Lorenzo gave a weak smile and now his voice held a touch of its normal sparkle as he whispered, ‘One of the new gardeners taught him some bad words.’
‘Did he?’ Grace smiled, hugging him close once more before rising. ‘And knowing Benito I’m sure he repeats them with great relish?’ Benito was Lorenzo’s parrot, a huge bird whose big, compact body, strong, rounded wings and short, stout hooked bill were as formidable as his nature. He either loved or hated, there was no halfway house with Benito, and he could use his lethal bill and clawed feet to painful effect on occasion. However, the irascible bird adored his small master, who could do anything with him, and had never suffered so much as a small peck.
Lorenzo took her hand and they moved towards the open front door, and although the small, warm fingers clutching hers were wonderfully comforting, Grace was vitally aware of that tall, dark figure just behind her as they stepped across the threshold of Casa Pontina.
The light, cool hall, with its beautifully polished wooden floor and white walls hung with exquisitely framed paintings, was quiet and still, the air scented with a large bowl of freshly cut flowers, and for a moment Grace couldn’t believe that Liliana’s tall, gracious figure wouldn’t sweep out of the imposing drawing room to greet her, her lined but still beautiful face wreathed in smiles of welcome.
Liliana had lived for her family, loving all three of her children with an intensity that was very Italian, and Grace knew for a fact that Bianca’s being adopted had made her even more precious to her mother; that was the way Liliana was. Once Grace had married Donato she had become a second daughter in her mother-in-law’s eyes.
Lorenzo pulled her along the hall before she had time to reflect further, past the formal drawing room, ornate dining room and Donato’s massive study, and down the two steps that led to the back of the house where the breakfast room, kitchens and two large family rooms were situated. It was through one of the latter, specially designated to Lorenzo and filled with his toys and computer equipment, that they walked, and out onto a small covered patio that overlooked green lawns and trees, and in the far distance the vivid blue of an olympic-size swimming pool.
Benito was sitting on his perch, grumbling to himself as he watched one of the gardeners weeding a patch of salvias some fifty yards away, but at the sound of Grace’s voice he showed his pleasure by dancing clumsily and screaming a welcome in his harsh voice, ruffling his brightly coloured plumage and lowering his short neck for her to tickle his head, his bright, beady eyes half closed in delight.
‘He remembers me.’ Grace was almost reduced to tears by the bird’s faithfulness. ‘I thought he would have forgotten me by now,’ she said thickly, fighting back the weakening emotion as she stroked the beautiful silky feathers.
‘You are not easily forgotten.’ Donato’s voice was low and pitched only for her ears but the hypocrisy hit her as though he had shouted the words, and when she spun round to glare at him hot colour stained her cheeks scarlet. He had been silent for twelve months, not a phone call, a letter, not even a brief postcard, and now he dared to say she was not easily forgotten?
‘How is Maria these days?’ she asked tightly, as though the question was a natural follow-on to his comment—which to her it was. Maria Fasola: young, beautiful, family friend...and Donato’s mistress. ‘Well, I hope?’ she added grimly before he could speak.
‘As far as I know.’ He looked at her expressionlessly, his eyes veiled and dark. ‘Is there any reason why she shouldn’t be?’
‘None at all.’ Her voice was cold and she was about to say more when she noticed Lorenzo’s puzzled gaze as he glanced towards them, obviously unsure of what exactly was being said. ‘And I need not ask if Benito is well, need I?’ she asked the small boy, forcing a playful note into her voice. ‘He looks enormous, Lorenzo; I’m sure he has grown several inches since I saw him last.’
‘It is because he is fluffing out his feathers, Grace.’ The young voice was very earnest; Benito was his pride and joy and could do no wrong. ‘He is not fat.’
‘Grace! Grace!’ The irrepressible bird screeched her name noisily. ‘Donato and Grace!’
‘All right—That is enough!’ Donato waved a finger at the parrot who stared back at him cheekily, head on one side as he considered how far he dared go.
‘Enough! Enough!’ he mimicked wickedly. ‘Naughty Benito! Bad bird! Scusi, scusi.’
Grace saw Donato close his eyes for one infinitesimal moment and turned away to hide a smile. The autocratic head of the Vittoria empire might control his family and those about him with a rod of iron, his power and influence absolute and unquestioned, but in a battle of wills with Benito the parrot won every time. He was a definite thorn in Donato’s flesh and she couldn’t help admiring the bird’s intrepid spirit.
‘Come, you must refresh yourself and then Anna will serve lunch.’ Donato took her arm as he spoke, but before she allowed him to lead her back into the house she promised Lorenzo she would be back shortly as the small boy raised an anxious face to hers.
‘Grace?’ he called after her, his thin voice high. ‘You are not leaving again? You are staying at Casa Pontina now?’
She felt Donato stiffen at her side and turned slowly, not knowing how to reply, but then the little white face in front of her caught at her heartstrings and her well-laid plan of escape after three days blurred and softened. She knew how it felt when everything that was normal was whipped out from under your feet, and Lorenzo was a sensitive child, very loving and given to deep emotion. Although he was as close to Donato as the difference in their ages allowed, he needed the warmth and understanding of a motherly heart at this time, she thought rapidly.
Admittedly there were the female servants—Cecilia, the elderly cook, and Anna and Gina, the two young maids—and also the capable tutor Donato employed for his brother’s education, who came to the villa for several hours each day Monday to Friday, but Lorenzo was not close to them and, being a Vittoria, had been taught to maintain a stiff upper lip at all times.
The small boy’s love and devotion at the time of Paolo’s death had been an enormous comfort to her, and now she could do something for him when he needed her most, she reasoned painfully. All she wanted to do was to leave Casa Pontina and the memories of this past life and return to England as fast as she could, but she couldn’t abandon Lorenzo now.
In a few weeks, less even, the harsh shock of his mother’s death would begin to fade and the mercurial resilience of all children would come into play. This was the important time, the crucial time that might shape his personality for good or ill; she could spare him a few weeks of her life, surely? But could she stand being so close to Donato? She took a deep breath and smiled at the little face watching her so closely. She had no choice, as Donato had known all along.
‘I have a home in England now, Lorenzo, but I am going to stay with you until you are feeling better and don’t need me any more. Is that all right?’ she asked softly, knowing she had done the only thing possible when the small face relaxed and the look of panic and dumb confusion left the big dark eyes.
‘Sì.’ He nodded slowly before suddenly running to her, flinging his arms round her middle and hugging her tight, only to leave the room in a mad scamper, head downwards, to hide his tears of relief.
‘So...’ Donato stood with her, looking after the small figure as it disappeared. ‘This is not what you envisaged.’
‘No, no, it isn’t.’ His cool, controlled voice grated on her nerve-endings like barbed wire and she raised shadowed eyes to his. He had known what he was doing when he had sent that telegram, she thought bitterly, known her love and respect for his mother would force her to make the journey to Italy in spite of their failed marriage, and that once here she wouldn’t turn her back on Lorenzo’s plight.
He hadn’t bothered about her for months, had continued quite happily with his life here and all it held—an image of Maria’s