Читать книгу Farelli's Wife - Lucy Gordon, Lucy Gordon - Страница 8

CHAPTER ONE

IF JOANNE concentrated hard she could bring the brush down to the exact point, and turn it at the very last minute. It took great precision, but she’d rehearsed the movement often, and now she could do it right, every time.

The result was perfect, just as the whole picture was perfect—a perfect copy. The original was a little masterpiece. Beside it stood her own version, identical in every brush stroke. Except that she could only trudge slowly where genius had shown the way.

The dazzling afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows of the Villa Antonini showed Joanne how well she’d performed her allotted task, and how mediocre that task was.

‘Is it finished?’ Signor Vito Antonini had crept into the room and come to stand beside her. He was a tubby man in late middle age who’d made a huge fortune in engineering and was now enjoying spending it. He showered gifts on his plain little wife, whom he adored, and had bought her this luxurious villa on the outskirts of Turin.

Then he’d purchased some great paintings to adorn it. But because they were valuable the insurers had insisted that they should all be locked away in the bank, which wasn’t what he’d wanted at all. So he’d sent for Joanne Merton, who, at only twenty-seven, had a fast-rising reputation as a copyist, specializing in Italian paintings.

‘Your copies are so perfect that nobody will know the difference, signorina,’ he said now, gleefully.

‘I’m glad you’re satisfied with my work,’ Joanne said, with a smile. She liked the little man and his wife, who’d welcomed her into their home and treated her like an honoured guest

‘Do you think,’ he asked wistfully, ‘that we could put your pictures in the bank vaults and keep the originals on my walls?’

‘No,’ she said hastily. ‘Vito, I’m a copyist, not a forger. You know the condition of my work is that it’s never passed off as the original.’

Vito sighed, for he was a risk-taker, but just then his wife came into the room and Joanne appealed to her.

‘Cretino,’ she admonished her husband briskly. ‘You want this nice girl to go to gaol? Forget this silly idea and come and eat.’

‘More food?’ Joanne protested, laughing. ‘Are you trying to make me fat, Maria?’

‘I’m trying to stop you fading away,’ Maria said. ‘No girl should be as thin as you are.’

Joanne wasn’t really thin, but elegantly slim. She was fighting to stay that way, but Maria made it hard.

The table was groaning under the fruit of her labours: garlic bread and tomatoes, black olive pâté and fish soup, followed by rice and peas.

Despite her concern for her figure, Joanne couldn’t resist this mouth-watering repast. She’d loved Piedmont cooking since she was eighteen and had won a scholarship to study art in Italy. She’d been blissfully happy, tucking into the rich, spicy meals, or wandering through Turin, drunk on great paintings, dreaming that one day she would contribute to their number. And she’d fallen wildly, passionately in love with Franco Farelli.

She’d met him through his sister, Renata, an art student in the same class. They’d become good friends, and Renata had taken her home to meet her family, wine growers with huge vineyards just north of the little medieval town of Asti. Joanne had fallen in love with Isola Magia, the Farelli home, and been instantly at ease with the whole family: Giorgio, the big, booming papa who laughed a lot, and drank a lot and bawled a lot; Sophia, his wife, a sharp-faced, sharp-tempered woman who’d greeted Joanne with restraint, but made her welcome.

But from the moment she’d met Franco she’d known she’d come home in a totally different way. He’d been twenty-four, tall and long-boned, with a proud carriage that set him apart from other men. His height came from his father, a northern Italian. But his mother hailed from Naples down in the south, and from her he derived his swarthy looks, dark chocolate eyes and blue-black hair.

In other ways, too, he was an amalgam of north and south. He had Giorgio’s easygoing charm, but also Sophia’s volcanic temper and quick, killing rages. Joanne had seen that rage only once, when he’d found a young man viciously tormenting a dog. He’d knocked the lout down with one blow, and for a moment his eyes had contained murder.

