The Padova Pearls
- -
- 100%
- +
Why had fate brought him into her life only to let him walk out again?
She felt as though she had been robbed of something infinitely precious, something that should have been rightfully hers…
Becoming aware that she was standing like a fool staring at the closed door and Mrs Caldwell would be waiting for her, Sophia pulled herself together and went to dry her hair and change.
Resisting the desire to stand and stare at the portrait, she swapped her business suit for a skirt and top and leaving her hair loose, hurried back to the living-room.
There, she quickly sorted out the old lady’s change, picked up the carrier bag and glanced around for her keys.
They were nowhere to be seen.
But the stranger had actually opened the door, so he might have left them in the lock.
She took a quick look, but they weren’t there.
So what had he done with them?
When another glance around failed to locate them, it occurred to her that he might well have dropped them into the carrier when he’d put the shopping down.
In that case she’d find them when she unpacked.
Taking the spare set of keys from the sideboard drawer, she switched off the light and, closing the door behind her, hurried across the hall.
As she approached the old lady’s partly open door she could hear what sounded like one of the soaps on the television.
Calling, ‘It’s me,’ she let herself in and went through to the living-room.
Like Sophia’s own, the old lady’s flat was light and spacious, with a combined living-room and kitchen. A long fire was throwing out a welcome warmth and two schooners of pale sherry were waiting on the coffee table.
Mrs Caldwell, who was standing by the window looking through a chink in the curtains, turned to say, ‘Do make yourself at home, dearie.’
Sophia put the old lady’s change on the coffee table and, having crossed to the kitchen, began to unpack the shopping, while Sam, the boldest of the two marmalade kittens, rubbed against her leg, purring like a small traction engine.
Picking up the remote control, Mrs Caldwell switched off the television and, settling herself on the couch, urged, ‘Why don’t you sit down and drink your sherry before you start cooking?’
Aware that the old lady went to bed fairly early, Sophia suggested, ‘It might make more sense to drink it while I’m getting the paella ready. That way we won’t be too late having supper.’
‘Perhaps you’re right.’
Sophia unpacked the last of the groceries and, finding no trace of the missing keys, collected her glass of sherry.
While she sipped it, with swift efficiency she sliced onions, peppers and tomatoes, added a crushed clove of garlic and began to fry them lightly.
‘The paella smells nice already,’ Mrs Caldwell commented. ‘I must say I’m starting to feel distinctly hungry.’
‘In that case, I’m rather pleased I decided to buy most of the ingredients ready-cooked and make the quick version.’
‘That was good thinking,’ the old lady agreed. Then, eagerly, ‘Who was the perfectly gorgeous young man who came in with you?’
Trying to sound casual, unconcerned, Sophia admitted, ‘I’m afraid I’ve no idea.’
‘But surely you know him?’
‘No, not at all. He just offered to carry the shopping when one of the handles on the bag broke.’
Mrs Caldwell was clearly disappointed. ‘Didn’t you find out anything about him? Where he lives? What he does for a living? Whether or not he has a steady girlfriend? I would have done at your age.’
Forced to smile, Sophia said, ‘All I know is that he’s in London on business…Oh, and that while his father has English roots, and he went to university in England, his mother comes from Italy.’
‘Well, that’s something you and he have in common. Oh, by the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you, have you still got relatives in Italy?’
‘If I have they’re distant ones. Like me, my mother was an only child, and her parents have been dead for quite a few years.’
‘I wondered, because the man who came to see your father was Italian.’
Sophia was surprised. ‘Someone visited Dad? How long ago?’
‘Quite a while ago now,’ Mrs Caldwell answered vaguely. ‘Didn’t he tell you?’
‘No, this is the first I’ve heard of it.’
The old lady was obviously taken aback. ‘That’s peculiar…Well, this man arrived one day while you were at the gallery. He came in a taxi.’
‘What was he like?’
‘He was a good-looking man, short and thick-set, the same kind of build as my Arthur, with a thatch of white hair. He must have been somewhere in the region of sixty, but he looked younger because his eyebrows were still jet-black.
