The Italian Matchmaker (20 page)

She opened her prayer book and focused on the words as best she could through her tears. The church was full, the priest chanting in Latin, incense rising from the thurible. She had made a pact with God the day of the
festa:
if Jesus wept blood she would accept that her son was with Him in Heaven. If He didn’t, she would give herself to the sea because she couldn’t bear to live knowing that she would never see him again. How strange, then, that Jesus’s dry eyes had brought her Luca and a message from Francesco. God did indeed work in mysterious ways.

After Mass, she waited until the church was empty, then approached the table at the front where rows of little candles flickered eerily through the remains of incense that lingered in the warm air. As she reached for a candle she noticed a long white feather lying across the back of the table. She was quite alone. She picked it up and twirled it between her fingers. Was someone playing a cruel prank? Or was it evidence that her son was trying to communicate with her?

The priest walked down the aisle towards her, noticing the pretty cream dress beneath her black shawl. ‘Hello, Cosima, are you all right?’

She held out the feather, her hand trembling. ‘Did you find this here after the
festa
?’

Father Filippo knitted his bushy white eyebrows. ‘No, I haven’t seen it before. I don’t believe we’ve had a bird in the church and besides, that’s a rather large feather, isn’t it?’

‘Francesco loved feathers.’

‘Then consider it a message from God,’ said the priest. ‘Miracles happen every day, my child. Much of the time we dismiss them as coincidence or luck.’

‘Do you really believe that?’

‘Of course. If Christ had the ability to turn water into wine and feed the five thousand with a few fish and loaves, leaving a feather for a mother in mourning is a very small thing.’

‘Thank you, Father,’ she said, bringing the feather to her lips as Francesco had done. ‘I shall light my candle now.’

Father Filippo left her, confident that he had managed to return a lost sheep to the fold.

Rosa didn’t know whether she preferred Cosima in or out of mourning. When she had draped herself in black, slipping through the house like a spectre, albeit a rather conspicuous one, at least she had been self-effacing. Now that she was wearing pretty dresses, smiling,
humming
even, her cheerfulness grated more than her self-pity had. Rosa wished she had never invited Luca to the house. Whatever had happened up there in Cosima’s bedroom had had a dramatic effect. It would be intolerable if her cousin fell in love with Luca. He was out of bounds to
her
, of course, but if
she
couldn’t have him she was damned if her cousin would. If Cosima hadn’t been so foolish as to have given herself to a married man in the first place, Francesco would never have been born and all the drama that followed would never have happened. Cosima had only herself to blame. She did not deserve Luca.

It was night when Rosa crept out of the house. She loved the soft blanket of darkness, the silence of the cliffs, the gentle hiss of the sea below. Then she could imagine her life was different, the way it should be rather than the way it was. Valentina had shaped her life to her heart’s desire. Outwardly a simple village girl, she had been the mistress of the
Marchese
and the lover of the infamous Lupo Bianco.
That
was glamour.
That
was living life on the edge. She had had it all. Rosa knew
she
could have it all, too; times were different now and she had the guile of a fox. It was in her blood. It had been in Alba’s blood, too. But she had fallen in love with Panfilo who had his own unique blend of glamour and risk. Maybe if Rosa had found a man like her father, she wouldn’t be dreaming of a secret life.

The trouble was, her life here in Incantellaria was so limited. She had met Eugenio and he had seemed to embody everything she desired. He was manly, strong, handsome – a responsible policeman with authority – but he was never going to be rich. She should have held out for a man with the means to keep her like a lady. Now she was a mother, she was forever tied to domesticity. A brief affair had been an invigorating interlude and she was lucky not to have got caught. Luca looked as if he knew how to please a woman and his family clearly had money. She should have held out for a man like him, not a local policeman with a peasant’s salary. Then she could have travelled and seen the world, lived in London and Paris, shopped in New York and Milan, sat in the front row at fashion shows, worn the latest collections, been fawned over by Karl Lagerfeld and Dolce & Gabbana. Now she only glimpsed that world in the pages of
Vogue
and
Harper’s Bazaar
.

When she returned home, Eugenio had not stirred. She climbed into bed and rolled over to face the window. She was twenty-six and this was her life. What was there for her to look forward to?

