The clerk’s polite claps would have to pass for the ceremonial ringing of bells. The flowers in her hands were not her favourite old-fashioned Blanche de Belgique roses, but pale-pink tulips bought from the market that morning; her plain white shift dress was enlivened only by the short white lace communion veil she had borrowed from Vito’s goddaughter, whose parents were officiating as their only witnesses. No one else knew. It was their secret.
It had to be.
As the clerk wound up the formalities and Elena stared lovingly at her new husband through the heavy lacework, she felt heady with relief that she had pulled it off. She had beaten Christina. True to her word, the other woman had begun an insidious whisper campaign in which smiles to her face when she was on Vito’s arm turned to vicious sneers when she was alone. Christina knew exactly how to tread the line between treachery and loyalty, pleading prior commitments at her country estate whenever Vito questioned why the dinner-party invitations were not as forthcoming as he had expected. But Elena knew what was happening. They were being frozen out and, sooner or later, Vito would realize that too and have to make a choice.
She had managed to convince him that her ‘past record’ as thrice a bride meant a low-key wedding would be in the best interests of his family’s profile. She hadn’t wanted to embarrass him, she had said, and although he had replied that he could never be embarrassed by her, that he was proud to have her as his wife, he had still readily agreed to elope. It was all the proof she needed that Christina had been right – the family name mattered above all else.
So as Vito lifted the veil back and clasped her face gently with his hands, kissing her lightly on the lips, she felt the thrill of victory ripple through her. Those bitches might not like her, they might not approve of her obscene wealth and chequered romantic past, but she was safe at last. As Vito’s wife, as the Principessa dei Damiani Pignatelli della Mirandola, married to the scion of one of the grandest families of Rome’s Black Nobility, she was untouchable now.
Born lucky. She had won.
‘You agree now I was right?’ Elena asked as she walked slowly through the galleries with him, the large beeswax church candles flickering at every single window.
‘I agree it is still the greatest fire hazard ever to afflict the palazzo in its 800-year history,’ Vito said lightly, before squeezing her hand. ‘But it does look beautiful.’
‘Maria and Julio worked so hard getting it just right. It’s so atmospheric now, don’t you think? And it must surely look so beautiful from the piazza, such a welcoming sight,’ she sighed.
‘An extravagant one, perhaps.’
‘Well, I’m sure your mother would have agreed with me. You’re always telling me how she wanted this place to feel like a home and not a museum.’
Vito stopped walking and turned to face her. ‘I know what this is really about, Elena. Stop fretting. He will love it,’ Vito said reassuringly. ‘He will love you.’
But Elena took no comfort from his words – wasn’t that exactly what he’d said about Christina? Wasn’t Aurelio going to resent her for robbing him of a brother’s greatest duty by insisting they elope? Wasn’t he going to think of her the way the rest of them did? A flashy American: no class, just money? It was turning out that her victory over Christina had been a pyrrhic one. The usual invitations had started coming in for dinner and cocktail parties, balls and the opera – enough, anyway, to reassure Vito that in spite of the shock elopement, his marriage had been accepted. But Elena knew better. Women were attuned to the minutiae of each other’s social behaviour – cool eyes and tight smiles, limp handshakes and slightly turned cheeks, the whispered asides and shared looks. Though to the common onlooker she held rank in their top tier, from within the enclave it had been made perfectly clear she would never be one of them.
But then . . . hadn’t it ever been thus? She had been an outsider her entire life, excluded by the middle-class women in Newport on account of her wealth; by Leo’s circles on account of her youth; by Steve’s on account of her motherhood; and now again, here.
She would have felt more secure if she could have been more certain of Vito’s overarching affection for her. She knew he loved her – more passionately, perhaps, than he had ever loved anyone – but his feelings were still secondary to his duty. Like her, he was a product of his upbringing, unable fully to break free. Whilst she had been taught to live in exclusion and stand apart from the masses, always perversely yearning to belong but never quite breaching the gap, Vito – as the eldest son and heir – had been trained to override his own passions and no longer recognized this sublimation as sacrifice; the need to do the ‘Right Thing’ had become automatic.
