “That would undoubtedly entice the lapsed back to the church. Just imagine the queues outside the confessional.”

  * * * *

  After dinner, Fabio adjusted the piano stool and, with a Liberace flourish of chords, started playing Catarina’s favorite tunes. Despite her entreaties, Tamsin had smilingly declined to stay the night, insisting she wouldn’t cancel the pension booking. “I know how awful it can be when someone scratches at the eleventh hour.”

  “I suppose you resume the daily round when you get back.” Luca shot her a pensive glance as her poured out a glass of muscatel.

  “Nope.” Tamsin linked her hands behind her head. “I’ve been fired, booted out, shown the door, axed, given my marching orders, you name it. I took so much time off sorting things out here my employers said they were, using that dreadful euphemism, ‘letting me go.’”

  “Hey,” he shook his head. “That doesn’t sound lawful, legal, legitimate, valid. Do you plan to face them down in an Employment Tribunal?”

  Tamsin made a face. “That would be committing career suicide. Everyone knows everyone in my business, and word of action would spread like measles. I’d be branded a mischief-maker and doors would slam shut. I just have to take it on the chin and look for pastures new, but they’ve confirmed they’ll give me a glowing reference.”

  Luca had risen to fetch a bowl of mixed nuts and dates and was back. “I’ve a proposition to make.” He paused. “Now don’t jump down my throat.”

  Tamsin tilted her head. “Shoot.” She bit into an almond.

  Luca gestured a manicured hand at Catarina foot-tapping away as Fabio, a la Dean Martin, sang in a baritone “The Naughty Lady of Shady Lane.”

  “She’s frail and lonely and needs someone, like you, to jolly her along. There’s no nursing or personal care involved, as Mirella manages with her cousin, a nurse, who visits daily. You’d just be a companion. I’m away a lot—in Milan and overseas—and I worry terribly about her.”

  “Hang on a moment. I remember Mum saying Catarina did have a companion.” She lowered her voice. “A brassy blonde, as she described her.” She turned a knowing gaze on Luca wondering if he’d fucked her.

  He broke in with a disarming smile. “Sure. That was Fabio’s youngest niece and she loved being here. But alas, she loved her fiancé, a Physics teacher, rather better, and they got married last month and sallied off to jobs in Switzerland.”

  He read the doubt in Tamsin’s eyes and jumped in to allay it. “Look, it would be temporary. We’ve been interviewing and the girl who has accepted the post can’t join us for several months. So you see, you’d only be filling a short gap.”

  Her head was reeling, but something sparked inside her. Desperate to say yes, for that would mean she’d see more of Luca, Tamsin’s common sense won the swift battle. “It feels wrong, somehow. Ruby’s in her last year of high school and has plans for med college. She wants to be a surgeon. I can’t let her live on her own at this crucial juncture.”

  He shot her a look of surprise, her concern for Ruby taking him aback as he’d reckoned she’d simply say when, like the damsel in distress she clearly was. “I can’t argue with that. But didn’t you say that she and Isla are like sisters? What we offer would easily cover the cost of her living expenses with Isla’s family.” He paused and dangled another carrot. “And you wouldn’t get de-skilled, because there’re lots of tatty old books here that need tender loving care. Besides, I could also network you with third parties and what you earn from the business is all yours.”

  Tamsin’s glance strayed to Catarina as Fabio, now duetting with her quavering tones, launched into “A Spoonful of Sugar.”

  “My, you do know how to tempt a girl!” She soft-footed her way out. “But no. I want to go back, get my career under way again and look after my kid sister.”

  Luca knew it was no good pushing it. “I hear what you say.” He lifted a shoulder and hesitated fractionally. “The offer’s open, but not for long. And you,” he said, watching her yawn, “are in need of a good night’s sleep.”

  * * * *

  “Now,” said Gareth, furtively jerking his head in Ruby’s direction where, down in the communal courtyard of the small apartment block, she was cleaning her bicycle, “we’ve got to talk about her.”

  A warning chord struck. Gareth had been avoiding Tamsin for days, then one gray, gathering afternoon he’d unexpectedly turned up. What the hell’s wrong?