Eugenio opened his eyes and watched her breathing grow heavy as she slipped off to sleep. He wondered where she went at night, whether she was just going out for air or seeing another man. His jealousy mounted at the likelihood of an affair and his mind whirred with possibilities. He could confront her and cause yet another row, leaving himself open to be blamed for mistrusting her, or forget it and hope the affair petered out. He closed his eyes and prayed that she was innocent of his suspicions; the evidence was flimsy – nothing more than the result of a jealous mind. She wasn’t an easy woman to be married to, but he had no choice; he was bound to her by love.

In spite of Maxwell’s desire to remain at the
palazzo
, Dizzy was adamant that they leave. She had suffered him flirting with Sammy for long enough. Romina was pleased to see them go. Maxwell and Dizzy had outstayed their welcome.

‘I’m rather sorry to see the back of them,’ said Ma, as their car disappeared down the drive. ‘They had become rather fascinating.’

‘Any longer and I would have had to stand guard outside Sammy’s door,’ said Luca.

‘Not before Dizzy had put a knife in the poor child’s back,’ said his mother. ‘If looks could kill, Sammy would be dead as a doornail.’

Romina never tired of company. No sooner had she waved off Maxwell and Dizzy than her brother, Giovanni, arrived. Nanni was large and shaped like an egg, grown fat on pasta and cheese, with thin ankles that he showed off with short trousers and bright socks. Cancer of the throat had left his voice high and reedy. In spite of the disease, he smoked incessantly and refused to give up the foods he loved. His exuberance was irrepressible.

‘My darling Romina!’ he exclaimed, striding on to the terrace in a pair of scruffy beige trousers and a creased blue shirt. ‘Every time I see the
palazzo
it is grander and more exquisite. What it is to have a good eye and a lot of money.’ Nanni, of course, had neither.

Luca hadn’t seen his uncle for many years but Nanni embraced him as if he were still a boy. ‘
Madonna!
How you’ve grown.’

‘You sound like Mother.’

‘That’s hardly a surprise, we come from the same womb.’ Nanni sat down and helped himself to a bread roll. ‘Might I have a little butter?’ he asked Ventura. ‘And a large glass of wine.’ He already knew Ma and Caradoc. The three of them were like a circus act.

The children appeared, chaperoned by Sammy, who wore a sarong over her bathing suit. Nanni adored children but was less at ease with young women. He ran his watery eyes over Sammy’s lovely figure and felt the sweat gather on his forehead in large beads. To cover his embarrassment, he turned his attention to the children, and soon had them laughing at his funny imitations and silly voices. Porci, who had taken a shine to the girls, snuffled and grunted around them, competing with their great-uncle for attention. Sammy disappeared inside to change for lunch and emerged a little later in a sundress. Nanni recovered his composure and after he had tucked into all four courses he sat in the shade doing the
Times
crossword with a large glass of
limoncello
and a cigarette.

‘The trouble is,’ Romina confided to Ma as they sipped peppermint tea, ‘my dear brother has a brilliant mind but a terrible weakness for alcohol and gluttony. He could have been a great man writing film scripts for the best Italian cinema, but he’s indolent and self-indulgent. Now he is old, it is too late. Look at him, that crossword bores him, it’s so easy, and English is not even his first language. He can speak ancient Greek and Latin as well as he speaks Italian, Spanish, French and English, and yet he hasn’t two pennies to rub together.’

‘I bet he used to be very handsome,’ said Ma.

‘He was divine, like a Greek god. But now he’s grown fat and has lost most of his hair. He’s nearly seventy; if he doesn’t watch out he won’t make seventy-one.’

‘What does he do with his time?’

‘Collects antique games. He has the largest collection of Tudor playing cards in the world. They’re worth a fortune, but he won’t sell them. He keeps them somewhere secret. He’s paranoid someone’s going to break in and rob him.’ Romina finished her tea. ‘Now, where’s my darling Porci? He’s as round as a football but isn’t eating his food. I can’t understand it.’

‘Let’s go to the folly,’ said Nanni, putting down the paper.

‘Have you finished that crossword, or shall I help you?’ said Ma.

