Читать книгу A Law Unto Himself - Пенни Джордан, Penny Jordan - Страница 7

AS THE ALITALIA plane circled the city of her birth, Francesca looked down on it with a faint frown of mingled bewilderment and pain that touched the heart of the stewardess walking down the aisle, and prompted her to comment to her co-workers that it was disconcerting to see such a look of vulnerable loneliness on such a beautiful woman’s face.

‘Who are you talking about?’ the chief stewardess asked her.

‘The woman four rows from the front, with the beautiful cashmere separates and the long dark hair.’

‘Ah, yes… Francesca di Valeria.’

‘You know her?’ the more junior stewardess enquired.

‘Not personally.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘She’s way out of my social league, but I know of her. She comes from a family of very wealthy industrialists. She was due to marry the son of an equally powerful and wealthy family this summer, but the wedding had to be called off at the last moment because the groom had secretly married someone else. There was quite a lot in the papers about it at the time.’ She gave a cynical shrug. ‘Her family were well compensated for their embarrassment. A large contract from the family of the exbridegroom. And it was an arranged match, anyway. Everyone knows that.’

If Francesca had been able to overhear her comments, they wouldn’t have surprised her. In the close-knit, gossipy world of the Italian aristocracy, it was common knowledge that their two families had decided that she and Paolo would eventually marry while they themselves were in their cradles. The marriage hadn’t even been by her parents’ choice but by her grandfather’s, the powerful, autocratic and extremely domineering Duca di Valeria, and Francesca had grown up knowing that one day she would be Paolo’s wife.

She had not been in love with him, it was true, but she had grown so used to the idea of eventually being his wife that the shock of discovering that he had deserted her, practically at the altar, for someone else had thrown her into complete disruption.

Her whole life… her education… everything had been geared towards her becoming Paolo’s wife, towards the fact that one day she would take over from Paolo’s mother, the present Marchesa, as the matriarch of the family—a family with vast interests in commerce and industry; a family with a history that spanned many generations; a proud, upright, formidable family, much like her own.

Now all that was gone.

Paolo’s sisters and cousins avoided her if they saw her in the street. Their mutual friends made embarrassed murmurs of sympathy; even her own grandfather sometimes looked at her with an irate pity that said more than any words that he blamed her in part for Paolo’s defection.

And it was because of this… this almost total severing of her life with a blow that left her unable to go back to what had once been, and yet with no clear idea in her mind of her way forward, that she was leaving her home.

She had a university education and a good brain. Gone were the days when Italian daughters were kept cosseted and protected from the world.

She had even worked for a while, albeit for her godfather, but there had been a tacit understanding that this leniency—this delay in her marriage to Paolo—was a tactful means of allowing him time to mature and come to realise what an asset she would be as his wife.

Such marriages were not uncommon among the families that formed the social circle in which her family moved. Marriage was, after all, a serious business, involving not only the young couple concerned but also their parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins.

The hardest thing of all to bear had been the silences that seemed to fall whenever she walked into a room… the way people watched her, discussed her, pitied her… for who would marry her now? She who had been destined almost from birth for such a high position.

She had endured it for as long as she could, through a mixture of pride and concern for her parents.

Her grandfather had never approved of his eldest son’s choice of bride, the pretty English girl who had come to Italy to care for the twin nieces of his cousin, but her father had insisted on marrying her and they had been very, very happy.

The birth of three sons, followed by a daughter, had gone a long way to softening the Duca’s attitude, but now, with Paolo’s rejection of Francesca, all the old bitterness had flared up, and her grandfather, whose fiery temper was notorious, had almost gone as far as to suggest that it was because of Francesca’s English blood that Paolo had left her for someone else.

That had been when Francesca had decided she had had enough, and it was through the good offices of her godparents that she was now bound for the country of her mother’s birth, to spend an extended visit with Elliott and Beatrice Chalmers, a couple whom Francesca had often heard her godparents mention but whom she had never met.

The English couple had two children, a little boy of three and a baby of six months. They lived in the country, Francesca had been told, and her godmother had remarked solicitously that she hoped the fresh English air would bring the colour back to her pale face, and the kilos to her slender body.

