The Tuscan Child(99)

“And I’m already forty-two, sir.”

“Not an unsurmountable gap, surely.”

“I don’t think you should make a hasty decision on something as important as this, not when you’ve had so much thrown at you and you’re on the rebound after Mrs. Langley left you. And I wouldn’t want you to make such an offer because you felt sorry for me, either.”

“I don’t feel sorry for you, Elsie,” he said. “Actually I envy you. You seem to be able to make the best of the bleakest of situations. I think you’re just what I need right now. Of course you might not find me much of a catch . . .”

She blushed then. “I’ve always thought you were very handsome, Mr. Hugo. In fact, when I was younger I used to keep a picture of you in my room.” She paused, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. “But then there’s the matter of class. You’re a baronet, an aristocrat. I’m a servant. Think of the talk.”

Hugo put a hand on her shoulder. “I have a feeling the war will have changed things. No more class distinction. And anyway, who cares if there is talk? Let them talk. I think we might be happy enough, don’t you?”

“I’ve always been very fond of you, Mr. Hugo,” she said. “And the chance to have my own home, not living under someone else’s roof—well, it’s very appealing, I must say. But I don’t want you to do something you’ll regret later.”

He smiled at her then, putting his finger under her chin. “No regrets, Elsie, I promise you. And for God’s sake put down that damned suitcase so I can give you a kiss.”





CHAPTER FORTY-TWO





JOANNA


June 1973

A week later I was reluctantly preparing to go home to attend the auction of my painting when the man from the post office came up to Renzo and me. “I have received a telephone call from the home where Father Filippo resides,” he said. “It seems he is failing fast and would like to talk to Signor Bartoli and the young lady from England.”

Mystified, we drove in Renzo’s Alfa Romeo to a nearby town. The home was a pleasant, modern building a little away from the town centre. We were escorted to Father Filippo’s room by a young, fresh-faced nun. “He is very weak,” she said, “and in distress. His mind may be wandering, but I hope you can put him at peace before he goes.”

Indeed, the old man looked almost transparent as he lay under white sheets. His eyes were closed. Renzo said softly, “Father, it is I, Renzo Bartoli. I have come as you wished and brought the young lady from England with me.”

The old priest’s eyes fluttered open. “It is good,” he said. “I want you to hear my confession before I die—you and the young lady, since it concerns her. I am responsible for the deaths of your mother and the Englishman. I betrayed them, and it has been on my conscience all these years.”

“How could you have done that, Father?” Renzo asked gently.

“I had to weigh what was best,” he said, his breath coming raggedly. “The German commandant came to me. He said he suspected that someone in the town was hiding an English airman. He was going to execute us all, every man, woman, and child, unless someone confessed. Sofia had told me in confession about the Englishman. I know the seal of the confessional is sacred, but this was many lives, many innocent lives against her one. I told him what I knew, but I begged him to spare Sofia and take me instead. He wouldn’t agree. So with the heaviest of hearts I gave him your mother, Renzo, so that others could live. I have never known since whether I did the right thing or not.”

“You did what you thought was best, Father,” Renzo said. “There was no right answer.”

“This is true. But all the same . . . That sweet young woman. How I have wept for her all these years and prayed that she is now an angel in heaven.”

“I’m sure she is.” Renzo’s voice cracked.

“And the young English lady. The Germans took her father, too. I’m sorry.”

“But he escaped, Father,” I said. “He came home and married again and I am his daughter.”

“So that is good.” He gave a faint smile. “So something good happened.” His eyes fluttered closed.

Renzo leaned down and kissed his forehead. “Go in peace, Father. There is nothing that needs to be forgiven.”

A sweet smile came across the priest’s face. It took a while for us to realise he was no longer breathing.

That evening Renzo and I were sitting on the terrace. This time we were drinking a glass of limoncello after a meal that he had cooked for me—mussels and clams in a cream sauce, Florentine beef steak, and a rich almond cake with gelato for dessert. I was feeling content—more content than I had felt in years.

The distant hills were bathed in pink twilight. Somewhere far off, a bell was tolling. Otherwise there was silence.

“So this is all yours now,” I said, motioning toward the vineyards and olive groves. “You’ll be a rich man.”

He looked around. “Yes, I suppose I will. But now I know the truth, I think I must give back the land that my father took after the war—the land of those brave men who were killed in the massacre. It’s only right, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” I agreed. “I definitely think it’s right.”