Читать книгу The Italian Millionaire's Marriage - Lucy Gordon, Lucy Gordon - Страница 9

DURING the next couple of days the whirl of arrangements was so intense that she had no time to think. Marco inspected the shop’s books, groaned at her business practices—‘pure Alice in Wonderland’—but advanced a money order that cleared her debts. It also left her something over to pay extra to Mrs Gilchrist, her excellent manager, who was to take sole charge.

There was one tense moment when Harriet brought a customer to the verge of buying a very expensive piece, only to start talking it down until he lost interest and left the shop empty handed.

‘There was nothing the matter with it,’ declared Marco, who had watched, aghast.

‘I didn’t like him.’

‘What?’

‘He wouldn’t have given it a good home,’ she tried to explain. ‘You don’t understand do you?’

‘Not a word!’ he said grimly.

‘These aren’t just things I buy and sell. I love them. Would you sell a puppy to a man you thought wouldn’t be kind to it?’

‘Harriet, puppies are alive. These things are not.’

‘Yes they are, in their own way. I won’t sell something to a person I don’t trust.’

‘You madwoman. You’ve got windmills in your head. Let’s leave this place while I can still stand it.’

They left next day on the midday flight to Rome. Signora Lucia Calvani was waiting for them, and the moment she saw Harriet her face lit up.

‘Etta,’ she cried, advancing with her arms open. ‘My dear, dear Etta.’

Enveloped in a scented embrace Harriet felt a lump come to her throat at this unexpected welcome.

‘You know why I call you Etta, don’t you?’ Lucia asked, taking her shoulders and standing back a little.

‘My father used to call me that, when I was a little girl,’ Harriet said eagerly. ‘He said it was because of his mother—’

‘Yes, her name was Enrichetta, but people called her Etta. I did, when we were girls together. Oh, you’re so like her.’ She hugged Harriet again.

Her greeting to her son was restrained but her eyes left no doubt that he was the centre of her life. Then she immediately turned her attention back to her guest, drawing Harriet’s arm through her own and leading her towards the chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce.

Their route lay out in the countryside, giving Rome a wide sweep until they were south of the city and hit the Via Appia Antica, the ancient road alongside which stood the ruins of tombs of aristocratic Roman families, going back a thousand years. Here too were the mansions of their modern counterparts. They stood well back from the road, hidden behind high walls and elaborate metal gates, housing families who quietly ran the world. A Calvani could live nowhere else.

Signora Calvani was a beautiful, exquisite woman with white hair, dressed in the height of Roman fashion. Harriet guessed her to be about seventy, but with her tall, slender figure and elastic walk she could have been younger. Her voice and gestures were those of someone who’d always been surrounded by money.

‘I was so delighted when Marco said you were to pay us a visit,’ she said as the car glided through the countryside. ‘The house seems very empty sometimes.’

They had passed the wrought-iron gates of the villa and were gliding between trees until the Villa Calvani came into view suddenly. It was a huge white house with flower-hung balconies and broad steps rising to the double front door, and Harriet could understand how it must seem empty to someone who lived there alone.

An unseen servant opened the front door and Lucia led her graciously into the hall, and from there into a large salon. A maid appeared to take Harriet’s coat. Another maid wheeled in a tea trolley.

‘English tea,’ Lucia declared. ‘Especially for you.’

As well as tea there were sweet biscuits and savouries, sandwiches, cakes. Whatever her taste it was catered for. For a while they exchanged standard pleasantries, but behind the questions Harriet sensed that Lucia’s real attention was elsewhere. She was studying her guest, and was evidently delighted with what she found. It was a welcome such as Harriet had never received in her life. Marco was looking pleased as the extent of his mother’s warmth became clear.

‘Now I’ll show you your room,’ Lucia said, rising.

Her room was even more overwhelming, with floor-length windows that looked out onto the magnificent Roman countryside. Harriet could see a river and pine trees stretching into the distance, all glowing in the afternoon sun.

