The Secret Legacy: The perfect summer read for fans of Santa Montefiore, Victoria Hislop and Dinah Jeffries
me that writing my thoughts to you would allow you the space and privacy to consider my proposition in the most honest way you can. I’m loath to put you on the spot. Goodness knows I’ve had a lifetime of that from my seniors. It’s excruciating. In every way.’
I still hadn’t learnt how to mask my frown.
‘Excruciating: painful, embarrassing.’
A pause. Elizabeth looked from me to him and back again.
‘So there we are. That is all. You’re to read this tonight. Sleep on it. I would hate it to ruffle your day any more than is necessary. You’ve obviously been challenged enough already. That much is clear.’
His thoughts were rambling again. He lifted Elizabeth out of her seat and took her outside with him. Had he fallen in love with his child at last? I could see the feeling terrified him. That’s why he tripped over the words. Where was the man who used the vast spectrum of language with such confidence, throwing descriptions into the air like puffs of Adeline’s vibrant paint powders?
This was a man who had been grieving for his disappearing wife. As her life force made a quiet return, he allowed Elizabeth in. Before today, he would have rather cut himself off than risk the pain of losing another woman. He’d have said something to the effect that the very existence of children reminds us of our own fleeting fragment of time . . . That the new person entrusted to us to love must leave . . . How this is the very nature of nurture, the truest test of love.
Such was his poetry I had learned.
I watched him place her down and take her chubby hand in his. They walked toward the steps into the garden. Perhaps she would feel the tender attention of her father after all. The thought uncorked a deluge of silenced memories. What pain must my father have been in to inflict so much on us? The tiny flame of compassion flickered but faded at the picture of my mother’s bruised face. Marco replaced that painful recollection. I left the kitchen in case the Major should turn back and see my tears.
Rosalia rang the bell just after lunch. She knew better than to do so; the Major had told me several times that any visitors, business or otherwise, were to call mid-morning or not at all. Trying to impart this stringent guideline to the local fishmonger, butcher and woodsman elicited nothing short of sighed laughter, a nod at best, terse irritation at worst.
‘You’re incorrigible, Rosali – be quick and go,’ I said, poking my head round the side of the door. ‘He’s in a strange mood today as it is.’
‘What’s new?’
‘I’m serious.’
‘My sisters and I are going up to Nocelle for a spuntino later this afternoon. It’s our youngest one’s saint’s day. I want you to come.’
I grew suspicious.
‘Oh for heaven’s sake, Santina, it’s just for some fresh air, why the look?’
‘You’re meddling, and I can’t put my finger on what.’
She straightened her blouse over her middle, revealing a little more cleavage. I loved how at home she felt in her skin. Perhaps I envied it a little. Her hair waved down her back, lifted away from her face in bold quiffs.
‘And also,’ she carried on, ‘the new folks who moved in two houses down are looking for occasional help. They’ll be doing lots of entertaining, they said, over this coming year. Two sisters. German, I think. I told them I could gather a list of some girls. Thought you’d like some extra money before you leave?’
‘And Elizabeth?’
‘I can look after her.’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t know.’ The thought of floating the suggestion to the Major made me uneasy.
‘Suit yourself, Santi, I’ll call for you in a couple of hours.’
Before I could reply she sauntered up the steps toward the alley that ran the length of the back of the villa leading to her house.
Nocelle was Positano’s sister: smaller, older, remote. The one thousand steps that led us up to it were unrelenting, passing through the gorge of the valley. Deep green rose on either side of us, as the stairs wound in and around ragged rocks, undulating through the ancient pines, till we reached the outskirts of the small village. Here the stone steps took us in between homes, bright red geranium blooms cascading from terracotta pots balanced on a prayer along uneven walls, palms offering regal salutes, cacti in the warm glow, their fruits ripening in the sun.
Rosalia’s sister’s home was modest, perched along the precipice of the cliff. She had a small terrace and two rooms. The table was laid with sfogliatelle and a large cake. The linen tablecloth lifted on the breeze. We took our seats upon the wooden benches and heaved a sigh of collected delight when she brought out a jug of home-made limonata. My legs were accustomed to walking these inclines but even I welcomed the respite. Elizabeth guzzled her drink. Rosalia lifted her up from me and sat her upon her lap, then gave her the reins to an imaginary horse so she could jiggle her into the infectious laughter of a toddler.
We toasted Rosalia’s sister. Then one of their brothers brought out a huge box. From inside he lifted an enormous record player to squeals of delight. He placed it upon the table and wound it up. Marino Marini began to tinkle his latest hit, ‘Piccolissima Serenata’. Everybody rose to their feet. Rosalia danced with Elizabeth upon her hip. Her sister held her husband. I turned toward the feeling of a tap at my elbow.
‘Shall we?’ Paolino asked. I hadn’t noticed him slip into the party. I could have avoided this had I done so. ‘Just one dance. Then I’ll leave you in peace.’
Perhaps it was the atmosphere, the folks about me caring little about their troubles for a short pause. They had neither the comfort nor security of wealth, nor regular work, but were full of celebration. I longed to know what that felt like. So long had I been fixed on my next voyage that I failed to enjoy these moments passing by. I watched the family around me, my mind filled with Marco. How long would I have to knit our pasts together before I departed again?
Without thinking I let my hand slip into Paolino’s. It was square and strong, a little rough along the tips of the fingers. He held mine with more grace than I would have expected and kept a polite distance, much to my relief. I felt a sudden awareness of my calf as we spun, then admonished my vanity. No one here cared whether it was half the size of my other one. I wasn’t here to impress anybody – least of all my dance partner.
‘You think they dance under the sun in America, Santina?’ he whispered in my ear.
I stiffened.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, his face relaxing into an expression close to genuine embarrassment. We swayed for a few beats. Rosalia’s family filled in the quiet gaps of our own dwindling conversation.
He stopped dancing but didn’t let go of my hands. ‘Can we talk somewhere?’
I noticed Mr Marini had moved onto ‘Perdoname’, his lament begging for forgiveness from his lover. Paolino led me out of the terrace and sat upon the wall surrounding the house. I felt for the donkey grappling the stairs as it passed by us, loaded with lemons in deep baskets hanging either side of his body, an unrelenting porter behind jeering him on.
‘Santina, I need to say these things. If I wait I’ll never forgive myself.’
I looked at my hands for a moment. Where was my mother’s fire to spit some wise retort at him, just enough to steer the conversation away from where I intuited it was headed?
‘You won’t believe me, for whatever reason. But truly, you are the most beautiful woman in this town.’
I took a breath, but should have known he would misunderstand it as a signal of studied feminine modesty.
‘You’re different,’ he added, ‘you’re not like the others. You’ve got your sights set on a bigger, brighter future than this little fishing village. I know that. I love that.’
‘Paolino,