The Medici Lover

‘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, and the sound of running water is delightful. I am sure you will like it.’

Suzanne wished she felt as confident. The long, south-facing portico of the villa was magnificent, of course. No one could fail to admire its classical lines, the stone façade inlaid with variegated marble, creating a pattern of light and dark over the entire building. But staying in such a place was something else. And if Pietro disliked his cousin so much, why did he stay?

They drove beneath an archway, overhung with vines, and along a tree-shaded avenue at the side of the villa, until Pietro drew up in a stone-flagged courtyard, flanked by garages and stables and various other outbuildings. An elderly man emerged from one of the buildings at their approach, but his greeting was barely civil when he recognised the car. Considering Pietro had been away for several weeks at least, Suzanne thought his welcome was less than enthusiastic. But Pietro seemed not to notice, hoisting their suitcases out of the back of the car, and bidding Suzanne to follow him.

A belt of trees shielded the villa from the stables, but the pergola-shaded walk back to the house was charming. Already Suzanne could see lights from the villa as darkness deepened amongst the trees, and a ripple of anticipation quickened her blood. Unwillingly, she was becoming intrigued by the situation here, curious to know more about the family who accepted all this magnificence as commonplace.

They came to the villa through formal gardens of lawns and hedges laid out with geometric attention to detail, and Suzanne saw the shadowy courtyard, mosaic-tiled, where a marble basin echoed to the waters of the fountain. The fluted columns of the loggia were indistinct in the fading light, but the balcony above would give a wonderful view of the surrounding countryside.

They entered into a long gallery, illuminated by wall lamps, intricately carved in bronze. All the downstairs apartments of the villa opened on to the loggia, Pietro had explained, but now the shutters were drawn against the invasion of night insects.

Their feet echoed on marble tiles, their presence seemed an intrusion to plastered walls, decorated with panels painted in colours which had faded only slightly with the years. Suzanne looked about her in wonder—at the panelling of the arched ceiling above their heads, at a side table inlaid with ivory, at the fine-grained marble beneath their feet. There was a silver salver standing on the table, and the richness of its scrollwork put its value far beyond the reach of any ordinary individual.

Pietro put down their cases and regarded her tolerantly. ‘I can see that you appreciate art and architecture, too,’ he commented dryly. ‘Come. We must let my—family—know we are here.’

His deliberate hesitation did not go unnoticed, and Suzanne looked down doubtfully at the purple corduroy slacks suit she was wearing. In these surroundings, trousers on a woman seemed an insult somehow. She wished she had worn a skirt. But then she had not known that Pietro’s family lived in one of Italy’s famous villas.

Before they could move, however, a door to their left opened, and the tall, slightly stooped figure of a man emerged. Suzanne stiffened, guessing this must be her host, but even so she was not prepared for her first meeting with the master of the Villa Falcone.

Amazingly, what struck her first about him was his eyes. Amazing, because in spite of his distorted body, she looked first into clear green eyes, deep set and thickly lashed, hooded by heavy lids. His eyes were beautiful, which made what came after much harder to look upon.

She had been expecting a younger man, for one thing. Pietro was, after all, in his early twenties, and as this man was his cousin, she had expected someone of a similar age. But Mazzaro di Falcone was much older, in his late thirties at least, and the thick black hair which fell below the level of his collar was streaked with grey in places. He was taller than the average Italian, with a lean muscular body, but he leaned heavily on two sticks, and when he moved his gait was slow and awkward, twisting his spine and obviously causing him some pain, judging by the tightness of his dark features. But it was the scarring of his face and neck which distorted his expression, giving him a vaguely malevolent appearance. He reminded Suzanne of Dante’s Fallen Angel, and the awareness of the feelings he was arousing inside her made her uneasy.

Pietro, perhaps sensing the tension in the air, moved towards his cousin. ‘Good evening, Mazzaro,’ he said, gesturing to Suzanne to come forward. ‘As you can see, we have arrived. Allow me to introduce you to my—to Suzanne, Suzanne Hunt.’ He paused, as his cousin’s eyebrows arched. ‘Suzanne, as you’ve probably guessed, this is my cousin Mazzaro, Count di Falcone.’

‘Count?’ The word was out before Suzanne could prevent it, and the fingertips of one hand sought her lips as if in admonishment.

Mazzaro di Falcone’s eyes narrowed. ‘No doubt my cousin omitted to mention what is, after all, purely a nominal title, Miss Hunt,’ he commented, in perfect English. ‘How do you do? As you can see, I am not in a position to shake your hand, but you are welcome to the Villa Falcone.’

‘Thank you.’ Suzanne glanced awkwardly at Pietro. ‘I—it was kind of you to permit me to come.’

Mazzaro made a dismissing gesture with his shoulders. ‘Your mother is in the small salon, Pietro. I know she is awaiting your arrival with much—excitement. If you and Miss Hunt will excuse me …’

Again he spoke in English, but Pietro broke in quickly in his own language, almost defiantly, Suzanne felt. ‘Suzanne speaks Italian fluently, Mazzaro. You don’t have to demonstrate your command of English on her.’

His words were ill-chosen, almost insolent in intonation, but Mazzaro di Falcone merely regarded his cousin with slightly amused eyes. ‘I gather you do not feel the need to do so,’ he remarked in Italian, and Pietro’s expression darkened angrily.