He’d taken the dog home and tended it as gently as a woman, eagerly assisted by Renata and Joanne. That night the dog’s owner had returned with his two brothers, drunk and belligerent, demanding the return of their ‘property’. Joanne would never forget what had happened next.

Calmly Franco had taken out a wicked-looking stiletto, thrust the blade through some paper money and held it out to them.

‘This will pay for the dog,’ he’d said coldly. ‘Take it and never trouble me again.’

But the brothers hadn’t touched the money. Something they’d seen in Franco’s eyes had sent them fleeing out into the night, yammering with fear, never to return. The dog had been named Ruffo, and become his inseparable companion.

But such incidents had been rare. Franco had been more concerned with enjoying himself than fighting. For him there had always been a joke to be relished, a song to be sung, a girl to be wooed, and perhaps more than wooed, if she was willing. When he’d smiled his white teeth had gleamed against his tanned skin, and he’d seemed like a young god of the earth.

Until then Joanne hadn’t believed in love at first sight, but she’d known at once that she belonged to Franco, body and soul. Just looking at him had been able to make her flesh grow warmer, even in that fierce Italian heat. His smile had made her feel she were melting, and she would gladly have melted if, by doing so, she could have become a part of him.

His smile. She could see it now, slow and teasing, as though the world were his and he was wondering whom to share it with. And she knew, by instinct, what kind of a world it was: one of desire and satiation, of sinking his strong teeth into life’s delights while the pleasure overflowed, of heated taking and giving, living by the rhythms of the earth that received the seed so that there should be growing, reaping and growing again. She had known all this the first time she’d seen him, striding into the flagstoned kitchen and standing near the door, his black hair turned to blue by a shaft of light, calling, ‘Hey, Mama—’ in a ringing voice.

How could anyone resist that voice? It was rich with all the passion in the world, as though he’d made love to every woman he’d met. And Joanne, the girl from a cool, rainy country, had known in a blinding instant that he was her destiny.

Sadly, she had no illusions that she was his destiny. The estate was filled with lush virgins and ripe young matrons who sighed for him. She knew, because Renata had confided, between giggles, that Franco took his pleasures freely, wherever they might be found, to the outrage of his mother and the secret envy of his father.

But he had never even flirted with Joanne, treating her just as he had his sister, teasing her amiably before passing on his way, his exuberant laughter floating behind him. And her heart had been ready to burst with joy at his presence and despair at his indifference.

‘I couldn’t eat another thing,’ Joanne declared, regarding her clean plate.

‘But you must have some cream cheese and rum pudding,’ Maria said. ‘You’re working her too hard,’ she scolded her husband.

‘It’s not my fault,’ he protested. ‘I show her the pictures and say, “Work as you like,” and in a week she has finished the copy of the Carracci Madonna.’

‘Because she works too much,’ Maria insisted, slapping cream cheese on Joanne’s plate. ‘How many are still to do?’

‘Four,’ Joanne said. ‘Two more by Carracci, one Giotto and one Veronese. I’m saving the Veronese until last because it’s so large.’

‘I can’t believe that an English girl understands Italian paintings so well,’ Vito mused. ‘At the start I had the names of several Italians who do this work, but everyone said to me, “No, you must go to Signorina Merton, who is English, but has an Italian soul.” ’

‘I studied in Italy for a year,’ Joanne reminded him.

‘Only for a year? One would think you had lived here all your life. That must have been a wonderful year, for I think Italy entered deep into your heart..’

‘Yes,’ Joanne said slowly. ‘It did...’

Renata began inviting her every weekend and Joanne lived for these visits. Franco was always there because the vineyard was his life and he’d learned its management early. Despite his youth he was already taking the reins from his papa’s hands, and running the place better than Giorgio ever had.

Once Joanne managed to catch him among the vines when he was alone. He was feeling one bunch after another, his long, strong fingers squeezing them as tenderly as a lover. She smiled up at him. She was five feet nine inches, and Franco was one of the few men tall enough to make her look up.