As a result, he often seemed distant and hard to reach. He wouldn’t hold her hand in public. He insisted on following the aristocratic protocol of separate bedrooms, even though he visited her most nights. And although he was technically proficient in bed, he was very straight; playful affection was hard for him and if she was sitting on his lap or nuzzling his neck when Maria entered the room, he would gently push her off. He didn’t like her in any fashions that were too short or too tight or too low-cut – and, of course, not too much jewellery either. Modesty was the highest virtue, it seemed.
Tonight’s black velvet Yves Saint Laurent wrap dress was a daring push of the boundaries. Falling to her knee, with long sleeves, it nonetheless featured a deep V neckline that precluded the wearing of a bra. He hadn’t commented – it was just a private family dinner, after all – but she would have to sit with her back ramrod straight at the table whilst entertaining the prodigal son.
In spite of what Vito assumed, it wasn’t nerves that had her on edge about tonight. Aurelio was everything Vito could never afford to be and – protective of her husband – she resented him for it. As the ‘spare’ and not the heir, there was none of the weight of expectation upon him to uphold the family reputation, run the estates, be the figurehead for a family held in the highest regard. Instead, he’d been spoilt, indulged by his mother to run wild and free himself from the constraints that were inevitable for her oldest son.
At seventeen, Vito had told her, Aurelio had run away from boarding school to take part in the 1957 Mille Miglia, racing a prize Alfa Romeo 750 Competizione from his father’s collection and crashing it a mile outside Rimini. At nineteen, whilst playing polo in Argentina, he had been embroiled in a scandal involving one of the daughters of a cartel druglord and had to be smuggled from the country in the back of a coffee truck. He had continued in much the same mercurial vein until their aged father’s death in 1974, which proved to be a sobering event for him. For a short time, he had appeared to mellow somewhat, helping Vito with the daunting task of running the estate. Until, that was, four years ago when he had packed his suitcase for a week-long safari to Kenya and simply not come back. According to Maria – who could be a useful source of information if handled lightly – Vito had been furious and dismayed in equal measure, his anger hardening with every year that passed without contact. It was little wonder Vito didn’t keep a photograph of him in the apartments and Aurelio’s sudden reappearance – a telegram informing them he would be ‘home for Christmas’ – was both unexpected and unwelcome.
It was her and Vito’s first Christmas together as man and wife, their first Christmas together full stop, and she could only hope Aurelio would remain true to wandering form and sequester himself in his (currently locked) suite of rooms, which lay directly opposite theirs in the west wing. She wanted privacy – a lot of it. She was hoping to fall pregnant this holiday, to cement this relationship by becoming a family. A new one. Vito needed an heir and she needed another Stevie, a child to cradle in her arms.
The Christmas tree in the sitting room of their private apartment was enormous. Four metres high and almost as much round, Maria had decked it with red satin ribbons tied in bows. Several large bow-topped boxes sat at the foot of it, including one which was to be opened privately, later. She had set the lamps to a low setting, creating an ambient, flickering light, and added huge bunches of mistletoe to every doorway – a tradition he didn’t understand but which gave her the perfect excuse to flirt with her own husband.
The bell sounded and Vito looked across at her. She saw the tension in his face suddenly and realized it wasn’t her nerves he’d been trying to calm earlier.
‘Darling, stop fretting,’ she laughed, running over to him and taking his face in her hands, kissing him lightly on the lips. ‘He’s your brother. Of course I shall love him.’
He nodded but the motion was stiff, his feelings withdrawn to a place far below the surface. She felt a rush of love for her husband. His love for his brother was deep but complicated.
‘I’ll give you two a few minutes alone together first. You go greet him. I’m just going to freshen up,’ she said, squeezing his hand and walking to the powder room.
She appraised her reflection in the wall-to-wall mirror. She was wearing her hair – dyed dark again – in a tight, lacquered bun, red lipstick on her mouth. She touched up her bronze eyeshadow and walked through a mist of Shalimar.
With one final, approving glance, she took a deep breath and walked out.
She could hear their voices as she strode through the rooms, her stilettoes intermittently click-clacking on the parquet floors as she passed over the rugs.
The brothers were talking, drinks in hand, both of them smart in their dinner jackets. Vito, facing her, looked up as she entered, breaking into a relaxed smile at the sight of her. She felt herself loosen. The reunion had clearly been successful, Vito as forgiving and magnanimous as always. She could afford to be too.
