Fiyona was quick to turn up the charm. ‘Don’t worry, we wouldn’t want to intrude. It’s been so nice to meet you all. What a friendly, beautiful family you have, Panfilo. You must be very proud.’
Panfilo felt embarrassed. It wasn’t in his nature to be rude. ‘No, please. I welcome you into our home,’ he said. Fiyona caught Nanni’s eye, linked her arm through Rosa’s and walked off towards Panfilo’s car.
Alba busied herself in the house, tidying up the children’s toys, folding their clothes, putting away their pencils and books. Then she decided to walk out to the old lookout point where her mother lay buried under the olive tree.
She was reminded of walking that path as a young girl, dreaming of Fitz, struggling with the choice she had to make – to remain in Italy with Cosima or return to England with Fitz. A bird of prey circled silently overhead, scouring the earth for mice and rabbits. She inhaled the scent of wild thyme and rosemary, swept her eyes over the hill where little yellow flowers flourished in the long grass, and felt her spirits soar. She would never tire of this landscape. Its beauty would always hold her captive.
She felt a frisson of excitement at the prospect of seeing Fitz again. Would he have changed? Would she feel anything for him? Or would her love be no more than a memory corroded by time, or a mirage in her past? She thought of him married to Rosemary and laughed out loud that he had fallen into the arms of a pushy woman. Fitz had always been affable, charming and gentle – vulnerable to a strong and determined woman. Alba had left him broken-hearted, but she had promised him she would wait. She had, at first, but he had not returned. Italy had filled the void Fitz had left, and Cosima had taught her that there were many different ways to love. Ultimately, Cosima’s need had been greater than Fitz’s. The little girl’s welling eyes and disbelieving smile had shown her that she had done the right thing in returning. Then Panfilo turned up and she had fallen in love. ‘In love’ had faded with time, replaced by a love that was solid, deep and lasting. She wondered how things might have turned out had she not come back but married Fitz and lived in London. Would Fitz have had the strength of character to hold her? Would she have tired of him and gone back to her promiscuous ways? Would Italy have eventually been displaced by the shallow materialism and greed of the world she had returned to? What sort of woman would she have been?
She reached the olive tree and sat down on the grass. She remembered Fitz arriving in Incantellaria to ask her to marry him, her initial joy, and later her fear of leaving the family she had only just discovered. She recalled their escapade to the palazzo; climbing over the gate warped by time, rusted by many rainfalls; sneaking up the drive overgrown with shrubs and littered with branches, thorns and twigs. How the gardens had taken over and invaded the house, creeping in through the crumbling walls like snakes; the sinister cold that had pervaded the place, as if it were situated at the top of a mountain with its very own climate; the smell of rotting vegetation and neglect. But Fitz had accompanied her inside and she had felt more courageous with him beside her.
Finally they had reached a room that had a very different feel from the rest of the palazzo. Unlike the others, that one had vibrated with the warmth of the living. The remains of a fire were still hot in the grate and the air quivered with life. A leather chair was placed in front of the fire. They had had the strange feeling that they weren’t alone. They had been right.
Alba recalled the albino, Nero. The man the Marchese had adopted as a little Neapolitan boy. He had been frail, with no front teeth, slowly drinking himself to death out of remorse and regret, pining for the man he had loved and lost. Because of him the palazzo had been given over to the ravages of nature. It had crumbled around him until all that remained was the room he lived in. The room in which the Marchese was murdered. He had wept when she had told him that she was Valentina’s daughter and she, in turn, had wept when she learned that the Marchese had killed her mother. Fitz had helped put together the pieces of that tragic jigsaw; unveiling a final picture of love, jealousy and revenge.
After that, Alba vowed she’d never go up there again. While her father had believed Valentina loved him she had been lying in the folly with the Marchese. She had even given him the naked portrait Thomas had drawn of her and hung it by the bed which she had found with Fitz and returned to her father. He had been shocked to see it after all those years, having been so tormented by its disappearance at the time. But he hadn’t wanted to be reminded of the woman who had so cruelly betrayed him and had given it back to her. She’d never forget the ruthless glint in his eyes when she had relayed how she and Fitz had turned detective and solved the Marchese’s murder. Falco had admitted responsibility, but it was only then that she had realised her own father’s part in the plot. Rosa saw only the romance of her grandmother’s seemingly glamorous life, but Alba knew the truth: that it was tawdry and dishonest. Valentina had hurt those who loved her the most. Thomas had never got over the deception. He had plunged the knife into the Marchese’s neck but the Marchese’s gleeful smile had never left him. ‘You can kill me, but don’t forget that I killed you first,’ he had said.