‘He found your front door buzzer wasn’t working properly and rang mine. When I answered, he explained to me in very poor English that he was looking for a Signor Jordan. He had a package for him.’
‘What kind of package?’ Sophia asked curiously.
‘It was a parcel, about so big…’ The old lady sketched the size in the air. ‘I told him to go across the hall and ring the bell of your flat. Then I waited until I saw your father open the door and let him in.
‘He only stayed a couple of minutes, then left in the same taxi that brought him.’
Sophia frowned. Why hadn’t her father said anything about having a visitor? It was most unlike him. And, with so little happening in his life, he couldn’t have forgotten…
‘But, to get back to the young man who carried the shopping—’ Mrs Caldwell broke into her thoughts ‘—I’m surprised he didn’t ask you out.’
Stifling a sigh, Sophia remarked with determined lightness, ‘I’m afraid we’re just destined to be ships that pass in the night.’
‘But you were attracted to him.’ It was a statement, not a question.
Trying to dissemble, Sophia asked, ‘What makes you think that?’
‘Dearie, it was obvious.’
Feeling her colour rise, Sophia said, ‘For all I know, he’s married.’
She had judged him to be in his late twenties or early thirties, so it was odds-on that he was either married or in some kind of stable relationship.
Oh, surely not, when he’d invited her to have dinner with him…
But the fact that he’d asked her out didn’t necessarily mean he was unattached. Perhaps if he travelled a lot he took his pleasure where he could find it…
‘I happened to notice his left hand,’ Mrs Caldwell told her. ‘He wasn’t wearing a ring.’ With a sly glance, she added, ‘It’s high time you started to look for a husband.’
Sophia poured rice into a large cast-iron frying pan and began to stir in the stock. ‘I don’t know where to start looking.’
‘You know what they say—love is where you find it. All it takes is mutual attraction to spark it off.’ Then, thoughtfully, ‘There was something about the way that young man looked at you that showed he was attracted. Very attracted.
‘Oh, I know what you’re thinking…I only got a quick glimpse of you both together. But that’s all it takes. I felt sure he would ask you out. Perhaps tomorrow he’ll—’
‘He’s going home tomorrow,’ Sophia said flatly.
‘That’s a shame. One date might have been all that was needed to start a transatlantic courtship. An old-fashioned word, but a nice one, don’t you think?’
Before Sophia could answer, she went on, ‘It’s a pity you didn’t ask him to have supper with us.’
‘I only thought about it after he’d gone. Of course he might not have accepted.’
‘I rather fancy he would. When I heard the front door close, I looked out. He didn’t just walk away, you know. He stood under that tree for several minutes watching your window. In fact he’d only just disappeared when you came over.’
Sophia was filled with disappointment. If only she’d looked out and seen him there, she might have plucked up the courage to go and issue an invitation.
But it seemed it wasn’t to be.
CHAPTER TWO
PERHAPS Mrs Caldwell picked up that disappointment because she changed the subject by asking, ‘Are you showing your father’s miniatures?’
‘Yes. There’s plenty of space for them, and they’re some of Dad’s best work.’
‘My favourite is the one of the dark-haired girl in that beautiful blue silk ball gown. She’s wearing such exquisite pearls and holding what looks like a carnival mask…It always reminds me a little of you…’
Sophia knew the one she meant. It was another of her father’s portraits that particularly appealed to her. Judging by the gown and the hairstyle, it had been copied from a much older painting.
But when she had asked him where he’d first seen the original, he had replied that it was so long ago he’d quite forgotten.
‘When I mentioned to Peter how much I liked it,’ the old lady went on, ‘he told me that it was his favourite too…
‘I miss him, you know,’ she added abruptly. ‘I enjoyed the games of cribbage we sometimes used to play in an afternoon.’
‘I know he enjoyed them too.’
Her eyes suspiciously bright, Mrs Caldwell sat up straighter and demanded, ‘So how is the exhibition coming along?’
‘We’re all set to open tomorrow morning.’
While the paella finished cooking they talked companionably about the exhibition in particular and painting in general.