In her mother’s eyes, Francesca had read her relief in seeing her daughter make the first decision since the catastrophe of the telegram’s arrival on the morning of her wedding, announcing that there would be no bridegroom. Normally positive by nature, Francesca had sunk into a swamp of apathy, retreating inside herself as the only means she had, in a large and very voluble Italian family, of finding a retreat where she could gather up her strength and lick her wounds.

And there were wounds. She had not loved Paolo in the way that romantic novels described the emotion, it was true, but she had cared for him, respected him… and looked forward to being his wife and the mother of his children and to the life they would live together. She had thought he looked forward to them too, so it had been a cruel blow to discover not only that he had deserted her for someone else, but also that he had not had the courage to inform her of his decision himself.

What was almost as hard to endure was the realisation that there had been friends who had known what was going on, but who had said nothing. Her trust had been shattered and left in a million splintered pieces. Not just her trust in others, but her trust in herself as well, and she now looked into the past with revulsion, seeing herself as stupidly self-satisfied, so absorbed in her own contentment that she had been blind to reality; so unaware of the feelings of others that she had never even guessed that something was wrong; so caught up in the pleasant meandering of her own life that it never even occurred to her that someone else might yearn for the swift, heady rush of the youthful torrent.

What was wrong with her, that she had never felt any need to experience what Paolo must have experienced? Falling in love, being in love; to her these had been foolish pastimes, suitable only for teenagers; dangerous waters through which she had happily passed unscathed to reach these maturely reflective years of her mid-twenties. Not even as a teenager had she wanted to fall in love, seeing it as a risky, impractical experience, and at twenty-four to Paolo’s twenty-five, the idea that he might fall in love, had anyone put it to her, would have struck her as too ludicrous to even merit a reply.

Now she knew better. Now she knew herself better as well, since she had used the months since the wedding as a period of intense inner reflection and analysis, and she had come to see, in her quiet determination to concentrate all her skills and intelligence in fulfilling her role as Paolo’s wife, a deeply buried desire to atone to her grandfather for her father’s rebellion, and her mother’s English blood.

That realisation had made her feel deeply ashamed, because her parents loved her dearly, cherished her deeply, and cared far, far more for her than did her arrogant grandfather, to whom a granddaughter could never have the importance of a grandson.

Her parents had seen her off at the airport, her mother whispering fiercely that she was glad she had not married Paolo.

‘He was never good enough for you, my darling,’ she had told her. ‘I want you to know the same kind of love I’ve shared with your father. And you will know it.’

Would she? Francesca grimaced wryly to herself, a soft twist of full lips painted in the autumn’s latest fashion colour.

Somehow she doubted it… For one thing, she didn’t particularly want to. If these last few months had taught her one thing about herself, they had taught her the value of being independent.

Her university degree, her knowledge of the history of her country and its dynasties, her very genuine love of searching out elusive facts had, according to her godfather, given her an invaluable foundation on which to build a new kind of life… a career to fulfil her instead of marriage… the exciting challenge of the real world, instead of the enclosed atmosphere of a protective Italian family.

He had helped her to get started, had encouraged and praised her, had given her work to do, and she had found that she thrived on the challenge.

Even so, there was still a vast emptiness in her life… a feeling of alienation… a desire to escape, which she had finally and reluctantly given in to by accepting Beatrice Chalmers’ kind invitation to stay with them.

‘Do you think she’ll be comfortable here, Elliott? She’s been used to so much more luxurious surroundings,’ Beatrice fretted as she studied her pretty guest suite with an anxious frown.

‘From what Carlo told us about her, I doubt she’ll be very concerned with her surroundings,’ Elliott told her drily. ‘I hope to God she isn’t going to be constantly awash with tears and laments.’

‘Oh, Elliott, that isn’t fair,’ Beatrice reproached him. ‘Lucia said she had dealt with the whole thing very bravely. It can’t have been easy. You won’t forget to pick her up from the airport, will you?’

‘Would I dare?’ Elliott asked drily.

‘Oh, and that reminds me… I’ve asked Oliver over for dinner on Friday,’ Beatrice interrupted him briefly.

‘Bea,’ Elliott warned her. ‘I hope you aren’t thinking of matchmaking…’

He saw his wife’s guilty flush and sighed, reaching out to tousle her glossy dark hair.

‘I suppose there’s no point in my telling you that you’re playing with fire, is there?’

‘Because Oliver’s a misogynist?’ she responded spiritedly.

