Shadows of the Past
Read Shadows of the Past Online
Authors: Margaret Blake
© Margaret Blake 2009
Margaret Blake has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 2009 by Robert Hale.
This edition published in 2016 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
For John with love
‘She’s here!’
Luca signed the letter he had been reading, pushed it to one side and then took up the next letter.
‘Papa,’ Renata whined. ‘Do come and look.’
His daughter looking from the window, urged him with an impatient wave of her hand. The truth was he did not want to look but, sighing defeat, he slid the top on to the gold fountain pen and, leaving the desk, hauled himself across the room.
He looked out of the window over Renata’s head. The silver limousine was parked on the forecourt and Guido, in his smart grey uniform, had gone to open the door. Guido put his arm inside the car, urging his passenger to leave. Then he stood smartly to one side, his back as straight as any guardsman’s.
Slender legs swung down, there was another hesitation before the rest of her was visible; she was moving very slowly as if in great physical pain and when she straightened up, she put a hand up to her eyes as if the brilliant sunshine were burning holes in them.
‘I don’t know why she has to come back,’ Renata snapped. ‘I shan’t see her; I told you that, Papa, and I mean it!’
‘Well, that’s your choice, Renata,’ her father replied coldly.
‘But there is nowhere else for her to go, at least for the time being.’ He looked at his daughter and wondered why she could be so unkind. Why the young girl could not feel any compassion for the woman who had just arrived. After all, whatever Alva had done in the past, now she needed someone to care for her. She had been run over by a hit and run driver and had been left for dead in the middle of the road. Had it not been for a cyclist another car could easily have gone over her again. It was a terrible thing to have happened. Still, Luca admitted to himself that it was wrong to have her come back; at the heart of him he knew that.
‘I don’t believe it; she just wants to get back with you. You should have just put her in a mental hospital.’
‘I would hardly do that, Renata, and it is cruel of you to suggest such a thing. I know how you feel but you have to stop worrying about it. It is not your concern — you will be back at university in a day or so and it would not harm you at least to greet her. Alva has been through a lot. I know it’s not ideal that she’s back here, but there’s nowhere else for her to go.’
His daughter turned huge black eyes on to him; she looked troubled and it disturbed him to see it.
‘My being away will make it all the more easy for her to ensnare you, Papa; you have to be on your guard against her. You know what she’s like. She’s a sly and manipulative liar!’ Renata spat. She tossed her black hair angrily.
After all this time her dislike of Alva was still there, it roared away inside her and it would never leave her. The jealousy, the pain — he knew she had even prayed about it but it had not left her. She hated Alva and she probably always would. This hatred was not without some justification, but it was too much now. He knew that as a younger girl she had had these deep feelings, but now she should have a more mature approach. He did not expect that she would ever like Alva, but carrying the hatred like this was disturbing. It was not natural. There was an intensity about Renata that was unpleasant to contemplate.
‘I had better go and see her,’ Luca said but there was weariness in his voice and no sense of excitement. Renata seemed pleased by the sound of his voice and she gave him a hug.
‘Do be on your guard, Papa!’
‘Of course.’ He kissed the top of her head and then he turned and went to the door, before he opened it he paused a moment looking with concern back at his daughter. Renata had become thinner than ever and that worried him. She said it was nervous energy and when he was around she did eat. Her black hair was shiny but cut so that it resembled frayed string.
‘Renata, do not get so worked up about Alva. I have no feelings for her any more.’
‘Good.’ Renata turned to look at him. ‘But be very careful, Papa when she’s around you, you
know
what she’s like.’
Luca nodded his agreement before he stepped out on to the landing, closing the door softly behind him.
Alva was in the hallway. Guido had brought in a small suitcase. Of course she would have very little to bring.
