The Padova Pearls

‘It isn’t,’ he admitted. ‘It’s a bit of a mixture. I was taken to live in the States as a child but, following a long family tradition, I went to university in England.’

‘Then you have English roots?’

‘On my father’s side, but my mother’s Italian.’

An Italian mother might well explain why he had olive-toned skin rather than being fair skinned like most natural blonds…And no doubt it accounted for that subtle and intriguing difference in his accent.

With a little stir of excitement that they had something in common, she remarked, ‘My mother was Italian too.’

‘An odd coincidence,’ he observed smoothly. ‘What was her name?’

‘Maria.’

She waited for some further comment or question about her mother but, rather to her surprise, he changed the subject to ask, ‘Will you be staying here now you’re on your own?’

‘I’m not sure. With three bedrooms, it’s a lot bigger than I need. When Dad was alive it was ideal. He used the third bedroom, the one on the north side, as his studio.’

‘That reminds me, do you still have that portrait? The one you said looks like me?’

‘Yes.’

‘If I may, I’d rather like to see it. You’ve succeeded in whetting my curiosity.’

Feeling distinctly awkward, she explained, ‘It hangs in my bedroom.’

Looking into those beautiful eyes he could now see were a dark green, flecked with gold, he assured her with gentle mockery, ‘I won’t let that bother me, if you don’t let it bother you.’

The simple fact that it did hang in her bedroom wouldn’t have bothered her. What made her hesitate was that it was so like him, and it would be akin to baring her soul if he picked up how strongly she felt about it.

Noting her hesitation, he began carefully, ‘If it does bother you—’

Pulling herself together, she assured him, ‘No, no, of course it doesn’t bother me.’

Looking unconvinced, he suggested, ‘Perhaps you’d prefer to show me some of your father’s other work?’

She shook her head. ‘All the rest of Dad’s paintings are over at the exhibition.’

‘So why was that particular one left out?’

‘Because it was never finished.’ Making up her mind, she added, ‘Come and take a look.’

Her heart racing uncomfortably fast, she ushered him along a wide corridor to her bedroom and, switching on the light, led the way inside.

It was simply furnished, with a dusky-pink carpet and off-white walls. The picture, the only one in the room, hung between the two windows.

Standing in front of it, the stranger stared at it in silence.

The column of the throat, the broad shoulders and the suggestion of an open-necked shirt, had been merely sketched in. But the well-shaped head, with its thick fair hair and neatly set ears, and the face, with its strong features and dark grey eyes beneath level brows, its beautiful mouth and cleft chin, was complete.

Glancing from one to the other, Sophie saw that the likeness between the portrait and the stranger was just as striking as she had imagined.

She felt a queer tug at her heart.

The only difference she could spot was that her companion’s hair was somewhat shorter than that of the man in the portrait, and his brows and lashes were several shades darker.

Other than that, he could have been the sitter.

Only of course he couldn’t.

It must have been painted either before he was born or when he was still a very young child.

After a moment or two of absolute stillness, the stranger said slowly, ‘Surely this could have been put in the exhibition?’

It could. The simple truth was that she hadn’t wanted to share it with anyone else. It would have been like other people being given access to a secret and very personal diary.

When she said nothing, he went on, ‘Your father was a very fine artist. Those eyes are alive…And you’re right about it being like me. I could be looking in a mirror. When did he paint it?’

‘I’m not sure. Certainly before I was born. I’ve known it all my life.’

‘Have you any idea who the sitter was?’

She shook her head. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t. I once asked my father, but he said, “Oh, just someone I met briefly a long time ago.”’

‘I see. Well, thank you for showing it to me.’

She was expecting him to say something further, to speculate on the likeness, remark on the coincidence, the strangeness of it all.

But he turned away and, noticing the box standing on her dressing table, commented, ‘Your jewellery box is a lovely piece of work.’

‘Yes, it was Dad’s last gift to me. I found it hidden in his bureau.’

‘Filled with priceless jewels, no doubt?’ It was said quizzically, as though he’d recognized her sadness and was hoping to alleviate it.

She smiled. ‘Empty, unfortunately.’

As she led him back to the living-room, he asked, ‘When does your father’s exhibition open?’

‘Tomorrow morning, for a month. Though David—the owner of the gallery—did say he would keep it open for as long as people kept coming in to see it.’

Then, sensing that he was about to go, and still hoping against hope that he might suggest seeing her again, she queried, ‘How long are you in London for?’

Her last shred of hope vanished when he answered, ‘I’m flying out tomorrow.’

Before she could think of anything else to say, he remarked with stunning finality, ‘Well, I’ve taken up enough of your time. I guess I’d better go and let you get changed.’

Desperate to keep him, she began, ‘I really can’t thank you enough for your help…’

‘It was my pleasure,’ he said formally. ‘Enjoy your evening. Arrivederci.’