The Italian Matchmaker(14)

‘That’s because the divorce has knocked you for six. Claire is a great disappointment. But you’re young. There is still time to marry again and begin a new life. You have come to the right place. Palazzo Montelimone will fill you with inspiration. We are nearly there.’ The road turned sharply round a bend and began to get steeper, appearing narrower in the shadow of the encroaching trees and shrubs. Finally, they forked off to the right. ‘Now we are approaching the gates. We have kept the original ones. They were too beautiful to throw away,’ Romina explained. ‘There! Aren’t they splendid?’

The gates were black and imposing as gates to a magnificent palace should be. His parents had gone to so much trouble he wondered why they hadn’t put in electric gates that opened with the press of a button. He got out to open them and looked up the drive that swept in a graceful curve through an avenue of cypress trees, opening at the end into a pool of bright sunshine. There, in that magical pool of light, stood the palazzo. His mother tooted the horn to hurry him. ‘Do get on, darling. I’m hungry.’

‘I think that’s the loveliest entrance I’ve ever seen,’ he said when he returned to the car.

‘You know, when we saw it for the first time it was nothing but stones and ivy. The garden had taken over, climbing in through the holes and seeding itself in the rooms. Only one of the two towers was left standing. It was so sad. So neglected. It was as if it had given up, abandoning itself to its fate like a beautiful woman crippled by age. I fell in love, Luca.’

‘How did you find it if the owner didn’t want to sell?’

‘By chance. I was painting a palazzo just outside Sorrento and the lady who owned it mentioned this place. She said that if she had had the money she would have bought it and resurrected it herself. She had beautiful taste, so I was intrigued. I drove here on my own and took a look around. No one was at home. I called your father and told him he had to come and take a look. We were thinking of retiring to Italy anyway. I knew this would be an incredible project for both of us. Having worked for other people all our lives, what fun to work for ourselves!’

Romina parked the car on the gravel in front of the palazzo. The building was of the same sand-coloured stone as the town. The windows were capped with ornate baroque pediments and opened on to ornamental iron balconies. Heavy brickwork gave way to plaster on the first and second floors and the roof was covered with pink tiles, rising into two magnificent towers. It stood nestled among lofty pine trees and inky green cypresses. ‘Come, darling. Let me show you inside.’

The door was vast and arched and made of old oak. Within it was a smaller door that opened into a hall of large square flagstones. ‘These stones are the original ones,’ said Romina, leading him through into a pretty courtyard. ‘I scraped my foot over moss and grass to find them underneath. What a find!’ In the centre of the courtyard was a stone fountain where the trickling sound of water was gentle and constant. Against the walls between the windows, were lemon trees in large terracotta pots. The floor was a mosaic of smooth round pebbles and flat square stones. The effect was stunning. Luca wasn’t surprised. His mother might be eccentric but she had a sharp intelligence and enormous talent when it came to aesthetics.

In the main body of the house, the rooms had tall ceilings, bold mouldings and walls painted in the original colours of pale blue, duck-egg grey and dusty pink. ‘I wanted to return it to its former glory,’ Romina explained, gesticulating at the antique tapestries and marble fireplaces. ‘We kept everything we could from the original building. It represents two years’ work. Your father and I have poured our souls into it, not to mention a great deal of money. Now, where is he?’

Luca followed his mother into a drawing-room where French doors opened out onto a terrace overlooking the gardens. He was surprised to find an old man in a three-piece tweed suit reading The Times. He looked up over his spectacles and nodded formally. ‘This is my son, Caradoc,’ said Romina, her wide trousers billowing as she glided over to him. ‘And this, Luca, is our dear friend Professor Caradoc Macausland.’ The professor extended a bony hand, so twisted with arthritis that it resembled a claw.

‘Please don’t consider me rude for not getting up to greet you, young man,’ he explained in his clipped 1950s English accent. ‘I walk with a stick and it seems to have walked off without me! Must be that charming girl.’

‘Ventura,’ said Romina with a melodramatic sigh. ‘She thinks she’s being helpful leaning it against a wall way out of reach.’