Читать книгу Count Valieri's Prisoner - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 7

IT WASN’T UNTIL the plane had taken off that Maddie really believed she was going to Italy.

In view of the events of the past ten days, she would hardly have been surprised if Nigel Sylvester had found some way to have her bodily removed from the aircraft.

It had all come to a head over dinner at the company flat. She had believed with pleasurable anticipation that she and Jeremy would be alone, and was shaken to find his father and Esme waiting for her too, with Mr Sylvester telling her, with his thin-lipped smile, ‘We feel we should all get to know each other a little better, Madeleine.’

Heart sinking, as she realised Jeremy was avoiding her gaze, she’d replied, ‘By all means,’ and accepted the dry sherry she was offered.

Conversation had been light and general over dinner, but she’d only picked at the excellent meal, cooked by the housekeeper Mrs Palmer, and watched with trepidation as the good woman was thanked and dismissed once the coffee and brandy were on the table.

The door had barely closed behind her when Esme leaned forward. ‘I think, Madeleine, if the men will forgive us boring them with feminine affairs, we need to discuss your wedding dress as a matter of urgency.’

Maddie put down her coffee cup, bewildered. ‘But that’s all in hand.’

Mrs Sylvester’s arched brows lifted. ‘Indeed? I am not sure I understand.’

‘I’ve chosen my dress and it’s already being made by Janet Gladstone, who owns the bridal shop in the village. You must have seen it.’

‘Not that I recall.’ Esme’s tone suggested she had not noticed the High Street either. ‘And, anyway, I’ve made an appointment for you with Nina FitzAlan in three days’ time.’ Her smile was complacent. ‘As I’m a favoured client she has agreed to drop everything in order to supply us with a gown of her own exclusive design. But there is no time to be lost.’

‘That’s very kind of you,’ Maddie said evenly. ‘But I’m afraid I can’t possibly alter my arrangements, especially as Aunt Fee and Uncle Patrick are paying for my dress, and those of the bridesmaids.’

‘And naturally you feel that a top London designer is beyond their reach, financially.’ The older woman nodded. ‘Well, don’t concern yourself about that. Nina’s bill, of course, will be sent to me. There is no need for your aunt and uncle to be bothered.’

‘But they will be bothered. And so will I. Very much so.’ Maddie ignored Jeremy’s pleading glance from the other side of the table. ‘Because I’m getting exactly what I want. White wild silk embroidered with silver flowers. I’ve already had two fittings, and it’s going to be beautiful.’

Esme allowed herself the small, tinkling laugh that made Maddie’s teeth ache. ‘I don’t think you have quite grasped, my dear, that you are dressing for a very important occasion. And a village-made frock, however pretty, just will not do.’

She paused. ‘So we will have a preliminary meeting with Nina at ten thirty on Thursday, after which you will hold yourself available for fittings at her salon whenever required.

‘And as you’ve mentioned bridesmaids,’ she went on. ‘Perhaps this is the time to say that while I admire your loyalty in wanting your flatmates Sally and—Tracey, is it …’

‘Trisha,’ said Maddie.

‘I think I told you.’ Esme swept on, ‘that Nigel would like his godsons’ little ones to be your attendants. Two pigeon pairs—so convenient—and, I thought, in Victorian dress. Those charming caps for the boys, and frilly pantaloons for the little girls.’

Maddie’s hands were clenched tightly in her lap. ‘And I think I made it clear that I would not, under any circumstances, have very small children following me up the aisle. Especially ones I have never met, but, I gather, are barely potty-trained. Which,’ she added, ‘would make me fear for the pantaloons. Besides, Sally and Trisha are old college friends as well as my flatmates, so they will be my bridesmaids—the only ones.’

She paused. ‘And, as, I’m going to be working abroad shortly, I couldn’t be available for fittings with Ms Fitz Alan, even if I wanted to.’

‘On the contrary,’ said Nigel Sylvester in a tone which made Maddie feel she’d been stranded naked on a polar ice cap. ‘I think it is full time you recognised that you have responsibilities to my son that far outweigh your obligations to this—tin-pot job of yours, and hand your company a week’s notice.’

Maddie lifted her chin. ‘And you must also recognise I have no intention of abandoning my career.’

‘Career?’ he repeated almost meditatively. ‘I think, my child, that you’re deluding yourself.’

He then proceeded to deal quite mercilessly with her qualifications, her abilities and her ambitions, holding them up to ridicule, and dismissing them with quiet contempt, and all of it uttered with a smile like a naked blade held to her skin.