But Mazzaro did not wait to continue the altercation. With a faint bow of his head in Suzanne’s direction, he moved away along the hall, his shadow cast upon the panelling like some grotesque caricature of a man. Pietro, too, watched his cousin’s progress, and a little of the angry frustration left his face. Then he turned and took Suzanne’s arm.

‘Come! The small salon is this way.’

As they passed the room from which Mazzaro di Falcone had emerged, Suzanne glimpsed a high-ceilinged apartment, comfortably if sparsely furnished, with a wall of leatherbound books facing the door. But Pietro had already stopped outside an adjoining apartment, and as he pushed open double doors with a flourish, a young girl of perhaps ten years came rushing to greet him.

‘Pietro! Pietro!’ she cried excitedly, wrapping her arms around his middle, looking up into his face with wide-eyed delight. ‘I thought you were never coming!’

Pietro bestowed a kiss on both the child’s cheeks, and then looked over her head at the elderly woman seated in an armchair by the screened marble fireplace. ‘Mamma!’ he spoke with the warmth to which Suzanne was accustomed. ‘Mamma, it is so good to see you again.’

As Pietro went to receive his mother’s greeting, the child turned her attention to Suzanne, her brow furrowing with undisguised curiosity. She was a plain child, with the sallow complexion sometimes found in hotter climes, her straight black hair drawn unbecomingly back from her face in two stiff braids. And yet, when she had been greeting Pietro, animation had added warmth to her features, and it was then that Suzanne had guessed that she must be Mazzaro di Falcone’s daughter. Yet she had a neglected air, as if no one really took a great deal of interest in her, and certainly her clothes did not do justice to her slim little body.

Deciding that it might be easier if she spoke first, Suzanne forced herself to smile and say: ‘Hello. My name is Suzanne. What’s yours?’

Before the child could reply however, Signora Vitale’s voice rang out distinctly across the wide room: ‘Elena! Come here. At once.’

There was something about the Italian word avanti which gave it a much terser sound than its English translation: ‘Come’. Elena obviously responded to it, and without more ado, skipped obediently across to where Pietro’s mother was sitting, leaving the outsider feeling very much alone in the doorway.

This was the small salon, thought Suzanne in wonder, realising it was almost as big as the reception area of the hotel back in England. As in the hall, the walls here were inlaid with frescoed panels, depicting hunting scenes, the realism of a stag at bay reassuring her. She felt very much like that cornered animal at this moment. Signora Vitale was very much the mistress of the situation, seated in her tapestry-covered chair, Pietro slightly behind her, Elena standing in the circle of her arm, at home with the fine grain of polished wood and the richly woven carpets.

Pietro was looking at Suzanne, too, but with a gentler appraisal, and presently he beckoned her forward and introduced her to his mother. Like Pietro’s cousin, Signora Vitale was older than Suzanne had imagined, and she must have given up all hope of bearing a child before Pietro was conceived.

After greeting her son’s guest with a scarcely-concealed disapproval, which Suzanne put down to the informality of her appearance, the woman asked several personal questions about her background. Although Suzanne resented this inquisition, nevertheless, she gave in to it, deciding that as she had nothing to hide, there was no reason why she should not satisfy Signora Vitale’s curiosity. However, the old lady’s disapproval deepened when she heard that Suzanne’s parents were divorced, and in quelling tones she told the girl that there was no divorce in the eyes of God.

Pietro’s expression was apologetic, and his eyes begged her not to take what his mother said too seriously. Suzanne bit her tongue on the retort which sprang to her lips, and instead spoke again to the child.

‘Elena,’ she said, retrieving her smile, which had become strained and had finally disappeared in the face of Signora Vitale’s catechism. ‘What a pretty name!’

The little girl looked up at her doubtfully. No doubt Suzanne’s ability to address her in her own language had impressed her, but she still looked to Pietro’s mother for guidance. That lady drew the child to her, bestowed a kiss on both cheeks and then said: ‘You may go to bed now, Elena. You will have plenty of time to speak with Pietro tomorrow.’

Elena’s lips drooped, but there was no trace of rebellion in the way she obediently turned to Pietro for his kiss, and then with a bob which could have been directed at both Suzanne and Signora Vitale, she went quickly out of the room, closing the doors behind her.

Suzanne was sorry to see her go. While the child had been there, the situation had held promise, at least. Now, she felt chilled and ill at ease again.

‘Pietro tells me you work in an hotel, signorina,’ the old lady continued, apparently in no way diverted by Elena’s departure.

‘That’s right,’ Suzanne nodded, smoothing her palms down over the seat of her pants. ‘As a matter of fact, I worked in Rimini for several months last year.’

‘Rimini!’ The way the old lady’s lips curled showed her opinion of Rimini. ‘That tourist paradise! Is that all your experience of Italy?’

‘No. No. I’ve visited Rome and Venice, and of course while I was working in Rimini, I went to Florence several times.’

‘And which city did you prefer, signorina?’

Suzanne had the feeling it was a loaded question. How she answered this might influence her future relationship with Pietro’s mother. Then she scoffed at herself. What future relationship? A weekend! Four days to justify herself.

But she could only be honest, after all. ‘Florence,’ she answered without hesitation. ‘La città delle fiore!’