The Secret Legacy: The perfect summer read for fans of Santa Montefiore, Victoria Hislop and Dinah Jeffries

Adeline began to weep. I went toward her.

‘Stay where you are!’ she yelled without looking at me. ‘Stop that Godawful screeching.’ She whipped round to me. I could see her eyes were bloodshot, spidered with anguish. ‘Now!’

She rose to her feet and lunged toward me, sending me flying out of the room toward the stairwell. The Major was at the table now, oblivious to the protests of his daughter.

I prepared a bottle, lifted Elizabeth, and before I returned to the dining room to feed her I told the Major about Adeline’s current mood.

He gave a stiff nod. I felt like a student who had displeased her teacher.

He stood up from the table, walked through the kitchen and placed a hand on the lower side of the cooling pot. ‘Forty-five minutes more and we will continue,’ he announced, then left. I heard the library door close behind him.

I returned to a Major tetchy with impatience. ‘You’re three minutes late.’

‘I’m sorry, sir.’

‘This is alchemy, Santina. It requires precision. I expect deeper understanding from you.’

Together we lifted the oranges out of the cooled liquid, sliced them open and scooped out the pulp and pits into a smaller pan, reserving the peel. To the pulp we added a jug of water and set it on a medium heat for about ten minutes. I held a colander whilst the Major lined it with cheesecloth, placing the cooked pulp into it.

Whilst it cooled in the cloth, dripping into a bowl underneath, we sat at the table and cut the orange peel into thin strips, his eyes darting over my work to make sure each piece was the same length and width. I followed his instructions to gather the corners of the cheesecloth, squeezing the pulpy contents into a tight ball. My hands were sticky with the juice. He handed me a towel to blot them dry and then a large wooden spoon, so I could stir these juices back into the original poaching liquid. He tipped in the peel and placed the lid back on top. As soon as I became aware of the comforting quiet in which we worked, it hardened into an awkward silence, like a tray of boiled sugar crisping into brittle.

‘This, we leave overnight,’ he said.

My eyebrows raised before I could stop them.

‘You had no idea about the importance of time in this process, did you?’

I couldn’t tell whether he was about to castigate or educate. The lines between the two were random, dirty twists of floured dough upon a tired wooden counter.

He took a breath, his eyes softened. ‘O Time! who know’st a lenient hand to lay, softest on sorrow’s wound, and slowly thence, Lulling to sad repose the weary sense, The faint pang stealest unperceived away.’

This time I was tired enough to let my confusion float around me and hover, lost and soothed in the tone of incomprehensible words.

‘William Lisle Bowles wrote that, Santina. Why do you think we started the process of marmalade?’

We returned to exhausting questions: short, sharp arrows whizzing by my ear.

‘I will tell you why. Because the process is long but finite. It requires attention, stamina and precision. And so does educating oneself in another language. I do not tire easily, and I expect you to be collaborative with your attention. When you returned from your luncheon elsewhere, you were skittish, forgetful, and a little frantic, dare I say it. In this vein you will learn absolutely nothing. Now, I could have chosen a different dish, something we may have eaten right away, like the kedgeree, when we began your education back in the spring, but I didn’t. Language, education, must be savored and labored. But it is a joyful thing. Smell this room, Santina,’ his hand swept through the air, ‘smell the optimistic spray of citrus grown in this very garden beyond the terrace. How can it fail to touch you?’

His words caressed and taunted me. I could tell that he was full of something more than facts alone, but my mind prodded with uncertainty. I offered a tentative smile.

‘Look outside, Santina.’ He placed stiff hands upon my shoulders and twisted me round toward the open wooden doors. The last hands I’d had upon me were my father’s. The memory prickled down my spine to a sting. I felt the weight of his hands upon me, noticing the tips of his thumbs pressing into my shoulder blades. The garden rolled down a steep incline and the trees stretched out their branches in greedy gnarls toward the early autumn rays. Beyond, the sea had begun its descent into dusky purple, Capri’s tip golden in the dipping sun. I wanted to move but daren’t, hating myself for it.

His voice fell toward a whisper; I could feel the breath skim the top of my ear. ‘Educating the mind without educating the heart is no education at all.’

My body softened out of trained fear to the lull of his voice.

‘That is what Aristotle said, and I’m inclined to agree.’ He straightened. ‘Tomorrow,’ he went on, removing his hands, his voice once again crisp, ‘we will heat sugar in the oven upon a tray for ten minutes. Then we will reheat the preserving liquid and add the warmed sugar. When it has all dissolved in the liquid, and not before, we will turn up the heat. We will allow it to reach a rolling boil. We will remove the pan from the burner, allow to cool for thirty minutes, and finally pour into sterilized jars. Then what?’

Another prickle of a question, which required no remedy.

