The Medici Lover. Anne Mather

his hands tightening on the steering wheel. ‘I told you, Suzanne—my father died some years ago.’

      ‘Well, yes …’ Suzanne considered the situation. ‘And your cousin lives at Castelfalcone.’

      ‘That is correct.’

      Suzanne drew her lower lip between her teeth, wishing he would be a little more forthcoming. ‘Your—er—cousin is married?’ she probed, and Pietro nodded once more.

      Suzanne tried to picture the household. She knew Italians held very strongly to the family ideal, but two women running a home was seldom successful. What was Pietro’s mother’s position in the household? Were there children? Was she her nephew’s housekeeper, or nursemaid to his children? Did other members of the Vitale family live in the house? Suzanne wished she had asked some of these questions before leaving London.

      ‘What—what does your cousin do?’ she queried unwillingly, and was surprised at the look of bitterness which crossed Pietro’s face.

      ‘Do?’ he echoed. ‘What do you mean—what does he do?’

      Suzanne, who had thought the question quite a simple one, shook her head. ‘I meant—what is his occupation?’ she explained swiftly. ‘I presume he does have one, doesn’t he?’

      Pietro glanced sideways at her. ‘My cousin is disabled,’ he stated harshly. ‘He had an accident three years ago.’

      ‘Oh!’ Suzanne wished she had never asked the question. She felt as if she had intruded into some personal tragedy, although there was curiously little sympathy in Pietro’s voice. ‘I’m sorry.’

      Pietro shrugged. ‘These things happen. Mazzaro is lucky to be alive.’

      ‘Mazzaro? That’s your cousin’s name?’

      ‘Mazzaro di Falcone, yes.’

      ‘Falcone?’ Suzanne couldn’t prevent the ejaculation. ‘But …’ She paused. ‘I assumed his name would be the same as yours.’

      ‘No.’ Pietro shook his head. ‘Mazzaro’s father was my mother’s brother.’

      ‘I see.’

      Suzanne stared out at the countryside through which they were passing. A fugitive gleam of sunlight was gilding the spire of a church she could see high up on the hillside. They were in rugged country, presently following a route that traced the winding course of a stream before rising to overlook the valley, rich with fields of ripening grain. They had passed through several villages, hamlets mostly, and ahead of them were rising the ascending plateaux of the Alps, snow-capped and magnificent, their pine-clad slopes the home of marmot and wild deer.

      It was beautiful country, but Suzanne was paying little attention to the scenery. Something about Pietro’s cousin’s name was familiar, and it took her several minutes to realise it was the same as the village. Or almost. Castelfalcone … Falcone.

      ‘Pietro—’ she began, only to have him interrupt her by asking whether she was hungry or tired, explaining that it was not much further now. His smile attempted to reassure her, and Suzanne shrugged, defeated. She would, without doubt, learn soon enough why Pietro should choose to be so reticent about his family.

      Castelfalcone reminded Suzanne a little of San Marino. Like the tiny republic perched high on its mountain, Castelfalcone was a fortified community, surrounded by crenellated walls and towers, with an encircling moat of water. It was entered by one of two arched gateways, its narrow streets and arcades redolent with history. A cobbled square, the Piazza della Cortina, Pietro told her it was called, seemed the focal point of the village, and there were plenty of people still about, enjoying the cool evening air. The doors of a trattoria stood wide and outside people were sitting at tables which in the heat of the day could be shaded by their striped umbrellas. Trees framed the piazza, some already dripping with blossom.

      ‘It’s beautiful!’

      Suzanne spoke involuntarily, and Pietro looked pleased. ‘Yes, it is,’ he agreed, casting a smiling glance in her direction. ‘We get many tourists in the season.’

      Suzanne glanced round as they circled the square and entered a narrow thoroughfare leading up out of the village. ‘Where does your cousin live?’ she asked frowning, and silently, Pietro gestured to a sign set at the side of the road just ahead of them. It read simply: ‘Villa Falcone’ with an arrow directing the motorist up a steep incline. Suzanne looked up, but all she could see was stone walls from this angle, and unknowingly she held her breath as Pietro swung across the road and accelerated swiftly up the tree-lined approach to tall iron gates.

      She could see the villa through the gates as Pietro went to open them, and her breathing quickened uncontrollably. She did not need to see the family crest decorating the twenty-feet-high gates to know that somehow she had got herself invited to one of Italy’s stately homes, although in her experience wealthy men did not advertise themselves as that sign appeared to do down below them.

      Pietro returned and got into the car, and she turned to him half impatiently. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she exclaimed, but he was putting the car into gear and would not look at her.

      ‘Would you have come if I had?’ he countered.

      ‘Probably not.’

      ‘That’s what I thought.’

      ‘But, Pietro, can’t you see? I can’t stay here!’

      ‘Why not?’ He had halted the car inside the gates and was waiting to get out to close them.

      ‘You know why not. Pietro, if this is your cousin’s home—’ She sighed. ‘Surely you understand.’

      He looked at her then. ‘Suzanne, do not concern yourself. My cousin does not have a lot of money, if that is what is worrying you.’

      ‘He must have!’

      ‘No.’ Pietro shook his head. ‘Suzanne, do you think your country is the only country to suffer from inflation and taxation? We have suffered, too. We are still suffering. There are few Italians with money today.’

      ‘But—this place …’

      Pietro shrugged. ‘What you are looking at, Suzanne, is a—museum, no? Rooms full of furniture and paintings, cases of china and glass, goblets and medallions, shelves of books which will never be read. A mausoleum would have more life! And in a few weeks tourists will come. They will be conducted around the Villa Falcone by my mother. They will buy a guide book, and we hope a souvenir to remind them of their visit. Now do you understand?’

      Suzanne understood what he was saying, but not the tone in which he was saying it. The contempt in Pietro’s voice was something she had not heard before.

      ‘But—but surely the paintings you mentioned—and other things—they must be valuable?’

      ‘No doubt.’

      ‘Then why doesn’t—I mean, I know there’s a great demand for such things today.’

      Pietro stared ludicrously at her, affecting horror at her words. ‘Suzanne! What you are suggesting is—blasphemous! Outrageous! Sacrilegious!’

      The mockery in his voice made her draw in her lips. ‘I gather your cousin does not want to sell,’ she said flatly.

      ‘You gather correctly.’ Pietro vaulted out of the car. ‘Excuse me.’

      When he came back after closing the tall gates, the mockery had disappeared. Instead, he apologised as he got into the car, giving her a rather shamefaced smile.

      ‘I am afraid I allow my cousin’s selfishness to upset me at times,’ he said. ‘Forgive me. I am not normally so impolite.’ He sighed. ‘No doubt, you are wondering where we live. Well, we occupy the west wing at the back of the villa. You will see it is built on three sides of enclosed square, with a loggia where one can sit on hot days. There is a fountain in the square,