Farelli's Wife. Lucy Gordon
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“I came to take you back.” About the Author Title Page Dedication PROLOGUE CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE EPILOGUE Copyright
“I came to take you back.”
“I’m sorry you had a wasted journey, Franco,” she said firmly, “but I’m very busy for the next few days—”
“I told you I’d cleared it with your employers—”
“But you neglected to clear it with me. I do have some feelings.”
Franco gave Joanne a strange look, and she guessed he was remembering how she’d betrayed herself in his arms.
“I don’t ask for myself,” he said at last, “but for my son. You won Nico’s heart. Do I have to tell you how precious that is? Did you delight him only to amuse yourself, and to throw him aside when it suits you?”
“Of course not. That’s a wicked thing to say.”
“Then come back with me now. It will mean the world to him—and to me.”
Lucy Gordon cut her writing teeth on magazine journalism, interviewing many of the world’s most interesting men, including Warren Beatty, Richard Chamberlain, Roger Moore, Sir Alec Guinness and Sir John Gielgud. She also camped out with lions in Africa, and had many other unusual experiences, which have often provided the background for her books. She is married to a Venetian, whom she met on vacation in Venice. They got engaged within two days, and have now been married for twenty-five years. They live in England, with their three dogs.
Farelli’s Wife
Lucy Gordon
This book is dedicated to Flump,
a loyal friend and a beautiful dog,
whose loss inspired the poem in the
last chapter.
PROLOGUE
THE headstone stood in the shadow of trees. A small stream rippled softly past, and flowers crept up to the foot of the white marble. The engraving said simply that here lay Rosemary Farelli, beloved wife of Franco Farelli, and mother of Nico. The inscription showed that she had died exactly a year ago, aged thirty-two, and with her, her unborn child.
There were other headstones in the Farelli burial plot, but only this one had a path worn right up to it, as though someone was drawn back here time and again, someone who had yet to come to, terms with the heartbreaking finality of that stone.
Three figures appeared through the little wood that surrounded the plot. The first was a middle-aged woman with a grim expression and upright carriage. Behind her came a man in his thirties, whose dark eyes held a terrible bleakness. One hand rested lightly on the shoulder of the little boy walking beside him, his hands full of wild flowers.
The woman approached the grave and stood regarding it for a moment. Her face was hard and expressionless. A stranger, coming upon the group, might have wondered if she’d felt any affection for the dead woman. At last she stood aside and the man stepped forward.
‘Let me take Nico home,’ she said. ‘This is no place for a child.’
The man’s face was dark. ‘He is Rosemary’s son. This is his right—and his mother’s.’
‘Franco, she’s dead.’
‘Not here.’ He touched his breast and spoke softly. ‘Not ever.’ He looked down at the child. ‘Are you ready, piccino?’
The little boy, as fair as his father was dark, looked up and nodded. He laid the flowers at the foot of the grave. ‘These are for you, Mama,’ he said.
When he stepped back his father’s hand rested again on his shoulder.
‘Well done,’ he said quietly to his son. ‘I’m proud of you. Now go home with your grandmama.’
‘Can’t I stay with you, Papa?’
Franco Farelli’s face was gentle. ‘Not now. I must be alone with your mother.’
He stood quite still until they had gone. Not until their footsteps faded into silence did he move towards the gravestone and kneel before it, whispering.
‘I brought our son to you, mi amore. See how he has grown, how strong and beautiful he is. Soon he will be seven years old. He hasn’t forgotten you. Every day we talk together about “Mama”. I’m raising him as you wished, to remember that he is English as well as Italian. He speaks his mother’s tongue as well as his father’s.’
His eyes darkened with pain. ‘He looks more like you every day. How can I bear that? This morning he turned to me with the smile that was yours, and it was as though you were there. But the next moment you died again, and my heart broke.
‘It is one year to the day since you died, and still the world is dark for me. When you left you took joy with you. I try to be a good father to our child, but my heart is with you, and my life is a desert.’
He reached out a hand to touch the unyielding marble. ‘Are you there, my beloved? Where have you gone? Why can I not find you?’
Suddenly his control broke. His fingers grasped the marble convulsively, his eyes closed and a cry of terrible anguish broke from him.
‘Come back to me! I can bear it no longer. For God’s sake, come back to me!’
CHAPTER ONE
IF JOANNE concentrated hard she could bring the brush down to the exact point, and turn it at the very last minute. It took great precision, but she’d rehearsed the movement often, and now she could do it right, every time.
The result was perfect, just as the whole picture was perfect—a perfect copy. The original was a little masterpiece. Beside it stood her own version, identical in every brush stroke. Except that she could only trudge slowly where genius had shown the way.
The dazzling afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows of the Villa Antonini showed Joanne how well she’d performed her allotted task, and how mediocre that task was.
‘Is it finished?’ Signor Vito Antonini had crept into the room and come to stand beside her. He was a tubby man in late middle age who’d made a huge fortune in engineering and was now enjoying spending