‘Then, Santina, you, Adeline and I may taste the glorious marmalade throughout the winter. And when the fog rolls in once again, and the tiresome visitors have abandoned the streets at last, we will sit and savor the memory of my trees once plump with bounty. Is that clear?’

Of course it wasn’t. He turned on his heels and closed the door behind him.

I breathed in the aroma, the citrus deepening toward a warm caramel now. The setting sun streaked in from behind me, burnishing the tiny kitchen with russet rays. Only a month remained before I left for America. I couldn’t shake the sense that the lessons that remained, like the marmalade of this afternoon, would be nothing besides bittersweet.

The mid-morning sun cast hopeful arcs of light upon the curve of the cobbles as I walked Elizabeth up the hill on her new-found legs. We’d stop every now and again, for me to catch my breath if nothing else, whilst I held her facing out to the sea, which spread out in a turquoise sheen toward the grey cliffs. Onward we climbed, as the path narrowed. To my right, beyond a squat wall, was a jagged drop to the water below. I walked without any particular aim, the smell of citrus and caramelized sugar still clinging to my hair from the previous afternoon, floating into focus every now and then on the breeze.

The path ended by the entrance to the cemetery. The dead had the best view in town. There was a small bench just outside. We sat for a moment to rest before returning home. I longed to lay flowers for my mother. I envied those little tombs, perched upon the uneven hill, goat-like, defying gravity with stubborn marble. At least all these people could find rest. Their loved ones could sit by them, remember them, whilst the wide expanse of the sea and mountains comforted them with awe and tranquillity, the landscape assuring them that their grief was all part of the natural fabric of the world, no more, no less. But I had none of this. There was a gaping hole where my mother should be, and another wherever my brother roamed; love without the freedom to be expressed.

The sound of footsteps drew me round. A figure stood by the gated entrance, fiddling with a heavy chain. I rose to my feet. It must be getting close to lunchtime if the gates were already being shut. I turned to begin my descent but something about the man playing with his lethargic lock spiked a memory. I turned back to take a closer look. I didn’t know this man, but there was something about the shape of his round face, the gentle slant of his almond eyes that stirred me. His hair looked like it hadn’t been washed in a while, it clung to his scalp in sweaty strands. He looked up at me for a brief glance. My heart twisted with sorrow and joy.

It was my little brother.

CHAPTER 7

‘Marco?’ I called out, my mouth so dry the word almost stuck to it.

He turned, nonchalant. ‘Si?’

We looked at one another. I fought seeping doubt. Perhaps my memory was playing a cruel trick on me? But there was no mistaking the pointed arch of his eyebrows, just like Mother’s, or the tiny mole on his left temple.

‘The cemetery opens again at five o’clock,’ he said, as if I was just another visitor muted by grief, which of course I was.

‘It’s me. Santina.’

His face marbled into stillness. I noticed my breath change. I watched his expression shift through a painful spectrum, much like the sea behind me rippling with light and shade beneath the moving clouds. I ran, wrapped my one free arm around him, grasping Elizabeth in the other. After a moment I felt his arm around us. I looked up at him, wiped his cheek and kissed the tear streaks twice each, knowing that a lifetime of kisses could never make up for the way I’d abandoned him.

‘I’m so so sorry, my Marco,’ I stuttered through snatched breaths.

He shook his head and took my hand in his then kissed it. That’s when I noticed how very thin he was. That’s when I took in his uncertain pallor, a grey day that hovers, expectant of a forgotten sun. His nails were chewed and his cuticles an aching pink with nervous strands of skin pulling away from them.

‘Is it really you, Santina?’ he whispered at last, looking at my face like someone determined to put the parts of a puzzle together, rearranging my features into the picture he remembered.

‘It’s really me.’

‘And this? Tua bambina?’

‘No – I look after her. I’m living just down the hill, Marco. I’m home again!’

The words honeyed my mouth. It was the first time I had used the term.

He turned away from me, as if unsure. ‘I have to go now. You’ll come back and see me?’

Through the neglected hair falling down over his face, and the tension scarring his nails, I saw a glimmer of the child walking down the mountainside only weeks after we lost our mother. ‘Of course.’

His face creased into a bleak frown.

‘You must believe me, Marco – I’m here now, working for a family at Villa San Vito.’

His eyes widened. The words felt an accidental betrayal. To this moment I’d been counting the days till my departure.

‘I’d have you come back with me right away, only I have this little one to feed and her mother and father are very particular about when they eat and—’

A yell from another young man further up the steps leading toward Nocelle interrupted my excited blabbering. Marco gave him a perfunctory glance, before looking back at me. His features hardened.

‘I have to go now, Santina. Come back tomorrow?’

I nodded, wondering if I could bear to watch him leave.

He turned and climbed the steps to the man. I watched his shadow lengthen before him, zig-zagging up the stones. The vice around my middle tightened. I wiped away the pictures of my father that bludgeoned my mind. Marco disappeared around the corner. I turned back toward the sea. The wind tussled gentle waves toward the shore. Do people, like water, always reach their natural level?

