Sara Craven Tribute Collection. Sara Craven
wasn’t sure it was possible to turn back either. Not now. Not ever. She felt as if she’d taken some wild, momentous leap in the dark.
She said, almost beseechingly, ‘But it’s all happened so fast…’
‘I think it was the way you talked about it,’ Rome said, after a pause. ‘I could tell how much it had meant to you. And I was curious to see something that could put that note of yearning into your voice. It made the distance seem immaterial.’
‘Oh.’ Her throat tightened.
‘And I would do the same for you,’ he added casually. ‘If you come to Italy, I’d show you all the places that were important to me.’
‘Even your vineyard?’
He laughed. ‘Maybe even that.’
‘Well, I hope you won’t be disappointed in Suffolk. It’s quite a gentle landscape. There aren’t any towering cliffs or sweeping hills. And the beaches are all dunes and shingle.’
Rome shrugged a shoulder. ‘I’ll chance it.’
Cory watched curiously as he negotiated a busy junction with effortless ease.
She said stiltedly, ‘You’re a very good driver.’
‘I’ve been driving for a long time.’ He slanted a glance at her. ‘You don’t have a car?’
She shook her head. ‘It’s never seemed worth it. Not in the city. For work and shopping I tend to use the Underground, or taxis.’
‘Unfortunately we don’t have those conveniences at Montedoro, so one’s own transport is a necessity.’
She nodded. ‘Have you visited East Anglia before?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve only been in London. Why?’
‘Because you seem to know the way so well. And without any prompting from me.’
There was another slight pause, then he shrugged again. ‘We have road maps even in Tuscany. And I’m capable of working out a route for a journey.’
‘Which means you must have planned this in advance,’ Cory said slowly. She turned her head, staring at him. ‘Yet you had no means of knowing that we’d meet today. Or ever again, for that matter.’
‘You’re wrong about that.’ His voice was quiet. ‘Because I knew I would see you again, Cory mia. And so did you. If not today, then at some other time. And I could wait.’
Yes, she thought, with a sudden pang. He would be good at that. Was that why he’d kept away all week? Making her wait—making her wonder?
She said bitterly, ‘I don’t think I know anything any more.’
‘Do you wish you hadn’t come? Perhaps you’d rather be back at your National Gallery, fantasising about an image on canvas.’ His tone was sardonic. ‘Do you prefer oil paint to flesh and blood, mia?’
She flushed. ‘That’s a hateful thing to say. And not true.’
‘I’m relieved to hear it.’
Cory bit her lip. Glancing up at the sky, she said, with asperity, ‘It seems to have stopped raining. I suppose you arranged that, too.’
Rome laughed. ‘Of course. I want this to be a perfect day for you, cara.’
Cory relapsed into a brooding silence. But it didn’t last long—how could it, when she began to recognise familiar landmarks and favourite bits of countryside?
In spite of herself, she felt anticipation—even happiness—beginning to uncurl inside her.
‘We’ll be in Sudbury soon,’ Rome remarked at last. ‘Do you want to stop and look round?’
‘Gainsborough was born there,’ she said. ‘They’ve turned the house into a gallery for some of his work. But maybe we’ve looked at enough paintings for one day.’
‘Where do you suggest we go instead?’
‘Lavenham’s quite near,’ she said. ‘And it’s really beautiful—full of old, timbered houses.’
‘Is that where you used to live?’
She shook her head. ‘No, our house was nearer the coast—in a village called Blundham.’
‘I’d very much like to see it,’ Rome said, after a pause. ‘Would you mind?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Why should I? But, at the same time, why should you want to?’
‘To fill in another piece of the puzzle.’ He was smiling again, but his voice was serious. ‘To know you better, mia bella.’
Cory straightened in her seat. She said crisply, ‘Isn’t that rather a waste of time—when you’ll be gone so soon?’
He said softly, ‘At the moment, my plans are fluid.’ And paused. ‘Tell me, is there somewhere in Lavenham that we can have lunch?’
She said huskily, ‘Several places.’ And stared determinedly out of the window as she allowed herself to wonder what he might mean.
The bar at the Swan Hotel opened into a maze of small rooms. They found a secluded alcove furnished with a large comfortable sofa and a small table, and a cheerful waitress brought them home-made vegetable soup followed by generous open sandwiches, with smoked salmon for Cory and rare roast beef for Rome. She chose a glass of white wine, dry with an underlying flowery taste, while Rome drank a sharp, icy Continental beer.
On their way to the hotel they’d visited the market place and seen the old Corpus Christi guildhall, now a community centre, and the ancient market cross.
The rain had well and truly stopped now, and a watery sun was making occasional appearances between the clouds, accompanied by a crisp breeze.
Cory was telling him over the sandwiches that a number of the shops they’d passed dated from the Tudor period, when she stopped with a rueful laugh.
‘What am I doing?’ She shook her head almost despairingly. ‘I’m trying to teach history to someone who was born in Rome.’
He grinned. ‘Different history, Cory mia. And don’t stop, please. I’m enjoying my lesson. Why was Lavenham important?’
‘Because of the wool trade. It was a major centre. Then came the Industrial Revolution, and the power looms, but there was no coal locally to run them, so the woollen industry moved north.’ She smiled rather sadly. ‘We may have missed out on the dark, satanic mills, but now we have nuclear power plants instead.’
‘So, tell me about Blundham.’
‘I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.’ Cory finished her wine. ‘It’s just an ordinary little village. We don’t get too many tourists, apart from birdwatchers and walkers.’
‘I hope our arrival won’t prove too much of a shock,’ Rome said drily, as he paid the bill.
But, in the end, the shock was Cory’s.
They arrived at Blundham after a leisurely drive through narrow lanes. On the face of it the village, with its winding main street lined with pink-washed cottages, looked much the same. She recognised most of the names above the shops, and the pub, which had been rather run down, had received a much needed facelift, with window boxes, smart paintwork, and a new sign. It all had the same rather sleepy, prosperous air that she remembered.
‘Why are there so many pink houses?’ Rome queried, as he slowed for the corner.
Cory shook her head. ‘It’s just a traditional thing. You’ll see it everywhere in Suffolk.’ She pulled a face. ‘My grandfather told me that originally they mixed the plaster with pigs’ blood to get that particular colour, but I don’t know if it’s true or if he was just winding me up.’ She leaned forward eagerly.