The Secret Legacy: The perfect summer read for fans of Santa Montefiore, Victoria Hislop and Dinah Jeffries
about later.’
‘Nothing I want to tell you can embarrass me. I’m not scared of the truth. You shouldn’t be either.’
I stood up.
‘But you are,’ he said.
I hovered, angry that he was using his words to prod uncertainty out of me. His charm was as clumsy as I would have expected it to be after all.
‘I don’t think you’d know what the truth was if it slapped you round the face, Paolino. You know nothing about me.’
‘I know you’re compelling. You’re not like those girls who strut around town plastered with makeup to grab the attention of the foreigners. And you’ve survived living with my mother – that’s a small victory in itself!’
My involuntary laughter annoyed me. His smile changed his face. If I squinted I might even catch the bud of humility there.
‘Santina, I know nothing about you, it’s true. And I want to know everything.’
His eyes turned a deeper chestnut. I’d never noticed how thick his eyelashes were.
‘I’ve said too much. Sorry, Santina. You must have a lot on your mind. This is my final act of selfishness.’ He shrugged.
I said nothing.
He took my hand and kissed it.
My stomach tightened.
‘Come on, Rosalia’s tongue will be wagging!’ He smiled, changing trajectory with surprising ease.
We walked back onto the terrace. The sun had begun its descent.
‘I’ll be heading home now, Rosalia,’ I said, lifting Elizabeth out of her arms.
Her eyes twinkled with a familiar mischief. At last her plan unfurled.
‘And before you say what you’re thinking: No.’
‘No what?’
‘No to whatever scheme or romantic plan you’ve been salivating over. Paolino likes to say things he doesn’t mean. Or understand. You of all people can see that, surely?’
‘I see a lot of things, but that’s not one of them.’
I turned before she could tease me any further, kissed her sister on both cheeks and hiked downhill through the valley.
The house was quiet as we stepped back inside, the dusky pink plaster deepening in the final rays. Elizabeth, full of fresh air and exercise, gave in to sleep just as the stars twinkled in the midnight blue of early evening. I took my chair out onto the terrace outside my room. It was a warm evening that mocked the onset of autumn, whose creep over the valley felt a long way off even though it was almost October. The moon was full tonight, casting watery beams upon the glassy sea surrounding the tiny islands of Li Galli. There was a lot of talk in town of the Russian choreographer and the open air theater he had built there for dance recitals. I imagined ballerinas twirling in the moonlight, their limbs long and lean, allowing every expression to ripple through them. What must that feel like?
I unfolded the Major’s letter.
28 September 1958
Villa San Vito
Positano
Dear Santina,
Ahead of your imminent preparations to leave our family, I felt it only proper to express our deepest gratitude. If I were to do this in person, I have no doubt that your face would crease into the embarrassment I have come to see all too often, especially during my intensive approach to teaching. I put you very much on the spot, and I know this. But I did it for good reason.
When you arrive on those new shores there will be scores of people hoping to catch the same dreams as you. No one will care too much about who you are or want to be. You will have to prove yourself. The reserves of inner strength and determination I have observed in you over the past few months reassures me you will find your place wherever you decide to settle.
Furthermore, I have come to understand over the past difficult year what Wordsworth described as ‘The Child is father of the Man’. Elizabeth has taught me more than I care to admit. Her birth heralded the start of the hardest year of our lives. My darling wife is a shadow of the woman I married. Her recovery is slower than I hoped. Yet in spite of this, Elizabeth is a sunbeam. And this is all down to you.
I knew you were a special young woman the moment I met you that afternoon in London, the way your eyes lit up with an insatiable curiosity, something so similar to my own. What I couldn’t have known is how you would shower my daughter with a care that only a mother can give. I can offer her a fraction of what you can, or indeed what Adeline may, one day, if ever. Only time will tell.
I have decided the best course of action is to send Elizabeth to boarding school after she turns five. To send her before then seems brutal somehow, though in all likelihood it probably would be the best thing for her. I want to keep her with us until she reaches the age where her mother’s condition might start to weigh upon her in any way.
If there was any part of you that might even for a moment consider remaining here as her caregiver until she returns to Great Britain, I would do everything in my power to make it worthwhile. It goes without saying that I would offer you a reasonable raise in wages, and, I think only fair, one day off a week where I can schedule additional help.
If you have reached this part of the letter and have understood everything, I congratulate you on all the hard work you have invested in learning this new language. I hope, one day, I might be able to speak Italian as well as you do English. I gave up hope of cooking linguini with fresh clams and garlic as well as you do long ago. Perhaps you might teach me before you leave? In Italian of course.
Whatever your decision I will honor it. The choice is entirely yours. I hope the sun has set by the time you read this. In my experience, sleeping upon a decision delivers the truest answer.
Sincerely yours,
Henry Crabtree
I let the letter fall to my lap. The sky was onyx. The air was still. I could hear the faint sound of the sea beckoning to the shore. Which way was the tide pulling?
The next morning the clouds darkened. Claps of thunder shook the house. The sea churned grey, and the whole of Positano retreated into their homes whilst the rain lashed the narrow alleys into scurries of water chasing over the cobbles down to the sea. The Major watched, sat at the table on the terrace outside the kitchen. As the wind whipped and flashes of light blanched the leaden sky, he sat in perfect stillness, the eye of the storm.
I should have liked to imitate his poise. My thoughts raced, clanging against one another like the copper pans I hung back on the wall in a vain attempt to coerce clear thinking. There was another fury of thunder. Elizabeth ran under the table and burst into tears. I threw the tea towel I used to dry the pans over my shoulder and crouched down till my face was level with hers. Her cheeks were crimson with terror. Tears streaked the sides of her face. I took her hand in mine. I tried to sit with her terror rather than brush it away. The latter approach I had found to be a pointless task, serving only to fill me with the same frustration as her own, which did nothing to expel it, and more often than not exacerbated it. I smoothed the back of her hand with my thumb and kissed her forehead. For a flicker I considered how liberating it was to be a child and let each of these emotions ripple through without boundary. Perhaps she was crying for my benefit? She shed the tears of confusion and fear I couldn’t. What would happen, if, for a moment, I surrendered to the conflicting emotions swirling inside me? Would it be so very disastrous? What if I acknowledged, with unabridged simplicity, that the idea of sailing away to a place where I knew no one, and nothing of the English spoken upon the American streets, abandoning