While all she could do was sit, head bent, in silence until it was over.

‘How could you?’ she flared at Jeremy when they were back in her own flat and alone, Sally and Trisha having taken a swift look at her white face and blazing eyes and tactfully disappeared to bed. ‘I thought we’d already dealt with this. So how could you just sit there and let him speak to me—treat me like that?’

‘I’ve told you time and again how he feels about working wives,’ Jeremy said unhappily. ‘And I’ve also tried to explain how Dad sees the importance of this wedding.’

She was about to hit back when she saw how wretched he was becoming and took a deep, steadying breath. It’s not his fault, she reminded herself. His father has bullied him all his life. You know this.

‘Darling,’ she said. ‘Esme and your father may have taken over most of the arrangements, but they’re not adding me to their bag. I shall wear the dress I want, and have Sal and Trish as my backup on the day itself. No toddlers in sight. Not negotiable.’

He said slowly, ‘But there’s Italy. If I begged you not to go, would you think again?’

‘I don’t want you to beg,’ she said more gently. ‘Just to understand how much I want to research the Floria Bartrando story. I’ll be gone a matter of days, that’s all. It’s not a problem.’

‘It already is.’ He shook his head. ‘Dad’s totally vitriolic on the subject, as if he’s got a down on the entire Italian nation.’

‘Your father simply has a down on not getting his own way at all times,’ Maddie told him candidly. ‘It wouldn’t matter if it was Italy—or Outer Mongolia. However I can’t and I won’t give way to him, because that would set an unacceptable precedent. You must see that.’

She paused. ‘Of course, we could always elope. Get a special licence and do the deed somewhere with a couple of strangers as witnesses.’

Jeremy looked at her with blank horror. ‘You can’t be serious.’

She hadn’t been entirely joking either, she thought, suppressing a sigh.

She forced a smile. ‘Alternatively, you could always come with me to Italy. Take a few days of all the leave you’re owed and explore the delights of Liguria.’ And we could be alone as lovers again with no-one to interfere or disapprove. Get back to the time when we first fell in love. Wouldn’t that be good?

She added, ‘And if I had you as an escort, that might placate your father about the trip in general.’

His mouth tightened. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It wouldn’t. And now I’d better go.’ He took her in his arms and held her tightly. ‘Oh, Maddie, I hate it when we quarrel.’

And I hate it when we have quarrels forced upon us, thought Maddie, fighting her disappointment as she kissed him and said goodnight.

And in the morning, she mused as she closed the door behind him, I shall have to tell the others it was a lovers’ tiff. Pre-marital nerves or something. And see if they believe me.

Ironically, soon afterwards it began to seem as if Nigel Sylvester might get his own way after all.

Because Todd, her boss at Athene came within a whisker of calling the whole Bartrando project off.

‘We need to know why a young singer with the world at her feet should simply disappear for thirty-odd years,’ he’d said, frowning, at one of the morning conferences. ‘We were promised a preliminary interview with Floria Bartrando herself, yet now they seem to be fobbing us off with a small provincial opera festival instead.’ He snorted. ‘And that’s not worth the expense of the airfare, even if it is being sponsored by some local bigwig.’

‘Perhaps she’s making her comeback at this festival,’ Maddie suggested, trying not to sound too anxious. If it all fell through, she could imagine Nigel Sylvester’s triumph and the increased pressure to fall in with all future plans as a result.

Todd shrugged. ‘Then, in that case, why don’t they say so? I’m worried that this whole Bartrando thing could simply be a publicity stunt, and you’ll end up being shown a grave in a cemetery and told that the festival’s in her memory.’

‘In which case, I use my return ticket, and we bin the entire project.’ Maddie tried to sound upbeat. ‘But I’m sure it’s all going to work out.’

And a few days later when Todd summoned her to his office, it appeared she was right.

‘I did the festival sponsor an injustice,’ he announced, tapping the letter on the desk in front of him. ‘He’s written to us, in person, snail mail. His name’s Count Valieri and he’s apparently the link with Signorina Bartrando, so you’ll be liaising with him.

‘He’ll have you met at the airport in Genoa and taken to the Hotel Puccini in Trimontano, where the festival will take place later in the year. And he’ll contact you there and set up a meeting with the mystery lady.’ He grinned. ‘Maybe you should pack a posh frock if you’re going to be hobnobbing with Italian aristocracy.’

‘I’m more likely to be palmed off on some private secretary,’ Maddie returned unruffled. ‘But I’d better find out a bit about him, to be on the safe side.’

