Shadows of the Past (3 page)

‘Your clothes were ruined in the accident. I offered to send some clothing to you but they said they would find you something to wear. That is why they are a bad fit.’

‘Goodness, where was I living? I had to have some clothes, surely?’

‘You had been staying at a flat that belonged to some friends who are abroad travelling. You do not remember where it was.’

She shivered again. She was not particularly cold, it was the way he had said that she would fake her illness that disturbed her more than anything else he said. That was the thing that stayed in her mind, teasing her. She hated the implication, yet she sensed, again from something deep inside her, that he would not be drawn on the matter. She would let it go, for now.

‘What is that dome?’ she pointed to a white dome peeping over the cypress trees.

‘It is a summerhouse. You can see it tomorrow. Come, Alva, I should not like you to take cold.’

‘All right.’ She stood slowly. She looked up at him, he was so good-looking, and it was incredible that this man, who had everything, had chosen her to be his wife. ‘I don’t know how I can thank you, Conte, I really am so grateful.’

‘It is the least I could do.’ His reply was stiff and formal.

They turned to walk slowly back to the house. ‘Renata is here but I doubt you will see her.’

‘Renata?’ she queried.

‘My daughter.’

She stopped in her tracks, gazing up at him, puzzlement clouding her eyes.

He said at once. ‘Not your daughter, Alva. Renata is my daughter by my first wife.’

‘Oh, you had a previous wife? Before me I mean.’

‘Yes I did. She was killed in a road accident. Renata was with her and has somehow never forgiven herself for being the one that lived.’

‘How tragic,’ she murmured, her heart filling with sympathy. ‘The poor girl.’

‘Well, yes, Renata has quite a few problems. I may as well tell you Alva, that you two never did get on.’

‘Oh dear, we didn’t? Was she jealous that you married me?’

He stiffened, pulling himself to his full height, his face set in haughty lines of barely concealed contempt. ‘My daughter had been through a very bad time, Alva. Perhaps if you had been less critical you would have earned her respect.’

‘I was critical of her to you?’ she asked.

‘Oh no, not to me. Alva, I do not think this is the time to discuss the pros and cons of anything.’

‘Oh, but I do.’ She stopped, standing looking up at him, not put off by his glacial expression. ‘You seem to imply that I am some kind of monster stepmother.’

‘I implied no such thing,’ he said.

‘I don’t think I should stay here,’ she whispered, a hand now folded against her throat. ‘Renata obviously has issues with me and I don’t want to cause her unhappiness.’

‘You won’t. She won’t be here; she’s going back to university in the morning.’

‘University? Then Renata is not a child?’

‘No, she is nineteen.’

‘So she was not a little child when I came here.’

‘She was fifteen.’

‘I see,’ Alva murmured. A troubled teenage girl, only eight years her junior, no wonder they had had problems. She had hardly been in a position to understand and help a girl who was suffering so many traumas. She could see how difficulties would have arisen. This lifestyle would have been new to her, she would have been finding her way and it would have been testing even without a resentful teenage girl on the scene.

She looked up at the man she had married. His stare was cold and haughty; it seemed impossible to believe that they had been intimate with each other, that he had kissed her and trembled in her arms. Had he done that? Perhaps it had been a cold marriage, yet instinctively she knew it could not have been. She was not a cold person. As she tried to imagine what it would have been like, she felt a faint stirring of pleasure deep inside her. Hastily she looked away from him.

‘I think I need to rest,’ she murmured.

‘Of course, I’ll take you back to the house.’

CHAPTER TWO

Alva wakened early. She sat up in bed, running her hands up to her temples and massaging the flesh, trying to remember …
something
,
anything
. For a moment she felt confused, uncertain as to where she was. Struggling out of the tangle of bedding and leaving the bed, she went to the window, throwing back the wooden shutters to look out on a scene of misty whiteness.

Thin streaks of sunbeams speared the pale mist that clung to the tops of the trees. Everything was glistening damply. There was the sound of birds but little else, just above the swirling mist she could see the very blue ocean. Of course, it was Santa Caterina. She was staying with her husband, Conte Mazareeze.

The view was so perfect and yet somehow, deep inside her, there was a feeling of — what was it? She sought to describe it —
discontent
? She shrugged the thought aside; the feeling came from her momentary confusion and nothing more.

Turning from the window she saw her cast-off clothing and without thought, she pulled on the jeans and the cashmere sweater. She had to get out. The room seemed to stifle her, the scarlet and green, the overripe maidens and cherubs on the ceiling were too sensual and, at the same time, suffocating.

The house was silent; she passed through it quietly. From somewhere she could smell the delicious aroma of fresh bread and coffee. Her stomach gurgled a little with pleasure but ignoring it, she flung back the great door and stepped on to the tiled terrace.

