He felt suddenly exhausted. ‘Of course I do. Is this about Sofia?’ Obviously, it was. It was only ever about Sofia.
But Edoardo shook his head. ‘It’s about you. My son and heir.’
There was something in his father’s voice that made his body tense.
His father shifted on the bed. ‘Everyone thought your brother was like me. It’s flattering for a father to be told that. But Edo was the spit of your uncle. Your mother’s younger brother, Marco. That’s why your mother doted on him. Spoiled him. And he was easy to spoil. Like your sister. Like all of your family, me included. We’re party-starters, lotus-eaters. But you, you were always different.’
Ettore stared down at his father. Where was the old man going with this?
As if to answer that unspoken question, Edoardo gestured towards a portrait of a dark-haired man with clean features and an intense, fulminating gaze.
‘You’re like my grandfather. Piero Ettore. He wasn’t set to inherit the title but, as you know, his brother drowned when his yacht capsized, and your great-grandfather stepped up. What you might not know is that he saved our family from financial collapse. My father, of course, carried on the more typical family tradition of embezzling and bed-hopping behind closed doors. It is his mess that you only recently managed to clean up.’
Ettore shrugged. ‘It’s what I do.’ He’d done it so many times in his life, he should be an expert, and yet here he was, newly estranged from his wife for the second time. If that wasn’t a mess, he didn’t know what was.
His father’s eyes were fixed on his, and for once they weren’t languid or mocking.
‘And you do it very well.’ Edoardo took a gulp of oxygen and breathed out shakily.
‘Too well, I think. It confines you. And I’m sorry for that. But I’m extraordinarily grateful and pleased that you are my son and my heir. Edo, I think, would have struggled, and failed.’
He took another gulp of oxygen.
‘And I think he knew that. It made him angry and reckless.’
Edoardo closed his hand over Ettore’s wrist.
‘I loved your brother. I miss him every day. I know you do too. But you were not to blame for his death. Your mother was upset, horribly upset, but she was wrong to say what she did. I was wrong not to make that clear before now. I was wrong not to protect you from her grief.’
Ettore could feel his father’s pulse beating through his skin.
‘Why now, Papà? Why are you telling me this?’
‘Because the truth hurts, but sometimes it’s better to face it than hide from it. Because you are here, and Dulcie is not. And the two of you have been inseparable like a pair of heavenly twins.’
There was a gentleness to his father’s voice that he had rarely heard. The last time, in fact, had been when he gave Dulcie the bracelet.
He pulled it out and it sat glittering on the palm of his hand.
‘Dulcie isn’t here because we broke up. In Paris.’
‘I know.’
His father smiled. ‘Your wife wrote me a letter. A note, really. But she made good use of every word. Very eloquent for a scientist. It caught me off guard. Made me think about things I should have said or done. Regret a few things too. But that’s what old men do, isn’t it?’
Ettore stared at his father mutely, his blood thin and airless. In the dizzying panic of the morning and his misery and the rush of questions and conjectures Edoardo’s confession might have prompted, only one mattered. ‘Dulcie wrote to you.’
Nodding, Edoardo reached over and picked the book from his bedside table. He pulled out an envelope. ‘Here, read it.’
Ettore opened the envelope and stared down at the handwritten note.
Dear Edoardo,
I wanted to thank you for being such a wonderful host during my time at your beautiful castle, but also to let you know that Ettore and I are not together any more. It hurts to write those words, but my pain is not your concern. Your son’s is. Ettore loves his family so much. He would do and has done everything to keep you all safe and secure in your way of life. Please look after him and give him the love he deserves.
Dulcie
P.S. Don’t be stubborn about ageing. Use your sticks and your oxygen because growing old is a gift. Embrace it. And embrace your son.