‘I’m afraid I’ve finished. Perhaps you can check it for me to make sure I haven’t made any mistakes?’ There was a twinkle in his eye. Nanni didn’t make mistakes.

‘It would be a pleasure,’ Ma retorted. ‘But first I’ll come with you to the folly. I can’t sit on my behind all day or it will lose its shape.’

The three of them sauntered down the path to the little stone folly. Nanni breathed in the floral scents of the garden and sighed. ‘You live in a paradise, Romina. I’d be happy to lie down one day and die amidst such peace and beauty.’

‘Be my guest, Nanni, but do us all a favour and lie on something we can carry!’ Romina unlocked the door.

Ma and Nanni followed her, their eyes adjusting to the darkness. ‘Perhaps I will lie down in here,’ he said. ‘Though it looks like someone has already had the same idea.’

Romina ran her hand over the quilt, still imprinted with the shape of the intruder. ‘Not again!’

‘Just like Goldilocks,’ said Ma.

Romina threw up her hands. ‘This isn’t funny any more. Someone has a key, or steals my key, to get in here. But who?’

Nanni picked up a silk scarf. ‘What’s this?’ It smelled of perfume. Romina snatched it and held it up to the light.

‘This isn’t mine.’

‘Nor mine,’ Ma added. ‘Pale pink and blue are not my colours.’

‘It smells of a woman,’ said Romina, narrowing her eyes. ‘Dizzy?’

‘Well, they left this morning. So, we’ll soon find out if it doesn’t happen again.’

‘Could they have been so devious?’ Romina turned the scarf over, looking for a label. ‘Well, it’s an Italian label. MOM.’

Ma shrugged. ‘I’ve never been very good at brand names.’

‘Means nothing to me,’ said Romina. ‘SOS would have been more appropriate!’ Then her face darkened and she looked at her brother in alarm. ‘Marchese Ovidio di Montelimone.’

 

Romina sat in the shade with Porci in her lap, recovering from the discovery of the mysterious silk scarf. Ventura brought her a cup of coffee while Luca, Ma and Nanni discussed who the intruder might be. ‘It’s a woman’s scarf. It smells of a woman’s perfume, too.’

Luca brought it to his nose. ‘A very sweet perfume. I’d recognise it if I’d smelt it before.’

‘Who else has the key?’ Nanni asked.

‘Only me!’ Romina wailed.

‘Might she be climbing in through the window?’ Ma suggested.

‘No, there are bars on the windows and they are never opened.’ Romina blinked back tears. ‘Why on earth would someone want to sleep in there?’

‘Change the lock.’ Nanni was surprised that his sister hadn’t done so already.

‘No,’ Luca intervened. ‘Let’s catch her. She’s not doing any harm, so let’s lie in wait. This old codger I met with Caradoc, in the church, said that rumours of ghosts have grown up over the years because lights were seen up here even though the place was uninhabited. Perhaps it’s the same person.’

‘Someone who doesn’t want us here,’ said Romina anxiously.

‘A homeless person, perhaps,’ said Ma. ‘I do hate homeless people. They never bathe.’

‘Whoever she is, I’m going to find her,’ said Luca confidently. He thought of Cosima. ‘You know, I know someone who might just shed some light on all of this.’

Luca was grateful for the excuse to go into town. He found Rosa in the
trattoria
with Toto. The place was very quiet; only one elderly couple sat drinking coffee on the terrace. His first instinct was to ask after Cosima, but the sight of Rosa’s enthusiastic face warned him against provoking her jealousy. She rushed off to make him coffee, then sat down to join him. ‘How are the children?’

‘Having a blast.’

‘And everything up at the
palazzo
?’

‘When are you going to come and visit?’

‘When my father gets around to taking the photographs. He’s busy with a job in Positano at the moment.’

‘Bring your children. They might like a swim.’

‘I will.’

‘Tell me something. What do you know about the old
Marchese
?’

‘Only what my mother has told me, or let slip over the years. She doesn’t like to talk about it. My father told me that during the war people did what they could to survive, even eating dogs! The
Marchese
was rich. He fell in love with Valentina. Times were hard, he was her ticket to a better life. She’d disappear to their love-nest up at the
palazzo
 . . .’