  He held up his hands in a gesture of defeat. “As you’ve probably noticed, my fiancée’s a…a high-maintenance sort of girl.” He cleared his throat and plunged on. “I’m in no position to share the funding of Ruby’s medical aspirations.” His voice whined with self-pity, even as he bared his fangs.

  “You can’t do that,” Tamsin heard herself shouting. “Mum and Dad trusted us.” She felt as if her breathing had shut down.

  “That’s history.” Gareth rubbed the stubble on his face. “Things have changed.” He slanted her a surly look.

  “Like that, is it? You’re a rat.” Her eyes were fixed on his face. “Are you going to tell her then?” Tamsin took aim and emptied her glass of red wine over him. Never had she hated him so much.

  Muttering imprecations, Gareth dabbed himself with a handkerchief, then suddenly leaping up, with quick strides he bounded to the front door, took the stairs two at a time and, with a loud clunk of the street door, was lost to sight.

  He has buggered off, Tamsin thought unnecessarily.

  Ruby was completely unmanageable for weeks, but who could blame her? No jobs were available in Tamsin’s field, customers having scaled back on orders during the economic downturn. A month on and her finances were on the rocks. She was in arrears with the rent, as she was unwilling to apply her meager savings, earmarked for Ruby’s further education, to clear that. Her landlord served an eviction notice that she promptly binned.

  Fighting to keep her voice level, Tamsin called Luca. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. Some of my old customers and the guys I interned with in Rome are willing to send me work because I can undercut prices. But I’ll need premises and I can’t afford that in England—it’s too pricey.”

  “So, what are you saying?” Luca cut in sharply, his thoughts spiraling. He suspected something, rather a sharp rupture, had happened between her and that sod of a brother to make her change her mind and felt a rush of sympathy for her. “Do you mean you’re thinking of coming back here?”

  “Yes.” She squared her shoulders and took a deep breath, watching a red double-decker bus inch through traffic. “I’ll work on your library at a competitive rate. You rent me premises at a nominal rent and I promise to keep an eye on Catarina. How does that sound? And, by the way, I treasure my sovereignty.”

  He paused fractionally. “Explain.”

  She could almost see the watchful look on his face. She heard Ruby clattering up the stairs to the sitting room and with a toe heaved shut the bedroom door. “I’d rather not live in the villa. I prefer the casa, and it has occurred to me that Dad’s old studio would make the perfect workshop. Now, I know you have ideas for the place, but you need architect’s plans drawn up and to apply to the local authority for the usual building permits.” Her mouth went dry. “While that’s happening I could launch my cottage industry and…live independently…and help out Catarina and…hopefully in another twelve months the business will have grown sufficiently to meet Ruby’s fees.”

  He let silence run and her heart gave a painful jerk as she wondered if he’d cut off.

  “Catarina must have priority. I won’t have her messed around simply because you’ve a string of commitments or a pending deadline or…other issues. Do you get that? That’s why we’ll pay well.”

  She felt her body go slack with relief. “No way. I promise not to let her, you, down. Believe it or not, I’m über organized and can juggle successfully—”

  “When could you make it over?” A clipped ton
e cut across.

  “At the end of next week. I’ll crate up the tools of trade and they’ll follow.” She tensed, then swept on before her nerve failed her. “ Of course you’ll defray the cost of carriage.”

  She heard the smile in his voice. “Who’d have guessed you could drive a hard bargain?”

  “Excuse me, is that the one and only gorgeous Luca? Can I butt in?”

  Tamsin spun round to find Ruby peeping round the door. “I’ve got news for you.”

  * * * *

  “I like the sound of that.” Catarina eyes sparkled. “Tamsin’s a dear girl. What a brilliant notion and, even better, I won’t be devilled by that tiresome “getting to know you, getting to know all about you” stage. You’re so good to me, darling Luca.” She kissed him. “And so very precious.” She paused and said, with that wicked smile he hadn’t seen in those years of searing widowhood, “And I can tell my friends it’s all my idea?”

