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I know little of what happened to Isabel next: she lived in Coalville, and she had mentioned an older man, who lived locally to her, so I assumed she married him and moved out of the family house. Why she never informed me of her fate, or stayed in contact, I do not know. From then on, my English connection was severed. Decades passed, and I had no expectation of ever meeting my half-sister.
As my body began to lose what little coordination and strength it still possessed, I decided to make one last effort. The man who inspired me was Joseph, a wandering artist who made use of the converted barn, now an atelier for the visiting artists I nurture. He painted landscapes by day and in the evening, we talked. The tragic events of our lives are markedly different, but during those summer weeks, I came to admire his determination to carve out his own future regardless of his brothers’ mistakes.
His loneliness and humble origins struck me as unfortunate. My father’s family were wealthy landowners, respected and frightfully aristocratic in their approach to life. Even with my disability, I was expected to aspire and achieve. I did – I became a distinguished architectural historian, a professor and author.
While he stayed with me, I felt an awakening, an awareness, not of my late mother, nor of my sister, Isabel, but you, Robyn. Your presence trickled into my thoughts. My hope was that you were one of Catherine’s descendants and had inherited her love of photography or painting. This visionary ability is a gift for open-minded women in our family – Isabel, me, and you.
So I searched out a good friend in England and set him a task – find a photographer. David was incredulous of course, but willing to try. He is racked with guilt that instead of him, I had been blamed for the recriminations of his elopement. I had sent him to England with Magdalene and he had not suffered any direct consequences, unlike myself. I do not feel the same way in the slightest. It was my choice and I have no regrets. It was our friendship that I relied on, and he thankfully wished only to help me.
I had an inkling, from the flashes of images I saw in my head, that I had a good indication of your passions and your general features. I wanted to give you the chance to explore those passions we both share: history and castles. Although I only ever read of your English castles, I wanted to see them through your eyes, the same eyes as my mother, who also had a talent for creating pictures. I tasked David with a challenging requirement: a female photographer based in Coalville, the last location I had for Isabel, and I envisaged you as a young woman on the brink of a new adventure. When David told me how he had met you, his description matched what I had seen in my vision of you. He also provided me with details of the photographs of Ashby-de-la-Zouch. I knew I had found you, and that I could put in place the rest of my plan.
How was I so confident of finding you? A good question. You see whispers of the past, and Izzy was constantly transporting herself to other realities of the present – she “visited” me in Italy many times, but obviously not in person! I foresee things to come. I saw you, nameless and a little fuzzy, but only after I met Joseph, and from then on with increasing frequency. His first visit triggered a vision of you at Ashby-de-la-Zouch, where Izzy also liked to go. You were there taking photographs, like my mother. From there I saw you at Bamburgh by the windmill and at Dunstanburgh in a dark cave, which led me to research the stories and folktales associated with castles. Did you see other strange things as you walked among the ruins? I hope they did not scare you. In one of my premonitions, at Prudhoe, there was a shadow of a man nearby. He moved with you to Middleham, where on the ramparts you reached out, as if to grab something, and with you was his shadow once again.
I was certain that the figure at your side was my friend Joseph. He was the echo of a possible future that I hoped would become real. You faded a little as my body weakened. There was one vision, again and again, of you standing among a multitude of towers, each one the same, yet different. I recognised where you were and why. I recalled the Curzon Institute’s annual exhibition. What art dealer doesn’t know of its reputation? I placed my hope in finding you there.
But why, you might ask, did I not tell you, or reveal in our correspondence the true nature of our relationship? It is because Joseph was my motivation for this project. For if David had not met you, I would have to look elsewhere to find someone suitable for my young friend. I nearly ran out of time. However, I had put a plan in motion, and its outcome depended on the natural flow of events. Contrived, yes, but the sentiments invoked by my choreographed journey had to be genuinely, and spontaneously, discovered. I am still hopeful. But I also accept that my dreams might not be perfect realisations of what will happen, and that Joseph might still be alone in this world. If you have this letter, then it is likely Joseph is with you, his paintings in your possession, and I will be content in my resting place.
You are my gift to Joseph, the sad young man who took my paintbox and hopefully put it to better use than I with my twitching hands. I make no apologies for matchmaking. I dream of you together, a strong vision I first sensed in the barn where he had slept. I hoped in setting you to work in parallel that you would encounter him. Fifteen castles, fifteen opportunities. The precise route, the timings, they were a gamble that you might meet at least once or twice, and then it would be out of my hands, which is why I had to keep quiet and not interfere. I informed David I was indisposed, and he had his convenient vacation.
