The Italian Matchmaker(7)

‘She’s dead now. But she’ll continue to be read for decades. People never tire of stories of unrequited love and broken hearts. Don’t forget, I had had my heart broken too, by your father. Fitz and I healed together and I saved him from dying of boredom in Incantellaria.’

‘Luca’s parents have bought a palazzo there, overlooking the sea.’

‘How lovely,’ said Rosemary, her tone patronising. ‘A pleasant escape.’

‘He might be spending the summer there, while he works out what he wants to do. He’s quit the City and everyone’s talking about it, so Miles says. He’s really put the cat among the pigeons.’

‘A sleepy little place like that is probably just what he needs right now, though I bet he’ll come scuttling back to England in the autumn. I can’t imagine there’s a great deal to do in Incantellaria.’

Fitz returned from his walk and put the dogs in the back of his Volvo Estate after giving them their lunch and a bowl of water. They lay on tartan blankets panting against the glass and he lingered a while, stroking their silky heads, his thoughts lost among the olive groves, his senses recalling the smell of figs that had always pervaded that place. Finally, he shut the boot and pushed his memories back into the far corners of his mind to gather dust. There was no point dwelling on regret.

The drawing-room was tranquil. The children raced around outside while the grown-ups played board games, sat chatting or reading the Sunday papers. Peggy cleared away the coffee cups, bumping into Fitz in the hall as she returned to the kitchen. ‘My dear Peggy, you can’t carry all that on your own,’ he said, taking the tray from her.

‘Oh, I’m used to it now.’

‘Perhaps, but none the less, it’s heavy.’ She followed him down the corridor into the kitchen where Heather Dervish was packing up her things to return home.

‘What a splendid feast you cooked for us today,’ he exclaimed.

‘I’m glad you enjoyed it,’ she replied, placing her apron in her bag and zipping it up. ‘I’m coming back to cook dinner.’

‘Shame I won’t be here to taste it.’

‘I’m cooking a cheese soufflé and there’s treacle tart for dessert. I know you like treacle tart.’ She picked up her bag and made for the back door and her little white van.

Fitz pulled a face to show his disappointment. ‘My favourite.’

‘Next time,’ she said, giving a little wave. ‘See you!’

‘I’d better go home and put my feet up, too,’ said Peggy, loading the cups into the dishwasher. ‘Otherwise I won’t make it around the table tonight.’

‘The prospect of treacle tart will get you through dinner, Peggy,’ he replied.

‘Oh, I don’t imagine there’ll be anything left for me.’

‘Then we’re in the same boat.’

‘It’s my favourite, as well. Though, at my age I have to be a bit careful.’

He looked her over appreciatively. Peggy sucked her stomach in, barely daring to breathe. ‘You’re a fine figure of a woman. I’d say a little treacle tart would do you nothing but good.’

She giggled. ‘I admit I don’t deny myself much.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. Life’s too short to make those sort of sacrifices.’ He gave her a genial smile. ‘Have a restful afternoon, Peggy. If anyone deserves a rest, it’s you.’

Peggy watched him leave the room and then slumped into a chair with a sigh. She felt a little light-headed and picked up a magazine with which to fan herself. A cup of sweet tea would revive her. Mr Davenport always made her feel special in a way that no one else ever had. She’d happily cook him a treacle tart that he could eat all on his own.

Fitz and Rosemary left shortly after tea. Freya and Miles went out to see them off. Their black Labrador attempted to jump up against the boot of the Volvo to see Digger and Bendico before cocking his leg on a back wheel instead. Luca wandered out from the croquet lawn having been given a guided tour of the estate by Annabel. He leaned in at Fitz’s window.

‘Good to see you, Fitz,’ he said, patting his shoulder. ‘Tell me, what am I to expect in Incantellaria?’

‘Magic, miracles and wonder.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘The statue of Jesus in the little church of San Pasquale weeps tears of blood. There is an account of the tide mysteriously covering the beach with bright red carnations . . .’

‘The Mediterranean has no tide.’

‘Exactly,’ said Fitz darkly. ‘Incantellaria abides by her own rules.’