Sara Craven Tribute Collection. Sara Craven
known her a long time, haven’t you?’
‘Yes.’ There was an odd bleakness in his voice that alerted her suddenly. ‘But sometimes she seems to forget that.’
Clare bit her lip. ‘I don’t think she’s in a very easy position. She sees her life being mapped out for her, and she hasn’t been consulted on the route. And she doesn’t like it here.’
‘She used to.’ There was a wealth of sadness in his voice. ‘I thought she could be happy here again. But now I’m not so sure.’
‘I think,’ Clare said, picking her way carefully, ‘that marrying the right man would make a difference.’
Tonio spread his hands. He said with a touch of harshness, ‘Then there is no problem. All she has to do is agree, and the wedding could take place tomorrow.’
She said, ‘Unfortunately, it isn’t that simple, and I think you know that. Because she isn’t convinced that he is right for her.’ She swallowed. ‘It would help if Guido—if the Marchese—spent less time—away. In Siena and other places,’ she added constrainedly.
He shook his head. ‘At the moment he has no choice. The boutique chain is taking off, and he likes to supervise the details himself.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘And is that all he’s doing? Hasn’t he other more personal reasons for being there?’
Tonio looked uncomfortable. He said, ‘Forgive me, this is not something I can discuss. It is Guido’s private business.’
‘But no secret,’ she said. ‘As Paola knows all about it.’
‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘She does not. No one does, except the Marchese himself.’
‘You condone what he’s doing?’
‘It is not my place to judge.’ He paused. ‘Or to explain. Guido does what he must, he always has.’
‘You’re very loyal.’
He bent his head. ‘As he is himself. As you will realise one day.’ He smiled awkwardly and rose to his feet. ‘If you would be kind enough to pass my message to Paola?’
Clare was thoughtful as she walked up to the house. She had seen a good deal of Tonio over the past weeks, and liked him more at each encounter. And he had infinite patience with Paola, she reflected ruefully, even when she was at her worst. Nothing she did seemed to faze him.
At the same time, she was a little surprised that Guido should allow him to spend so much time in Paola’s company. Apart from the tennis, on most days he came down to the pool to encourage her to swim. And in the evenings he was teaching her backgammon, and dancing with her when there was music after dinner in the salone.
Perhaps he was just ensuring that she didn’t become bored—and rebellious again.
But Guido should be doing that, she thought. Not appointing a deputy, however faithful and discreet.
She knocked softly at Paola’s door on the way to her own room and called her name, but there was no answer. Probably she’d taken some painkillers and gone to sleep, she decided as she turned away.
The long shutters had been closed over the window in her room, and she walked across, pushing them ajar to admit some light. Below her the gardens shimmered in the intense sunlight.
Clare shaded her eyes, and stared at the wooded slopes in the distance. She thought longingly of Minerva, standing in her rocky niche, with the torrent of icy water falling past her. She’d made several pilgrimages to the shrine over the past weeks, always when Guido was away. And always she’d had the place entirely to herself.
She’d sat on the grass going over and over in her mind everything that had transpired between Guido and herself. Trying to see if there was anything she could have done to change things.
And having to accept that there was not. Because she and Guido wanted totally different things from their relationships. She needed commitment, whereas he would have settled for transience. She wanted fidelity, but for him variety was the name of the game. For her marriage was about love. For him it involved convenience—a merging of money and interests.
And it was better by far to end it as she had done than to risk ultimate heartbreak.
She moved her shoulders under the damp cling of her top. Guido was away today, and there was nothing to prevent her making the climb up to the shrine—except the heat.
But some brave soul was risking it, she realised, as she sighted a flash of bright yellow moving among the trees.
Clare frowned. ‘Who on earth?’ she said aloud.
It couldn’t be Violetta, because she’d gone with the Count to have lunch with some friends in Gubbio and had not yet returned.
But Paola has a dress that colour, she thought restively. The same Paola who feels the heat so badly, and is allegedly flaked out on her bed at this moment.
So why do I know, without checking, that I won’t find her there?
She groaned inwardly. Part of her was tempted to let Paola go to the devil in her own way. But she knew in her heart that she had to intervene—to find out what was going on. Because that was what she was being paid for.
She was in no good mood when she reached the gate in the wall and wrenched it open. The sun was beating down on her, and her clothes were sticking to her body. She had to force her legs up the steps, the rope rasping on her damp hand.
When she reached the place where the track divided, she paused, listening intently, but there was no sound except the distant rush of water.
She found Paola standing in front of the shrine, staring up at the statue. She was surprised to see that she was alone—and that she appeared to have been crying.
The angry demand for an explanation died unuttered. Instead, she said gently, ‘Paola? Is something wrong? What are you doing here?’
‘You come here.’ The other’s voice was husky. ‘You said it was peaceful. Perhaps I too wish to be quiet sometimes. To think.’
Clare bit her lip. ‘Then I’m sorry I intruded,’ she returned. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
‘No—wait. I wish to ask you something.’ Paola paused. ‘Chiara, is it possible to think that you are in love with someone, and suddenly realise it is not true. That you really care for someone else entirely—and have done for a long time—only you have been too blind, too stubborn to admit it? Can that happen?’
Clare was very still. ‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘I’d say that could happen quite easily.’
Paola sighed. ‘I was afraid of that.’ She was silent for a moment. ‘Chiara—I have been seeing Fabio. He has been here at the villa, pretending to be a gardener.’
Clare closed her eyes for a moment. ‘My God,’ she said. ‘Marco’s cousin.’
‘You knew it was him?’
‘Not till now, but I should have done. I knew there was something wrong about him.’
Paola nodded. ‘Si, there was something wrong. He wanted money—only money. At first, he talked of love—how happy we would be. But then he began to change—to plan how to get money from Guido. To ask all the time about my inheritance. And I began to see that was all that mattered to him.
‘At the same time, I realised who I truly loved, even though I have fought against it for so long. And I saw that he is the only man who could make me happy. So today, when I met Fabio, I told him that it was all over—finished.’
‘And how did he react?’
‘He was angry. He said I had made a fool of him, and that he would make me sorry for it. And make Guido sorry, too.’ Her eyes met Clare’s apprehensively. ‘Do you think he can.’
‘No,’