The Padova Perals

by Wilkinson, Lee

  Then, nerving herself, she went to look, switching on lights as she went.

  The bathroom door was ajar and it only took a moment to satisfy herself that no one was in there.

  Then she opened the door of her father’s studio and, her nostrils full of the familiar smell of paints and turpentine that lingered even now, looked around.

  Apart from his easel, his unused canvases propped against a wall and, on the racks, his paints and brushes, his pallet and pallet knife, his cleaning fluids and soft rags, it was empty.

  His bedroom too was free of intruders.

  It was still as he had left it.

  One of these days she would have to go through his private papers, and give his clothes and belongings to charity, but the grief was still too new, too raw, to be able to do it yet.

  The only thing she had moved had been his last gift to her, which she had discovered hidden in his bureau, along with some letters.

  Though only about the size of a small shoebox, it had been quite heavy. Wrapped in gold paper, it bore a printed tag which had read simply:

  For Sophia, with all my love. Have a very happy twenty-fifth birthday.

  Finding it like that had made her tears flow.

  When they were under control, she had stripped off the paper with unsteady fingers to reveal the exquisite ebony jewellery box that the stranger had commented on.

  It was like a miniature chest, the thick, arched lid beautifully carved with what appeared to be one of the signs of the zodiac. A moment or two later, though it wasn’t the conventional portrayal, she recognized it as Pisces, her own birth sign.

  Caught in a curling wave were two tiny sea horses, one obviously frolicking, the other melancholy. It perfectly captured the dual personality, the moods and emotional depths, attributed to Pisceans.

  Fresh tears had trickled down her cheeks while she wondered where her father—who had been housebound for quite some time—had managed to find such a lovely and appropriate birthday gift.

  Her heart overflowing with love and gratitude, she had put it on her dressing table where she could see it the moment she woke up.

  Suppose it had gone?

  Almost more concerned about losing her gift than the possibility of finding an intruder, she took a deep breath and, flinging open her bedroom door, switched on the light.

  To her immense relief the box was where she’d left it and the room appeared to be empty, but—sensitive to atmosphere—to Sophia it didn’t feel empty.

  Her divan bed was only an inch or two from the floor, so the only place anyone could possibly hide was the walk-in wardrobe.

  Though she told herself she was being a fool, she slid aside the doors and peered in.

  It occurred to her with wry amusement that if she did find anyone hiding in there, she would probably die of fright.

  In the event, it was innocent of anything but clothes and accessories.

  As she caught sight of the box once more, the thought struck her that it was the right shape and size to be the package brought by the mysterious visitor Mrs Caldwell had let in.

  Maybe it had been a special delivery ordered by phone? If that was the case, it would account for her father not mentioning anything about a visitor.

  The fact that the man had been Italian was no doubt quite irrelevant.

  But would a delivery of that kind be made by taxi?

  Well, the box had come from somewhere.

  Giving up the riddle, her thoughts went back to a possible burglar. The box was still here, but what about its contents?

  Mostly it was costume stuff. The only items of any real value were her few good pieces of jewellery and her father’s signet ring…But surely any would-be thief would have taken them?

  A glance inside showed that nothing was missing, so maybe the whole concept of a burglar had sprung from her imagination?

  But what about the curtains?

  Perhaps, her mind taken up with the fair-haired stranger, she had closed them herself without registering the fact?

  As if to add weight to this theory, she realized that none of the curtains at the rear of the house had been closed.

  Common sense jumped in and pointed out that they wouldn’t need to be. The garden was surrounded by a high wall, so no one could have looked in and noticed anything amiss.

  Oh, well, if someone had come in—and it was starting to look less likely—they had gone out again without taking anything or doing any damage, so she must try and put the whole thing out of her mind.

  She was about to move away and prepare for bed when she caught sight of something that looked like a wisp of stocking dangling from the drawer she kept her underwear in.

  Frowning a little, she pulled it open to find that one of her fine silk stockings had somehow escaped from its protective wrapper and snagged on the top of the drawer.

