The Marchese's Love-Child (18 page)

She sensed that the other lamp had been extinguished, then heard the rustle of silk as he discarded his robe, and the faint dip of the bed as he took his place on the far side of the bolster.

There was a silence, then he said, 'Paola, you are permitted to stop acting when we are alone together. And I know you are not asleep.'

She turned reluctantly, and looked at him over her shoulder. In the shadows of the room, she could see the outline of him, leaning on the bolster, watching her, but she was unable to read the expression on his face.

She kept her voice cool. 'But I'd like to be. This has been one hell of a day.'

'Crowned, I imagine, by your meeting with my cousin Emilio,' he drawled. 'Where did you encounter him?'

Polly, unprepared for the question, hunched a shoulder. 'He happened to be on the terrace while I was there,' she said evasively.

'Emilio does not "happen" to be anywhere, cara,' he said drily. 'His locations are always intentional.' He paused. 'Did you share a pleasant conversation?'

'No,' she said. 'Not particularly. I hope he isn't a frequent visitor.'

'I believe he comes mainly to see Zia Antonia,' he said. 'Usually when I am not here. As he is leaving early in the morning, he has asked me to pass on a message to you.'

Polly shifted uncomfortably. 'Oh?'

'He sends you his homage,' Sandro went on silkily. 'And hopes that tonight will provide you with wonderful memories for the rest of your life.'

She punched the pillow with unnecessary vigour, and lay down again. 'Well, neither of us are likely to forget it,' she said shortly.

'That is true,' he said. 'But I am surprised to find you on a level of such intimacy with Emilio.'

'I'm not,' she returned heatedly. 'He's a loathsome little worm, and I'm amazed that someone hasn't dealt with him by now.'

"They have tried,' Sandro said drily. 'He has been pushed off a balcony in Lucca, and thrown into the Grand Canal in Venice. And he was nearly the victim of a drive-by shooting in Rome, but it seems that was a case of mistaken identity.'

Polly was surprised into a giggle. 'What a shame.'

'As you say,' he agreed solemnly. 'But, in a way, he can be pitied. For years he has been waiting confidently for me to break my neck on the polo field, be caught in an avalanche or drown while sailing. The car crash must have made him feel that his dream could come true at last.

'Yet here I am with a wife and a son, and his hopes of the Valessi inheritance are finally dashed.'

She put up a hand to her pillow, hugging it closer. Her voice was faintly muffled. 'Is that why you were so determined to take Charlie? To put Emilio out of the running?'

'It played its part. But I wanted him for his own sake, too.' His voice sharpened. 'Paola, you cannot doubt that, surely.'

'No,' she said. 'I—know you did.'

It was almost her only certainty, she thought. Emilio's vile insinuations were still turning like a weary treadmill in her brain, reminding her yet again just how tenuous her position was. And how easily she might lose everything in the world that mattered to her.

And in spite of the warmth of the night, she gave the slightest shiver.

He noticed instantly. 'Are you cold? Do you wish for a blanket?'

'It's not that.' She sat up, making a little helpless gesture. 'I— I just don't know what I'm doing here—why I let myself do this. I don't understand what's happening.'

He was silent for a moment, then he said wearily, a trace of something like bitterness in his voice, 'Currently, you and I, cam mia, are about to spend a very long and tedious night together. When it is over, we will see what tomorrow brings, and hope that it is better. Now, sleep.'

He turned away, and lay down with his back to her, and, after a pause, she did the same.

Time passed, and became an hour—then another. Polly found herself lying on the furthermost edge of the bed, listening to Sandra's quiet, regular breathing, scared to move or even sigh in case she disturbed him.

She felt physically and emotionally exhausted, but her brain would not let her rest. She was plagued by images that hurt and bewildered her, images of fear and isolation, but she found them impossible to dismiss, however much she wanted to let go, and allow herself to drift away into sleep.

At one point, she seemed to be standing at one end of a long tree-lined avenue, watching Sandra, who was ahead of her, walking away with long, rapid strides. And she knew with total frightened certainty that if she allowed him to reach the end of the avenue, that he would be gone forever. She tried to call out, to summon him back, but her voice emerged as a cracked whisper.

