The Italian Matchmaker(96)

‘She won’t,’ said Panfilo reassuringly. ‘Who’s going to tell her? No one knows but us.’

‘And Rosa.’

‘She’s naïve but she’s not stupid.’

‘She’s angry with me. You know how hot-blooded she is. She might not be stupid but she’s a bloody fool. I should never have told her. What if Cosima tells Luca and he tells his mother? That woman’s staying up at the palazzo, ears flapping like an elephant! I hate to think what they’re all saying!’

‘Calm down, Alba.’ He pulled her down beside him.

‘As you know, thirty years ago I discovered that Daddy murdered the Marchese with Falco. It was an act of revenge. “A matter of honour,” he said. We never discussed it, but we had a silent understanding. If he finds out that I’ve told people – if it comes out in a British magazine – he’ll be so disappointed in me. I can’t bear to hurt him. I can’t bear him to think less of me.’

‘Why don’t we just ask Rosa to keep quiet?’

‘No, leave it. I’ll talk to Cosima. She can find out from Luca. Unlike our daughter, Cosima can be trusted.’

‘Alba, that’s not fair,’ said Panfilo gruffly. ‘You’ve got to be more sensitive to Rosa. She’s your daughter. You know, you were once as hot to handle as she is.’

‘Rosa’s way beyond what I ever was. She worries me. You know she sneaks off in the middle of the night? God knows what she’s up to. I just hope she’s sensible enough not to have an affair.’

Panfilo laughed. ‘I don’t think there’s a great deal of temptation in Incantellaria!’

‘If she wants something badly enough, she’ll find it. She’s longing for adventure. She’s champing at the bit. She just doesn’t know how lucky she is to have Eugenio.’

‘Maybe she needs her own home . . .’ he suggested carefully.

‘That’s not the answer.’ She stood up. ‘So, you’re still determined to photograph the palazzo?’

‘Yes,’ he replied firmly. ‘I have a commitment.’

‘I don’t want to see what they’ve done to it.’

‘Very well.’

‘So, don’t even show me the photographs.’

‘I won’t.’

‘I don’t want to see the article when it comes out, either.’

‘Fine.’

‘Let’s not speak of it again.’

Panfilo smiled at her melodramatic exit. The trouble was that Alba felt she owned Valentina’s story and the palazzo. She couldn’t bear to acknowledge that Valentina belonged to Incantellaria and the palazzo belonged to Romina and Bill Chancellor. He knew his wife better than she knew herself. He wouldn’t be at all surprised if her curiosity eventually got the better of her.

That night Rosa could barely wait for Eugenio to fall asleep. She lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, waiting for his breathing to grow deep and regular. She thought of her mother, watching from her bedroom window, suspecting that she was having an affair. Well, an affair of the mind, perhaps.

At last Eugenio slept. She crept out of bed, dressed in the bathroom and sneaked out of the house. She ran all the way up the path to the folly. The moon was bright, but she could have found her way there blindfolded, using an internal map and her senses. The feeling of excitement was intoxicating, as it must have been for Valentina. She must have trodden the same path to where the Marchese would have been waiting for her in the folly. She had believed Incantellaria devoid of excitement and adventure but it had been there all along, right under her pretty nose.

Finally, she reached the folly. All was quiet. She was alone. Luca was busy with her cousin. They were welcome to each other. She had better fish to fry. Inside, the folly glowed with the soft, dancing light of the candles he had lit.

‘Ah, there you are, my dear. I was hoping you’d come.’

She closed the door behind her. ‘I wouldn’t miss this for the world,’ she replied, sinking on to the bed. ‘I’ve been looking forward to seeing you all day.’

When Romina laid eyes on the great Panfilo Pallavicini she was uncharacteristically speechless. He was simply the handsomest man she had ever seen, and that included Bill, as dear as he was. Instead of trying to talk, she threw her arms around him, enveloping him in Pucci and perfume, and planted loud kisses on his bristly cheeks.

‘Madonna!’ he exclaimed, laughing. ‘I expected you to be very English.’

‘I’m Italian,’ she replied, finding her voice. ‘One hundred per cent!’

He ran his eyes over the façade of the palazzo, muttering compliments in the superlative. ‘You must have had a devil of an architect!’