A Proposal From The Italian Count. Lucy Gordon
not sure—’
‘Please, Jackie, it’s important. We really have to talk.’
‘We could have talked yesterday.’
‘Please.’
‘All right. I’ll just be a moment.’
She hurried down, full of hope that her tense wait would be over. He seemed to have come close and then retreated, and now she couldn’t bear any more. It must be the dream she’d longed for. They had known each other such a little time, but what did time matter when their hearts reached out to each other?
Perhaps his feelings were stronger than he’d known before, which was why he feared expressing them. But she would open her arms and her heart to him and they would both know happiness.
As soon as she appeared downstairs he put his arm about her shoulders.
‘Let’s have some breakfast in the café. It’s nice and comfortable in there.’
‘And we can talk,’ she said eagerly.
When they were settled she waited for him to speak, but again he felt silent, as though attacked by doubt at the last moment. Her heart sank. Her hopes had risen so high. She couldn’t bear to lose them again.
‘Vittorio, please tell me,’ she said. ‘Whatever is on your mind I can tell it’s important.’
‘Yes, it is...’ he said hesitantly.
‘Then please be brave and say it. Are you afraid of what I’ll say?’
‘I might be,’ he said. ‘I don’t think you can imagine—’
She touched his face. ‘Tell me, Vittorio. Let’s get it out between us and then tell each other how we feel.’
‘Yes,’ he murmured. ‘You’re right. Do you remember—?’
‘Remember?’
‘How we talked about our fathers yesterday.’
‘Yes, I remember, but—’
‘I should have told you then. It’s a terrible story, Jackie, but I have to tell you. Your father once placed a bet that won a million pounds.’
‘But that can’t be true! He’d have told me—we’d never have been in the situation we found ourselves in if that had been the case.’
‘He didn’t know. My father and yours were out together one night. Your father got tipsy, and he was dozing when the results were announced. When he awoke my papà had taken the winnings and kept them.’
Jackie had a terrible feeling of having crash-landed. The words reeled in her head. Only one thing was clear.
This wasn’t what she’d expected to hear.
‘What on earth are you saying?’ she demanded. ‘You can’t mean that he didn’t tell Daddy he’d won? That would be dishonest, and surely—’
‘It was the only dishonest thing he ever did, and it tormented him. He told me about it just before he died.’
‘Is this—this what you’ve been trying to say?’ she stammered.
‘Yes, it took me this long to pluck up the courage to tell you that my family has damaged yours. I’m sure you’ll find it hard to forgive. Right at this minute you probably hate me.’
That was closer to the truth than he could possibly know. As her dreams collapsed, leaving her in the middle of a desert, she felt a terrifying rage begin to take her over.
‘There’s something else I have to tell you,’ Vittorio said. ‘I’m not sure how it will make you feel.’
‘Try me,’ she whispered, with a faint flicker of renewed hope.
‘Papà made me promise to find your father and sort things out.’
‘Sort things out? What do you mean by that?’
‘I planned to give him the money Papà took from him. A million pounds. I hoped it would make everything all right.’
She stared at him, barely able to believe what she was hearing.
‘You hoped what?’ she said furiously. ‘You really hoped things could be made “all right” after so many years? After Daddy suffered so much from poverty and it made his wife abandon him? After the way he died in despair? You can’t give him your money now.’
‘But I can give it to you.’
‘You think that will make his suffering all right?’
‘I didn’t mean it that way,’ Vittorio said tensely.
‘Oh, yes, you did. You think money can solve everything—but when a man’s dead it can’t solve anything at all. You don’t understand that, do you? Hand over a cheque and everything’s settled! Maybe that’s true in business, but not in real life. But you don’t know anything about real life.’
‘Jackie, please—let me explain. I only want to—’
‘You only want to make yourself feel good.’
‘I don’t think money solves everything, but I’d like to pay the debt my family owes.
‘This is a con. Do you really expect me to believe that you can hand over a million pounds, just like that?’
‘You think I don’t have that much? You’re wrong. My father didn’t waste the million he gained.’
‘You mean the million he stole,’ she raged.
‘Very well—he stole it. But he wanted to pay it back. He invested it successfully, so that it made several more millions. I can give you back every penny—plus a few thousand for interest.’
‘Oh, you think it’s so easy, don’t you? I wouldn’t take money from you if I was starving. This conversation is at an end.’ She stood up. ‘And don’t you dare follow me.’
He’d reached out a hand to stop her, but something fierce in her manner made him draw back.
‘Please—’ he began.
‘No. Don’t you understand? No!’
She fled, fearful lest her true feelings become too plain. Instead of the loving emotion she’d hoped for he’d offered her money. If she’d stayed a moment longer she was afraid she might have done something violent.
Her departure left Vittorio in a state of total confusion and misery. Nothing had worked out as he’d intended. He’d failed to fulfil his father’s dying wish. Guilt tore at him.
He paid his bill and went out into the street, walking back in the direction of the shop. There was no sign of her.
There was nothing to do but return to the hotel and do some serious thinking about what he was going to do next.
But he found that serious thinking was very little help in a situation he didn’t understand.
* * *
The rest of Jackie’s day and night was tormented. The incredible events of the morning whirled through her brain, and at the end of the day—even though she was exhausted and wrung out when she finally got to bed—she couldn’t sleep. Instead she sat up in bed and opened the laptop she always kept with her.
She did a search on ‘Count Martelli’. She was half ready to learn that he didn’t exist, that the whole thing had been a con, and for a moment it seemed that her suspicions were correct. The picture that appeared on the screen was of a man in his sixties.
He’s lying, she thought furiously. That’s the real Count.
But then she saw the text.
Count Franco Martelli, taken just before his death four weeks ago. His heir is his son,