The Italian Matchmaker(23)

And what of Fitz? She had loved him; but she had loved Cosima and Italy more. She often thought about him. Wondered what he was doing, whether he still remembered her. She had broken his heart. She had left England and started a new life. She had never regretted it. Two of her children had moved north to Milan, but Rosa remained with her own three small children. They were a constant joy. If it wasn’t for Cosima and her tragic past, Alba would have said that she was totally content. She remembered her grandmother, Immacolata, and the shrines she had built to Valentina and the son she had lost in the war. She could still smell the candle wax in the house, infused into the fabrics of the home she had inherited. Immacolata had nearly died of grief, as Cosima was in danger of doing. Alba kept her niece busy with accounts for the trattoria, tried to keep her mind occupied so it didn’t dwell on her loss. But Francesco had meant the world to her: the sun, the moon, the stars. Without him Cosima’s days were heavy with sorrow and guilt. If she hadn’t taken her eyes off him he might not have drowned.

Rosa took the seat the professor pulled out for her. ‘Professor Caradoc Macausland,’ he said, extending a gnarled hand. She took it with the tips of her fingers as if his arthritis were contagious.

‘Rosa Amato,’ she replied. Luca didn’t offer his hand. He didn’t want to encourage her, lovely as she was. Judging by the rings on her finger she was married, and her rounded stomach indicated that she was also a mother.

‘Luca,’ he said simply and added hot milk to his coffee.

‘So, gentlemen, what’s it like up there?’ Her eyes were wide with curiosity.

‘It is a wonder,’ said Caradoc. ‘Luca’s mother has beautiful taste.’

‘My great-uncle Falco knew the Marchese,’ volunteered Rosa. ‘He took lovers, both male and female, the old pervert.’

They were distracted by a gust of wind as a flash of black swept furiously past their table and into the trattoria. ‘Oh dear, that’s my cousin, Cosima. She doesn’t look very happy.’

Luca recognised his mystery woman from the church. ‘She’s related to you?’

‘Yes, my grandmother and her grandfather were brother and sister. Don’t we look alike? Though black really isn’t my colour.’ She stood up. ‘I’d better go and find out what the trouble is. I’m sure it’s my fault again!’ She left the two men straining to hear what was being said inside.

‘I wonder if she’s married,’ said Luca.

‘Rosa’s definitely married,’ replied the professor with a smile. ‘Go, lovely Rose! Tell her, that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.’

‘Not her. The cousin, the one in black.’

‘Ah, Edmund Waller. Do you know his poetry? What a genius! The mysterious woman in black, eh? A widow, I would assume. That’s why she’s in mourning.’

Luca raised his eyebrows hopefully. ‘You think so?’

‘Ah, my boy, you’re looking for an opening.’

‘She’s fascinating.’

‘Only because she won’t talk to you.’

‘She will.’

The professor shook his head. ‘It’s that kind of arrogance that will ensure you never get the woman you really want.’

Cosima spoke so fast her words were like a round of machine-gun fire. ‘They’ve taken his things again. They’re all over the house!’ Her arms flew about, agitating the air around her. ‘Do I have to lock my door against my own cousins? How many times do I have to tell them not to come into my room? Not to disturb his things. They are all I have left of him. If they are all over the house they will get lost and then I will be lost. Don’t you see? Doesn’t anyone see?’ She began to cry.

‘Sit down, Cosima,’ said Alba gently, helping her into a chair. Rosa appeared, her shoulders already tense with irritation.

‘What’s the matter?’ she asked, trying to sound concerned.

‘The children, they’ve taken Francesco’s things again.’

Rosa’s face darkened defensively. ‘That’s not true. They know not to go in there.’

‘Then if they haven’t, who has?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Rosa, crossing her arms. ‘But it wasn’t my children. I swear it.’

‘We’ll ask them when we get home,’ said Alba diplomatically.

‘Fine. Ask away. But I know I’m right. You can’t go on blaming my children every time one of Francesco’s trinkets appears in the sitting-room.’

‘Well, darling, we can hardly blame your father, or Eugenio or Toto.’