Yet somehow he seemed to hear, because he stopped and looked back, and she began to run to him, stumbling a little, her legs like leaden weights.

She said his name again, and ran into his arms, and they closed round her, so warm and so safe that the icy chill deep inside her began to dissolve away as he held her.

And she thought, This is a dream. I'm dreaming... And knew that she did not want to wake, and face reality again.

When she eventually opened her eyes the following day, that same feeling of security still lingered, and she felt relaxed and strangely at peace.

The first thing she saw was that the bolster was back in its normal place, and that the bed beside her was empty. She was completely alone, too, with only the whirr of the ceiling fan to disturb the hush of the room. Sandro had gone.

Well, she thought, I should be grateful for that.

She sat up, pushing her hair back from her face. It was very hot, she realised, and the shutters at the windows were closed to exclude the molten gold of the sun. At some moment in the night, she'd kicked away the covering sheet, but her satin nightdress was clinging damply to her body.

She glanced at her watch, and gasped. No wonder the temperature was soaring—the morning was nearly over. She felt as if she'd slept for a hundred years, and that, if she left this room, she would find the passages choked with cobwebs.

And, as if on cue, there was a knock on the door and Rafaella came in carrying a tray.

'Buongiorno, madam.' Her smile was wide and cheerful.

Polly spread her hands helplessly. 'It's almost afternoon!' she exclaimed. 'Why did no one wake me?'

'The marchese said that you needed to sleep, and should not be disturbed,' Rafaella returned demurely, her eyes straying to the tray she had just placed on the bed.

Polly followed her gaze, and saw that in addition to the orange juice, the fresh rolls, the dish of honey, the bowl of grapes and the silver coffee pot, there was a red rose lying across the snowy tray cloth, and a folded note beside it.

Swallowing, she reached for it. It said simply, 'Grazie, mi amore,' and was signed with his name.

Polly realised she was blushing to the roots of her hair, and hurriedly crushed the paper in her hand. Everyone in the palazzo, she thought, would know about his message by now, and the remembered passion implied in its words.

It was simply another brick in the wall of pretence around their marriage, and she knew it, but that didn't make it any easier to take.

She had also seen the faintly puzzled glance that the girl had sent the ivory nightgown.

Maybe I should have left the black one shredded on the floor, she thought ruefully. Silenced any lingering doubts that way.

She cleared her throat. 'Where—where is the marchese’

'He has been bidding goodbye to his guests, madam. Now he has gone down to the port with his son and the bambinaia." She beamed. "The little Carlo wished for ice-cream, I think.'

'His father has a short memory,' Polly commented crisply. 'Charlie, ice-cream and a car ride could be a lethal combination.'

'Ah, no, signora. The marchese was also ill on journeys when he was a bambino, and Dorotea has her own special remedy,' Rafaella reassured her cheerfully. 'Shall I pour signora's coffee?'

Dorotea? Polly thought, as she sipped the strong brew. Then where was Julie?

'The maggiordomo, Teodoro, sends his respects to vossignoria,' Rafaella reported when she returned from running Polly's bath. 'The marchese has instructed him to show you the palazzo, and he awaits your convenience.'

'Oh,' Polly said, slowly. 'Well, please thank him for me. It will be my pleasure.' She paused, spreading a roll with honey. 'I was also thinking, Rafaella, that I would really like to meet your grandfather.' She made her tone casual. "Thank him for all he did for the marchese. Could you arrange that for me?'

'It would be his honour, signora,' Rafaella's dark eyes shone. 'But at the moment he is away, visiting my sister in Salerno, who is expecting her first child. When he returns, perhaps?'

'That would be fine,' Polly agreed. 'I'll hold you to it.'

An hour later, bathed and dressed in a knee-length white skirt and a sleeveless navy top, she made her way to the nursery, hoping that Charlie might be back. Instead, she found Julie sitting alone at the big table, listlessly leafing through the pages of a magazine.

'Oh.' Polly checked at the sight of her. 'So you didn't go to the port.'

Julie sighed. 'Dorotea may not speak much English, but she made it plain I wasn't wanted,' she said wryly. 'Instead, I've been cleaning out these already spotless cupboards.'