  She stared at it, a chill running through her, certain, or almost certain, that she hadn’t left it like that.

  A quick glance in her other drawers suggested that someone had looked through them, leaving them marginally less neat.

  But, if that was so, as well as the puzzling—how did they get in? was the equally perplexing—what had they been looking for?

  While she showered, brushed her teeth and put on her nightdress, she turned the whole thing over and over in her mind, but it made no sense.

  By the time she climbed into bed, heartily sick of the fruitless exercise, she determined to think no more about it.

  At once, thoughts of the fascinating stranger who had looked so like the man in her portrait brought to life flooded in.

  The joy she’d felt on first seeing him came back to linger like some sad ghost. And she knew now that, as though under a spell, she had spent all her life just waiting for him.

  But a one-sided enchantment was no use, and that was all it had been. Otherwise he wouldn’t have walked away as casually as he had.

  So what was the point of repining?

  None at all, she told herself stoutly. She would try not to think about him. Though, with his face only a few feet away, that was easier said than done.

  Reaching out a hand, she switched off the light, but blotting out sight didn’t stop the thoughts and regrets that tramped ceaselessly on the treadmill of her mind.

  She slept badly, tossing and turning restlessly, and awoke headachy and unrefreshed to find the light of another grey, overcast day filling the room.

  A bleary glance at her bedside clock showed that, for once in her life, she had badly overslept.

  As quickly as possible, she showered and dressed in a neat business suit, coiled her dark hair and put on a hasty dab of make-up. Then, having swallowed a cup of instant coffee, she pulled on her coat and made her way to A Volonté.

  Despite walking fast, she was over half an hour late by the time she hurried through the heavy smoked glass doors into the oval-shaped gallery.

  Quiet and elegant, with its white, gold and dark green decor, its graceful sweep of staircase, its classic columns, which supported the encircling balcony, it was a Mecca for the art world.

  On her way to the staff room, she glanced up at the balcony. Several people were already strolling round looking at her father’s paintings. At the far end a couple with their backs to her—a tall fair-haired man and a petite woman with a black shoulder-length bob, were studying the miniatures.

  The exhibition appeared to be getting off to a good start, thank the Lord.

  When Sophia had hung up her coat and tapped on David’s office door to give him her apologies—which he waved away—she went back to take her place at the discreetly positioned desk.

  Over in the lounge area she could see Joanna sitting on one of the dark green velvet couches talking to a balding man she recognized as a Parisian art critic and private collector.

  A glance at the balcony showed the woman was still admiring the miniatures, while her companion had moved away a little and was looking at a collection of Venetian scenes which had been
hung together.

  More people were starting to drift in, but the gallery’s policy was to let them browse in peace until they had a question to ask or were ready to buy, so Sophie turned her attention to the latest auction room catalogues.

  There was a Joshua Roache coming up next week, and an early Cass that David might be interested in for his private collection…

  A woman’s voice said, ‘Scusi signorina…’

  Putting the catalogue to one side, Sophia looked up with a smile. ‘How can I help you?’

  Judging by the smooth bell of black hair, it was the same woman who had been up on the balcony a few minutes ago.

  She was extremely well dressed and vividly beautiful, with large black eyes, a creamy skin, a straight nose and full red lips. Her figure was voluptuous, her scarlet-tipped hands smooth and plump. As well as several dress rings, she wore a wide chased wedding band and a magnificent matching diamond solitaire.

  At close quarters, Sophia could see she was somewhat older than she had first appeared, probably in her middle thirties.

  In fluent but heavily accented English, she said, ‘I would like to know more about this picture…’

  To Sophia’s dismay, she had taken down the miniature that Mrs Caldwell had remarked was both her favourite and Peter’s.

  Stretching out a hand, and trying hard to keep her voice even, Sophia suggested, ‘Perhaps you’d like to give it to me?’

