The Italian Matchmaker(94)

Knowing the truth about her father had brought Alba and Thomas very close. Now nothing could come between them. No secrets, no lies, only the truth that she had eventually shared with her family. It wasn’t right to keep secrets from each other. She had learned that through experience.

Now she thought of Panfilo and his involvement with the palazzo. She feared the interest Romina had generated in renovating it. Now there would be an article in an international magazine, digging up the secrets they had no right to expose. People would come to Incantellaria out of curiosity to visit the scene. The story would no longer be hers but belong to the world. Her father had trusted her, now she had to trust her own family. She wasn’t sure she could trust all of them. Rosa had inherited Valentina’s genes and that frightened her.

Eventually, she got up and walked back through the olive grove. She imagined her family would be back from Mass. She heard laughter before she reached the house. Panfilo’s voice rose above the others. She smiled as she thought of him. She was truly blessed. As she got nearer she saw that other members of the family had arrived – Toto’s wife, Paola, and her children and grandchildren. The little ones played in the garden with Garibaldi, while the grown-ups drank prosecco and nibbled on crostini at the table beneath the vine. Alba greeted them warmly, then settled her pale eyes on the two strangers in their midst. ‘This is Fiyona, and Nanni is Romina’s brother,’ said Rosa.

Alba made an effort not to show her displeasure. ‘Welcome,’ she said, sitting down beside Panfilo. ‘So, you’re staying up at the palazzo?’

‘It’s really beautiful,’ volunteered Fiyona, watching Alba as if she were there to be studied, like an insect beneath a microscope.

Alba noticed her accent immediately. ‘You’re English.’

‘So are you.’

‘Whereabouts?’

‘London.’

‘I grew up in London, too. I lived on a houseboat on the Thames.’

‘Aren’t they rather damp in the winter?’

Alba could almost smell the paraffin and smiled with nostalgia. ‘I loved it.’

‘Is it still there?’

‘No. It fell apart.’ She didn’t want to explain why they had scuttled the Valentina.

‘What a shame. Some of them are very old.’

‘And sturdier than mine.’

‘Well, I live in Bloomsbury, in a house that’s equally damp in winter,’ said Fiyona with an affable chuckle. ‘Lucky you living here!’

‘The sun always shines in Italy,’ said Panfilo, patting his wife’s knee under the table.

‘And if it doesn’t, there’s pasta,’ Nanni added, rubbing his big tummy.

‘I don’t think you want for anything here,’ said Fiyona, gazing around appreciatively. ‘Incantellaria is paradise on earth. Have you seen what Romina and Bill have done to the palazzo? I gather it was a total ruin when they bought it.’

‘No,’ Alba replied shortly, not wanting to explain why.

‘Papà’s going to photograph it tomorrow for the Sunday Times magazine,’ said Rosa.

‘You won’t be disappointed,’ said Nanni to Panfilo. ‘My sister has immaculate taste. She has returned it to its former glory.’

Alba bristled. ‘And what makes you think it was ever glorious?’

‘It was clearly a masterpiece in terms of architecture,’ Nanni argued, on the point of giving them a short lecture on the neo-classical period.

‘And the decoration is incredible,’ Fiyona added. ‘You must go and see it. Surely, you knew that palazzo before it fell down?’

‘I have no desire to go up there,’ said Alba tightly.

‘Do you know who lived there before?’ The table fell silent. No one wanted to speak about that place and they were all aware of Alba. Fiyona, however, was undeterred. The prosecco had dulled her usually sharp senses. ‘I know the famous Marchese Ovidio di Montelimone lived there once. But who lived there after he died? And why was it allowed to go to ruin?’

‘We don’t like to talk about the past,’ said Panfilo, sensing his wife’s simmering anger at such intrusive questioning by a stranger.

‘But the past is so fascinating,’ said Fiyona, stumbling on drunkenly. ‘History should be made to live again. Sometimes it’s only with hindsight that mysteries can be solved.’

‘Why are you so interested in the history of the palazzo?’ Alba asked.

‘Because she’s a journalist, Mother.’

Alba blanched, stunned that her own daughter could betray her. ‘A journalist?’

Fiyona hadn’t expected Rosa to blow her cover. ‘I write for the Sunday Times magazine,’ she admitted. ‘I’m sorry, I thought you knew.’