The Truth Behind Their Practical Marriage

‘Then you’re even more talented than I thought. You played for almost fifteen minutes without sheet music and as far as I could tell you didn’t make one mistake.’

‘I should think not, the number of times I’ve played that piece. We had hardly any sheet music when I was little, so the few we had, I played over and over again. That was one of them.’

‘You’ll think this sounds fanciful, but it was as if the music poured straight from your heart through your fingers and on to the keys and then into the air, filling the church with beauty.’

She stared at him, quite dumbstruck for a moment. ‘That is possibly the loveliest compliment anyone has ever paid me.’

‘I find that hard to believe. Anyone who has heard you play…’

‘They are few in number. My sisters, mostly, so they’re bound to think I’m good.’ She closed the lid of the harpsichord, frowning. ‘I wonder if that is why Phoebe opened her restaurant, because she needed some independent approbation of her cooking. I never thought of that before.’

‘Perhaps you should play in an orchestra.’

Estelle shuddered. ‘It was a family joke, that Phoebe would open a restaurant and I would establish an orchestra, but I never thought of it as anything other than a bit of fun. I don’t like to play for strangers.’

‘Then I’m extremely honoured.’

‘You’re not a stranger, I thought we’d agreed that yesterday.’

‘We did, and now we’ve known each other almost two days, I suppose we should consider ourselves old friends. Look Estelle, what happened earlier…’

‘Please don’t apologise,’ she interrupted hastily. ‘You must know perfectly well that I wanted you to kiss me. There’s nothing to apologise for, or to discuss. I’m twenty-five years old, Aidan.’

He held his hands up. ‘But if we were in England…’

‘I’m a woman of independent means, with a mind of my own and I’m not in England. I’m beginning to wish that we hadn’t kissed now.’

‘Well I’m not, despite the fact that I know we shouldn’t have.’

‘Oh. Good. Then why are we arguing?’

‘I’ve no notion at all.’

‘Can we forget about conventions and rules, and what we ought to do, and what people might say? Forget all about the real world for a little while?’

‘You’ve no idea how much I crave that.’

There was the slightest tremor in his voice. She touched his arm tentatively. ‘What did I say to upset you?’

‘Nothing. Your playing moved me, that’s all.’

She didn’t believe him, but she didn’t want to upset him further, and having agreed to forget about the real world, she didn’t feel she had the right to enquire either. ‘It was written for the organ, that piece. You don’t get the full majesty of it on a harpsichord.’

His smile was grateful. ‘You do know there’s an organ here too?’

‘It’s quite usual for a church to have both. A pipe organ is operated by a lever which works enormous bellows. It’s very strenuous work and tends to be saved for high days and holidays, since it’s difficult to find volunteers for the task. The rest of the time a harpsichord will suffice.’

‘Are the bellows too strenuous for a feeble mathematician, do you think?’

‘Aidan, you can’t possibly mean—the harpsichord is one thing but I would not be comfortable playing the official church organ without permission. It would be sacrilegious.’

‘There is no one to ask. Do you honestly think God would mind?’ Aidan said, ushering her towards the instrument. ‘I take it this lever is the bellows. How do I…?’

‘Slowly!’ Laughing, Estelle sat down, flexing her fingers. ‘And regularly—like you’re pumping water.’

She tested a chord, and it blared out, making Aidan jump and making her laugh more. She played a series of intricate scales, and then, with a theatrical flourish, the opening bars of Bach’s most famous piece for the organ, the Toccata and Fugue in D Minor, before launching into the piece, playing it with a dramatic gusto that had Aidan, as she had intended, struggling to contain his laughter as he worked the bellows. When she was done, collapsing over the keyboard herself in gales of laughter, he applauded with a gusto to match her own, calling bravo, and it was only when he ceased that the pair of them realised he was not alone in his applause.

‘Mi scusi,’ Estelle said, jumping to her feet, horrified.

But the priest smiled, extending his hand. ‘I didn’t know our humble organ could produce such a wonderful sound, signora. It was a pleasure to hear. Music is one of God’s gifts and we can celebrate Him in many different ways. You seem such a nice young couple. Please, feel free to come in and play any time you are passing.’

‘He thinks we’re either married or engaged,’ Estelle said with mock horror when they got outside.

‘We are,’ Aidan said.

‘What!’

He grinned. ‘Engaged in the business of being friends. What else!’

The next day, their meanderings brought them to another part of the city and another dusty little piazza where a few rickety wooden tables had been set outside an osteria.

‘I think we might claim one of those,’ Aidan said, ‘what do you think?’

‘I think you know perfectly well that you didn’t need to ask,’ Estelle replied.

The wine was rough, but the ribollita, a peasant soup made of stale bread, tomatoes and beans, Estelle pronounced delicious. ‘More a stew than a soup, and very filling, which is just as well,’ she said, eyeing the next dish with some trepidation. ‘I didn’t quite catch what this was?’

‘Lampredotto. Tripe. I fear it’s an acquired taste. I can just about manage a couple of mouthfuls.’

‘I cannot contemplate even that.’ She grimaced. ‘What are we to do? I can’t possibly send back my plate untouched. It would be the ultimate insult. I can imagine how Phoebe would feel.’

Aidan took a large glug of wine, before quickly tipping the contents of her plate on to his. ‘Oh, no,’ she protested, appalled, ‘you’ll be ill.’

‘Ah but I’ll have the compensation of feeling noble.’

‘Aidan Malahide, you are a true knight errant,’ Estelle said, quite seriously, ‘let me pour you some more wine to help it down.’

He nodded, concentrating on the task in hand, and she concentrated on keeping his glass full. ‘Not so bad,’ he said when he had done, pushing his plate aside with a sigh of relief. ‘I expect an Italian would feel much the same, confronted with crubeens and cabbage.’

‘What on earth is a crubeen?’

‘You call yourself Irish! A boiled pig’s foot, of course. Have you really never tasted it?’

‘Have you?’ she asked, narrowing her eyes.

‘I have it served every Saturday—to my old grandmother’s receipt.’

‘That is a fib!’