It was a not too-distant relation of the assumptions that his uncle and cousins employed so frequently, which he claimed to despise. But Dulcie had made him a stranger to himself before. Why should today be any different?
He felt his father’s gaze graze his face.
‘Ettore was the scholar of the family. He got full marks in hismaturità. His sister, Sofia, is the creative thinker, but Ettore always saw the bigger picture. Even as a child, he understood what needed to be done and he would make it happen too.’
‘I can believe that.’ Dulcie’s voice was pitch perfect. In fact, her whole performance was perfect. There were those smiles, warm, open, not fawning, but engaged and receptive. And she had leaned into Ettore’s body as he’d introduced her to his father.
Introducing her to his father was always going to be the most hazardous moment of the lunch but intuitively she had understood that there was no need for some lengthy, public explanation for their past estrangement or their recent reconciliation. A marriage was a private matter between husband and wife. Instead, she had focused on the present.
No wonder his father was so captivated. Ignoring the unpalatable and diverting attention away to something new and shiny was practically a mandate for the aristocracy. It had certainly enabled their survival. Although his family appeared to have missed that memo. Mostly they preferred that other aristocratic standby. Do as I say, not as I do.
‘And what about you, my dear? Are you an academic too?’
‘I’m in the process of completing my MSc in plant sciences, specialising in sustainable agriculture.’
Was she? Ettore felt her admission as a tiny twist to his stomach. He knew she was completing a master’s, but the list of bullet points she’d emailed him hadn’t hinted at the pride and passion weaving through her voice.
‘I’m afraid that is something we’re not used to as a family. Brains as well as beauty. Mostly we have one or the other so you will be a rare and welcome addition.’
Edoardo’s easy smile tightened, and he tensed, his hand slithering down the stem of his wine glass, which tilted ominously to one side.
‘Papà—’ Ettore was on his feet, reaching across the table, but Dulcie was quicker.
‘Here, let me.’ She deftly righted the glass, her mouth curving into a gentle smile that reached her eyes and softened her face, and Ettore tried not to feel mean-spirited. Because that smile, he would take. But Dulcie wasn’t directing it at him, but his father.
‘Are you okay, Papà? Should I—?’
‘I don’t need anyone fussing over me.Giancarlo.’ The old man raised his hand imperiously and a young man wearing chinos and a polo shirt appeared like a genie summoned by some invisible lamp. ‘I should like to return to my room now. It is a delight to meet you, my dear. Giancarlo, give me your arm.’
There was a silence as the two men walked towards the door. Edoardo’s gait was steady, his spine upright, but Ettore knew his father would lean more heavily onto the younger man’s arm as soon as they were out of sight.
‘We’ll take coffee on the terrace, please, Valentina.’ Ettore got to his feet, somewhat imperiously, and to his surprise Dulcie did too. But only, no doubt, because being outside felt less intimate, he thought as she followed him onto the paved terrace. He gestured towards the chairs that were set out under the shade of a palm tree, and she sat down, curling her legs under her chair, every inch the duchess-in-waiting.
Glancing up, she frowned at the palms. ‘These aren’t native to this region, are they?’
Ettore shook his head. ‘My great-great-grandfather had them imported. They were something of a status symbol at the time.’
One delicate eyebrow arched.
‘I didn’t know aristocrats did that whole keeping-up-with-the Joneses thing.’
‘Here, it would be more a case of keeping up with the Rossis, and aristocrats, even those whose titles are merely honorifics, are not immune to one-upmanship. On the contrary, it’s their life blood.’
They fell silent as Valentina arrived with coffee and a tray of petits fours and, as she retreated, Dulcie seemed lost in thought.
‘Do you still drink your coffee with milk?’
She nodded, her eyes still fixed on the palm, and then she said quietly, ‘How ill is he?’
It was a perfectly reasonable question, but hearing Dulcie ask it was unbalancing in a way that he couldn’t explain.
‘It’s difficult to say,’ he said as her eyes moved to his face. ‘He refuses to talk about it with me. And as you can see, he’s frail but he’s all there mentally so, short of hacking his medical records, I don’t have the full facts.’
She bit her lip, glanced away towards the dark verdant woods that curled in a wide semicircle around the entire estate.
‘I know we’re doing it for the right reasons, but I don’t like lying to him. It feels wrong. It is wrong.’
He felt a prickle of resentment. Did she think this was easy for him? That his life had been easy because he lived in a castle? He was doing this for his family. To protect the legacy of six hundred years of history. Because unlike his family, unlike the majority of people, he understood Castiglione Fiana’s true value lay not in its status but its steadfastness.