‘I came out for some fresh air,’ she said, trying to sound casual.

‘You chose the best time,’ he told her with his easy smile that made her feel as if the world had lit up around her. ‘I love it out here at evening when the air is soft and kind.’

He finished with an eyebrow raised in quizzical enquiry, for he’d spoken in Italian, a language she was still learning.

‘Morbida e gentile,’ she repeated, savouring the words. ‘Soft and kind. But it isn’t really that sort of country, is it?’

‘It can be. Italy has its violent moods, but it can be sweet and tender.’

How deep and resonant his voice was. It seemed to vibrate through her, turning her bones to water. She sought something to say that would sound poised.

‘It’s a beautiful sunset,’ she managed at last. ‘I’d love to paint it.’

‘Are you going to be a great artist, piccina?’ he asked teasingly.

She wished he wouldn’t call her piccina. It meant ‘little girl’ and was used in speaking to children. Yet it was also a term of affection and she treasured it as a crumb from his table.

‘I think so,’ she said, as if considering the matter seriously. ‘But I’m still trying to find my own style.’

She hadn’t yet learned that she had no individual style, only a gift for imitation.

Without answering he pulled down a small bunch of grapes and crushed a few against his mouth. The purple juice spilled out luxuriantly down his chin, like the wine of life, she thought. Eagerly she held out her hands and he pulled off a spray of the grapes and offered them to her. She imitated his movement, pressing the fruit against her mouth, then gagged at the taste.

‘They’re sour,’ she protested indignantly.

‘Sharp,’ he corrected. ‘The sun hasn’t ripened them yet. It’ll happen in its own good time, as everything does.’

‘But how can you eat them when they taste like this?’

‘Sharp or sweet, they are as they are. They’re still the finest fruit in all Italy.’ It was a simple statement, unblushing in its arrogance.

‘There are other places with fine grapes,’ she said, nettled at his assurance. ‘What about the Po valley, or the Romagna?’

He didn’t even dignify this with an answer, merely lifted his shoulders in a slight shrug, as if other vineyards weren’t worth considering.

‘What a pity you won’t be here to taste them when they’re ripe,’ he said. ‘That won’t be until August, and you’ll have returned to England.’

His words brought home to her how near their parting was. Her time in Italy was almost over, and then she wouldn’t see him again. He was the love of her life but he didn’t know, would never know.

She was desperate for something that would make him notice her, but while she was racking her brains she saw a movement among the vines. It was Virginia, a voluptuous and poorly named young woman who’d occupied a lot of Franco’s attention recently.

Franco had seen her and turned laughing eyes on Joanne, not in the least embarrassed. ‘And now you must go, piccina, for I have matters to attend to.’

Crushing disappointment made her adopt a haughty tone. ‘I’m sorry if I’m in the way.’

‘You are,’ he said shamelessly. ‘Terribly in the way. Run along now, like a good girl.’

She bit her lip at being treated like a child, and turned away with as much dignity as she could muster. She didn’t look back, but she couldn’t help hearing the girl’s soft, provocative laughter.

She lay awake that night, listening for Franco. He didn’t return until three in the morning. She heard him humming softly as he passed her door, and then she buried her head under the pillow and wept.

The time began to rush past and the end of her final term grew inexorably nearer. Joanne received a letter from her cousin Rosemary who would be taking a vacation in Italy at that time. She wrote:

I thought I’d come to Turin just before you finish, and we can travel home together.

Joanne and Rosemary had grown up together, and most people, seeing them side by side, had thought that they were sisters. They’d actually lived as sisters after Joanne’s parents had died and Rosemary had urged her widowed mother to take the girl in.

She’d been twelve then, and Joanne six. When Rosemary’s mother had died six years later Rosemary had assumed the role of mother. Joanne had adored the cousin who’d given her a home and security, and all the love in her big, generous heart.