  In spite of all her efforts, it must have sounded too much like an order because, with a haughty look, the woman informed her, ‘You are talking to the Marquise d’Orsini.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but no one is allowed to remove any of the paintings.’

  ‘You do not understand. I intend to buy it.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s not for sale.’

  ‘How can you say such a thing?’ the Marquise cried angrily. ‘An art gallery exists to sell paintings, does it not?’

  Aware that the woman’s raised voice was attracting curious glances, Sophia said soothingly, ‘Of course. All the paintings on this floor are for sale, including some excellent miniatures.’

  ‘But it is this one I want.’

  ‘I’m extremely sorry, but that one and the other miniatures on the balcony are part of a Peter Jordan exhibition, and not for sale.’

  ‘Nonsense! I wish you to—’

  Sophia heard no more as, glancing up, she saw a tall, good-looking man approaching. He was dressed in smart casuals, his carriage was easy and there was a quiet assurance in the way he held his blond head. His dark grey eyes were fixed on her face.

  Rooted to the spot, she gazed at the man she had never seriously expected to see again.

  Was his coming into A Volonté a coincidence?

  No, surely not.

  A surge of gladness filled her and brought a glorious smile to her face.

  He smiled back, that white, slightly crooked smile that made her feel hollow inside.

  The Marquise, realizing she had lost Sophia’s attention, turned and, seeing him, grasped his arm and broke into a rapid stream of Italian. ‘This girl had the nerve to tell me I shouldn’t have taken down the miniature—’

  Speaking in the same language, he said, ‘Didn’t I advise you not to?’

  Her hot temper making her reckless, she snapped, ‘I get tired of being “advised” what to do. Men always think they are right. They always say, “I told you so”. You should be on my side, not agreeing with this insolent chit of a girl who—’

  Putting a finger to her carmine lips to interrupt the flow, he warned, ‘It’s quite likely that the signorina speaks Italian…She is—’

  ‘I know what she is…A little nobody with an inflated sense of her own importance. Well, she’s making a mistake if she thinks she can—’

  ‘Cara, you are the one who is making the mistake. I advise you to calm down and—’

  ‘I don’t need advice,’ she flared. ‘I will act as I think fit.’

  ‘Very well.’

  Though he spoke quietly, without any trace of anger, she clutched at his arm. ‘Stefano, darling, I’m sorry, so sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that…’

  When he said nothing, tears welling in her black eyes, she whispered, ‘Forgive me. I had no right to get angry with you…’

  Watching his face soften, Sophia wondered—was he this beautiful woman’s husband?

  The thought made her feel as though she’d been punched in the solar plexus.

  Even if he wasn’t, he was almost certainly her amante. There was no other way to explain the feeling of intimacy between them, the possessive touch of her hand on his sleeve, the way she was gazing up at him. Her voice soft, seductive, she begged, ‘Please tell me what I should do.’

  ‘I suggest you apologize to the signorina and return the painting.’

  ‘Apologize! But Stefano—’

  ‘It might be expedient,’ he told her.

  After a moment or two of silence, she turned to Sophia and, handing her the miniature, said grudgingly in English, ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘That’s quite all right,’ Sophia assured her pleasantly, and even managed a smile.

  Looking far from mollified, the Marquise said, ‘I understand that the artist is no longer living?’

  ‘No, unfortunately he died early in March.’

  ‘Perhaps you can tell me who the sitter was and precisely when it was painted?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t.’

  Glaring at Sophia, as if she were being deliberately obstructive, the Marquise ordered, ‘Then give me a catalogue, so I can look for myself.’

  Handing her a catalogue, Sophia told her politely, ‘The miniature is listed on page twelve. You’ll find it just says, Portrait of a Venetian Lady at Carnival Time.’

  Throwing the catalogue angrily on to the desk, the Marquise said, ‘I have wasted enough time. I want to buy this picture and I—’

  ‘I’m sorry but, as I’ve already explained, it isn’t for sale.’

