He bowed his head in acknowledgement of the apology. ‘The Count said he would fly back at once.’
Her eyes lit up. ‘Did he? When is he leaving?’
A shrug. ‘He said at once. Who knows if that meant today or tomorrow? You could try ringing him now while I get your dinner. I have a special meal for you – I had planned it for Christmas. Will you eat now?’
‘I’m starving! Yes, please. What is it?’
He smiled indulgently at her. She loved food like a little girl. ‘A lentil and chestnut soup, with bay and marjoram and basil, I’ll bring bruschetta with it, and then lepre in salmi.’
‘Jugged hare? Where did you get the hare?’
‘A friend of mine shot it up in the hills. I had it marinating for a couple of days in red wine and spices. It’s very rich, and so tender it’s falling off the bone, you’ll love it. You need—’
‘The wine for my blood!’ she finished, laughing on the edge of hysteria. ‘I know. What are you serving it with?’
‘Polenta.’
‘Sounds wonderful.’
It was. Most of the staff were off for Christmas evening, for family parties, and as she didn’t want to eat alone in the big, cold dining room, she ate in the kitchen, which the staff had decked with coloured paper chains.
‘And you must eat with me! I don’t want to eat alone tonight, of all nights.’
They turned off the electric lights and had candles on the big deal table. Antonio brought across the iron pot of soup, and placed beside it an earthenware platter of hot bruschetta smelling of garlic. Before they began to eat Antonio poured her red wine.
‘Your
happiness,’ he toasted, lifting his own glass towards her.
She smiled at him. ‘And yours.’
His black eyes had a wet shine, as if he was almost crying. She understood how he felt, she felt that way, too. She would miss him when she went to Venice, even though she couldn’t wait to go, to be married. It was a pity she had to say goodbye to Antonio, though. They had been through so much together.
Then it hit her. Why shouldn’t he come with her to Venice? A good servant was hard to find in any city.
Vittoria was married in the spring of 1955 in Milan cathedral, with Olivia as her matron-of-honour. A very large Olivia, who was expecting her first child any day and looked, in her pale lime dress, like a green barrage balloon.
‘Cara, don’t have a baby right away. Take my tip, it ruins all your fun and you look hideous – well, just look at me!’
‘You look wonderful, Olivia. And I am dying to have a baby.’
‘Stupido!’ But Olivia hugged her. ‘We’re sisters now. You must be my baby’s godmother. Promise?’
‘I’d love to.’
The reception was enormous: hundreds of guests crowded into the hotel, the press outside snapped the famous faces of industry and high society who came. It was the wedding of the year in Milan, the talk of Venice. Vittoria had drawn up the guest list for Milan, while the one for Venice came from Domenico. Before she sent both to the printer Vittoria slid an eye down the Venetian list and stopped dead at one name.
‘Canfield? I don’t want him at my wedding!’
‘He’s my friend. I want him,’ Domenico said, quietly.
‘But, Nico …’ Her head was exploding with images of her mother, lying white and still on her death-bed with Canfield’s dead baby on her breast. She met Domenico’s hard, dark eyes, and gulped. She had never told him about Canfield and her mother, had no idea if he knew, what he knew, and hated the thought of talking about it, even with him.
‘He is my friend. You will be seeing a lot of him. You must learn to like him,’ he said.
She could – should, perhaps – have told him the whole story then, but she didn’t. It was all too painful to talk about. Oh, well, she told herself, she wouldn’t even notice Canfield among so many other people, and she would be too busy on the day to care about him being there.
All the society columnists featured the wedding at great length, with pictures of Vittoria in her wonderful dress, the bridesmaids, people arriving at the cathedral. Vittoria enjoyed it all, the white and gold solemnity of the nuptial mass, emerging to the peal of bells, her long veil blowing behind her, crowds outside applauding, smiling, throwing rice, the reception afterwards, eating the wedding breakfast, listening to the toasts and speeches, and afterwards dancing and talking to people she only half recognised. She even managed to smile at Canfield and hide her hatred, because she was counting the moments until they were alone, she and Domenico. She was half dazed with happiness: she had been so afraid they would never be married that she hardly dared believe she was finally his wife.