Valtieri's Bride. Caroline Anderson
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things to her heart, but there was nothing she could do about it except smile and hope his arms didn’t break.
‘Hello, Francesca. Thank you for speaking English so I can understand you.’
‘That’s OK. We have to speak English to Auntie Isabelle. This is Lavinia, and this is Antonino. Say hello,’ she prompted.
Lydia looked at the other two, clustered round their sister. Lavinia was the next in line, with the same dark, glorious curls but mischief dancing in her eyes, and Antonino, leaning against Francesca and squiggling the toe of his shoe on the gravel, was the youngest. The baby in the photo, the little one who must have lost his mother before he ever really knew her.
Her heart ached for them all, and she felt a welling in her chest and crushed it as she smiled at them.
‘Hello, Lavinia, hello, Antonino. It’s nice to meet you,’ she said, and they replied politely, Lavinia openly studying her, her eyes brimming over with questions.
‘And this is Carlotta,’ Massimo said, and she lifted her head and met searching, wise eyes in a wizened face. He spoke rapidly to her in Italian, explaining her ridiculous fancy-dress outfit no doubt, and she saw the moment he told her that they’d lost the competition, because Carlotta’s face softened and she looked at Lydia and shook her head.
‘Sorry,’ she said, lifting her hands. ‘So sorry for you. Come, I help you change and you will be happier, si?’
‘Si,’ she said with a wry chuckle, and Massimo shifted her more firmly against his chest and followed Carlotta puffing and wheezing up the steps.
The children were tugging at him and questioning him in Italian, and he was laughing and answering them as fast as he could. Bless their little hearts, she could see they were hanging on his every word.
He was the centre of their world, and they’d missed him, and she’d kept him away from them all these hours when they must have been desperate to have him back. She felt another shaft of guilt, but Carlotta was leading the way through the big double doors, and she looked away from the children and gasped softly.
They were in a cloistered courtyard, with a broad covered walkway surrounding the open central area that must cast a welcome shade in the heat of the day, but now in the evening it was softly lit and she could see more of the huge pots of olive trees set on the old stone paving in the centre, and on the low wall that divided the courtyard from the cloistered walkway geraniums tumbled over the edge, bringing colour and scent to the evening air.
But that wasn’t what had caught her attention. It was the frescoed walls, the ancient faded murals under the shelter of the cloisters that took her breath away.
He didn’t pause, though, or give her time to take in the beautiful paintings, but carried her through one of the several doors set in the walls, then along a short hallway and into a bedroom.
He set her gently on the bed, and she felt oddly bereft as he straightened up and moved away.
‘I’ll be in the kitchen with the children. Carlotta will tell me when you’re ready and I’ll come and get you.’
‘Thank you.’
He smiled fleetingly and went out, the children’s clamouring voices receding as he walked away, and Carlotta closed the door.
‘Your bath,’ she said, pushing open another door, and she saw a room lined with pale travertine marble, the white suite simple and yet luxurious. And the bath—she could stick her bandaged leg up on the side and just wallow. Pure luxury.
‘Thank you.’ She couldn’t wait. All she wanted was to get out of the dress and into water. But the zip …
‘I help you,’ Carlotta said, and as the zip slid down, she was freed from the scratchy fabric at last. A bit too freed. She clutched at the top as it threatened to drift away and smiled at Carlotta.
‘I can manage now,’ she said, and Carlotta nodded.
‘I get your bag.’
She went out, and Lydia closed the bedroom door behind her, leaning back against it and looking around again.
It was much simpler than the imposing and impressive entrance, she saw with relief. Against expectations it wasn’t vast, but it was pristine, the bed made up with sparkling white linen, the rug on the floor soft underfoot, and the view from the French window would be amazing in daylight.
She limped gingerly over to the window and stared out, pressing her face against the glass. The doors opened onto what looked like a terrace, and beyond—gosh, the view must be utterly breathtaking, she imagined, because even at dusk it was extraordinary, the twinkling lights of villages and scattered houses sparkling in the twilight.
Moving away from the window, she glanced around her, taking in her surroundings in more detail. The floor was tiled, the ceiling beamed, with chestnut perhaps? Probably, with terracotta tiles between the beams. Sturdy, simple and homely—which was crazy, considering the scale of the place and the grandeur of the entrance! But it seemed more like a farm now, curiously, less of a fortress, and much less threatening.
And that established, she let go of the awful dress, kicked it away from her legs, bundled it up in a ball and hopped into the bathroom.
The water was calling her. Studying the architecture could wait.
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