The Italian Girl (58 page)

‘I was at my happiest with you,’ he murmured. ‘Please, my darling, don’t live the rest of your life on your own. Find someone to love you, give Nico a papa. Apologise to him for me, won’t you?’

‘You have nothing to apologise for, Roberto, but I promise I will try to explain to him what it was his parents shared.’

‘And what was it?’ Roberto’s eyes brimmed with tears once again.

‘Love. A love so powerful and obsessive it blinded me to everything else. But I will be forever glad that it happened to me.’

‘Yes. I . . .’ She watched as pain seared through Roberto’s eyes and held his hand tighter, trying not to show her despair.

‘You won’t have to divorce me now,’ he said a few seconds later. ‘You can be my widow. It’s much more dignified.’ He managed a hoarse chuckle.

‘Roberto, please don’t say that,’ she begged him.

‘No,
cara
, I feel this body has lived enough. And now that I have seen you, I can die in peace. Rosanna’ – Roberto beckoned her nearer to him so she could hear him clearly – ‘there is something I want to tell you, one thing that you do not know. I cannot bear for you to think I deceived you, or wanted to hurt you. I didn’t know at the time, you see. Please, you must believe that.’

She could see he was becoming agitated. ‘Tell me, Roberto. I promise I will understand.’

‘It is . . . it is . . .’

Rosanna watched as Roberto’s face contorted in pain and he gripped her hand. ‘Tell Ella, tell her she must sing for her papa. Ask Luca, he will understand. I . . . kiss me, Rosanna.’

Her head bent to his and she kissed him gently on the lips.

‘There was never anyone else. Never. Tell me you love me, tell me you—’ His body jerked upwards, then relaxed.

Rosanna put her arms round him as the monitors began to sound a single, monotonous tone. The room was suddenly full of strangers, but she was oblivious to them.

‘
Ti amo
, Roberto, I love you, I love you . . .’

The Metropolitan Opera House New York, July 1996

Rosanna dabbed at the tears that had spilt on the page she had just written. It was nearly over. One more page and she could at last find peace. The story had been told and she hoped one day Nico would understand. She picked up her pen and began to write.

So, Nico, since your father died three weeks ago, I have spent every spare moment writing to you. I promised your papa I would try to explain our love and I hope that, as you read this, you will forgive both of us. I love you very much and I know, in his way, so did Roberto.

After my last meeting with your father, Luca told me about Ella, about the secret he and Carlotta had kept for so long. I broke the news to Ella a few days after Roberto’s funeral and she took it in that calm, controlled way she has. She loved Roberto very much; in his last few years she saw how he had tried to make up for the past.

So your papa is gone, Nico, and in a few hours’ time, I will stand on the stage of the Metropolitan Opera House in New York and sing an aria especially composed in memory of Roberto Rossini. On the last chorus, Ella will join me, take my hand and we will sing together, for him. We will forget the bad things and only remember the good, for we are human and that is how we survive.

I have also decided that all I have written to you will be kept by my solicitor until I too am gone. Only then will you know the truth of the passion from which you were born.

Death is not frightening, Nico. For now Roberto waits for me there. And our kind of love never dies.

I see him, I see him everywhere.

Your loving mamma

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank my editor, Jeremy Trevathan, for persuading me that the story should see the light of day again. Susan Moss for helping me with the extensive re-edits and her dogged search for the tiniest detail. (When I first wrote
The Italian Girl
, there was little in the way of Internet, especially on the south-west coast of Ireland, so it was left to me to conduct all the research in the British Library.) Catherine Richards, Jonathan Atkins and all the team at Pan Mac for their hard work on the book’s behalf. Olivia Riley, Jacquelyn Heslop and Stephen Riley for their constant support behind the scenes.

And of course, my children. Harry, now 21, to whom this book was originally dedicated and Isabella, now 17, who decided to make her entrance into the world two chapters from the end of this book. Leonora, who hadn’t appeared yet, and Kit, my ‘baby’ son, who has sworn he won’t ever read this, as he prefers cricket bats to books, even if it is now ‘his’! I love you all.