When the meal was ready, Mrs Caldwell suggested frivolously, ‘Let’s have a bottle of wine. There’s several in the rack. Make it a Rioja and we’ll pretend we’re in Spain.’
After they had toasted each other, they tucked into the paella, which the old lady declared to be the best she had ever tasted.
Warmed by her pleasure, Sophia put aside her low spirits and made a real effort to be cheerful. She succeeded so well that, after she had cleared away and stacked the dishwasher, they talked and laughed and played cribbage until almost eleven o’clock.
Suddenly catching sight of the time, she cried, ‘Good gracious, I’d better get off home and let you go to bed.’
With Mrs Caldwell’s thanks still ringing in her ears, she hurried back across the hall and unlocking her door, went inside and switched on the light.
The first thing she noticed were her keys lying just under the edge of the coffee table. She must have knocked them on to the floor when she’d moved the bag of shopping.
She had closed the door behind her and stooped to pick them up when a sudden strange, unprecedented feeling of unease made her stiffen and glance around.
Nothing seemed out of place and her handbag was where she’d left it, but a sixth sense insisted that something was wrong. Not as it had been.
But what?
Still puzzling, she dropped one set of keys into her handbag and put the spare ones back into the sideboard drawer, while she continued to look around.
Yes, that was it! At both the front window and the kitchen window at the side of the house, the curtains, which had been open, were now closed.
The fine hairs on the back of her neck rose and her skin goosefleshed as though a cool breeze had blown over it, while her thoughts flew backwards and forwards.
Someone must have been in the flat after she had gone across to Mrs Caldwell’s.
Impossible. There was only the old lady and herself in the house.
However, the fact remained that curtains didn’t draw themselves. And they must have been drawn for some specific reason.
It seemed to point to a burglar, or someone with nefarious intentions who hadn’t wanted to be seen by anyone passing.
But the back door was always kept locked and bolted and no one could come in the front way who didn’t ring one of the flats or have a key.
Yet someone had been in.
And perhaps still was.
Chilled by the thought, she shivered.
Then, nerving herself, she went to look, switching on lights as she went.
The bathroom door was ajar and it only took a moment to satisfy herself that no one was in there.
Then she opened the door of her father’s studio and, her nostrils full of the familiar smell of paints and turpentine that lingered even now, looked around.
Apart from his easel, his unused canvases propped against a wall and, on the racks, his paints and brushes, his pallet and pallet knife, his cleaning fluids and soft rags, it was empty.
His bedroom too was free of intruders.
It was still as he had left it.
One of these days she would have to go through his private papers, and give his clothes and belongings to charity, but the grief was still too new, too raw, to be able to do it yet.
The only thing she had moved had been his last gift to her, which she had discovered hidden in his bureau, along with some letters.
Though only about the size of a small shoebox, it had been quite heavy. Wrapped in gold paper, it bore a printed tag which had read simply:
For Sophia, with all my love. Have a very happy twenty-fifth birthday.
Finding it like that had made her tears flow.
When they were under control, she had stripped off the paper with unsteady fingers to reveal the exquisite ebony jewellery box that the stranger had commented on.
It was like a miniature chest, the thick, arched lid beautifully carved with what appeared to be one of the signs of the zodiac. A moment or two later, though it wasn’t the conventional portrayal, she recognized it as Pisces, her own birth sign.
Caught in a curling wave were two tiny sea horses, one obviously frolicking, the other melancholy. It perfectly captured the dual personality, the moods and emotional depths, attributed to Pisceans.
Fresh tears had trickled down her cheeks while she wondered where her father—who had been housebound for quite some time—had managed to find such a lovely and appropriate birthday gift.
Her heart overflowing with love and gratitude, she had put it on her dressing table where she could see it the moment she woke up.
Suppose it had gone?
Almost more concerned about losing her gift than the possibility of finding an intruder, she took a deep breath and, flinging open her bedroom door, switched on the light.
To her immense relief the box was where she’d left it and the room appeared to be empty, but—sensitive to atmosphere—to Sophia it didn’t feel empty.