‘I’ve already had a quick look online, and there isn’t much.’ Todd frowned. ‘Just that the Valieri family actually started the festival over fifty years ago, so he’s probably quite elderly, although there’s no picture. And the family money now comes mainly from olive oil and ceramics. Apart from that—zilch.’

‘Then it’s fortunate we’re not planning to tell his story.’ She hesitated. ‘Did he drop any hints about Signorina Bartrando?’

‘Not one. Here, you’d better have it.’ He handed her the sheet of elegant cream notepaper and she read the two short paragraphs.

The Count used black ink, she saw, and his handwriting was crisp and incisive.

Back in her office, she checked the hotel he’d booked for her on the internet and saw it had an impressive number of stars, and its food and comfort were highly praised by recent guests.

So far, so good, she thought, wondering if Puccini’s name was significant. After all, Floria Bartrando’s first important role had been Musetta in ‘La Boheme’. She’d received rave notices, completely eclipsing the woman playing Mimi. In fact, several critics thought she’d been miscast, and that her voice was more suited to the dramatic coloratura range of the leading part.

And her short but starry career had fully justified their opinion.

So maybe she simply disappeared because of death threats from other sopranos, thought Maddie, faintly amused.

But there’d been little to smile about since then. Jeremy had reacted badly to the news that her trip was definitely going ahead, and there’d been a definite coolness between them ever since. But that, she told herself, was probably due to his father giving him a hard time.

She had really hoped he would relent sufficiently to see her off at the airport, but there was no sign of him.

In the departure lounge she’d sent him a text—‘You’d better be pleased to see me when I get back’, adding a row of kisses, but there’d been no response to that either and she’d boarded the plane, edgy and with the beginnings of a headache as she fought her disappointment.

When the trolley came round, she bought some orange juice and took a couple of painkillers, then settled back in her seat, deciding to close her eyes for a few moments.

But when the next sound she heard was the captain’s voice announcing they had begun their descent to Cristoforo Columbo Airport, she realised, startled, just how tired she must have been.

As the plane turned inland, she caught her breath as she saw ahead of her, in fold after jagged fold, the peaks of the Apennines, some of them still streaked with snow.

She knew, of course, that in Italy, the mountains were never too far away, but these seemed almost too near. In some strange way—almost alien.

But she would begin an even closer acquaintance with them when she reached Trimontano, she reminded herself as the aircraft touched down.

While visualising them as threatening in some way was being over-imaginative, and showed the kind of stress she’d been under lately.

And which she’d come here to escape.

As she emerged from Arrivals, she was approached by a uniformed official.

‘Signorina Lang?’ His smile reassured her. ‘I have been asked to escort you to the Count’s car. Camillo, his driver, speaks no English.’

‘Oh,’ said Maddie. ‘Well—that’s very kind.’

This Count must be a real force to be reckoned with, she decided, as she was conducted through the terminal and out into the warm May sunlight to what appeared to be a private parking area, where a grizzled man in a chauffeur’s uniform was waiting beside a limousine.

Well even if this turns out to be a journey to nowhere, Maddie thought with slight hysteria, as he inclined his head unsmilingly and opened the rear passenger door for her, at least I’ll have travelled in style.

She’d been right, she told herself, leaning back against the cushions, to opt for a trim navy skirt rather than her usual jeans, although her jacket, which had received a faintly disparaging glance from Camillo, was denim. But she was glad of it once the car moved off, and the air conditioning came into play.

In front of her was a square leather case, which on investigation proved to be a cold box, containing bottled mineral water and fruit juice.

Every comfort, in fact, she thought. However, it would all have been rather more pleasant if Camillo had only spoken some English and she could have questioned him about their route and Trimontano itself.

He might even have been able to tell her something about Floria Bartrando’s connection with this area, especially as the singer had been living and working far away in Rome just before her disappearance, and winning plaudits for her interpretation of Gilda in ‘Rigoletto’.

But perhaps this should be left to the Count.

The port and its environs were soon left behind, the car powering its way through heavy traffic on a broad, busy road. Then, after about fifteen minutes, they turned on to another much narrower road, and, as if someone had flicked a switch, the landscape changed. No more urban sprawl or industrial development, but chestnut trees, olive groves and scrubby pastureland covering the foothills of the mountains, and the occasional scattered hamlet, clinging to the slopes.

The traffic they encountered now consisted mainly of farm wagons, groups of hikers sweating under large rucksacks, and packs of red-faced cyclists pounding up the increasingly steep ascent.