She headed swiftly for the domed building she had seen yesterday. Reaching it, she saw it was as the conte had told her, a summerhouse — a classical, white portico building, quite exquisite. She peered inside through the glass doors; it was furnished with the kind of furniture that would not have disgraced a sitting-room. Trying the door she found it locked. There was something about this spot that awakened an alien feeling inside her. She could not comprehend what kind of feeling it was, was it fear? Or was it sadness? She could not sort out in her mind how she felt, but that she felt something was evident. Her spine felt as if cold fingers were running along the bones.

It made no sense and yet she wanted to run away from the place.

Spying a path running to the back of the building she ran towards it, taking it at a fast pace, wanting to get away from the summerhouse and whatever it was that had once happened there to make her feel so strange.

The path twisted through a copse of trees, spiralling downwards. Eventually after about a mile, she came to a wrought-iron gate. She opened the gate and found herself on a rutted road. The road was steep but she took the downward slope. On one side of the road were olive groves and on the other was the high, honey-coloured stone wall that encircled, she assumed, the palazzo.

Unsure of where she was going and what she was doing, she nevertheless followed the road as it twisted and turned. The walls of the palazzo were gone now and in its place were vineyards. The waves of white mist drifted by her like a wraith, yet never obscured the way.

At last the road levelled out; the first red-roofed house appeared and then another and another, until at last there was a cluster of houses, the road became a cobbled street and she found herself in a small village of brightly painted houses. There were passages between the houses — some were broad cobbled steps — but she kept to the main road. Eventually the road opened up and she found herself in a square. There was a church, a baker, a bar and a shop that appeared to be a general store.

Four men were sitting at a table outside the bar. They had cups of coffee and had been chatting loudly when she first came into the square then, seeing Alva, they stopped talking and stared at her.

After hesitating, she walked on, as she neared them she murmured, ‘
Buon giorno
.’

To her surprise, the men stood — three were wearing caps and these they removed, bowing their heads lightly. ‘
Buon giorno,
Contessa,’ they said.

Nervously she smiled, and then hurriedly crossed the square. She needed sanctuary — wanted to be alone, to think. What had she done? Was she running away? She could not think what had made her follow the road, what impulse had driven her to do something so foolish. It had not occurred to her that people would know who she was, that it would be impossible for her to remain anonymous. She looked different from the Caterinians, being so fair. She ought to have realized she would stand out.

The church door was open. Running up the steps she went inside, sliding into a pew at the back. The interior was beautiful, rich with gold and with incredibly vibrant frescoes.

As her eyes became accustomed to the surroundings she noted that there were several women kneeling in the front pews, their heads covered. Perhaps she and Luca had married in this very church. Luca, how the name tripped from her tongue. Yesterday he had been the conte and now in her mind he had become Luca and it had happened so naturally, as if she had never lost her memory of him. Yet as she pursued him further in her mind, nothing came to the fore. Just his name, Luca; she murmured it out loud as if this would trigger something but it did not, yet it sounded so sweet on her tongue and with it came a rush of feeling so potent it knocked the very breath from her body.

Her stomach grumbled. It had been so foolish to come all this way without eating something. Yesterday she had not gone down to dinner and had sent word that she was going to bed early. She had eaten nothing but a couple of biscuits and now she had walked at least four miles. Having no purse with her, she knew she would have to walk back to the palazzo and uphill all the way, on an empty stomach.

When she left the church the sun had dominance, it beat down on the shiny surface of the square. The men were still outside the bar; a man near the general store was swilling down the area in front of the shop with a bucket of water.

The sound of a car’s engine caused her to pause before crossing the square. The car, a low-slung white two-seater sporty model, pulled up suddenly and the door opened to reveal Luca.

With restrained elegance he pulled himself from the car and crossed to her side. ‘Alva,’ he murmured, ‘get in.’ Although he spoke softly, there was a command in his voice. She looked up at him, thought of saying she preferred to walk, but then realized that would be foolish. Her legs felt rather like a young foal’s and twice as unsteady. Gratefully, she slid into the passenger seat as he opened the door. Without looking at her, he slammed the door to close it; the noise of it seemed to echo around the square.

As he drove past the bar, she saw the men watching their progress with interest. Turning she looked at Luca. He was looking stern and uncompromising. Obviously he was annoyed with her.

‘How did you know where I was?’ she asked.

‘A telephone call.’

She clicked her tongue impatiently. ‘There was no need for that. Why would anyone do that anyway?’

‘Because they know you are not, shall I say, yourself, and they are concerned. You wander in the square at seven a.m. and you think it will not cause comment.
Dio mio
you must be mad if you think that!’

‘Well I am mad, in a way, isn’t that so?’

‘If you like.’

Her stomach swelled yet not from hunger, there was a dull pain there and she could not explain it to herself. He was after all only agreeing with her and what did she expect? That he would understand her confusion.

‘You really don’t like me very much do you?’ She dared, even though she dreaded the confirmation.