  Tamsin felt she’d won. Luca felt he’d won. It was a drawn match. Isla, an only child, and her parents were thrilled Ruby was moving in with them. Before she left, Tamsin ferried a miscellany of Patrick’s iridescent watercolors, themed to the Italian Lakes, to the Sunday open-air art show along London’s Bayswater Road and, pricing them sensibly, hung them from the railings, alongside other hopefuls. Bucking Gareth’s grim prediction that she’d have to pay to get rid of them, to her delight, but not her surprise, at the end of the day they’d all been snapped up at a nice profit. Others sold equally well on the Internet. Those she treasured she decided to ship back to the casa, crammed together with Patrick’s much-cherished collection of Bali shadow puppets, Ashanti fertility dolls, and copies of prehistoric Peruvian god figures.

  * * * *

  Maurizio collected Tamsin from the airport and as he deposited her at the casa’s front door, she realized this was for real and felt her eyes filling with tears of relief and…stomach-shrinking apprehension. She met his startled gaze and rallied with an effort.

  “Oh!” Her gaze travelled round. This was different territory. The ravaged garden had been tidied up, the color and scent of October sweeping up to her, the window panes mended and cleaned, the curtains and soft furnishings gave off a freshly laundered smell restoring to life the flowery arabesques, plumbing overhauled, woodwork smelled of beeswax polish as sunlight glanced off a row of brand-new copper saucepans, everything was scrubbed to a clean palette and for the first time in years, the grandfather clock was ticking. Once drowned in foliage, Patrick’s studio—he’d converted a cowshed into an inspiring workspace lit by skylights—seemed to reach out and hug her. I’m home.

  A few days later, a seraphic autumn Saturday, Luca, disgorged from Milan for the weekend, caught up with her. His eyes strayed from the cartons to Tamsin’s face as she embarked with relish on the unpacking of hammers and pallets and drills and bodkins, sewing needles, adhesives, cutters and parers and nipping presses.

  “Nipping press sounds highly erotic. You’ll have to tell me what it does.”

  There was leather and buckram, silks and gold leaf, ribbons in silk and velvet, parchment, Japanese vellum and marbled papers and everything that would restore a treasured rare folio or a much-loved tatty family album. And, as an indulgence, Luca had ordered a specialist cast iron blocking machine from Germany for embossing and printing gold and silver foil onto book covers that took several hefty men several hours to maneuver into position. Tamsin had never felt happier.

  * * * *

  As Tamsin assessed the Leopoldo collection she found that, although a start on restoration had begun fifteen years earlier, there was still ample to keep her occupied. Commissions from customers old and new were still only a trickle, but it was steady and the assignments demanding.

  Catarina, who was fond of quoting Bette Davis’s “old age is not for sissies” and had once surprised Tamsin with the more earthy, “old age sucks,” had physically dipped more than Tamsin realized. She escorted her on visits to ailing contemporaries, read to her when she didn’t feel up to doing so herself, let her win at cards, escorted her to lunch parties given by those of her still compos mentis dowager-humped friends, whose numbers were fast diminishing, accompanied her on her daily inspection of the grounds and listened to her reminiscence about life with Salvatore.

  Rummaging through a dust-covered shoebox languishing on top of a high, oak bookcase, Tamsin discovered a battered recipe book that, having lost its cover, had lain forgotten for many years. Curiosity got the better of her and, after painstaking research, she discovered it was a rare volume indeed—there were only three known copies in existence—being a late eighteenth century edition of “Il Cuoco Maceratese,” The Cook from Macerata, a city in the province of La Marche, by Antonio Nebbia. She bound it with cyan vellum, the color of octopus blood, added some Florentine marbled endpapers and presented it to Catarina.

  “Luca, see how gorgeous she has made it! I thought that, like my ring, it had vanished forever and now it’s reborn.” Catarina brandished it triumphantly.

  He turned it over and over in his hands. Tamsin was truly talented. He opened it and skimmed the contents. “There’s no mention of tomatoes in any of the recipes, and hardly any potatoes,” he observed. “How very odd.”

  “Ah!” Catarina was delighted to enlighten her darling know-all Luca. “That’s because the tomato that came to Europe from the Americas wasn’t considered edible for years. It was only at the end of the late 1790s that a recipe for a pasta dish that incorporated tomatoes was written down.”