As Joanne had grown up they’d become more alike. They had both been unusually tall women, with baby blonde hair, deep blue eyes and peach colouring. Their features had been cast from the same mould, but Rosemary’s had been fine and delicate, whereas Joanne’s had still been blurred by youth and teenage chubbiness.

But the real difference, the one that had always tormented Joanne, had lain in Rosemary’s poise and charm. She had been supremely confident of her own beauty and she’d moved through life dazzling everyone she met, winning hearts easily.

Joanne had been awed by the ease with which her cousin had claimed life as her own. She’d wanted to be like her. She’d wanted to be her, and it had been frustrating to have been trapped in her own, ordinary self, so like Rosemary, and yet so cruelly unlike her in all that mattered.

At other times she’d wanted to be as different from Rosemary as possible, to escape her shadow and be herself. When people had said, ‘You’re going to be as pretty as Rosemary one day,’ she’d known they’d meant to be kind, but the words had made her grind her teeth.

She could remember, as if it were yesterday, the night of the party, given by a fellow student. Joanne and Renata had been going together, with Franco escorting them, but at the last minute Renata had sprained her ankle and dropped out. Joanne had been in ecstasies at having Franco all to herself.

She’d bought a new dress and spent hours putting up her hair and perfecting her make-up. Surely that night he would notice her, even perhaps ask her to stay in Italy? Her heart had been singing as she’d gone down to where he’d been waiting outside on the terrace.

He’d been dressed for the evening. She’d never seen him formally attired before, but then she’d been struck afresh by how handsome he’d been with his snowy shirt against his swarthy skin. He’d looked up and smiled, raising his eyebrows in appreciation of her enhanced appearance.

‘So, piccina, you’ve decided to take the world by storm tonight?’ he teased.

‘I just dressed up a little,’ she said, trying to be casual, but with a horrible suspicion that she sounded as gauche as she felt.

‘You’ll break all their hearts,’ he promised her.

‘Oh, I don’t know about all their hearts,’ she said with a shrug.

‘Just the one you want, eh?’

Could he have suspected? she wondered with sudden excitement. Was this his way of saying that he’d finally noticed her?

‘Maybe I haven’t decided which one I want,’ she said archly, looking up at him.

He chuckled, and the sound filled her with happy expectation. ‘Perhaps I should help you decide,’ he said, and reached out to take gentle hold of her chin.

At last! The thing she’d prayed for, wept for, longed for, was happening. He was going to kiss her. As he lifted her chin and his mouth hovered above hers she was on the verge of heaven. She raised her hands, tentatively touching his arms.

And then it was all snatched away. There was a step in the passage, and a woman’s voice floated out to them.

‘I’m sorry to arrive without warning—’

Franco stopped, his mouth an inch above hers, raising his head, alerted by the voice. Joanne felt the shock that went through his body. He’d heard only Rosemary’s voice, but already some special timbre in it seemed to tell him what was about to happen. He stepped away from Joanne, towards the door.

The next moment Rosemary appeared. Joanne, watching with jealous eyes that saw every detail, knew that all the breath had gone out of him, so that he stood like a man poised between two lives. Later she realized that this was literally true. Franco had seen his fate walk through the door, with long blonde hair and a dazzling smile. And he’d instantly recognized that this was what she was. He was no longer the same man.

Dazed, hardly able to believe what had happened, Joanne turned her eyes to see Rosemary staring at Franco with the same look that he was giving her. It was all over in a flash, and there was nothing to be done about it.

There were hasty introductions. Rosemary greeted everyone and threw her arms about Joanne, while somehow never taking her eyes off Franco. He was like a man in a dream. It was his idea that Rosemary come to the party with them. Joanne wanted to cry out at having come so close to her desire, but what would be the use of that? Even she could see that what was happening had always been meant.

