The Italian Matchmaker(56)

‘Do you really believe that?’

‘Of course. If Christ had the ability to turn water into wine and feed the five thousand with a few fish and loaves, leaving a feather for a mother in mourning is a very small thing.’

‘Thank you, Father,’ she said, bringing the feather to her lips as Francesco had done. ‘I shall light my candle now.’

Father Filippo left her, confident that he had managed to return a lost sheep to the fold.

Rosa didn’t know whether she preferred Cosima in or out of mourning. When she had draped herself in black, slipping through the house like a spectre, albeit a rather conspicuous one, at least she had been self-effacing. Now that she was wearing pretty dresses, smiling, humming even, her cheerfulness grated more than her self-pity had. Rosa wished she had never invited Luca to the house. Whatever had happened up there in Cosima’s bedroom had had a dramatic effect. It would be intolerable if her cousin fell in love with Luca. He was out of bounds to her, of course, but if she couldn’t have him she was damned if her cousin would. If Cosima hadn’t been so foolish as to have given herself to a married man in the first place, Francesco would never have been born and all the drama that followed would never have happened. Cosima had only herself to blame. She did not deserve Luca.

It was night when Rosa crept out of the house. She loved the soft blanket of darkness, the silence of the cliffs, the gentle hiss of the sea below. Then she could imagine her life was different, the way it should be rather than the way it was. Valentina had shaped her life to her heart’s desire. Outwardly a simple village girl, she had been the mistress of the Marchese and the lover of the infamous Lupo Bianco. That was glamour. That was living life on the edge. She had had it all. Rosa knew she could have it all, too; times were different now and she had the guile of a fox. It was in her blood. It had been in Alba’s blood, too. But she had fallen in love with Panfilo who had his own unique blend of glamour and risk. Maybe if Rosa had found a man like her father, she wouldn’t be dreaming of a secret life.

The trouble was, her life here in Incantellaria was so limited. She had met Eugenio and he had seemed to embody everything she desired. He was manly, strong, handsome – a responsible policeman with authority – but he was never going to be rich. She should have held out for a man with the means to keep her like a lady. Now she was a mother, she was forever tied to domesticity. A brief affair had been an invigorating interlude and she was lucky not to have got caught. Luca looked as if he knew how to please a woman and his family clearly had money. She should have held out for a man like him, not a local policeman with a peasant’s salary. Then she could have travelled and seen the world, lived in London and Paris, shopped in New York and Milan, sat in the front row at fashion shows, worn the latest collections, been fawned over by Karl Lagerfeld and Dolce & Gabbana. Now she only glimpsed that world in the pages of Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar.

When she returned home, Eugenio had not stirred. She climbed into bed and rolled over to face the window. She was twenty-six and this was her life. What was there for her to look forward to?

Eugenio opened his eyes and watched her breathing grow heavy as she slipped off to sleep. He wondered where she went at night, whether she was just going out for air or seeing another man. His jealousy mounted at the likelihood of an affair and his mind whirred with possibilities. He could confront her and cause yet another row, leaving himself open to be blamed for mistrusting her, or forget it and hope the affair petered out. He closed his eyes and prayed that she was innocent of his suspicions; the evidence was flimsy – nothing more than the result of a jealous mind. She wasn’t an easy woman to be married to, but he had no choice; he was bound to her by love.

In spite of Maxwell’s desire to remain at the palazzo, Dizzy was adamant that they leave. She had suffered him flirting with Sammy for long enough. Romina was pleased to see them go. Maxwell and Dizzy had outstayed their welcome.

‘I’m rather sorry to see the back of them,’ said Ma, as their car disappeared down the drive. ‘They had become rather fascinating.’

‘Any longer and I would have had to stand guard outside Sammy’s door,’ said Luca.

‘Not before Dizzy had put a knife in the poor child’s back,’ said his mother. ‘If looks could kill, Sammy would be dead as a doornail.’

Romina never tired of company. No sooner had she waved off Maxwell and Dizzy than her brother, Giovanni, arrived. Nanni was large and shaped like an egg, grown fat on pasta and cheese, with thin ankles that he showed off with short trousers and bright socks. Cancer of the throat had left his voice high and reedy. In spite of the disease, he smoked incessantly and refused to give up the foods he loved. His exuberance was irrepressible.