So if you have worked it all out, I admit I engineered Joseph’s agenda to match yours. Although things began badly. He chose to start earlier in the spring when I knew you couldn’t possibly be ready. I had to accept this change of plan as necessary given his explanation. Camilla told me she had received three paintings at Easter and the reason why. I feared, back then, that my goal was already doomed to failure. But my dreams of you include him and even with three less opportunities for you to meet, I must rely on both luck and faith in my premonitions. The vision of you together, which was just before your last email, is so strong. You’re standing together in what appears to be a church, or so it seems from the windows. His face is illuminated this time with light, and yours with relief.
Joseph has an independent spirit that I cannot fault, and you will learn much from it. But I needed your imagination too. I prayed you would stick to the schedule, and above all else, persevere and breach Joseph’s barriers, free him from isolation. I hid the reason from both of you. David and Camilla, a distant cousin on my step-mother’s side, have no knowledge of each other. I put them both in an awkward position of trust.
The paintings and book are my gifts to you, my spiritual niece, and although we will never meet, I know you are as close to me as the daughter I never had.
David, I’m sure, will lick his wounds as he would detest the extravagant secrecy I inflicted upon him. He will be delighted to own a prestigious gallery and art dealership. Camilla will always enjoy the pleasures of money. As for Joseph, if my aspirations for you both come true, then I am truly at peace.
If you continue to “see” and “hear” your connection to the past, do not fear it. You are not ill or impaired like this disability I have. This innate ability is as commonplace as any other, and I likened it to reincarnation experiences. Perhaps, in combination with Joseph’s skills, you can bring those visions to life in some way.
This letter I send with my portrait. You will note the signature on the canvas, and, I hope, you know that I am genuine in my affection for you.
Farewell, Lora Di Matteo.
Now I had the full circle of communication, which also meant I had the confidence I needed to approach my mother. There was no need for any more secrets. Beryl was gone, and if she had thwarted the siblings’ chance of meeting, there would be no recriminations, only regrets, and what person never suffered those?
Later, after we’d dined with Tony’s wife and children, enjoying the most delicious pasta bathed in olive oil, the fulsome flavours of wine, and the icy sparkle of Italian gelato, Joseph and I retired to the guest house, the atelier where Loretta had watched Joseph paint and lament his past.
‘What will you do with the paintings?’ Joseph asked, easing his body onto the bed. There, comfortably stretched, freshly showered and wearing only boxers, he rested his back against the headboard. I desired every inch of him with renewed hunger.
Crossing to the other side of the barn, I admired the castles of my dreams, the fifteen with which I had started my journey. They had also nearly ended it prematurely. I still wanted to continue the quest, but now I wasn’t interested in exploring them with my mind. I was content to use my camera.
I smiled as I recalled how we had bumped into each other, wary at first, then curious. The amusing conversations regarding latrines, the technical ones about composition, light and shadow. At no point during their creation had I anticipated that these pictures would be mine. The choices Joseph had made for his paintings reflected his moods and sometimes his lack of interest in the subject matter, a contrast to my often overly enthusiastic approach. It dawned on me, standing in the warmth of the evening, what Loretta had planned with her gift to me: the purpose of the paintings wasn’t to make them aesthetically pleasing, they were in fact a collection of memories, and in hindsight an artistic wooing. By watching the artist at work, and without realising it at the time, I had fallen in love with Joseph.
I wondered if he would paint other castles for me. Like Kenilworth, where I had mused over the courting of Elizabeth I, and Robert Dudley’s opulent attempt at winning her heart. Fifteen paintings was mediocre in comparison, and hardly warranted an historical footnote, although for me, they were priceless. Moving them again seemed criminal, especially as the collection belonged to not just me. They existed because of my late patron’s foresight.
I joined Joseph on the bed. ‘If Tony doesn’t mind, do you think we could leave them here, and now and again, when we feel restless and distracted by the real world, we could come back here to remember the summer when we met. I think they’ll be therapeutic for both of us.’
He draped his long arm around my shoulders. ‘Whatever you like. I don’t think the chapel is suitable.’
The chapel house was a way station, convenient for now but without the comforts of a settled life. Joseph needed a proper home; we both did.
Recalling the chapel prompted me to show Loretta’s letter to Joseph. He refused to read it at first, then I persuaded him that Loretta was really more part of his life than mine. I had never met her, nor formed a bond with her. If we had a connection, it was one way. Joseph read in silence, scratching his chin, as he did when thoughtful.
‘The paintbox,’ he said, and added a low groan of annoyance.
‘What about it?’
‘She carved her initials into it. LDM. Why hadn’t I noticed that before when you told me about your Medici?’