At the party Franco monopolized Rosemary, dancing almost every dance with her, plying her with food and wine. His good manners made him attend to Joanne’s comfort, watching to make sure that she wasn’t a wallflower. There was no danger of that since she was popular. She danced every dance, determined not to show that her heart was breaking, and when Franco saw that she had a supply of partners he forgot her and spent every moment with Rosemary.

Many times she wondered what would have happened if Rosemary had seen her in Franco’s arms. Would she have taken him, knowing how Joanne loved him? But the question was pointless. Franco pursued Rosemary fiercely through the evening that followed and every day afterwards until he made her his own. He was like a man driven by demons until he came to the safe haven of his love.

It was still painful to recall how she slipped away from the dance and stumbled across them in each other’s arms, in the darkness. She backed away, but not before she heard Franco murmuring, ‘Mi amore—I will love you until I die,’ and saw him kiss her passionately. It was so different from the teasing kiss he’d almost bestowed on herself, and she fled, weeping frantically.

Apart from herself, the only person not pleased by the wedding was Sophia. Joanne overheard the family scene in which Sophia begged Franco to marry a local girl, and not ‘this stranger, who knows nothing of our ways’. Franco refused to quarrel with his mother, but he insisted on his right to marry the woman of his choice. He also demanded, quietly but firmly, that his bride should be treated with respect. Joanne was struck by the change in him. Already the easygoing lad who’d once let his mother’s tirades wash over him was turning into a man of serious purpose. Sophia evidently felt it too, for she burst into angry tears.

‘Poor Mama,’ Renata observed. ‘Franco’s always been her favourite, and now she’s jealous because he loves Rosemary best.’

The whole neighbourhood was invited to their wedding. Joanne longed not to be there, but Rosemary asked her and Renata to be her bridesmaids. Joanne was afraid that if she refused everyone would guess why.

When the day came she put on her pink satin dress, smiled despite her heartbreak, and walked behind Rosemary as she went down the aisle to become Franco’s wife. Joanne saw the look on his face as he watched his bride’s approach. It was a look of total, blind adoration, and it tore the heart out of her.

A year later she pleaded work as an excuse not to attend the baptism of their son, Nico. Rosemary wrote to her affectionately, saying how sorry she was not to see her again, and enclosing some christening cake and photographs. Joanne studied them jealously, noting how the same look was still on Franco’s face when he looked at his wife. Even in the flat photographs it blazed out, the gaze of a supremely happy man whose marriage had brought him love and fulfilment. She hid the pictures away.

After that there were more pictures, showing Nico growing fast out of babyhood, becoming an eager toddler learning to walk, held safe by his father’s hands. Franco’s face grew a little older, less boyish. And always it bore the same look, that of a man who’d found all he wanted in life.

Rosemary stayed in touch through occasional telephone calls, and long letters, with photographs enclosed. Joanne knew everything that happened on the Farelli farm, almost as well as if she’d been there. Renata married an art dealer and went to live in Milan. Franco’s father died. Two years later his mother visited her sister in Naples, where she met a widower with two children and married him. Franco, Rosemary and baby Nico were left alone on the farm: alone, that was, except for a woman who helped with the housework, and the dozens of vineyard workers who wandered in and out of the house.

Rosemary often repeated her loving invitations. She wrote:

It seems so long since we saw you. You shouldn’t be a stranger, darling, especially after we were so close once.

Joanne would write back, excusing herself on the grounds of work, for her skill in copying paintings to the last brush stroke had made her a successful career. But she never gave the true reason, which was that she didn’t trust herself to look at Rosemary’s husband without loving him. And that was forbidden, not only because he cared nothing for her, but because Joanne also loved Rosemary.

She had no other close family, and the cousin who was also sister and mother was dearer to her than anyone on earth, except Franco. She owed Rosemary more than she could repay, and her fierce sense of loyalty made her keep her distance.

