The Truth Behind Their Practical Marriage. Marguerite Kaye
Estelle added hurriedly, castigating herself for her indiscretion, even if it was the truth. ‘My Aunt Kate, who took us girls in when we were orphaned, would do plenty of worrying, were it not for Eloise—that is my eldest sister. She has done a great deal to grease the wheels of my wandering, so to speak, and to ensure that none of them worry needlessly about me either. I have a portfolio of names and addresses, letters of introduction, lists of people in every city I can turn to if I need help of any sort.’
‘Your sister must be extremely well connected.’
‘And practical. Her husband is—was—in a senior position in the government. Thanks to him, I’ve had my currency changed, accommodation recommended, and my papers accepted at every border without question. I promised to ensure that someone on my list knows that I have arrived, and someone knows where I am headed next so that my sister can keep track of me. So, you see, I’m not really very intrepid at all.’
‘I beg to differ. Intrepid, and modest with it,’ he insisted, eyeing her with flattering respect. ‘How long have you been travelling?’
‘I left England back in June. Since then I’ve been to France, Spain, Portugal and now Italy.’
‘Good Lord, that’s quite a tour. Will you be publishing your journals when you return home?’
‘Shall I? Tales of a Single Lady Traveller,’ Estelle opined, slanting him a mischievous smile. ‘It’s the whole point of travelling, isn’t it, to share one’s experience with the world, to prove that travel is elevating.’
Mr Malahide eyed her sceptically. ‘I could be wrong, we have only just met, but you don’t strike me as either a diarist or an educationist.’
‘You are sadly right. To be honest, I have not once felt in the least bit elevated by any of the paintings or the tapestries or even the statues in the Uffizi, though I assure you, it is not for want of trying. They say, don’t they, that the more one stares at a painting, the more one appreciates it. Well, I have stood in front of countless Old Masters trying to absorb their greatness. I am beginning to think,’ she concluded sorrowfully, ‘that I am a heathen. Or perhaps my female mind is too feeble for the task.’
She was pleased to note that he was not in the least bit taken in. ‘And I am beginning to think that your female mind, far from being feeble, takes great pleasure in making fun of conventional wisdom. I’d also hazard a guess that what you really like is to observe real people, rather than portraits on a wall. An Englishwoman alone would sit in that café only long enough to finish her coffee,’ Mr Malahide added, seeing her surprise. ‘You take your time, content to simply watch the world go by.’
‘Ah, but that may be because I am simply empty-headed.’
‘I already know that is far from the case.’
‘But indeed, Mr Malahide, my ignorance of culture knows no bounds. My education was—well, let’s say sporadic, at best. My parents, like many others, it seems to me, considered education wasted on girls, and therefore money spent on governesses squandered, so we three sisters had scant experience of either.’
‘Three sisters?’
‘I have mentioned Eloise. I also have a twin. Phoebe is a chef—chef patron, actually, for she owns her own restaurant in London. Le Pas à Pas, it’s called—have you heard of it?’
‘I’m afraid not. I haven’t had cause to visit London in some time. Is it a popular restaurant?’
‘The most lauded in the whole city,’ Estelle said proudly. ‘It only opened in April, but already she has plans to open another.’
‘I know little of such things—I’m afraid I view food as fuel—but isn’t it quite unusual to have a female chef patron?’
‘Extremely. In fact Phoebe may even be unique.’
‘So the pioneering spirit runs in the family?’
‘If it does, then my sisters have the full quota between them. I’m no pioneer, Mr Malahide, I’m simply a purposeless wanderer, who has taken up far more than her share of the conversation.’
‘Sure,’ he replied in a much-thickened accent, ‘are we Irish not famed for having the gift of the gab?’
‘Nevertheless.’ Estelle pushed her empty dish to one side. ‘That’s quite enough about me. Tell me, what brings you to Florence?’
‘I’ve come to study mathematics. I know,’ he said, holding his hands up and laughing at her bemused expression, ‘a confession guaranteed to stop any conversation in its tracks. I’m also well past student age, but that’s what I’ve been doing none the less, for the better part of the last year. And now I can see you’re revising your opinion of me entirely, from someone you’re happy to while away a convivial hour or so with, to a crusty academic who prefers equations to words.’
‘Or a puzzle you’ve tempted me into solving, more like,’ she retorted. ‘You’re as likely a crusty academic as I am a—a…’
‘Blue-stockinged diarist?’
‘Precisely! Good grief, I hardly know what to make of you now. Do you intend to become a teacher? Or a college fellow—if that is the correct term?’
‘Neither. I study for the sheer pleasure of acquiring knowledge, having granted myself a year’s sabbatical. Though that’s up at the end of August.’
‘And what is it, may I ask, that you took a sabbatical from?’
‘Real life?’ His smile faltered. ‘I turned thirty last August, just before I left Ireland, and it seemed to me that I needed to—to get away for a while. So that’s what I did.’
Get away from what? Estelle wondered, but before she could ask, he pre-empted her. ‘I’m lucky, I’ve an excellent estate manager, but it would be unfair to expect him to hold the fort indefinitely, so I’ll need to return home soon. What about you, is there any end in sight to your sojourn?
There should be. After almost a year, she had a right to expect to have resolved her dilemma, or come up with alternative plans for how she intended to spend the rest of her life. Estelle pushed this increasingly persistent worry to one side. ‘I have nothing in my sights, save luncheon.’
She meant it flippantly, simply as a means of changing the subject, but Mr Malahide checked his watch, looking dismayed. ‘I don’t know where the time has gone. We’ve been sitting here for more than an hour.’
‘Really?’ Estelle exclaimed, ‘I had no idea. I—I’ve enjoyed our conversation, Mr Malahide.’
‘I have too, Miss Brannagh, very much. I’ve talked little but mathematics for nigh on nine months, and barely a word of it in my own language.’
‘You must have an excellent command of Italian.’
‘I studied here when I was younger and picked it up then. Your own linguistic skills must be impressive, given that you’ve managed to negotiate France, Spain and now Italy.’
‘Impressive is not the word I’d have chosen. I learned from textbooks, not from a tutor. I’ve been the unwitting source of hilarity in several inns and restaurants. Eggs, I have found, are one of the trickiest words to pronounce in any tongue. In France I ordered oafs, in Spain hoovos, and here in Italy, oova.’
He laughed. ‘Then what talent do you possess, for I refuse to believe as impressive a young woman as yourself is not blessed with some gift?’
‘I am fond of music,’ Estelle said, rolling her eyes inwardly at this understatement. ‘I have a good ear and a facility for playing almost any instrument.’
‘Now I am truly impressed, for though I enjoy music very much, I’m tone deaf and have a singing voice reminiscent of a distressed Wicklow lamb. Did you know there is a strong connection between music and mathematics?’
‘I