He remembered Alba as she had been when he had fallen in love with her, now thirty years ago: her expression defiant, her strange pale eyes at odds with her Mediterranean skin and dark hair, her laugh wild, her careless disregard for other people, her irrepressible charm. He remembered her vulnerability too, her need to be admired, her unexpected love for little Cosima, the niece she had found with her mother’s family when she had set out to Incantellaria in search of them. The joy with which she had accepted his proposal and returned with him to England. The day she had wrapped her arms around him and told him she wanted to go back to Italy. That she couldn’t live in England. She had implored him to go with her. She had insisted that she loved him – but not enough. Not enough. ‘Don’t say it’s over. I couldn’t bear it. Let’s just see. If you change your mind, I’ll be waiting for you. I’ll be waiting and hoping and ready to welcome you with open arms. My love won’t go cold, not in Italy.’ He had let her go and he hadn’t followed her. Her love must have gone cold. Alba needed love like a butterfly needs the sun. He entered the woods and walked up the well trodden path. Ferns were beginning to unfurl with the first signs of bluebells, their shoots bright green and vibrant against the brown leaves and mud. The air was sweet and damp, the twittering of birds animated as they went about building their nests. He wondered where Alba was now. Had she stayed in Incantellaria or had she grown bored of that sleepy little town and moved to somewhere more exciting? Perhaps she had married, had children. At fifty-six she might even be a grandmother. Did she think of him as often as he thought of her? The twist of regret in his heart would never go away. Oh, he was happy enough with Rosemary. But, after Alba, there was no falling in love again. He had closed his heart and married with his head. However, he often wondered what his life might have been like had he followed her to Italy. Dreams that came and went like clouds across the sky, some dark, others light and fluffy, but always the sense of having missed a golden opportunity.
‘Is Fitz all right?’ Freya asked her mother as they sat on the sofa in the drawing-room, sipping coffee out of pretty pink cups. ‘He went very quiet over lunch.’
‘Things are a bit tense at work. One of his favourite authors is moving to A.P. Watt.’
‘Poor Fitz. He should retire.’
‘So I keep telling him. He works so hard. But he loves what he does. He won’t quit until he’s dead. But losing Ken Durden is a real blow.’
‘I should have gone out with him.’
‘Don’t be silly, darling. He likes going out on his own.’ She patted Freya’s knee. ‘What a lovely house party you’ve got this weekend. I’m pleased you’ve found your old friend Luca again. My goodness, isn’t he handsome?’
‘He’s been through a ghastly divorce.’
‘Well, he does look a little frayed around the edges. More rugged than he used to be. You did well marrying Miles. Men like Luca are good for fun, but not for ever.’
‘Oh, Mum!’ Freya protested. ‘That was a long time ago.’
‘I’ll never forgive him for hurting you. But that’s all water under the bridge, isn’t it? I bet he regrets it, though. They always do.’
‘Have you heard of Incantellaria?’ Freya asked her mother.
‘Yes. Only because your stepfather nearly went out in pursuit of an ex-girlfriend just after we met. I talked sense into him, though. No point trying to put something together that’s irreparably broken. Besides, it’s a sad little place. No life. It’s between Sorrento and Capri. Overlooked on the map. Italy wasn’t the place for Fitz. He’s too English. Can you imagine Fitz marrying a foreigner?’ She gave a shrill laugh.
‘So, she wasn’t his “big love”?’
‘Gracious no!’ Rosemary retorted a little too quickly. ‘She broke his heart, but I put it back together again. Why do you ask? Did he mention her?’ The sudden flash of anxiety surprised her. Thirty years was a long time to hold on to fear.
‘No, Luca brought up Incantellaria,’ Freya replied hastily. She couldn’t tell her mother of the wistful look on Fitz’s face when he had mentioned the woman who had taken him there. ‘I’m just curious about his past. Everyone has a past and I bet Fitzroy’s is rather colourful.’
‘He was quite a catch.’ Rosemary smiled proudly. ‘Not only devilishly handsome, but also a budding literary agent. You know he used to represent Vivien Armitage?’
‘Vivien Armitage! She’s huge.’ Freya was suitably impressed. ‘You never told me that.’