The Italian Millionaire's Marriage. Lucy Gordon
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“too long”?’ his mother demanded, scandalised.
‘I beg your pardon, and Harriet’s. I didn’t mean to be impolite. But I really must return to my office, and then to my own apartment for a few days.’
‘You aren’t coming to supper tonight?’ Lucia demanded. ‘It’s Etta’s first evening with us.’
‘Regretfully I must decline that pleasure. I’ll call soon and let you know when to expect me.’
He kissed his mother and, after a moment’s hesitation, kissed Harriet’s cheek. Then he departed hastily.
‘Such manners!’ Lucia exclaimed.
‘Well, I’ve already gathered that he’s a workaholic,’ Harriet admitted. ‘And I suppose he must have lost a lot of time.’
‘You and I will spend the next few days getting to know each other.’ Lucia seized Harriet’s hands. ‘I am so happy.’
Harriet’s feeling of having landed unexpectedly in heaven showed no sign of abating. Lucia had ordered various English dishes to please her and proudly put them on display when they dined together that evening.
‘For of course I realise that you are partly English,’ she explained, with the air of someone making a generous concession. ‘But Italian in your heart, si?’
‘Si,’ Harriet agreed, wondering just how much Marco had told her. Lucia’s eyes were full of understanding.
From then on she switched to the Italian language, and in no time they were the best of friends.
‘Why not call your father to let him know that you’re here?’ Lucia asked.
Harriet felt a strange reluctance, as though there was something to be feared, but she went to the telephone and called her father’s number. She was answered by an unfamiliar voice, a man, who explained that Signor d’Estino and his family were away for several days. Nor would he divulge their destination, even when Harriet explained that she was his daughter. It was clear that he had never heard of her. She left a message, asking her father to call, and hung up, refusing to let herself feel pain.
The next morning Harriet arose refreshed, to find that Lucia had planned their day. ‘We’ll have lunch in town,’ she said, ‘and just look around.’
It was a joy to Harriet to renew her acquaintance with Rome, the great city that lived in her dreams. Once it had been the centre of the known world. Now it was a place of traffic jams and tourists, yet still dominated by glorious ancient monuments. After lunch they strolled along the luxurious Via Veneto, and Lucia pointed out Marco’s apartment, high up on the fifth floor. Harriet looked up at the windows, but they were closed and shuttered. Like the man himself, she thought.
She spent the next day alone as Lucia was on several charity committees and had meetings to attend. Now she could reclaim Rome in her own way. Happily she wandered its cobbled streets, exploring narrow alleys, and finally coming across a shop that specialised in Greek items. The next moment she was inside, inspecting, bargaining, and finally securing. When she left the shop her debt had grown substantially.
She was looking forward to showing her bargains to Marco, but so far there was no word from him, and that evening the two women dined alone. Later, as they sat together over coffee, Lucia suddenly said, ‘Perhaps we should speak of what is on our minds. My dear, does it seem very terrible to you that I’m seeking a suitable wife for my son?’
‘A little odd perhaps. Doesn’t Marco mind the idea of marrying a stranger?’
‘That’s the worst of it, he doesn’t mind at all. He was engaged once but it came to an end. Since then he’s acted as though emotion was nothing but a stage in life that he’d put behind him and was relieved to have done so.’
‘Did he love her?’
‘I believe so, but he’s never spoken about it. He slammed a door on the subject and nobody is allowed past, even me. Perhaps I’m a sentimental fool, but I loved Etta so much, and she died far too young. If I could see our families united in marriage and then in children, that’s all I could ask for.’
‘I wish you’d tell me about her.’
‘I was friends with one of her sisters, who took me home to meet the family. Etta was ten years older than me, but she took me under her wing, for my mother was dead. I was a bridesmaid at her wedding, and one of the first people to see your father when he was born.
‘We wanted our sons to grow up together, but I married late, and then it was years before Marco was born, so it didn’t happen. And then my darling Etta died, and I still miss her so much. She was the only person I could confide in. Men aren’t the same.’
‘Am I really like her?’
For answer Lucia opened a cupboard and pulled out a photo album.
‘There!’ she said, opening it at an early page. ‘That’s Etta when she was your age.’
The young woman in the picture was dressed in the fashion of fifty years earlier, and her face was the one Harriet saw in her own mirror.
‘I really am her granddaughter,’ Harriet said, in a slow, wondering voice.
‘Much more than Olympia,’ Lucia confirmed. ‘She would have been quite unsuitable. A sweet girl but an airhead, although, of course, I thought of her first because I’d known her for years. I wish I’d known you better. If only your mother hadn’t kept you from us!’
‘If only—what?’
‘Your father said she wanted nothing to do with any of us after the split. She insisted on going home to England and raising you to be English.’ She was looking at Harriet’s face. ‘Isn’t that true?’
‘No,’ Harriet seethed, ‘it most certainly isn’t. He forced her to go back to England and just shut us out.’
‘That woman!’ Lucia said at once. ‘He’s always been in thrall to her. I never liked your father. He’s a spineless weakling and quite unworthy of his mother. Now I’m totally disgusted with him.’
‘So am I,’ Harriet fumed. ‘He denied me my Italian heritage.’
‘Well, now you can claim it back again,’ Lucia said warmly.
‘Yes,’ Harriet mused. ‘I can.’
‘Would it be tactless of me to suggest that you start by dressing in our country’s fashion?’
‘You mean my clothes look as if I bought them secondhand?’ Harriet asked bluntly.
‘Of course not. But among the many English talents haute couture is not perhaps—’ she left the sentence delicately unfinished.
‘No, it’s not,’ Harriet said decisively. ‘You’re right. It’s time I started being who I am.’ Then her confidence wavered. ‘Whoever that is,’ she added uncertainly.
‘Never say such a thing again,’ Lucia commanded. ‘From this moment, you start life again.’
Next morning they went to the Via dei Condotti, the most exclusive shop in Rome. There Lucia cast a critical eye over the parade of garments, loftily dismissing this one, ordering that one set aside.
Slowly the pile of clothes grew, some to be taken as they were, some to be altered. The total wipe out of her wardrobe gave Harriet the feeling of being another person. It was strange, but she liked it.
Then she was introduced to Signora Talli, an ultra-fashionable modiste who spent a whole afternoon studying her face and redesigning it. Harriet had barely bothered with make-up. A touch of lipstick, a hint of eye shadow, and who needed more? That was her philosophy. She was soon shown the error of her ways.
Her eyes—such a magnificent shade of green, they must be highlighted, made larger—‘How?’ she asked nervously. The colour of the lipstick must be balanced