The Truth Behind Their Practical Marriage. Marguerite Kaye

      On Wednesday morning, he was seated two places away from her usual table in the café. He nodded, quirked a smile at her, then returned his attention to his notebook. His eyes were blue-green, with a permanent fan of lines at the edges. There were permanent lines on his brow too, and a furrow that deepened above his nose as he studied his notebook, his mouth turned down at the edges with concentration. Every now and then he looked up from his scribbling to stare off into the distance, to smile to himself, then continue writing. And every now and then, when she had been consciously looking in the other direction or concentrating on her pastry, she had the distinct impression that he was studying her, as covertly as she was studying him.

      What was in his notebook that he found so fascinating? It was not a journal, she decided, for his absorption seemed far too genuine. Diarists and journalists, she had noticed, made much of their occupation, making a show of setting out their writing and sketching implements, gazing down at the page in search of the perfect word or well-turned phrase, ensuring that those around them understood that they were serious travellers engaged in a serious endeavour, creating a tableau for onlookers to observe the creative process as deliberately as if they were on stage. But this man—no, he didn’t give a damn who was watching him.

      This time, she forced herself to leave before he did. He looked up as she pushed her chair back, then hurriedly looked away.

      It was Thursday, in the Uffizi galleries that they finally met. She was not particularly drawn to the collection, which was so vast that she felt quite overwhelmed by the sheer opulent beauty of the paintings and the tapestries, but she loved the sense of history that seemed to seep from the walls, even if she knew little about it. As ever, she wanted to see behind the public façade, to open all the locked and hidden doors, to discover the beating heart and all the lost corners too, of what had, extraordinarily, once been an elaborate set of offices. She loved the architecture, the simplicity of the exterior belying the extravagance within. And in particular she loved the view through the high arch at the end of the long narrow courtyard of the River Arno and the buildings jostling on the opposite bank. This was her favourite picture, framed by the gallery itself.

      She didn’t see him at first, being absorbed in a little drama that was being played out between a mother and her two children, who had as little interest in the art as she did, and were begging to be left to their own devices to play in the courtyard by the Arno. Their flustered mother was clearly tempted, and equally clearly reluctant to accede to their demands. Eventually, the woman threw her hands up in surrender, signalling that the family dose of culture would have to wait for another day, marching the jubilant pair towards the exit.

      She turned, smiling to herself, and walked straight into him. ‘I beg your pardon,’ she said in English, not at first realising that it was him, immediately correcting herself. ‘Mi spiace.’

      ‘No, I’m sorry, it was my fault.’

      Surprise, recognition, embarrassment and a kick of raw excitement made her skin flush. ‘You’re Irish!’ she blurted out, for his accent was unmistakable.

      ‘And your own mellifluous tones betray the fact that so indeed are you. Aidan Malahide, at your service.’

      ‘Estelle Brannagh.’

      He sketched a bow. ‘It is a pleasure, Mrs Brannagh.’

      ‘Miss,’ she corrected him, blushing as she curtsied.

      ‘Miss Brannagh.’

      Was she imagining his gratification at her single state? They smiled awkwardly at each other. He shuffled his feet, as if he was about to move on, but he made no move. Was this it then, the beginning and end of their briefest of acquaintances? In England, without anyone to make formal introductions, it would be. But they were not in England.

      ‘What do you make of the…?’

      ‘Are you enjoying…?’

      ‘Please,’ she said, indicating that he should continue.

      ‘I was merely wondering whether you were enjoying the paintings.’

      ‘I was—it is—there is so much to take in,’ Estelle floundered, unwilling to lie, but not wishing to be branded a Philistine. ‘It can be a little overwhelming. I was going to ask you the same question.’

      ‘I’ll be honest. I think the building more interesting than the content. The proportions and the perspective of the architecture—that, I could study all day.’

      ‘I’m so glad you said that, for it allows me to be honest too. This,’ Estelle said, indicating her favourite view, ‘I think it quite beautiful. As to the paintings—sadly, I find myself quite unable to go into raptures over them, let alone transcribe those raptures into my journal.’

      ‘As every other visitor to Florence does!’ To her delight and relief, he laughed. ‘There now, I knew from the moment I set eyes on you, taking your coffee in the piazza on Monday, that you were different. Most ladies taking coffee on their own have a book or a journal, but you seemed quite content in your own company. Not,’ he added hastily, ‘that I’ve been spying on you, it’s merely that I noticed you.’

      ‘It’s my hair.’ Self-consciously she put a hand to the nape of her neck. ‘Redheads are not very common here on the Continent.’

      He studied her for a moment, one brow raised. ‘You must know perfectly well that you are a beauty, and an uncommon one at that.’

      ‘Not so very uncommon at all, actually. I have two sisters, both also redheads and very similar in looks.’

      ‘Ah now, I’ve put your back up and I didn’t mean to. It’s why I didn’t speak to you, though I wanted to. I reckoned you must be sick of being accosted, and—well, as I said, you’d an air about you, of being perfectly content in your own company. Which I’ll leave you to now.’ He sketched another bow. ‘It was a pleasure, Miss Brannagh.’

      It took her until he had turned his back and taken two steps to summon up the courage to call him back. ‘Mr Malahide, don’t go just yet.’ But as he turned, her nerve was already crumbling. ‘You probably prefer to be alone—I noticed that you too seemed very content in your own company, but if you would like—oh, this is too awkward.’

      ‘It is indeed,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘You know nothing about me, and under normal circumstances, my being very much aware of that fact, I wouldn’t dream of inviting you to take coffee with me.’

      ‘Or perhaps an ice?’

      ‘Or indeed, an ice. Would it be presumptive of me to issue such an invitation?’

      ‘An ice, in a café in full public view,’ Estelle said, ‘hardly an unseemly suggestion. Admiring art is very tiring work. Your invitation isn’t in the least presumptive, Mr Malahide, it is very welcome, and I am happy to accept it.’

      They sat in a café in another of Florence’s many piazze. Mr Malahide drank coffee. Estelle ate a gelato flavoured with lemon.

      ‘What brought you to Florence?’ he asked her.

      ‘The pedantic answer is a ship. I sailed from Nice to Leghorn.’ She contemplated a spoonful of ice, allowing it to melt on her tongue before continuing. ‘In terms of my thinking, notwithstanding my views on art, all the guide books insist that no trip to the Continent is complete without a visit to Florence—so here I am.’

      ‘You’re travelling around Europe on your own!’

      ‘Is that so surprising?’

      ‘Yes,’ Mr Malahide said frankly.