Over the next few days, Clare applied herself to enjoying her holiday with a kind of dogged determination. There was no further communication from the Villa Minerva, so it seemed that the Marchese had decided to accept his dismissal from her life.
Which is exactly what I want, Clare told herself robustly. And all I have to do now is put the whole sorry business out of my mind.
The weather was glorious, so part of each day was spent by the pool, where she swam and sunbathed, watched indulgently by Violetta, who sat rigorously safe-guarding her complexion with a parasol.
On one occasion they drove to Urbino, so that Clare could see the art treasures in the magnificent Renaissance palace that towered over the city.
Another day they visited Assisi, where Violetta murmured sorrowfully over the damage caused by the earthquake to the two great basilicas of St Francis and Clare, which stood at opposite ends of the town, both of which were being rapidly restored, however, even down to the famous Giotto frescoes which had suffered so disastrously.
‘Was it very frightening?’ Clare asked.
Violetta shuddered. ‘The whole earth seemed to rock, mia cara. But I was so lucky. A few tiles from the roof—some panes of glass—that was all. Elsewhere such hardship and tragedy.’
As they drove back to Cenacchio, Clare found herself looking up at the rugged Appennine hills which provided such a dramatic backdrop to the narrow road they were travelling on. They said wolves still lived on those steep, thickly forested slopes, and she could believe it. There was a wild, almost savage quality about them.
At the same time they looked so majestic—and eternal. As if nothing could move them. Yet the earth was such a fragile place, at the mercy of Nature in all kinds of ways, as the recent quakes had proved so drastically.
And even when the world seemed at peace, as it did today, there were other more personal storms to endure. Disturbed nights, with too vivid dreams, and, by day, a strange, aching emptiness that she could not escape, she thought, shivering.
‘I need to stop in Cenacchio,’ Violetta announced as they reached the small town. ‘My attorney wishes me to sign some papers over the lease of a field. So tedious. Why don’t you look at the shops, and we will meet at the caffe in the square in a half-hour, cara?’
Clare agreed readily to this plan, wandering happily round the narrow cobbled streets, window-shopping at the boutiques, pausing at a small bookshop to buy a local guide book, and, on impulse, a life of St Clare of Assisi.
At the delicatessen, she stared longingly at its mouth-watering displays of cheeses and sausages, and the enormous variety of goodies in jars and bottles.
Before she went home she would treat herself to some really good olive oil, she determined.
The half-hour was up, but there was no sign of Violetta at the caffe. Unperturbed, Clare seated herself at a table under the blue-striped awning, and ordered a cappuccino.
She began to glance through the life of the saint, finding to her amusement that her namesake was the patron of television.
Well, I suppose there has to be one, she thought, as she casually turned the pages.
When a shadow fell across the table, she assumed it was Violetta, and glanced up with a smile, only to find Paola gazing anxiously at her.
‘Signorina—Clare?’ Her face broke into an uncertain smile. ‘I hoped it was you. Are you alone? May I join you?’
‘Of course. I’m just waiting for my godmother.’ Clare returned the smile politely but without any particular enthusiasm.
‘Ah, the Signora Andreati. I was so pleased to meet her. Si amabile. Si elegante.’
‘Yes, she’s all of that,’ Clare agreed, her tone softening, touched by the wistful note in Paola’s voice.
The younger girl sat down beside Clare, and put a hand on her arm. ‘I have so much wanted to see you. I wanted to say how sorry I was for all that Guido made you suffer.’ She shook her head. ‘Che bruto. Did I not tell you?’
‘Yes,’ Clare acknowledged. ‘But I don’t think you should tell me again. Not when you’re talking about the man you’re going to marry.’
‘Niente paura,’ Paola asserted passionately. ‘It will not happen.’ She gave a wary look around her. ‘But I need your help.’
Clare sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Paola. But that wouldn’t be very wise. And you don’t really need help. You just have to say No and mean it.’
‘You do not understand.’ Paola lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘His uncle is with us now, and they will force me to do as they say.’
Which pretty well confirmed what Violetta had told her, Clare thought, not without sympathy.
‘Why not talk to the parish priest?’ she suggested. ‘I’m sure he isn’t allowed to marry people against their will.’
‘He does what Guido tells him,’ Paola said sullenly. ‘As they all do.’
Clare groaned inwardly. I don’t need this, she thought.
She said, ‘Then the Marchese is hardly likely to take any notice of what I say either.’
‘Oh, I do not mean that.’ Paola’s voice was conspiratorial. ‘But if you came to live at the Villa Minerva, you could help me escape.’
‘If memory serves, you tried that already,’ Clare said drily. ‘And if your fidanzato has all this power, he’d soon find you, like he did last time. Besides, where would you go?’ She leaned back in her chair. ‘Paola, the best thing you can do is try and talk Guido out of this marriage. Convince him that it would be a disaster.’
‘Or, there is another way.’ There was a glint of triumph in the other girl’s eyes. ‘I could always marry someone else.’
Clare felt her heart sink into her elegant sandals.
‘You have someone in mind?’ She tried to sound casual.
‘You know I do.’ Paola sounded shocked. ‘It is Fabio, of course.’
‘Naturalamente,’ Clare said in a hollow voice. ‘I didn’t realise he was back in the picture.’
‘He made contact again through Carlotta.’ Paola lowered her voice mysteriously. ‘Guido accused him of wanting only my fortune—said terrible, threatening things to him. For a while, he was frightened, but now he knows he cannot live without me, and he will risk anything.’
I bet, Clare thought stonily, tempted to take Paola by her pretty shoulders and shake her until her teeth rattled.
But that would solve nothing. In fact, it would probably harden Paola’s determination to ruin her life. And Clare hadn’t the slightest doubt that would be the outcome if the silly girl wasn’t stopped.
She could, of course, dump the whole thing on Guido Bartaldi, but he would probably try and put a stop to the affair by locking Paola in a convent, or something equally mediaeval. And that would simply turn her into a martyr, and make her more stubborn than ever.
No, Paola must somehow be made to see Fabio for what he really was. To be disillusioned so deeply that he would never stand a cat in hell’s chance with her again. Nor anyone else of his ilk, she added grimly.
But if Paola eluded Fabio’s frying pan, she should not be despatched to the Marchese’s fire either.
They’re just so wrong for each other, Clare told herself vehemently. It would be a wretched marriage for both of them.
Although