The bed was big enough for three, an elaborate confection of carved walnut with a tapestry cover. The floor was polished wood, and the furniture was old-fashioned with the walnut theme repeated. The ornaments were traditional pieces, carved heads, pictures, some of them valuable Harriet automatically noted with a professional eye.

But she didn’t want to think about work just now. She was basking in the feeling of being wanted, so unfamiliar to her.

‘Do you think you’ll be comfortable here?’ Lucia asked kindly. ‘Would you like anything changed?’

‘It’s all beautiful,’ Harriet said huskily. ‘I’ve never—’ To her dismay a sudden rush of tears choked her and she had to turn away.

‘But whatever is the matter?’ Lucia asked in alarm. ‘Marco, have you been unkind to her?’

‘Certainly not,’ he said at once.

‘Nobody’s been unkind,’ Harriet said huskily. ‘On the contrary, you’ve all—I’ve never—’

‘It’s time I was getting back to my work,’ Marco said, looking uncomfortable. ‘I’ve neglected it too long—’

‘What do you mean “too long”?’ his mother demanded, scandalised.

‘I beg your pardon, and Harriet’s. I didn’t mean to be impolite. But I really must return to my office, and then to my own apartment for a few days.’

‘You aren’t coming to supper tonight?’ Lucia demanded. ‘It’s Etta’s first evening with us.’

‘Regretfully I must decline that pleasure. I’ll call soon and let you know when to expect me.’

He kissed his mother and, after a moment’s hesitation, kissed Harriet’s cheek. Then he departed hastily.

‘Such manners!’ Lucia exclaimed.

‘Well, I’ve already gathered that he’s a workaholic,’ Harriet admitted. ‘And I suppose he must have lost a lot of time.’

‘You and I will spend the next few days getting to know each other.’ Lucia seized Harriet’s hands. ‘I am so happy.’

Harriet’s feeling of having landed unexpectedly in heaven showed no sign of abating. Lucia had ordered various English dishes to please her and proudly put them on display when they dined together that evening.

‘For of course I realise that you are partly English,’ she explained, with the air of someone making a generous concession. ‘But Italian in your heart, si?’

‘Si,’ Harriet agreed, wondering just how much Marco had told her. Lucia’s eyes were full of understanding.

From then on she switched to the Italian language, and in no time they were the best of friends.

‘Why not call your father to let him know that you’re here?’ Lucia asked.

Harriet felt a strange reluctance, as though there was something to be feared, but she went to the telephone and called her father’s number. She was answered by an unfamiliar voice, a man, who explained that Signor d’Estino and his family were away for several days. Nor would he divulge their destination, even when Harriet explained that she was his daughter. It was clear that he had never heard of her. She left a message, asking her father to call, and hung up, refusing to let herself feel pain.

The next morning Harriet arose refreshed, to find that Lucia had planned their day. ‘We’ll have lunch in town,’ she said, ‘and just look around.’

It was a joy to Harriet to renew her acquaintance with Rome, the great city that lived in her dreams. Once it had been the centre of the known world. Now it was a place of traffic jams and tourists, yet still dominated by glorious ancient monuments. After lunch they strolled along the luxurious Via Veneto, and Lucia pointed out Marco’s apartment, high up on the fifth floor. Harriet looked up at the windows, but they were closed and shuttered. Like the man himself, she thought.

She spent the next day alone as Lucia was on several charity committees and had meetings to attend. Now she could reclaim Rome in her own way. Happily she wandered its cobbled streets, exploring narrow alleys, and finally coming across a shop that specialised in Greek items. The next moment she was inside, inspecting, bargaining, and finally securing. When she left the shop her debt had grown substantially.

She was looking forward to showing her bargains to Marco, but so far there was no word from him, and that evening the two women dined alone. Later, as they sat together over coffee, Lucia suddenly said, ‘Perhaps we should speak of what is on our minds. My dear, does it seem very terrible to you that I’m seeking a suitable wife for my son?’

‘A little odd perhaps. Doesn’t Marco mind the idea of marrying a stranger?’