Maddie, drinking some water from the silver cup provided for the purpose, was ignobly glad not to be of their number.

At the same time, she became aware that the brightness of the day had faded, and that heavy clouds were massing round the peaks in a frankly ominous way.

Bad weather would be disappointing, she thought with an inward shrug as the vision of sun-kissed villas and cypresses silhouetted against an azure sky began to fade, but, after all, she wasn’t here as a holidaymaker.

Nor had she expected Trimontano to be quite so remote—not when it was the centre of an annual opera festival. The audiences would need to be serious music lovers to make this kind of journey.

And what had possessed Floria Bartrando to forsake the world stage and bury herself among these mountains?

There had to be a real story here if only she could unravel it, she thought, impatient to get to her destination and make a start.

A few minutes later, the car reached a fork in the road, and Camillo turned off to the right and began to descend into a valley, shadowed by a group of three tall peaks.

And there, suddenly, was Trimontano, like a toy town cupped in the hand of a stone giant.

Maddie leaned forward, eagerly scanning the clustering red roofs below her, noticing how a tall bell tower rose out of the midst of them, startlingly white and pointing towards the darkening sky like an accusing finger.

And at the same moment, like a warning voice reverberating between the mountains, came the first long, low rumble of thunder.

Heavens, thought Maddie, sinking back in her seat. That’s a hell of an introduction. Good job I’m not superstitious, or I might just be having second thoughts.

It had already begun to rain when the car finally came to a stop in front of the massive portico of the Hotel Puccini in the main square.

A uniformed man, holding an umbrella, came down the steps to open the car door and shelter Maddie on her way into the hotel, while Camillo followed with her solitary bag.

Which should, of course, have been a matched set of Louis Vuitton, Maddie realised as she looked around at the expanse of marble, mirrors and gilded pillars which made up the hotel foyer. She turned to thank Camillo and found herself watching his retreating back.

He’s clearly used to a better class of passenger, she told herself ruefully as she walked to the reception desk.

But the receptionist’s greeting passed no judgement, and the formalities were dealt with swiftly and efficiently.

‘And there is also this, signorina.’ He handed her an envelope along with her key card.

‘From Count Valieri?’ she asked.

‘Naturalmente. On whose behalf, I am to welcome you to Trimontano.’ He smiled, making a slight bow. ‘You are in Number 205, signorina. The lift is behind you, and your luggage is already in your room. If you need further assistance you have only to ask.’

Rule one in a strange town—know the right people, Maddie thought as the lift took her smoothly to her floor.

Her bedroom was more modern than she had imagined, with an impressive range of fitted furniture in an elegant pale wood, together with the widest bed she had ever seen.

The bathroom was breathtaking too, tiled in white marble, streaked with gold. It had a large sunken tub with two cushioned head-rests, and a walk-in shower also big enough for dual occupation, and then some.

The ultimate in togetherness, Maddie thought, suppressing a pang of regret that she was there alone. But even if Jeremy was far away, at least she could talk to him.

She went back in the bedroom and retrieved her mobile phone from her bag, only to discover to her dismay that there was no discernible signal.

‘Let’s hope that’s because of the prevailing weather conditions and not a general rule,’ she muttered, as she dialled reception from the bedside phone and asked for an outside line.

But she had another disappointment when, after a struggle to get through, Jeremy’s voicemail informed her he was out of the office.

Sighing, she replaced the receiver without leaving a message. After all, she’d nothing to tell him about her trip that he’d want to hear. The important thing had been to hear his voice, even if it was only a recording. Crumbs from the rich man’s table, she thought ironically. Speaking of which …

She reached for the Count’s envelope and tore it open.

‘And if this is to say that Floria Bartrando won’t see me, then I’ll know bad luck really does run in threes,’ she said as she unfolded the single sheet of paper it contained. As she did so, another smaller, flimsier strip of paper fluttered to the carpet.

Maddie picked it up and found she was looking at a ticket for the opera that night at the Teatro Grande. ‘Verdi’s ‘Rigoletto,’ she whispered to herself in excitement. ‘Floria’s last appearance. This has to be significant.’

The accompanying note, written in the familiar black ink said only ‘Until later’, and was signed ‘Valieri’.

A man of few words, the Count, thought Maddie joyfully. But what does that matter, bless every grey hair on his probably balding head?

And she kissed the ticket and laughed out loud, because it had proved to be third time lucky instead and she was in business.