Abruptly, he turned away. Walking with rapid strides, he moved back down the lofty length of the galleria, descending the stairs with clattering heels. He wal
ked into the library with its vast array of shelves, its acres of tomes inset.
His archivist was there, working on some research project or other requested by some university’s history department. He started as Cesare walked in, and got to his feet.
‘Tell me, are there any personal diaries or journals from Count Alessandro—the one Luciezo painted for the triptych?’ Cesare asked without preamble.
His archivist blinked. ‘I would need to check...’ he answered uncertainly.
‘Do so, if you please. And anything that you find, have sent to my office. Thank you.’
Cesare took his leave briskly, wondering to himself what impulse had made him make such a request—wondering what he had glimpsed in his ancestor’s impassive face.
He pulled his mind away. He had no time to brood further. He must phone Francesca. That could not be postponed any longer.
His brows drew together. Was this really something that could be said over the phone? Telling her that he could no longer marry her? His frown deepened. He owed her more than that, surely—more than a cursory phone call.
I have to tell her to her face—I owe her that courtesy, that consideration, at least.
He would be changing her expected destiny, just as his was now changed.
He gave a heavy sigh, sitting himself down at the desk in his office, calling up airline websites, seeing when he could fly out.
He would have to tell Carla what he was doing. She would understand. He would be away a handful of days—no more than that, allowing for time differences across the Atlantic. Then he would return and announce his engagement to Carla.
* * *
Carla lay in bed, listening to the dawn chorus. She had scarcely slept. She had spent the remainder of the previous day, after Cesare had left, lying on her bed, sleepless, and then restlessly going down to the pool, immersing herself in the cooling water.
As she’d worked her way up and down in a slow breaststroke she’d felt a kind of numbness steal over her. It had lasted through the evening, through dinner—served with Lorenzo’s usual skilful unobtrusiveness—and even through the phone call that Cesare had dutifully made.
Conversation had been awkward—how could it have been otherwise?—and after enquiring how she was, and how she had spent the rest of the day, his voice constrained, he had informed her in an even more constrained fashion that he would be flying to the USA the next day to see Francesca.
She had been understanding of his reasons—but as she’d hung up she’d felt a wave of guilt go through her.
He didn’t ask for this! He didn’t ask for me to present him with my pregnancy, turning his life upside down as it has!
And the woman who’d thought she would be marrying Cesare—her life was being turned upside down as well. Ripped out from under her.
By me—by my giving in and agreeing to marry Cesare. Who feels he has no choice but to marry me.
Just as she had tried to force Vito to marry her. Making him do what she wanted. Ripping up his life. Ripping up the life he had been planning to make with that blonde English girl he was now so urgently seeking.
She closed her eyes in misery.
Haven’t I done enough damage to people? Do I have to ruin Cesare’s life too—and his fiancée’s?
The knowledge hung darkly, bleakly inside her.
Silently, she ran her mind back, thinking of the father she could not remember—had scarcely known. For the first time she thought of how he must have felt, told that he had to marry a woman he did not love because she carried his child. Had he had other plans? Other dreams? Dreams that had been smashed to pieces? Of a life he’d wanted to live and that had been barred to him?
Just as her pregnancy was barring Cesare from having the life he wanted. Requiring him to do his duty, take her for his wife instead of the woman he wanted to marry.
A cry sounded in her head.
I don’t want to force Cesare to marry me!
She felt her heart constrict. Memory poured in around it.