‘Oliver’s been badly burned, Bea,’ he told her gently. ‘And because of it he’s inclined to let the world know that he’s now fireproof. He won’t take kindly to being manipulated into providing a bit of light relief for our lamenting Lucretia, you know.’

He saw how her face had fallen and kissed her lightly. Four years of marriage, and she still had the power to move him in a way that no one else could ever match.

‘I must go,’ he whispered against her hair. ‘I’ve got a board meeting at ten.’

Watching him drive away, Beatrice wondered if she should perhaps cancel Friday’s dinner party. Guiltily she acknowledged that it was true that she had deliberately invited Oliver hoping that the presence of a single, attractive male might help to raise Francesca’s spirits a little; especially such a fascinating male as Oliver. And he was fascinating, with those distinctive silver, all-seeing eyes and that shock of thick, dark hair so at odds with the curious lightness of his eyes. He could be charming too when he chose, although he invariably directed his light-hearted flirtatious remarks to women he knew full well were perfectly happy with their existing partners, and women who, moreover, had the social skills to return the volleyed flattery with easy sophistication. It was also true that he often chose to exhibit these skills in front of some poor unfortunate who had made it all too plain that she was dangerously on the verge of falling heavily for him. He had a way of nipping such affections in the bud that was brutal and very, very effective. Beatrice gave a faint shiver. Perhaps she had not been so clever after all, but because she had invited several other couples for dinner as well, wanting to introduce Francesca to as many new people as possible, she had decided that Oliver was hardly likely to suspect her of matchmaking.

Not that she was doing, really… although she had to admit there was a definite temptation. How old was he now? Thirtysomething… four or five most likely; and it was eight years since Kristie had left him in such a spectacular blaze of publicity, claiming that their daughter was not his after all and that she was going to America to join her lover and Katie’s father.

Other people endured similar tragedies. But other men were not Oliver, Beatrice admitted to herself.

That steely pride of his would not have taken kindly to the gleeful publicity of the gutter Press at the downfall of his marriage. Not since he had made it plain how little time he had for them when his first book had been such a huge success.

They had even speculated that losing his wife and child might make him lose the ability to write, but that had not proved the case, and Oliver had gone from strength to strength, his powerfully evocative novels with their accurate historical backgrounds and their vivid challenging characters had remained at the top of the best-seller lists throughout the world.

His new book was set in both England and Italy, a complicated family saga spanning several generations and involving a wealth of internecine treachery of the type for which his books were justly famous.

And it was here that Beatrice had a tiny stab of guilt, because she had not told Elliott exactly what it was she had in mind.

All that was needed now was for both parties to be tactfully approached with the idea, and she was hoping that the dinner party on Friday would provide an ideal means of breaking the ice. She intended to say nothing to Francesca about Oliver, but planned to draw the girl out over the dinner-table, hoping to arouse Oliver’s interest. It struck her now that she might have been rather over-ambitious, but she was reluctant to abandon a plan that showed such potential promise, and so she crossed her fingers childishly and promised herself that all would go well, and that she wasn’t matchmaking at all… rather, what she was doing was a form of head-hunting, albeit of an extremely freelance variety.

She would be met at Heathrow, Francesca had been told, but in the busy sea of faces in the Arrivals lounge it was impossible to pick out anyone holding up a card bearing her name, so the sudden shock of someone taking hold of her arm made her tense and spin round.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m Elliott Chalmers, and I think you’re Francesca, aren’t you?’

Francesca focused on him: a tall, blunt-faced man with a commanding air of authority, and a faintly wry smile.

He made her feel rather like a foolish schoolgirl as he escorted her across the concourse, collected her luggage, and marshalled her outside to where his car was waiting, but at least his blunt, no-nonsense attitude was preferable to the kind of heavy gallantry, not unmixed with sexual speculation, she had been subjected to increasingly of late, and which she found both irritating and distasteful, and from the most surprising of sources.

Here was a man one could trust even if one could not always agree with him, she decided shrewdly. He was also a man who would respect one’s rights to one’s own opinions, even if he did attempt to steam-roller them.

At home it had been mild and sunny; here in London it was damp and cold. Francesca shivered in her thin wool suit, wishing she had worn the heavier top coat that was packed away in her cases… New cases, because the only ones she possessed were those which had been ordered for her honeymoon, and stamped by Vuitton with her married initials. She winced a little, and hoped that her gesture would be mistakenly put down to the cold.

