The Secret Legacy: The perfect summer read for fans of Santa Montefiore, Victoria Hislop and Dinah Jeffries. Sara Alexander

of my reply fighting to get out. The ones where I spoke of the family, of feeling flattered that they had thought my work good, of how much of a bond I felt with someone else’s daughter. I chose to make him think that it was Positano only that kept me here. I don’t think I’d realized it was far more than that. Or maybe I did, and that’s why I said nothing to that effect. I couldn’t articulate the way his lessons had changed me in this short time. I loved the way they worked a tangible magic upon my mind and way of seeing – the idea of stopping now was not an option.

      ‘Then it is settled?’

      ‘Yes, sir. I will remain until Elizabeth leaves for England.’

      I didn’t think it appropriate to gush, or thank him. This was a business conversation. He creased his paper back up to cover his eyes.

      ‘This afternoon we must plant some of the newer tomato plants, Santina.’

      I stood still.

      ‘It’s high time you and I instil some order to this garden. We are somewhat askew this year, but you can rest assured it will not happen again. Next growing season we must work quickly, we will avoid a dreadful glut of zucchini. Even with your culinary prowess I’m sure you’ll struggle to handle an endless supply of the blasted things. One can’t ever have enough tomatoes, though. I shall be glad of some jarred sunshine come November.’

      He closed the conversation. There was nothing left for me to do but unpack the clothes I’d already packed in my mind, and be sure to reach Marco before he closed the gates for the evening.

       *

      I wasn’t sure whether it was my state of mind, or whether the tumult of a storm made the blue skies that followed all the brighter. The cemetery looked luminous that afternoon: the bright white of the tombs crisper than usual, any leafy debris washed away by the rains to reveal the delicate veins within the marble. Elizabeth and I wove in between the high tombs, sometimes stopping as she looked up at the towering angels above the richer dead, or insisting we take a moment by the tomb that marked the picturesque spot where a Muslim prince lay, his headscarf carved atop an engraved obelisk.

      We followed the narrow walkway onwards, which curved back into the rock where two wide stone benches were sculpted into the indentation. Elizabeth sat down upon the hot cement, happy to perform careful re-examinations of a handful of stones and a couple of pine cones we’d found along the way. I waited for Marco, holding a warm roll I’d just baked stuffed with prosciutto and thin slices of eggplant, wrapped in a tea towel. In my other hand I’d filled a small cloth bag with oranges from the garden. I turned toward oncoming footsteps. I stood up and wrapped my arms around Marco.

      ‘Calma, Santina, you make me feel like you’re saying goodbye!’

      I didn’t let go.

      ‘Something smells good!’

      I handed him the warm tea towel. He sat and attacked the contents. I wondered when he had last eaten.

      I let him enjoy several mouthfuls in silence. ‘Things will be different now. I will have every Sunday off. We can be together.’

      He straightened and swallowed. His eyes creased toward the sea. It was a deep turquoise this afternoon. I followed his gaze. I thought about Adeline and squinted to see how many other colors I could see within the blue.

      ‘I would like that, Santina. Can I come to you? My house . . .’

      He trailed off.

      I filled in the gaps. ‘Let me speak with the Major – that’s what we call him, he was in the British army, India – I’m sure we can work something out. Perhaps a picnic up in our mountains?’