I have made this bequest to you not only for the child you carry but as a token—a symbol of what is between us. To understand why, I ask you to read the enclosed. It is a typed transcript from the personal diary of Count Alessandro, who was portrayed by Luciezo.
Read it now, before you read more of this letter.
She let the page fall to her lap, then unfolded the transcript with fumbling fingers. Made herself read it. The Italian was old-fashioned, with some words she did not know. But as she read she felt the world shift and rearrange itself.
Slowly, with a hollow feeling within her, she set it aside, picked up Cesare’s letter again. Resumed reading.
It was brief.
I will not make the mistake he made. Whatever decision you now make, know that I am not my ancestor.
It was signed starkly, simply, with his name: Cesare.
Carefully—very, very carefully—her heart hammering in her chest, she put the papers back in the envelope. Then she went up onto the patio, where her mother was anxiously looking for her.
Marlene started to get to her feet, but Carla stayed her.
‘I have to go to him,’ she said.
Her voice was strange. Hollow. Her heart was filling with an emotion she could feel overwhelming her, drowning her.
* * *
The hire car ate up the miles, racing along the autostrada across the lush countryside of Lazio as she snaked ever upwards into the mountainous terrain, gaining at last, as darkness fell, the mighty stone entrance to the massive bulk of the Castello Mantegna.
I will not make the mistake he made.
Slowly, she made her way to the gate, looked at the walls of the castello louring over her. A postern door was set into the towering iron-studded gates, with an ancient metal bell-pull beside it. And a more modern intercom and surveillance camera.
She pressed the buzzer, giving her name. There was silence—complete and absolute silence. No response at all from within that stony fastness.
Her head sank. Defeat was in the slump of her shoulders.
Fool! Oh—fool, fool, fool!
The words berated her, like blows.
‘Signorina! Prego—prego!’
The man at the now open postern gate was in the uniform of a security guard—which, Carla realised dimly, given the value of the artworks within, even without the priceless triptych, made sense. He was beckoning her frantically.
Heart in her mouth, she stepped inside, through the gate into the vast, cobbled courtyard within. The guard was apologising fervently, but her eyes were darting either side to the ranks of former stables, now garaging, and the old medieval kitchens, now staff and estate office quarters. Both wings were utterly dominated by the huge mass of the castello itself, rising darkly ahead of her.
Dusk was gathering in this huge paved courtyard, and security lights were coming on as she was conducted across it to a pair of palatial iron-studded doors that were being thrown open even as she spoke. Inside, she could see a huge, cavernous hall, brilliantly lit with massive candelabras. And across it, striding rapidly, came the figure of the man she had come to brave in his mountain fastness.
Cesare di Mondave, Conte di Mantegna, lord of his domain...
Faintness drummed at her. The effects of her early start that morning—after a night in which the hours had passed sleepless and tormented with confusion, with emotions that had pummelled through her mercilessly, relentlessly—the drive to the airport, the flight to Rome, the disembarking, the hiring of the car, the journey here. Exhaustion weighed her down like a heavy, smothering coat. Her nerves were shattered, her strength gone.
She sank downwards.
He was there instantly, with an oath, catching her. Catching her up into his arms, even though she weighed more now than she had ever done, as her body ripened with its precious burden. But as if she were a feather he bore her off. She closed her eyes, head sinking onto his shoulder. Feeling his strength, his warmth, his very scent...
Cesare.
His name soared in her head, fighting through the clouds, the thick mist that surrounded her. He was going through doorways, up a marble staircase, all the while casting urgent, abrupt instructions at those whose footsteps she heard running. There were anxious voices, male and female, until at the last she was lowered down upon the softest counterpane. She sank into it and her eyes fluttered. She was lying on a vast, ornate four-poster, silk-hung, and lights were springing up everywhere. Cesare was hovering above her, and there was a bevy of people, so it seemed, behind him.
‘Il dottore! Get him here—now!’