Her new suitcases bore no initials, but they had come from Gucci and had been very expensive. Her father had insisted on buying them for her. Like all Italian men, he adored spoiling his womenfolk. The new Valentino wardrobe inside the cases had been another parental gift.

Francesca had worn designer clothes almost from her teens. Her family was wealthy and in Italy good dressing was important, but this was the first time she had worn Valentino. He was considered a little fast by Paolo’s mother, and so Francesca had subdued her own desire to experiment with his innovative styles and strong colours and had instead settled for the designer favoured by her mother-in-law to be.

Now she did not have to weigh such considerations any longer; she was free to do exactly as she wished. It was an extremely novel realisation, and she was only just beginning to learn not to be frightened of it; like a crab without its protective shell, she had to subdue the urge to scuttle away and hide herself because she felt so vulnerable.

‘Mm… I wonder if we’ll get all this lot in the car.’

She looked at Elliott and saw to her relief that he was teasing her. She responded with a smile, her first proper smile in a very long time, she realised, her face muscles feeling slightly stiff.

The dark blue Jaguar was a new model, polished and shiny, but inside, on the back seat where Elliott had suggested she might prefer to sit for comfort, were a couple of books of nursery rhymes and some children’s toys.

‘You have a son and a daughter, I believe,’ she commented quietly once they had cleared the heavy traffic of the airport approaches.

‘Yes, Dominic and Rebecca. That’s why I’m meeting you, and not Bea. Henrietta, the mainstay of our household, is away having a few days holiday at the moment, but she will be back at the weekend. I take it that Lucia has filled you in with details of the Bellaire and Chalmers families?’

‘Yes. Your father married Beatrice’s mother, but she had been previously married to a fellow actor, Charles Bellaire, and after your father’s death and Charles’s subsequent divorce, they remarried…’

‘Yes, and went on to have four more children: the twins, Sebastian and Benedict, Miranda and last, but definitely not least, William. I dare say you will meet them all in due course, although probably not Lucilla, who is both mine and Beatrice’s half-sister. She’s the only child of my father’s marriage to Beatrice’s mother. She’s in the States at the moment with her husband, Nick Barrington. He has extensive interests and connections in Hollywood, and they’ve gone there to recruit a new star for a new film that is presently casting.’

Francesca had heard all about her hostess’s fascinating family background, so very different from her own with its staid ranks of ducas and contes; its many, many Valerian aunts and uncles; its traditions and its shibboleths.

‘Bad flight?’ Elliott asked her, glancing into his driving mirror and observing her too pale face.

She was a beautiful woman, even with the sculptured pared-down thinness of her face. Her hair was like polished silk, hanging thick and heavy on to her shoulders, her make-up immaculate, the golden eyes wary and shuttered, and yet for all her poise and beauty, for all the immaculateness of her appearance, there was none of the plastic dullness that sometimes characterised such perfection.

Her elegance was unmistakably Italian, and yet there was at the same time just a hint of her English heritage, in the mobility of her face and that faint, betraying wariness of her eyes.

He would have to warn Bea again not to expose Francesca to Oliver. He would make mincemeat out of her, and the girl was just vulnerable enough to be hurt by his abrasiveness.

He could see Oliver’s viewpoint, though; a man who had been deceived in the way that he had been deceived was bound to have been hardened by the experience and to want to hold the female sex at a distance.

The prettiness of the English countryside, even in the gloom of the damp October afternoon, was a surprise to Francesca. Her mother had come from the north, a small mining community to which she had no desire to return and with which she had no ties, since she had been orphaned young.

But this… this soft mingling of greens and golds, this pale sunlight that softened cream stone walls ancient with lichen… this very quiet delicacy of colour appealed strongly to her. Even the autumn melancholy of the landscape was in tune with her own sombre thoughts; not of the man she had lost, because she was honest enough to admit to herself that she had not loved him; not even for the honours that would have been hers as his wife. No… it was the loss of self she mourned most… the realisation that she had blindly and willingly allowed herself to be formed into the most suitable image for a granddaughter of the Duca di Valeria. She had even connived at the image-making herself, had willing allowed herself to be moulded and fashioned into an artificial role. It was the betrayal of herself that hurt the most; the realisation that through both laziness and cowardice she had abandoned her rights to be herself… to be independent and to make her own life.