She was lonely, and sometimes the temptation to pay a visit was overwhelming. Surely it could do no harm to meet little Nico, enjoy the farm life for a while, and be enveloped in the warmth and love that Rosemary seemed to carry with her at all times?

But then Rosemary would write, innocently ending the letter, ‘Franco sends his love’. And the words still hurt, warning her that the visit must never be made.

She’d been eighteen when she’d fallen in love with him, and it should have been one of those passing teenage infatuations, so common at that age. Her misfortune was that it wasn’t. Instead of getting over Franco she’d gone on cherishing his image with a despairing persistence that warned her never to risk seeing him.

To outward appearances Joanne was a successful woman, with a string of admirers. The chubbiness of her early years had gone, leaving her figure slender and her face delicate. There were always men eager to follow her beauty and a certain indefinable something in her air. She let them wine and dine her and some of them, blind to the remote signals she sent out without knowing it, deceived themselves that they were making progress. When they realized their mistake they called her heartless, and to a point it was true. She had no heart for them. Her heart had been stolen long ago by a man who didn’t want it.

Then Rosemary returned to England for a visit, bringing her five-year-old son. They stayed with Joanne for a week, and some of their old closeness was restored. They talked for hours into the night. Joanne was enchanted by the little boy. He looked English, but he had the open-heartedness of his Italian father, and would snuggle on her lap as happily as on his mother’s.

Rosemary watched the two of them fondly, while she talked of her life in Italy with the husband she adored. The only flaw was Sophia’s continuing hostility.

‘I don’t know what I’d have done if she hadn’t remarried,’ she confessed. ‘She hates me.’

‘But she was always nagging Franco to get married,’ Joanne recalled.

‘Yes, but she wanted to choose his wife. She’d have picked a local girl who wouldn’t have competed with her for his heart, and given him lots and lots of children. Franco really wants them. Sophia never lets me forget that I’ve only managed to give him one.

‘I’ve tried and tried to make her my friend, but it’s useless. She hates me because Franco loves me so much, and I couldn’t change that—even if I wanted to.’

Her words made Joanne recall how Sophia’s manner to herself had altered without warning. She’d been friendly enough, in her sharp manner, until one day she’d caught Joanne regarding Franco with yearning in her eyes. After that she’d grown cool, as though nobody but herself was allowed to love him.

Rosemary’s face was radiant as she talked of her husband. ‘I never knew such happiness could exist,’ she said in a voice full of wonder. ‘Oh, darling, if only it could happen for you too.’

‘I’m a career woman,’ Joanne protested, hiding her face against Nico’s hair lest it reveal some forbidden consciousness. ‘I’ll probably never marry.’

She was the first to learn Rosemary’s thrilling secret.

‘I haven’t even told Franco yet, because I don’t want to raise false hopes,’ she admitted. ‘But he wants another child so badly, and I want to give him one.’

A week after her return to Italy she telephoned to say she was certain at last, and Franco was over the moon.

But the child was never born. In the fifth month of her pregnancy Rosemary collapsed with a heart attack, and died.

Joanne was in Australia at the time, working against a deadline. It would have been impractical to go to Italy for the funeral, but the truth was she was glad of the excuse to stay away. Her love for Rosemary’s husband tormented her with guilt now that Rosemary was dead.

The year that followed was the most miserable of her life. Despite their long parting, Rosemary had stayed in touch so determinedly that she had remained a vital part of her life. Joanne only truly understood that now that she was gone, and the empty space yawned.

She had several requests to work in Italy, but she turned them all down on one pretext or another. Then a debilitating bout of flu left her too weak to work for some time, and her bank balance grew dangerously low. When the offer came from Vito Antonini she was glad of the chance to make some money.

He lived only sixty miles away from Franco. But she could shut herself up to work, and never venture into the outside world. There was no need to see him if she didn’t want to. So, despite her misgivings, she accepted the job and flew to Italy, telling herself that she was in no danger, and trying to believe it.