‘That’s the worst of it, he doesn’t mind at all. He was engaged once but it came to an end. Since then he’s acted as though emotion was nothing but a stage in life that he’d put behind him and was relieved to have done so.’

‘Did he love her?’

‘I believe so, but he’s never spoken about it. He slammed a door on the subject and nobody is allowed past, even me. Perhaps I’m a sentimental fool, but I loved Etta so much, and she died far too young. If I could see our families united in marriage and then in children, that’s all I could ask for.’

‘I wish you’d tell me about her.’

‘I was friends with one of her sisters, who took me home to meet the family. Etta was ten years older than me, but she took me under her wing, for my mother was dead. I was a bridesmaid at her wedding, and one of the first people to see your father when he was born.

‘We wanted our sons to grow up together, but I married late, and then it was years before Marco was born, so it didn’t happen. And then my darling Etta died, and I still miss her so much. She was the only person I could confide in. Men aren’t the same.’

‘Am I really like her?’

For answer Lucia opened a cupboard and pulled out a photo album.

‘There!’ she said, opening it at an early page. ‘That’s Etta when she was your age.’

The young woman in the picture was dressed in the fashion of fifty years earlier, and her face was the one Harriet saw in her own mirror.

‘I really am her granddaughter,’ Harriet said, in a slow, wondering voice.

‘Much more than Olympia,’ Lucia confirmed. ‘She would have been quite unsuitable. A sweet girl but an airhead, although, of course, I thought of her first because I’d known her for years. I wish I’d known you better. If only your mother hadn’t kept you from us!’

‘If only—what?’

‘Your father said she wanted nothing to do with any of us after the split. She insisted on going home to England and raising you to be English.’ She was looking at Harriet’s face. ‘Isn’t that true?’

‘No,’ Harriet seethed, ‘it most certainly isn’t. He forced her to go back to England and just shut us out.’

‘That woman!’ Lucia said at once. ‘He’s always been in thrall to her. I never liked your father. He’s a spineless weakling and quite unworthy of his mother. Now I’m totally disgusted with him.’

‘So am I,’ Harriet fumed. ‘He denied me my Italian heritage.’

‘Well, now you can claim it back again,’ Lucia said warmly.

‘Yes,’ Harriet mused. ‘I can.’

‘Would it be tactless of me to suggest that you start by dressing in our country’s fashion?’

‘You mean my clothes look as if I bought them secondhand?’ Harriet asked bluntly.

‘Of course not. But among the many English talents haute couture is not perhaps—’ she left the sentence delicately unfinished.

‘No, it’s not,’ Harriet said decisively. ‘You’re right. It’s time I started being who I am.’ Then her confidence wavered. ‘Whoever that is,’ she added uncertainly.

‘Never say such a thing again,’ Lucia commanded. ‘From this moment, you start life again.’

Next morning they went to the Via dei Condotti, the most exclusive shop in Rome. There Lucia cast a critical eye over the parade of garments, loftily dismissing this one, ordering that one set aside.

Slowly the pile of clothes grew, some to be taken as they were, some to be altered. The total wipe out of her wardrobe gave Harriet the feeling of being another person. It was strange, but she liked it.

Then she was introduced to Signora Talli, an ultra-fashionable modiste who spent a whole afternoon studying her face and redesigning it. Harriet had barely bothered with make-up. A touch of lipstick, a hint of eye shadow, and who needed more? That was her philosophy. She was soon shown the error of her ways.

Her eyes—such a magnificent shade of green, they must be highlighted, made larger—‘How?’ she asked nervously. The colour of the lipstick must be balanced with the colour of the eyes. Apparently any shade other than the one she normally wore would be preferable. She relapsed into cowed silence, convinced that she’d stumbled onto a branch of the higher science.

At last everything was in place. The woman who looked back at her from the mirror was a stranger with enormous, shadowy eyes and a mouth whose width had been cleverly emphasised. She herself had always tried to minimise that width.

Then Signora Talli took up a pair of scissors.