The Midnight Rose

by
LUCINDA RILEY

Spanning four generations,
The Midnight Rose
sweeps from the glittering palaces of India to the majestic stately homes of England, following the extraordinary life of Anahita Chavan, from 1911 to the present day . . .

In the heyday of the British Raj, eleven-year-old Anahita forms a lifelong friendship with the headstrong Princess Indira, the privileged daughter of rich Indian royalty. Becoming the princess’s official companion, Anahita accompanies her friend to England just before the outbreak of the Great War. There, she meets the young Donald Astbury – reluctant heir to the magnificent, remote Astbury Estate – and his scheming mother.

Eighty years later, Rebecca Bradley, a young American film star, has the world at her feet. But when her turbulent relationship with her equally famous boyfriend takes an unexpected turn, she’s relieved that her latest role, playing a 1920s debutante, will take her away from the glare of publicity to the wilds of dartmoor. Ari Malik, Anahita’s great-grandson, arrives unexpectedly, on a quest for his family’s past. What he and Rebecca discover begins to unravel the dark secrets that haunt the Astbury dynasty . . .

An extract follows

Prologue

Anahita

I am a hundred years old today. Not only have I managed to survive a century, but I’ve also seen in a new millennium.

As the dawn breaks and the sun begins to rise over Mount Kanchenjunga beyond my window, I lie on my pillows and smile to myself at the utter ridiculousness of the thought. If I were a piece of furniture, an elegant chair for example, I would be labelled an antique. I would be polished, restored and proudly put on show as a thing of beauty. Sadly, that isn’t the case with my human frame, which has not mellowed like a fine piece of mahogany over its lifetime. Instead, my body has deteriorated into a sagging hessian sack containing a collection of bones.

Any ‘beauty’ in me that might be deemed valuable lies hidden deep inside. It is the wisdom of one hundred years lived on this earth, and a heart that has beaten a steady accompaniment to every conceivable human emotion and behaviour.

One hundred years ago, to this very day, my parents, in the manner of all Indians, consulted an astrologer to tell them about the future of their newborn baby girl. I believe I still have the soothsayer’s predictions for my life amongst the few possessions of my mother that I’ve kept. I remember them saying that I was to be long-lived, but in 1900, I realise, my parents assumed this meant that, with the gods’ blessing, I would survive into my fifties.

I hear a gentle tap on my door. It is Keva, my faithful maid, armed with a tray of English Breakfast tea and a small jug of cold milk. Tea taken the English way is a habit I’ve never managed to break, even though I’ve lived in India – not to mention Darjeeling – for the past seventy-eight years.

I don’t answer Keva’s knock, preferring on this special morning to be alone with my thoughts a while longer. Undoubtedly Keva will wish to talk through the events of the day, will be eager to get me up, washed and dressed before my family begins to arrive.

As the sun begins to burn off the clouds covering the snow-capped mountains, I search the blue sky for the answer I’ve pleaded with the heavens to give me every morning of the past seventy-eight years.

Today, please
, I beg the gods, for I have known in each hour that has ticked by since I last saw my child that he still breathes somewhere on this planet. If he had died, I would have known the moment it happened, as I have for all those in my life whom I’ve loved, when they have passed over.

Tears fill my eyes and I turn my head to the nightstand by my bed to study the one photograph I have of him, a cherubic two-year-old sitting smiling on my knee. It was given to me by my friend, Indira, along with his death certificate a few weeks after I’d been informed of my son’s death.

A lifetime ago, I think. The truth is, my son is now an old man too. He will celebrate his eighty-first birthday in October of this year. But even with
my
powers of imagination, it’s impossible for me to see him as such.

I turn my head determinedly away from my son’s image, knowing that today I deserve to enjoy the celebration my family has planned for me. But somehow, on all these occasions, when I see my other child and her children, and her children’s children, the absence of my son only feeds the pain in my heart, reminding me he has always been missing.