Count Luca San Giovanni Mazareeze looked down on her from the top of the stairs. She looked even smaller from this viewpoint and more slender and delicate than he could ever remember her being. Of course she would look delicate, she had been seriously ill after being injured in a near fatal accident. Her silvery blonde hair was pulled back from her face and caught in a French pleat. There were tiny bruises beneath her eyes, more yellow than purple now, and several small healing cuts at her forehead and chin. The consultant that he had spoken to on the telephone had said the scarring was superficial and would not be permanent.
She was wearing a dark navy suit; it was not a good fit, the jacket being a little large at the shoulders, and the skirt at her hips. Her shoes were unflattering pumps but in spite of it, she was still that ethereal beautiful Alva that he remembered.
He went down the stairs; the luxurious carpet softening his tread. She seemed miles away and obviously did not hear him. She actually started like a frightened deer when he said her name. ‘
Alva
.’
*
The man was tall and very dark; his skin a warm olive, his hair black and thick and luxurious and the eyes that swept her were the colour of old gold. His features were imperious; the Roman nose, fine sculptured cheekbones and thin but well-shaped lips, all giving him the appearance of the true aristocrat.
She knew his name, had memorized it. Count Luca San Giovanni Mazareeze, that he was the
il Perdone
— that this island of Santa Caterina was his. All these things had been told to her in the hospital. All these things she could believe but what she could not accept or even take in was that this man — this man who seemed so cold and aloof — was actually
her husband
!
‘You had a good journey?’ he asked.
‘Thank you, yes,’ she murmured softly. It was loud enough for him to hear the familiar husky tone of voice that was one of her attractions. In fact it was the first thing that had drawn him to her, those conversations on the telephone when he had no idea what she even looked like, but that voice, warm and husky and even more so when she laughed, had driven him to seek her out.
‘I am sorry about this, Conte, but I don’t remember anything.’
‘So I understand,’ he murmured coolly. His eyes swept her from tip to toe and she felt her cheeks colouring. His appraisal obviously found her wanting for he turned to the chauffeur, who was still waiting by the door.
The conte addressed him in rapid Italian, asking for Claudia to be sent for so that she could show the contessa to her room. Alva caught some of it, looking confused at the term contessa but of course, if she were still his wife, then it made sense that she was still the contessa. They were not divorced, that much she had gleaned, but they had been separated for two years. Odd that there had not been a divorce in all that time, yet she knew she dare not pursue the reasons just yet, if in fact ever, for she could not see herself ever having a conversation with this cold and aloof man.
‘When you have rested, I will arrange for my assistant to show you around the palazzo. You will not remember it and as you see, it is large and I should hate it if you were to lose yourself.’
How anyone could put so much sarcasm into such a sentence was beyond Alva but it was there. Did he not believe her? Something was the matter with him; it was in his attitude. Not merely his coldness but something else. If he had disliked her so much why then were they not divorced?
She raised her head and stared him in the face. He was quite good-looking. How could she not remember anything about him? He was so obviously unforgettably attractive.
‘Could you not spare the time to show me around?’ she asked daringly. ‘I am sure that would help me more than a stranger doing it.’
‘Antonio is hardly a stranger to you, Alva. In fact, you used to be very good friends as I recall.’
Again there was something there. He said the words but those ordinary little statements were emphasized in such a way that they were conveying more than they warranted. Yet how could she be expected to break the code when she could not remember anything, or anyone?
‘I have no recollection of Antonio,’ she said.
‘Nor of me, so what is the difference?’
‘The difference, Conte, is that you are my husband and he is not.’
There! Bull’s eye, she had scored, his mouth turned down a little and his black brows crested.
However he was saved from replying by a forty-something woman coming into view. She was round and small and dark but with bright friendly eyes, giving a little bobbing gesture to the conte and then, turning to Alva, she did the same but with a smile that said welcome, more than any words could.
‘Claudia, will show you to your room. If you will excuse me, Alva,’ he turned to leave. Even in the soft pale-blue jeans and dark-green cashmere polo shirt, he was every inch the haughty aristocrat but she would not be put off and she said, ‘And you will come and show me the Palazzo, Conte Luca — at what time might I expect you?’