He said after a while. ‘
Va bene
.’

‘What did I do to make you dislike me?’ She dared the question, yet dreaded the reply.

‘Now is not the time for this,’ he said sternly. His hands moved confidently across the steering wheel. They were capable, strong hands, darkly tanned. She thought of them touching her body and gave a little gasp. He turned to give her a quick glance.

‘What is it?’

‘Nothing, I think I should know everything. It’s cruel to be this way and not to tell me the reason.’

‘Being what way, Alva? Have I been rude to you? Have I made you uncomfortable?’

‘Of course not, you are almost too polite.’ Then looking at him she added, ‘Frigidly so.’

‘I am sorry; I cannot help how I feel, Alva.’

His apology made her feel suddenly sad; it was possible that she had done something unforgivable and it troubled her. That in itself did not really make sense, for surely if she had done something so bad that her husband no longer loved her, then it followed that she would not care. But she did care, cared too much for her own peace of mind.

‘Did you love me?’ she asked.

‘Love you?’ He rasped out the question, his jaw was set firm. ‘What is love?’

‘Deep feelings for another person, emotional involvement, a willingness to do anything to make that person happy, putting them before yourself,’ she shrugged. ‘Something like that I would imagine.’

‘Emotional involvement?’ he reflected on the words, saying them softly, almost under his breath. When he next said something she knew it was meant as a rebuttal of any feelings of love she might suspect him of once having. It was also meant as an insult. ‘The sex was good.’

She waited a moment, the car now turned into the gates. ‘I’m pleased I was able to get something right.’

He made a slight hiss as he took a deep breath. So, he was not expecting that. Perhaps the other Alva had never spoken up to him, was it possible she had been a doormat and then for some reason done something reprehensible? It could be that the reprehensible act had been a cry for help. She had only his word that she had been bad, it could be that she was not bad in other people’s eyes. Claudia seemed to respect and like her, so obviously she had been good to her maid. Yet Alva knew she could not ask anything of Claudia, it would not be fair on the woman and it would not be the done thing anyway.

The car drew to a stop outside the entrance to the palazzo, Luca got out and she waited until he had gone around the front and opened the door for her. As elegantly as she could, she swung her legs around and climbed out of the car. There was a little frisson of pleasure as she realized she had left the car with style. As she passed him, for he stood still holding the door like a smart chauffeur, her sleeve brushed his arm. He recoiled from her as if she had stuck a needle in his arm. Alva looked up at him, staring into his haughty handsome face, his dark-golden coloured eyes met her gaze and he made no attempt to avert his eyes from her scrutiny.

‘I must have been a real bitch,’ she said.

‘I would not use that word,’ he said.

‘You wouldn’t?’

‘Definitely not, Alva. You were difficult, you made things difficult but there was nothing bitchy in what you did.’

Her stomach heaved, she felt the urge to be sick, felt an acrid taste crawl up her throat.

‘Excuse me,’ she said and then she turned and ran away. She reached the bathroom; her stomach had to be empty but nevertheless something came gushing from her mouth. Waves of dizziness came over her and she sank on to the cool tiles, resting her cheek against the coldness, longing for the vertigo and the pain to go away.

It was Claudia who came and found her, helping her up, pushing aside her apologies with kind words. Soon Alva was lying on the bed, a cool damp towel over her eyes and forehead. Her eyes closed, she felt herself drifting away into nothingness.

Later, perhaps an hour had passed, when Claudia came with a tray of tea and warm rolls, urging Alva to eat a little.

‘I forgot about my medication, Claudia, in my bag. Would you please … ?’

‘A moment, Contessa.’ The woman moved confidently across the room and retrieved Alva’s handbag from the wardrobe.

Alva took the cocktail of tablets. Perhaps that was what had made her feel so ill, yet she knew that could not be the reason for her nausea. The medication had not had any effect on her before. Besides, she was nearly finished with taking them. The doctor had given her just enough and once they were finished she was to try to get by without them.

‘Eat a little,’ Claudia urged.

Alva did so, her stomach yawning even more emptily and, surprisingly, after the second bite, she found that the food slid down easily. The rolls were delicious and the tea hot and weak, as she liked it.

Claudia came later and ran a bath for her. It all seemed a little strange to have someone do these tasks for her. She was certain it was not how she had been brought up. Obviously, she had to have been independent, being away at school and then living with an unpleasant aunt. Her aunt, if she disliked her so much, was unlikely to have fussed around her.

‘Claudia, what was I like …
before
?’ Curiosity got the better of her, the words slipping out when the woman came and said that her bath was ready.

‘Why, Contessa, just like now,
gentile
, Contessa,
simpatico
.’

Claudia smiled, her head to one side, as if she thought that Alva was crazy for asking the question. ‘You will not change your character, Contessa, just because you cannot remember. How can you do such a thing?’