The Truth Behind Their Practical Marriage. Marguerite Kaye

down for my sister,’ Estelle said, because she felt she had to say something. For heaven’s sake, he really wasn’t at all handsome. Though he did have the most irresistible smile. ‘Do you have any siblings?’

      ‘I have one older sister, Clodagh. She seems to think that gives her the right to organise my life, despite the fact that she has a husband and three children of her own.’

      ‘But you adore her, really, don’t you?’

      ‘Oh, yes.’ Aidan grinned. ‘Never more so than when we’re a thousand miles apart. Actually, I don’t mean that. She has my best interests at heart, it’s just that…’

      ‘Her idea of what that constitutes and yours don’t necessarily align?’

      ‘There speaks the voice of experience. Is—remind me of your eldest sister’s name?—is she cast in the same mould?’

      ‘Eloise. And, yes, she is, in a way, though I can’t blame her, for she had to stand in for our mother practically from the moment Phoebe and I were born.’

      ‘Clodagh had to step into the breach too. Our mother died when I was a babe, not more than two years old. I hardly remember her.’

      ‘Do you see much of her?’

      His face clouded. ‘Not so much these days. She has three boys to raise, so she has enough on her plate. I tend to leave her to it. She lives just outside Wicklow, about fifty miles from Cashel Duairc.’

      ‘Cashel Doo-ark?’ Estelle mouthed, frowning. ‘Dark Castle?’

      ‘Brooding, or gloomy, would be a more accurate translation, though the name refers to a previous castle on the site.’

      ‘Is it your home, then? Do you actually live in a proper castle?’

      ‘Oh, yes, replete with a lake and turrets, battlements and even a dungeon. Pretty much everything save a moat.’

      ‘And a resident ghost, no doubt?’

      The wine he had been pouring slopped on to the table as his hand suddenly shook. Aidan set the jug down, mopping up the mess with his napkin. ‘Too many to mention.’ He took a draught of wine. ‘Ah good, here comes our next course,’ he said with palpable relief.

      ‘Pappardelle sulla lepre,’ Signor Giordano announced with a reverence which was entirely justified by the aroma rising from the plate, the gamey smell of hare mingling with wine, garlic and tomatoes.

      Aidan was embarrassed, she decided. A mathematician ought not to believe in ghosts, but his dark and gloomy castle obviously harboured something that defied logic and reason. She longed to question him, but she didn’t want to embarrass him further. Picking up her fork and spoon, the first mouthful of the hare ragu made her forget all about ghosts. Her toes curled with pleasure. ‘Delizioso.’

      ‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Aidan said, smiling once again, raising his glass.

      ‘You haven’t even tasted it yet.’

      ‘I wasn’t referring to the dish.’

      ‘Food can be delicious, wine can be delicious, but you can’t describe a person as delicious, that’s ridiculous.’ Though what was ridiculous, Estelle told herself, was to blush at such an odd compliment.

      His smile broadened, but he shook his head, refusing to be drawn, and the conversation turned to Florence and remained there, until they had both finished the pasta, and the plates had once more been cleared. ‘Would you like cheese, an ice, coffee?’ he asked.

      ‘No to all, thank you very much. What I need is to walk off this excellent lunch.’ She hesitated only briefly this time. ‘Would you like to…?’

      ‘Very much. Give me a minute to settle the bill.’

      They made their way back to the Arno, walking along the riverbank as far as the Ponte alla Carraia, pausing in the middle of the bridge to look downriver. It was late afternoon and the sun was obscured by a heat haze, turning the river muddy and sluggish, the usually bright reflections of the buildings on the banks shimmering shadows. The air was damp, not so humid as to be unpleasant but languid, as if the sun were too sleepy to burn the mist away.

      They retraced their steps on the opposite side of the river. There were fewer people about at this time of day, and their large lunch had made them both as lethargic as the afternoon, content to wander slowly, to gaze about them at the serene, confident beauty of the city. Estelle talked of her travels, reticent at first, made more garrulous by Aidan’s obvious interest and his perceptive questions.

      At exactly the moment when she was beginning to crave a cool drink, he suggested they stop and a little café seemed to appear out of nowhere. She sat beside him at the tiny marble-topped table looking out over the Arno, their knees brushing, her mood as serene as the city. ‘Cashel Duairc. It sounds ridiculously romantic, your home. Is it very old?’

      ‘Parts of it go back a few hundred years, but the current castle was rebuilt more recently. There’s all sorts of papers, accounts and deeds in the attics. My father was always saying that someone should write a history of the place, but no one ever has.’

      ‘How exciting. No, really,’ Estelle said, in answer to his sceptical look, ‘there were all sorts of documents in the attics at Elmswood Manor which we consulted to help with the restoration. The walled garden, for example, had fallen into a complete state of disrepair, and I discovered one of the original drawings, along with a map from around the time it had been laid out, allowing Aunt Kate to restore the garden to its original condition. Elmswood Manor is Aunt Kate’s home,’ she explained, seeing Aidan’s confusion. I think I mentioned, she took the three of us in when we were orphaned. It’s a long story, and beside the point. How lucky you are, to have such an archive waiting to be investigated.’

      ‘You are serious! Should you like to be my archivist?’

      ‘Yes, please! I am fascinated by old documents.’

      ‘Good Lord!’ Aidan exclaimed. ‘No wonder the time has passed so quickly today, since we have far more in common than anyone would ever imagine, looking at the pair of us. We are both crusty academics, in our own way.’

      Estelle chuckled, but shook her head. ‘One cannot claim to be an academic when one is utterly uneducated. I know nothing of the classics, nor have any interest in them. Ancient history, it seems to me, is nothing more than stories and speculation. I’ve no intentions of visiting Rome, or any of the other popular ancient sites recommended in all the guide books. And I’m not interested in battles and wars or much in politics either.’

      ‘I was force fed all the classics at school, and I came to much the same conclusion, that it was all speculation. Opinion tacked on to the few known facts.’

      ‘But weren’t some of the greatest mathematicians ancient Greeks?’

      ‘Yes, but it’s their work I’m interested in, not—oh, I don’t know, philosophy, history or archaeology.’

      ‘What has always struck me, reading history books, even recent ones, is how absent women are from the stories they tell. Of course they didn’t take part in important battles, and they were not permitted to be politicians, but that doesn’t mean they didn’t play any sort of role. Take Aunt Kate. Will history take any notice of the key role she has played not only in preserving Elmswood Manor for Uncle Daniel’s heir, but in restoring it to its former glory? To my knowledge, Aunt Kate doesn’t keep a diary. My uncle rarely writes, and what she does with his letters I have no idea. The only evidence of her contribution will be in the account books and all the domestic paperwork—there, I told you you’d be bored.’

      ‘On the contrary, I’m fascinated. Where is Uncle Daniel and why doesn’t he write?’

      ‘It’s complicated.’

      When