Her divan bed was only an inch or two from the floor, so the only place anyone could possibly hide was the walk-in wardrobe.
Though she told herself she was being a fool, she slid aside the doors and peered in.
It occurred to her with wry amusement that if she did find anyone hiding in there, she would probably die of fright.
In the event, it was innocent of anything but clothes and accessories.
As she caught sight of the box once more, the thought struck her that it was the right shape and size to be the package brought by the mysterious visitor Mrs Caldwell had let in.
Maybe it had been a special delivery ordered by phone? If that was the case, it would account for her father not mentioning anything about a visitor.
The fact that the man had been Italian was no doubt quite irrelevant.
But would a delivery of that kind be made by taxi?
Well, the box had come from somewhere.
Giving up the riddle, her thoughts went back to a possible burglar. The box was still here, but what about its contents?
Mostly it was costume stuff. The only items of any real value were her few good pieces of jewellery and her father’s signet ring…But surely any would-be thief would have taken them?
A glance inside showed that nothing was missing, so maybe the whole concept of a burglar had sprung from her imagination?
But what about the curtains?
Perhaps, her mind taken up with the fair-haired stranger, she had closed them herself without registering the fact?
As if to add weight to this theory, she realized that none of the curtains at the rear of the house had been closed.
Common sense jumped in and pointed out that they wouldn’t need to be. The garden was surrounded by a high wall, so no one could have looked in and noticed anything amiss.
Oh, well, if someone had come in—and it was starting to look less likely—they had gone out again without taking anything or doing any damage, so she must try and put the whole thing out of her mind.
She was about to move away and prepare for bed when she caught sight of something that looked like a wisp of stocking dangling from the drawer she kept her underwear in.
Frowning a little, she pulled it open to find that one of her fine silk stockings had somehow escaped from its protective wrapper and snagged on the top of the drawer.
She stared at it, a chill running through her, certain, or almost certain, that she hadn’t left it like that.
A quick glance in her other drawers suggested that someone had looked through them, leaving them marginally less neat.
But, if that was so, as well as the puzzling—how did they get in? was the equally perplexing—what had they been looking for?
While she showered, brushed her teeth and put on her nightdress, she turned the whole thing over and over in her mind, but it made no sense.
By the time she climbed into bed, heartily sick of the fruitless exercise, she determined to think no more about it.
At once, thoughts of the fascinating stranger who had looked so like the man in her portrait brought to life flooded in.
The joy she’d felt on first seeing him came back to linger like some sad ghost. And she knew now that, as though under a spell, she had spent all her life just waiting for him.
But a one-sided enchantment was no use, and that was all it had been. Otherwise he wouldn’t have walked away as casually as he had.
So what was the point of repining?
None at all, she told herself stoutly. She would try not to think about him. Though, with his face only a few feet away, that was easier said than done.
Reaching out a hand, she switched off the light, but blotting out sight didn’t stop the thoughts and regrets that tramped ceaselessly on the treadmill of her mind.
She slept badly, tossing and turning restlessly, and awoke headachy and unrefreshed to find the light of another grey, overcast day filling the room.
A bleary glance at her bedside clock showed that, for once in her life, she had badly overslept.
As quickly as possible, she showered and dressed in a neat business suit, coiled her dark hair and put on a hasty dab of make-up. Then, having swallowed a cup of instant coffee, she pulled on her coat and made her way to A Volonté.
Despite walking fast, she was over half an hour late by the time she hurried through the heavy smoked glass doors into the oval-shaped gallery.
Quiet and elegant, with its white, gold and dark green decor, its graceful sweep of staircase, its classic columns, which supported the encircling balcony, it was a Mecca for the art world.
On her way to the staff room, she glanced up at the balcony. Several people were already strolling round looking at her father’s paintings. At the far end a couple with their backs to her—a tall fair-haired man and a petite woman with a black shoulder-length bob, were studying the miniatures.
The exhibition appeared to be getting off to a good start, thank the Lord.
When Sophia had hung up her coat and tapped on David’s office door to give him her apologies—which he waved away—she went back to take her place at the discreetly positioned desk.