Once while she was at university there had been a boy. He had wanted to be her lover… a wild ragazzo from the streets of Naples, sponsored by a wealthy benefactor because of his intelligence. She had not been able to hide from him her indifference to his feelings.

He had accused her then of not being ‘real’, of not being a person in her own right. She had listened gravely to his insults and then calmly cut him out of her life, relieved, if the truth was known, to end the acquaintanceship with him, because deep down inside her part of her had been disturbed by him, not sexually, but mentally, and she had resented that quiet ripple across the placid surface of her life.

How complacent she had been. How stupidly, wantonly complacent.

She closed her eyes, and Elliott, glancing at her through his mirror, was thankful that they were nearly home. If she was going to burst into tears, he would rather it was when Bea was there to cope and commiserate. As the thought formed, her eyelids lifted, and the golden eyes flashed proud rejection of his thoughts back at him.

So she was not as remote and serene as she appeared. She had pride and spirit. She would need them if she was to succeed in her plans to form a completely new life for herself, more in step with the modern world than the old-fashioned protected one of her grandfather.

‘Nearly there,’ he told her, turning off the main road and driving through the small Cotswold village that was only a handful of miles from his and Beatrice’s home.

The village delighted Francesca, and she swiftly recognised the Tudor architecture of the stone cottages. History was her love, and because her mother was English she had studied British history in almost as much detail as she had Italian.

‘Here we are.’

Elliott turned in through the gates of the mellow Cotswold house. Even before they had left the car, the front door was thrown open and a young woman came hurrying out. Older than Francesca, she nevertheless had an unexpected youthfulness that the Italian girl hadn’t anticipated, having heard many times of how Beatrice had been the mainstay and substitute mother to her family after her parents’ death.

She wasn’t as tall as Francesca herself, and was slightly plumper, a baby clutched in one arm while a blond-haired little boy ran forward to fling himself into Elliott’s arms almost before the car door was open.

‘Welcome to England,’ Beatrice greeted her with a warm smile. ‘Come inside. You must be feeling the cold after Italy. You must tell me if your room isn’t warm enough. The central heating’s on, but all the bedrooms have fires and we can light one for you if necessary. I hope you won’t mind dining en famille tonight. Henrietta, who runs the house and us, is away visiting friends at the moment, and I’m afraid everything is rather disorganised.

‘By the way,’ Beatrice asked her, as she urged her inside the house, ‘what are we to call you? Francesca… or do you have a nickname—Chessie perhaps?’

Beatrice’s warm, friendly smile touched something inside her that reminded her very much of her mother.

No one in il Duca’s household was allowed the informality of having their name abbreviated, and consequently all her life she had been Francesca; a graceful, elegant name, which she suddenly realised had often been a very difficult one to live up to. Chessie, now… Chessie conjured up a very different image indeed. A Chessie might be permitted all kinds of follies and foolishnesses never permitted a Francesca, and so, turning her back on the rigorous training of twenty-four years, Francesca returned Beatrice’s smile and said firmly, ‘Chessie will be fine.’

Chessie…

She savoured the name to herself as she followed Beatrice upstairs. It had an untrammelled, freedom-loving sound to it that she liked; it made her feel young and vibrant… it made her feel she was free of the burden of being the granddaughter of the Duca di Valeria, the rejected promised wife of Paolo di Calveri.

From her room she could see over the surrounding countryside. She felt curiously at home here in a way she had not expected. She liked her hostess, and suspected she would also like her host once she had got to know him.

Initially she had protested when her godparents had arranged this break for her, but she had been too listless to resist their plans. Now that she was here, though, she wondered that she had never thought of coming before. Here no one knew about her and Paolo, apart from her hosts. No one cared that she was the granddaughter of il duca… no one would ever call her ‘Francesca’ in that curt, disapproving tone of her grandfather’s that had so often chilled the warmth of her youth.

Here she was Chessie… a young woman just like any other, with enough qualifications to find herself a job should she so wish… with surely her whole future spread out in front of her, rather like her view of the pretty countryside.

A sense of eagerness and adventure she had not experienced in a long long time flowed through her. She started to unpack her cases, humming as she did so.