  ‘I have had more than enough of your impertinence…’

  The man she had called Stefano put a warning hand on her arm but, too furious to heed it, she rushed on, ‘I insist on speaking to the owner of the gallery or someone in authority.’

  ‘Very well.’ Sophia picked up the phone and, when David’s voice answered, asked quietly, ‘Could you please come to the desk?’

  Alerted by her tone, he asked, ‘Trouble?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’ Replacing the receiver, she braced herself for the storm she could see was about to burst.

  ‘You may well look apprehensive,’ the Marquise cried. ‘If you think you can treat me like this and get away with it, you are mistaken. I will make sure you lose your job and—’

  ‘That’s enough, Gina.’ The man by her side spoke with a quiet authority that brought the Marquise up short. ‘You’re making a spectacle of yourself.’

  After that first smile, Sophia had never looked directly at him, but she had been conscious of his presence. And, while the surface of her mind had been taken up with the Marquise, her whole being had been focused on him, aware of his steady regard, aware too of the unspoken empathy.

  At that instant David appeared, immaculately dressed, a cream carnation in his buttonhole, and approached the little group.

  Of medium height, he was a slim, elegant bachelor in his early fifties, an art connoisseur to his fingertips. His silvery hair worn slightly long, his pale blue eyes guileless, his air of bonhomie, all combined to disguise the fact that he was also a shrewd, hard-headed businessman.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ he asked mildly.

  ‘Indeed there is. I am the Marquise d’Orsini, and this chit of a girl—’

  He gave her a courteous little bow, stopping the threatening torrent of words. ‘And I’m David Renton, owner of A Volonté. If you and the Marquis would—’

  ‘I’m afraid you’re under a misapprehension,’ the other man broke in with grave politeness. ‘I’m not the Marquis. My name�
��s Stephen Haviland.’

  So he wasn’t the Marquise’s husband after all. Sophia experienced such a rush of relief she felt almost giddy.

  As the two men shook hands, his glance and his smile including the Marquise in his apology, David murmured smoothly, ‘I do beg your pardon.’

  Obviously won over by his charm, she said, ‘Please do not apologize, Mr Renton. It was an easy mistake to make.’

  ‘You’re very forgiving. Now, if you and Mr Haviland would care to come through to my private suite, I’m sure we can sort things out to your satisfaction.’

  As the Marquise flashed Sophia a look of malicious triumph, David continued avuncularly, ‘Will you please come too, Sophia, my dear?’

  Sophia was aware that David had intended the ‘my dear’ to be both a statement and a subtle warning to the Marquise of where he himself stood.

  Lifting a hand, he signalled to Joanna that the desk was unattended. Then, his smile pleasant, his manner affable, he turned to usher them through to his inner sanctum.

  As Sophia made to follow, Stephen Haviland stood to one side to allow her to precede him.

  With a murmur of thanks, she did so.

  David’s sitting-room was quietly luxurious, with beautiful antique furniture, an Oriental carpet, two soft natural leather couches, a designer blind at the window and a small semicircular bar in one corner. Pictures, each worth a small fortune, lined the walls and fresh flowers scented the air.

  Waving a well-manicured hand, David said, ‘Won’t you sit down?’

  The Marquise settled herself on the nearest couch and, with an inviting glance at Stephen Haviland, patted the seat beside her.

  ‘Sophia, my dear, perhaps you’ll sit here?’ David suggested blandly.

  Stephen Haviland remained standing until Sophia was seated on the other couch.

  David produced a bottle of fine old sherry and four sparkling crystal glasses and, at his most urbane, asked, ‘May I offer you a glass of sherry?’

  ‘That would be very nice,’ the Marquise accepted graciously.

  The sherry poured and handed out, David took a seat by Sophia’s side. ‘Now, how can I help?’

  The Marquise had obviously read into David’s attitude towards Sophia what he had intended her to read and, instead of launching into a denunciation, she began carefully, ‘I am afraid your employee and I…how do you say…got off on the wrong feet. I made an error of judgement, for which I have already made my apologies…’