He turned to face her, his expression stony. He opened his mouth and then seemed to change his mind, for he looked at his gold wristwatch and said. ‘In one hour, Alva.’
In the wake of his departure, she let out an audible sigh.
‘The contessa has not changed.’ Claudia murmured. ‘I see it, but you look so frail. Come, you have your old room — you might remember — it looks down to the sea and you so loved to watch the sea.’
‘Did I? I wish I could remember.’ Alva put a hand up to her head, her eyes sweeping the impressive hallway. The tiles beneath her feet were colourful and obviously precious. The magnificent hallway was panelled in fine wood; several paintings graced the walls — judging by their colour and style they had to have been painted at the time of the Renaissance and probably were worth more money than she could imagine. She took note of the frescoed ceiling and the gold-painted elaborate mouldings. Surprising her, a band seemed to tighten around her heart. She recognized it stemmed from emotional, rather than physical pain. She looked up the stairs, the band tightened. She did not want to move. It was Claudia taking her elbow that oddly lessened the pain.
‘Come, Contessa.’ Claudia had picked up her bag. When they crossed the hall the woman tightened her hold. The staircase was wide and carpeted in a fine green and gold carpet that echoed the colour of the tiles in the hallway. Everything was so perfect; there was nothing to offend the eye.
Yet each step Alva took filled her with apprehension. They reached the first landing and Claudia escorted Alva to the left. There were many doors but the one the woman opened was the last one and faced down the corridor.
It was a huge room, not merely a bedroom but a sitting-room too. There was an antique writing desk; a scarlet silk covered chaise longue and the bed — a huge four-poster complete with scarlet bed hangings. The floors were wooden but here and there was an expensive Persian rug, cream and with dashes of scarlet. Going to the bed to test with a curious finger, the mattress for comfort, she saw, looking up, that these ceilings too were frescoed with scenes of barely clad nymphs and amorous shepherds. Had she liked that? Now it seemed to her to be a little too sensual for her taste. More brothel than palazzo, she thought, and she smiled a little: how did she know that about either place!
Claudia threw back the wooden shutters and the sunlight spilled into the room. She placed the suitcase on the bed and went to open another door that Alva saw, when she joined the woman, let on to a large bathroom. Alva went to inspect this, firstly looking at the ceiling in case there were any other scenes of an amorous nature. However here, there were none. The colour scheme was predominantly white, the bath, large and deep shone as if it were brand new. There was a walk-in shower and the fluffy rugs were in a variety of bright colours that softened the effect of the stark whiteness. The towels were coloured too, carefully chosen to match the rugs.
‘It’s all very beautiful,’ Alva murmured.
‘Oh yes, the bathroom is new, Contessa. The conte, he had all the plumbing renewed, it cost millions of lire I think but the conte said it had to be done. You remember the plumbing before,’ Claudia laughed. ‘Oh my, it groaned so in the night, do you remember, Contessa?’ Then with a sympathetic nod Claudia said, ‘Of course you do not, Contessa, but you will, one day it will all come back and you will remember so many good things.’
‘Even groaning plumbing?’ Alva managed a shy smile.
‘Even that.’
The woman busied herself unpacking the meagre contents of Alva’s case; Alva heard her clicking her tongue as she saw how poor the things were. Alva went out on to the wrought-iron balcony and saw the view that her maid had told her she loved. It was incredible. Down the slopes of olive groves, across the green vista, the sea could be seen, very blue and still. In fact the view itself was so still and calm it could have been a painting instead of reality. How strange that she did not recognize the view and saw it as if for the first time. It seemed impossible that such beauty had been obliterated from her mind. Yet something was there, a feeling inside her that made her just vaguely uncomfortable. It was beautiful and yet there was a but there, somewhere at the back of her mind.