Polly frowned. 'Doesn't she realise you're here to be with Charlie?'

"That's the problem. Apparently there's only one way to look after his excellency's son, and it's not the way I do it. And the Contessa Barsoli was here earlier, asking when I planned to go home.' She looked squarely at Polly. 'I think my coming here was a big mistake.'

Polly forced a smile. 'I'm hardly the flavour of the month with them either. I was only just allowed to say goodnight to him yesterday,' she added candidly, then paused. 'But please hang in there, Julie. I'm sure things can only get better.' And mentally crossed her fingers.

Teodoro was waiting in the hall for her, still looking anxious, but his face cleared a little when Polly spoke to him in his own language. Overall, she thought afterwards, the tour of the palazzo went well, although there were too many rooms, too many glorious works of art on the walls, too many priceless tapestries, statues and ceramics on display to be assimilated all at once. And most of the furniture in everyday use would have graced any museum. Becoming familiar with it all would be a life's work. And her days here were limited.

If she had a criticism, she thought, it would be that it all seemed incredibly formal and curiously lifeless. Everything appeared to have its own place, which it had occupied for centuries.

The exception was Sandra's study, and the small office which adjoined it. staffed by a severe woman with glasses called Signora Corboni. This was where the work was done, Polly surmised, surveying the computers and fax machine, and metal filing cabinets, but even here the past intruded in the shape of a massive antique desk.

And she had never seen so many fireplaces. Every room seemed to have one, and the largest often had two. But there was no central heating, so logs would be burned to dispel the chill and damp of an Italian winter.

There was only one door locked against her. The room, Teodoro told her with faint embarrassment, occupied by the contessa. And Polly smiled and shrugged to indicate that there was no problem— that the contessa was an elderly woman entitled to her privacy.

Teodoro had clearly been keeping the best until last, flinging the final door open with a flourish. 'And this, vossignoria, this is all for you.'

It was far from the largest room she'd been shown, yet her flat in England would probably have fitted into it quite comfortably. And comfort was the theme, with a carpeted floor, two deeply cushioned sofas covered in a blue and cream floral design flanking the stone hearth, and matching curtains hanging at the large window.

'Oh.' Polly knelt on the window seat, looking down over a sloping riot of dark green trees and shrubs to the azure sea beyond. 'Oh, how lovely.'

Teodoro beamed in satisfaction, and began to point out the other amenities, which included a television set, a state-of-the-art music centre with a rack of CDs, and a tall case stocked with the latest English fiction and non-fiction titles.

There were no old masters on the walls, but some delightful water-colours. There were roses filling the air with scent on a side-table, and the ornaments, although undoubtedly valuable, had clearly been selected for their charm.

"This was the favoured room of the marchese's late mother, may God grant her peace,' Teodoro said, crossing himself devoutly. 'Messere Alessandro ordered it to be specially prepared for you. He wished you to have somewhere quiet and private for yourself alone, to sit and read, perhaps, or play music'

And be out of his way? Polly wondered wryly. But, whatever Sandro's motives, she couldn't deny her pleasure in the room, or fail to appreciate the thought that had gone into it.

She said quietly, 'That's—very kind of him.'

He nodded, pleased. He indicated the telephone standing on a small, elegant writing desk. 'If you wish to make a call, our switchboard will connect you. And if there is anything else vossignoria requires, be gracious enough to pull the bell by the fireplace.'

After that there were more practical matters to be dealt with. There were food stores and the wine cellars to be inspected, plus the laundry and the bakery to be visited.

The palazzo was a little world of its own, she thought, and pretty much self-sufficient, probably dating from the days when it was regularly besieged by its enemies.

Not a lot of change there, she thought ironically as she refused lunch, but gratefully accepted Teodoro's offer of iced lemonade served on the terrace.

She had just seated herself in a cushioned chair under the shade of a sun umbrella when Sandro appeared, walking up the steps from the garden.

He was wearing shorts, and an unbuttoned cotton shirt, his feet thrust into canvas shoes, and was carrying an excited Charlie on his shoulders.

'Ciao. ' His greeting was casual, but the look he sent her was curiously watchful. 'Did you sleep well?'