Over in the lounge area she could see Joanna sitting on one of the dark green velvet couches talking to a balding man she recognized as a Parisian art critic and private collector.
A glance at the balcony showed the woman was still admiring the miniatures, while her companion had moved away a little and was looking at a collection of Venetian scenes which had been hung together.
More people were starting to drift in, but the gallery’s policy was to let them browse in peace until they had a question to ask or were ready to buy, so Sophie turned her attention to the latest auction room catalogues.
There was a Joshua Roache coming up next week, and an early Cass that David might be interested in for his private collection…
A woman’s voice said, ‘Scusi signorina…’
Putting the catalogue to one side, Sophia looked up with a smile. ‘How can I help you?’
Judging by the smooth bell of black hair, it was the same woman who had been up on the balcony a few minutes ago.
She was extremely well dressed and vividly beautiful, with large black eyes, a creamy skin, a straight nose and full red lips. Her figure was voluptuous, her scarlet-tipped hands smooth and plump. As well as several dress rings, she wore a wide chased wedding band and a magnificent matching diamond solitaire.
At close quarters, Sophia could see she was somewhat older than she had first appeared, probably in her middle thirties.
In fluent but heavily accented English, she said, ‘I would like to know more about this picture…’
To Sophia’s dismay, she had taken down the miniature that Mrs Caldwell had remarked was both her favourite and Peter’s.
Stretching out a hand, and trying hard to keep her voice even, Sophia suggested, ‘Perhaps you’d like to give it to me?’
In spite of all her efforts, it must have sounded too much like an order because, with a haughty look, the woman informed her, ‘You are talking to the Marquise d’Orsini.’
‘I’m sorry, but no one is allowed to remove any of the paintings.’
‘You do not understand. I intend to buy it.’
‘I’m afraid it’s not for sale.’
‘How can you say such a thing?’ the Marquise cried angrily. ‘An art gallery exists to sell paintings, does it not?’
Aware that the woman’s raised voice was attracting curious glances, Sophia said soothingly, ‘Of course. All the paintings on this floor are for sale, including some excellent miniatures.’
‘But it is this one I want.’
‘I’m extremely sorry, but that one and the other miniatures on the balcony are part of a Peter Jordan exhibition, and not for sale.’
‘Nonsense! I wish you to—’
Sophia heard no more as, glancing up, she saw a tall, good-looking man approaching. He was dressed in smart casuals, his carriage was easy and there was a quiet assurance in the way he held his blond head. His dark grey eyes were fixed on her face.
Rooted to the spot, she gazed at the man she had never seriously expected to see again.
Was his coming into A Volonté a coincidence?
No, surely not.
A surge of gladness filled her and brought a glorious smile to her face.
He smiled back, that white, slightly crooked smile that made her feel hollow inside.
The Marquise, realizing she had lost Sophia’s attention, turned and, seeing him, grasped his arm and broke into a rapid stream of Italian. ‘This girl had the nerve to tell me I shouldn’t have taken down the miniature—’
Speaking in the same language, he said, ‘Didn’t I advise you not to?’
Her hot temper making her reckless, she snapped, ‘I get tired of being “advised” what to do. Men always think they are right. They always say, “I told you so”. You should be on my side, not agreeing with this insolent chit of a girl who—’
Putting a finger to her carmine lips to interrupt the flow, he warned, ‘It’s quite likely that the signorina speaks Italian…She is—’
‘I know what she is…A little nobody with an inflated sense of her own importance. Well, she’s making a mistake if she thinks she can—’
‘Cara, you are the one who is making the mistake. I advise you to calm down and—’
‘I don’t need advice,’ she flared. ‘I will act as I think fit.’
‘Very well.’
Though he spoke quietly, without any trace of anger, she clutched at his arm. ‘Stefano, darling, I’m sorry, so sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that…’
When he said nothing, tears welling in her black eyes, she whispered, ‘Forgive me. I had no right to get angry with you…’
Watching his face soften, Sophia wondered—was he this beautiful woman’s husband?