  “And as for potatoes,” Tamsin chipped in, “which, believe it or not, originated from the Andes, they weren’t eaten by Europeans until 1773 after the authorities lauded their health-giving properties. Do you know Marie Antoinette went to a fancy-dress ball wearing a headdress of potato flowers?” She started to giggle.

  “Share the joke.” Over Catarina’s head, their eyes met.

  “In the nineteenth century a group of activists calling itself ‘The Society for the Prevention of an Unwholesome Diet’—”

  “Hardly the snappiest of titles—”

  “—Was formed, dedicated to banning potatoes from Britain.”

  “Well,” Luca’s gaze slid to Tamsin, “perhaps they weren’t so wrong about those carbs.”

  “Oh, how very ungallant,” Catarina scolded, smacking the back of his hand. “Tamsin’s a wholesome picture of health. I must hear you apologize.”

  “Just kidding,” he declared. “So what’s for supper tonight on Mirella’s day off? It looks suspiciously like lasagna, smells suspiciously like lasagna.” He filled their red wine glasses.

  Tamsin savored the rush of interest. “It’s not some common or garden lasagna.” She gave a wicked grin. “Behold the handmaid of lasagna be it unto thee according to that word.” She gestured at the cookbook. “I adapted the recipe and it’s cooked by my own fair hand.”

  Two faces examined her with expectation. “It’s called Lasagna Princisgrass, and I’ve layered sheets of pasta with thick, creamy white sauce, prosciutto and ever-so-expensive truffles to make it worthy of a prince.”

  “I can’t wait.” Catarina forked a portion to her lips. “It’s wicked!”

  * * * *

  Luca was pleased the arrangement was working well, as he’d smugly predicted. Like a wilting flower, Catarina had revived in Tamsin’s cheerful presence and there was good news about Ruby, who was being fussed over by Isla’s parents like another beloved daughter. Both she and Isla were interviewed by the same medical college in London and, beating off stiff competition, won coveted places conditional upon their achieving the best grades in the high school leaving exams.

  That evening when Catarina disappeared to her rooms to listen to her CDs, Luca called on Tamsin to say how much he appreciated what she was doing for Catarina. “You make the household hum.” But he was in no mood to shag, and she suspected he could be hot-dating someone in Milan, although he never hinted as much.

  He maintained the routine of week
days in Milan and weekends at the villa. Before he left for the city one Monday morning, he told Tamsin he had tickets for “Madam Butterfly” at La Scala on Thursday night and invited her to be his guest. It was a divine evening in one of the most exciting opera houses in the world and afterwards, taking her on a private view round the palazzo gallery, he matched his arousal with every hungry inch of hers—so much for the girlfriend—beneath a bold, dramatically lit scene by Caravaggio—the mad, bad, dangerous-to-know boy wouldn’t have given a damn, and most probably would have captured the moment in oils.

  Chapter 6

  La feste di Natale—the Christmas season—descended, lasting for three weeks until the Epiphany. Ruby and Isla joined the house party at the villa pronouncing Luca, privy to the hippest Milan bars and clubs, the coolest guy on the planet. He’d lassoed a couple of dudes from the office to keep the girls, dressed in flirty layers with way-high heels and blingy accessories, company with dire warnings against hanky-panky, smiling wryly when Gareth, uninvited, announced he and his fiancée were joining them all but, in the spirit of good will, had not objected.

  Patrick and Eve had staunchly stuck to celebrating a traditional English-style Christmas. At the villa, a fragrant Yule log crackled bright in a grate. Some said the fire represented the sun that purified and burnt away evils that had accumulated during the past year. Others gathered up the ashes from the log to sprinkle over crops in springtime, fervently hoping it would encourage a bumper harvest.

  With skillful artistry, surely a sign they were born surgeons, Ruby and Isla arranged hand-carved figures and candy round the crib and manger sticking candles to the tapering arms of the triangular scene. Musicians sang before it as guests kneeled. Over-excited local children kitted out as shepherds, some playing flutes, serenaded one house after another with carols, and presents were drawn, like a lucky dip, from the ornamental urn of fate.