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.”
“I’ll still have the vineyards and the olive press,” he said. “I won’t exactly be poor.” He looked directly at me. “Neither will you, so it seems.”
“No, you’re right. I still haven’t digested that fact.”
“You could buy back your family home. You could become mistress of Langley Hall.”
For a moment an image flashed into my mind. I saw myself saying to Miss Honeywell, “I’m sorry but I’ll need you out by the end of term. I’m coming back to live here.” Then I laughed. “It’s funny but all my life that was what I dreamed of doing. I was driven to succeed so that I could buy my father’s house back for him. And now he’s dead and I can’t see myself as lady of the manor. I don’t quite know what I want to do yet.”
“Joanna,” he said slowly. “You didn’t need to stay here. You could have gone home with the English lawyer. But you sent him away, saying you would be needed for inquests. I wondered if that meant that you didn’t want to go.”
“You’re right,” I said. “I don’t want to go. I like it here. I like being with Paola and learning to cook and feeling that someone cares about me.”
“And me?” he asked. “Does part of your reason for staying mean that you do not want to leave me?”
“Yes,” I said carefully. “I think it does.”
He leaned toward me, put a hand under my chin, and pulled my face toward his. Then he kissed me hard and with longing. When we broke apart he laughed uneasily. “It is lucky we are on a terrace where we can be observed, or I don’t know where that would have led.”
“I’m a respectable young English lady,” I replied. “I expect to be courted properly.”
“Of course, my lady.” He laughed, his eyes flirting with me.
I looked at him, suddenly struck by a thought. “You could go back to London to finish your studies and then open your restaurant.”
“We could turn your Langley Hall into a hotel and restaurant,” he said.
“We?”
“Am I moving too fast? Maybe just as business partners, you know.”
“Why England? It’s rains too much. You could open your restaurant here as you once dreamed. You could turn this house into your dream restaurant. Imagine the diners sitting here on your terrace and feasting their eyes on the view before they feasted them on the food.”
“I would need to return to England first to finish my apprenticeship,” he said. “And you should pass your exam. And then, who knows?”
He reached across and took my hand. We sat there side by side on the terrace not saying a word while the sun sank behind the western hills and one by one lights twinkled on in the world spread out below us.