Of course, they believe, and always have, that my son died seventy-eight years ago.

‘Maaji, see, you even have his death certificate! Leave him to his rest,’ my daughter, Muna, would say with a sigh. ‘Enjoy the family you have living.’

After all these years, I understand Muna becomes frustrated with me. And she is of course right to. She wants to be enough, just her alone. But a lost child is something that can never be replaced in a mother’s heart.

And for today, my daughter will have her way. I will sit in my chair and enjoy watching the dynasty I have spawned. I won’t bore them with my stories of India’s history. When they arrive in their fast Western jeeps, with their children playing on their battery-operated gadgets, I will not remind them how Indira and I climbed the steep hills around Darjeeling on horseback, that electricity and running water in any home were once rare, or of my voracious reading of any tattered book I could get my hands on. The young are irritated by stories of the past; they wish to live only in the present, just as I did when I was their age.

I can imagine that most of my family are not looking forward to flying halfway across India to visit their great-grandmother on her hundredth birthday, but perhaps I’m being hard on them. I’ve thought a great deal in the past few years about why the young seem to be uncomfortable when they’re with the old; they could learn so many things they need to know from us. And I’ve decided that their discomfort stems from the fact that, in our fragile physical presence, they become aware of what the future holds for them. They can only see, in their full glow of strength and beauty, how eventually they will be diminished one day too. They don’t know what they will gain.

How can they begin to see inside us? Understand how their souls will grow, their impetuousness be tamed and their selfish thoughts be dimmed by the experiences of so many years?

But I accept that this is nature, in all its glorious complexity. I have ceased to question it.

When Keva knocks at the door for a second time, I admit her. As she talks at me in fast Hindi, I sip my tea and run over the names of my four grandchildren and eleven great-grandchildren. At a hundred years old, one wants to at least prove that one’s mind is still in full working order.

The four grandchildren my daughter gave me have each gone on to become successful and loving parents themselves. They flourished in the new world that independence from the British brought to India, and their children have taken the mantle even further. At least six of them, from what I recall, have started their own businesses or are in a professional trade. Selfishly, I wish that one of my extended offspring had taken an interest in medicine, had followed after me, but I realise that I can’t have everything.

As Keva helps me into the bathroom to wash, I consider that my family have had a mixture of luck, brains and family connections on their side. And that my beloved India has probably another century to go before the millions who still starve on her streets gain some modicum of their basic human needs. I have done my best to help over the years, but I realise my efforts are a mere ripple in the ocean against a roaring tide of poverty and deprivation.

Sitting patiently whilst Keva dresses me in my new sari – a birthday present from Muna, my daughter – I decide I won’t think these maudlin thoughts today. I’ve attempted where I can to improve those lives that have brushed against mine, and I must be content with that.

‘You look beautiful, Madam Chavan.’

As I look at my reflection in the mirror, I know that she is lying, but I love her for it. My fingers reach for the pearls that have sat around my neck for nearly eighty years. In my will, I have left them to Muna.

‘Your daughter arrives at eleven o’clock, and the rest of the family will be here an hour later. Where shall I put you until they come?’

I smile at her, feeling much like a mahogany chair. ‘You may put me in the window. I want to look at my mountains,’ I say. She helps me up, steers me gently to the armchair and sits me down.

‘Can I bring you anything else, Madam?’

‘No. You go now to the kitchen and make sure that cook of ours has the lunch menu under control.’

‘Yes, Madam.’ She moves my bell from the nightstand to the table at my side and quietly leaves the room.

I turn my face into the sunlight, which is starting to stream through the big picture windows of my hilltop bungalow. As I bask in it like a cat, I remember the friends who have already passed over and won’t be joining me today for my celebration. Indira, my most beloved friend, died over fifteen years ago. I confess that was one of the few moments in my life when I have broken down and wept uncontrollably. Even my devoted daughter could not match the love and friendship Indira showed me. Self-absorbed and flighty until the moment she died, Indira was there when I needed her most.