‘Aurelio,’ she said to his back.
Slowly, with an almost indolent air, he turned and she came face to face with the only person in the world who could compete with her for Vito’s love. He was strong-jawed, with hooded, elongated brown eyes, a large, nobly broken nose and a wide mouth. He looked more Greek, to her eye, than Roman.
And she felt instantly, powerfully attracted to him.
‘Darling, you’re not eating,’ Vito said, noticing her food was barely touched.
‘No. I’m sorry. It’s . . . been a long day. I must be more tired than I realized.’ She smiled, placing her knife and fork together and giving up the pretence of having any appetite.
‘Lighting all those candles, no doubt,’ Aurelio said wryly, spearing his baccalà. ‘I thought the place was ablaze when I got to the piazza.’
‘It’s atmospheric,’ Vito said loyally. ‘Elena wanted to create a festive setting that could be enjoyed by people on the other side of the walls as well.’
‘Did she now?’
‘Vito told me how much your mother strove to make this a family home,’ she said, ignoring the undertone in his voice. ‘I’ve heard all sorts of stories about how you two and Christina would tear about the place, playing football in the galleries.’
‘Christina?’ Aurelio looked at his brother. ‘How is she? Still married to that boring old toad?’
‘Some of us happen to like Sigmundo,’ Vito said stiffly.
‘Well, some of us don’t,’ Aurelio said crisply, putting a slice of the cod in his mouth and chewing it. ‘Has Christina been a good friend to you, Elena?’
‘The best. She’s been incredibly welcoming.’
Aurelio stared at her, his eyes openly roaming her face as she lied. ‘Uh huh,’ he muttered, keeping his opinion as to whether or not he believed her a secret.
‘So . . . Kenya,’ Vito said after a growing pause. ‘Good trip?’
Aurelio chuckled and reached for his glass of white burgundy, understanding perfectly his brother’s nuanced dig. According to Maria, Aurelio had been forced to leave the country in rather a hurry, after the irate husband of his current lover had tried to kill him. With a rifle. ‘Very, thank you. Interesting people, the Masai. You should visit some time.’
‘Well, if I ever get the time, I will.’
‘Oh, come. You must get time off for good behaviour, surely, brother?’ Aurelio taunted, refusing to satisfy their curiosity with details of his life-saving surgery. ‘How did you come to meet your new bride here?’
Vito sighed. ‘Ischia. I paid a visit to the Santis.’
Aurelio spluttered on his drink. ‘Christ, don’t tell me they’re still limping along? What’s her name? The model.’
‘Allegra. And I wouldn’t call it limping, by any means,’ Vito said, his eyes flitting only briefly in Elena’s direction. ‘They’ve got a new yacht, the Serena. Life seems very rosy for them, in fact.’
Aurelio seemed unconvinced. He looked across at Elena, a glimmer of hostility beginning to shine from his eyes. ‘And you were on this yacht too, Elena?’
‘Yes. I know them from New York. We share a lot of mutual acquaintances.’
‘I’m sure you do,’ he muttered, just below his breath. ‘So, you met on the yacht and what – your eyes met over the poached lobster?’
Vito chuckled. ‘Nothing so humdrum. I had to save Elena from a swarm of killer bees to get her to even notice me.’
‘Darling, I had noticed you,’ Elena protested.
‘Being pursued by more than just the bees, was she?’ Aurelio asked, arching an eyebrow to his brother, and Elena had a sudden flash of the connection between them. Their twin-ness. They seemed to understand more than needed to be said – like icebergs, most of what went on was hidden beneath the surface.
‘You could say that,’ Vito said shortly. ‘But, luckily, the bees played right into my hands and she was obliged to marry me out of sheer gratitude for saving her life.’
‘It was love at first sight and you know it,’ Elena laughed, holding her husband’s gaze.
Aurelio said nothing, reaching out of his chair slightly to grab the wine bottle and refresh everyone’s glasses, especially his own.
‘So what do you think of the palace? Daunted by it?’
‘Not really.’ Elena shrugged as lightly as she could.
‘Elena’s a Valentine. She grew up in a house this size.’
