Farelli's Wife. Lucy Gordon

had dozed off as soon as he’d settled down, nestling against her. Joanne looked down tenderly at the bright head, and thought sadly of Rosemary who would never see her son grow.

      ‘He’s asleep already,’ she murmured.

      ‘He trusts you,’ Franco said. ‘That’s remarkable. Since his mother died he trusts nobody, except me.’

      ‘Poor little mite. Isn’t there someone around here who can be a mother to him?’

      ‘The servants make a fuss of him, but nobody can take his mother’s place. Ever.’

      Joanne turned her head so that she could brush her cheek against Nico’s silky hair, and instinctively tightened her arms about him- Nothing was working out the way she’d thought. She’d been reluctant to see Franco again, fearing to be tormented by her old feelings. She hadn’t allowed for the lonely child, and the way he would entwine himself in her heart.

      ‘It’s time he was in bed,’ Franco said.

      ‘Yes,’ she said softly, rising with Nico in her arms. His head drooped against her shoulder as she headed for the stairs, and she smiled down at him tenderly.

      Celia was upstairs, and darted away as soon as she saw her to open the door to Nico’s room. Together they undressed the sleepy child, and slipped him between the sheets. He put his arms about Joanne again, and she hugged him back, her heart aching for the little boy who’d gone without his mother’s embraces for so long.

      ‘Will you sing to me?’ he whispered.

      ‘What shall I sing?’

      ‘The song about the rabbit.’

      For a moment her mind went blank. Then she remembered that Rosemary had written a little nonsense verse that she’d sung to Nico. Gradually the words came back to her, and she began to sing in a husky voice.

      ‘Look at the rabbit, scampering home.

      See how his tail bobs, bobs, bobs as he runs.

      It’s late and he wants his supper,

      Then he’ll curl up and go to sleep.

      And he’ll snore, he’ll snore, he’ll snore.’

      Nico gave a small delighted chuckle. ‘Sing it again,’ he begged.

      Obediently Joanne sang the little verse a second time, and then a third.

      ‘Again,’ he whispered.

      From the corner of her eye she could see Franco standing in the doorway, keeping back, not to disturb them. He didn’t move or make a sound, but she was aware of him with every fibre of her being, even while she concentrated on the child.