continue the altercation. With a faint bow of his head in Suzanne’s direction, he moved away along the hall, his shadow cast upon the panelling like some grotesque caricature of a man. Pietro, too, watched his cousin’s progress, and a little of the angry frustration left his face. Then he turned and took Suzanne’s arm.
‘Come! The small salon is this way.’
As they passed the room from which Mazzaro di Falcone had emerged, Suzanne glimpsed a high-ceilinged apartment, comfortably if sparsely furnished, with a wall of leatherbound books facing the door. But Pietro had already stopped outside an adjoining apartment, and as he pushed open double doors with a flourish, a young girl of perhaps ten years came rushing to greet him.
‘Pietro! Pietro!’ she cried excitedly, wrapping her arms around his middle, looking up into his face with wide-eyed delight. ‘I thought you were never coming!’
Pietro bestowed a kiss on both the child’s cheeks, and then looked over her head at the elderly woman seated in an armchair by the screened marble fireplace. ‘Mamma!’ he spoke with the warmth to which Suzanne was accustomed. ‘Mamma, it is so good to see you again.’
As Pietro went to receive his mother’s greeting, the child turned her attention to Suzanne, her brow furrowing with undisguised curiosity. She was a plain child, with the sallow complexion sometimes found in hotter climes, her straight black hair drawn unbecomingly back from her face in two stiff braids. And yet, when she had been greeting Pietro, animation had added warmth to her features, and it was then that Suzanne had guessed that she must be Mazzaro di Falcone’s daughter. Yet she had a neglected air, as if no one really took a great deal of interest in her, and certainly her clothes did not do justice to her slim little body.
Deciding that it might be easier if she spoke first, Suzanne forced herself to smile and say: ‘Hello. My name is Suzanne. What’s yours?’
Before the child could reply however, Signora Vitale’s voice rang out distinctly across the wide room: ‘Elena! Come here. At once.’
There was something about the Italian word avanti which gave it a much terser sound than its English translation: ‘Come’. Elena obviously responded to it, and without more ado, skipped obediently across to where Pietro’s mother was sitting, leaving the outsider feeling very much alone in the doorway.
This was the small salon, thought Suzanne in wonder, realising it was almost as big as the reception area of the hotel back in England. As in the hall, the walls here were inlaid with frescoed panels, depicting hunting scenes, the realism of a stag at bay reassuring her. She felt very much like that cornered animal at this moment. Signora Vitale was very much the mistress of the situation, seated in her tapestry-covered chair, Pietro slightly behind her, Elena standing in the circle of her arm, at home with the fine grain of polished wood and the richly woven carpets.
Pietro was looking at Suzanne, too, but with a gentler appraisal, and presently he beckoned her forward and introduced her to his mother. Like Pietro’s cousin, Signora Vitale was older than Suzanne had imagined, and she must have given up all hope of bearing a child before Pietro was conceived.
After greeting her son’s guest with a scarcely-concealed disapproval, which Suzanne put down to the informality of her appearance, the woman asked several personal questions about her background. Although Suzanne resented this inquisition, nevertheless, she gave in to it, deciding that as she had nothing to hide, there was no reason why she should not satisfy Signora Vitale’s curiosity. However, the old lady’s disapproval deepened when she heard that Suzanne’s parents were divorced, and in quelling tones she told the girl that there was no divorce in the eyes of God.
Pietro’s expression was apologetic, and his eyes begged her not to take what his mother said too seriously. Suzanne bit her tongue on the retort which sprang to her lips, and instead spoke again to the child.
‘Elena,’ she said, retrieving her smile, which had become strained and had finally disappeared in the face of Signora Vitale’s catechism. ‘What a pretty name!’
The little girl looked up at her doubtfully. No doubt Suzanne’s ability to address her in her own language had impressed her, but she still looked to Pietro’s mother for guidance. That lady drew the child to her, bestowed a kiss on both cheeks and then said: ‘You may go to bed now, Elena. You will have plenty of time to speak with Pietro tomorrow.’
Elena’s lips drooped, but there was no trace of rebellion in the way she obediently turned to Pietro for his kiss, and then with a bob which could have been directed at both Suzanne and Signora Vitale, she went quickly out of the room, closing the doors behind her.
Suzanne was sorry to see her go. While the child had been there, the situation had held promise, at least. Now, she felt chilled and ill at ease again.
‘Pietro tells me you work in an hotel, signorina,’ the old lady continued, apparently in no way diverted by Elena’s departure.
‘That’s right,’ Suzanne nodded, smoothing her palms down over the seat of her pants. ‘As a matter of fact, I worked in Rimini for several months last year.’
‘Rimini!’ The way the old lady’s lips curled showed her opinion of Rimini. ‘That tourist paradise! Is that all your experience of Italy?’
‘No. No. I’ve visited Rome and Venice, and of course while I was working in Rimini, I went to Florence several times.’
‘And which city did you prefer, signorina?’
Suzanne had the feeling it was a loaded question. How she answered this might influence her future relationship with Pietro’s mother. Then she scoffed at herself. What future relationship? A weekend! Four days to justify herself.
But she could only be honest, after all. ‘Florence,’ she answered without hesitation. ‘La città delle fiore!’
Signora Vitale’s expression actually softened slightly. ‘You do? You like Florence?’ Her lips twitched, and Suzanne breathed more freely. She had obviously chosen well. ‘Yes, signorina. Florence is my favourite, too. The cradle of the Renaissance, no? The pawn of the Medicis. And yet ultimately the city triumphs over all. Immortal. Brunnelleschi, Giotto, Pisano, Botticelli—ah, there is no end to its treasures. How could anyone tire of its magnificence?’
Pietro was looking pleased now. ‘My mother is an expert on Renaissance art and architecture,’ he told Suzanne proudly.
‘Then you must appreciate this villa,’ she ventured softly, but Signora Vitale made an impatient gesture.
‘I love the Villa Falcone!’ she said, with asperity. ‘But not opening its rooms to unfeeling tourists who come to poke and pry and stare and finger—’
‘Zia Tommasa!’ A light voice interrupted the old lady’s tirade. ‘I am sure Miss Hunt would not agree with you, would you, Miss Hunt?’
Suzanne swung round to confront a young woman standing just inside the doors of the salon. From the top of her sleekly groomed head to the Gucci shoes on her slender feet she breathed style and elegance, the swinging skirt of her printed silk dress proclaiming its exclusiveness by its very simplicity. A second appraisal, however, revealed a featherlight tracing of lines fanning out from the corners of her eyes and mouth, and Suzanne guessed she was older than she at first appeared.
‘Sophia!’ Pietro left his mother to approach the other woman, and she wrapped her arms around his neck and returned his impulsive embrace with an abandon