‘Not as old, though,’ Elena added lightly, looking for self-deprecation as she always did whenever her inheritance came into the frame.
‘Ah, a Valentine. So then it really is a love match. You didn’t marry him for his money after all.’ Aurelio’s voice was pickled with pique.
‘Aurelio. That’s out of order,’ Vito said sharply.
‘Is it? I think it’s perfectly fair. It’s always been the risk. We both know we’re targets for a certain type.’
‘Well, Elena isn’t one of them. If anything, people could accuse me of marrying her for her money.’
‘Now, wouldn’t that be a thing?’ Aurelio grinned, pushing his plate away and sitting back in the chair. ‘Well, I’m glad to hear it’s a true love story. Welcome to the family, sister dearest.’
The words fell from his lips like a taunt, his eyes steady, looking for her reaction.
‘Thank you,’ she replied in a quiet voice.
Maria came in to clear the plates, the three of them sitting in silence as she did so. Elena kept the smile fixed on her face, her eyes on the table, aware that Vito was beginning to glare at his brother.
Aurelio clapped his hands as Maria left the room. ‘Well, you know – I’m sure – that it is tradition to open a present on Christmas Eve?’ He was directing the question at her, forcing – daring – her to look at him.
‘No, I didn’t know.’
‘You don’t do that in America?’
She shook her head.
‘Well, let me just—’
He left the table – Vito took the opportunity to shoot her an encouraging smile – and returned a moment later with a gift in each hand. Elena took hers.
‘Thank you.’
‘You must open it now. I insist. Both of you.’
He sat down again and watched as she tugged on the ribbon. She lifted the lid to find a card on the top nestled in tissue paper: For darling Elena, with love always, Vito.
‘It’s from Vito?’ she asked in astonishment. ‘I assumed it was from—’
‘Me?’ Aurelio finished for her. ‘No, I’m afraid I haven’t been able to get round to presents yet. Besides, I needed to meet you first. I couldn’t very well buy for my new sister, without ever having met her.’
Elena looked away, unable to hold his gaze, which seemed to be deliberately pushing her. She opened the tissue and lifted out a silver musical carousel.
‘Oh Vito! It’s beautiful.’
‘It plays “Mockingbird” – you said that your parents always used to sing it to you. So if you ever get home-sick . . .’
‘Darling, I love it. How thoughtful,’ she said warmly, determined to exclude Aurelio from the moment and blank out his biting cynicism.
‘Now open yours, brother,’ Aurelio said as she carefully replaced the carousel in the box and set it on the floor.
She looked up. And gasped. ‘Wait. No!—’ she cried, as she saw the wrapping paper already peeled open.
But it was too late. Parting the many layers of blush-pink tissue paper, Vito pulled out a black lace negligee so skimpy, most of it appeared to be missing. Both brothers’ jaws dropped open.
‘That was supposed to be given privately,’ Elena stammered, feeling her cheeks burn as she looked over at Vito, pleading with him to understand that it had not been intended for public display. Aurelio didn’t move, his eyes fixed upon her as Vito hurriedly replaced it, trying to hide it below the tissue again.
‘For God’s sake, Aurelio,’ Vito snapped. ‘Why did you have to interfere?’
‘How was I supposed to know?’
‘You should have just left it. Everything was arranged.’
‘Well, I can see that, now,’ he drawled, a white heat beginning to emanate from him.
Maria came back in with the dolci, the three of them sitting in silence again, waiting until she left the room.
‘So, is this just a flying visit or are you back . . . for good?’ Elena asked, trying to keep her tone light as she dug a spoon into the struffoli.
‘Why? Would I be in the way if I were?’
‘Aurelio. That is enough,’ Vito snapped. ‘Elena is merely being polite. Besides, it’s not unreasonable to know what your plans are.’
‘Isn’t this place big enough for the three of us then?’ There was a silence before he suddenly laughed. ‘Brother, relax. The answer is, I don’t know. I thought I might stay for a while but, if things are . . . busy here, or something comes up . . .’ He shrugged.
Elena stared at him. He was a nomad, as rootless as a leaf that travelled wherever the wind blew it, and she didn’t know which alarmed her more: the thought of him staying here. Or the thought of him leaving.