I made several feeble attempts to stay calm on my return to the villa. I simmered a small pan of water, infusing it with a fistful of chamomile flowers. I tried to allow the earthy steam of porcini mushrooms wilting with garlic and parsley to ground me in the kitchen and the tasks at hand. I stirred the tagliatelle around the tall pot of boiling water but, hard as I tried, my thoughts tumbled across one another like those fierce salty bubbles racing to evaporation. Elizabeth banged her spoon on the counter of her wooden high chair. The sound irritated the Major but usually left me unruffled. Today it percussed my noisy thoughts with increasing irritation. I grabbed the spoon from her and she burst into tears. The Major walked in.

‘Is the child not getting her own way once again? Or is this some personal vendetta that’s escaped me?’

His sarcasm smarted. Off my look he retracted. It wasn’t something I was accustomed to witnessing. The turn toward genuine concern caught me off guard. For a moment I thought I might let myself cry.

‘Sorry, sir. I was impatient. It’s been an unusual morning.’

‘Indeed,’ he said, running a hand over Elizabeth’s head. The small act of tenderness caught both of us by surprise. ‘ . . . the buttercups, the little children’s dower, Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower.’ He looked between the two of us, left muted by his poetic interruption.

‘What on earth did Robert Browning understand about the great beauty of Italy, Elizabeth?’ he asked, running a finger under her chin. ‘Fancy comparing a melon flower, full of the promise of delicious fruit, to the blasted buttercup!’

My heart raced. Was the Major careening toward the same kind of breakdown as his wife? His behavior was peculiar, even for him. Any doubts about leaving disappeared in an instant. The sooner I left, the better. Elizabeth fell silent.

‘Lunch is almost ready, sir. Am I to call Adeline?’

‘But of course, Santina. You will find her in agreeable spirits this afternoon. Have you not noticed the marked changes in her? Her energy is returning little by little, a sapling of herself. Owed in a huge part to your tender care. Of the both of us.’

The expression in his eyes made me feel uncomfortable. There was an unfamiliar streak of sorrow, different from when he spoke of Adeline. I turned to leave.

‘Santina?’

I looked back at the Major. The sunlight streamed in behind him like a halo.

‘Take this note, please.’

I reached out for the small vanilla envelope, expecting him to bark out instructions for delivery, though in the past ten months I could count on one hand the number of people he’d conversed with in town. If he carried on in this manner the gossips would have a field day concocting elaborate fictions about him and the wife imprisoned on the third floor of this merchant’s palace.

I looked at the addressee. It was my name.

‘It is rather unorthodox perhaps, but it struck me that writing my thoughts to you would allow you the space and privacy to consider my proposition in the most honest way you can. I’m loath to put you on the spot. Goodness knows I’ve had a lifetime of that from my seniors. It’s excruciating. In every way.’

I still hadn’t learnt how to mask my frown.

‘Excruciating: painful, embarrassing.’

A pause. Elizabeth looked from me to him and back again.

‘So there we are. That is all. You’re to read this tonight. Sleep on it. I would hate it to ruffle your day any more than is necessary. You’ve obviously been challenged enough already. That much is clear.’

His thoughts were rambling again. He lifted Elizabeth out of her seat and took her outside with him. Had he fallen in love with his child at last? I could see the feeling terrified him. That’s why he tripped over the words. Where was the man who used the vast spectrum of language with such confidence, throwing descriptions into the air like puffs of Adeline’s vibrant paint powders?

This was a man who had been grieving for his disappearing wife. As her life force made a quiet return, he allowed Elizabeth in. Before today, he would have rather cut himself off than risk the pain of losing another woman. He’d have said something to the effect that the very existence of children reminds us of our own fleeting fragment of time . . . That the new person entrusted to us to love must leave . . . How this is the very nature of nurture, the truest test of love.

Such was his poetry I had learned.

I watched him place her down and take her chubby hand in his. They walked toward the steps into the garden. Perhaps she would feel the tender attention of her father after all. The thought uncorked a deluge of silenced memories. What pain must my father have been in to inflict so much on us? The tiny flame of compassion flickered but faded at the picture of my mother’s bruised face. Marco replaced that painful recollection. I left the kitchen in case the Major should turn back and see my tears.

Rosalia rang the bell just after lunch. She knew better than to do so; the Major had told me several times that any visitors, business or otherwise, were to call mid-morning or not at all. Trying to impart this stringent guideline to the local fishmonger, butcher and woodsman elicited nothing short of sighed laughter, a nod at best, terse irritation at worst.

‘You’re incorrigible, Rosali – be quick and go,’ I said, poking my head round the side of the door. ‘He’s in a strange mood today as it is.’

‘What’s new?’

‘I’m serious.’

‘My sisters and I are going up to Nocelle for a spuntino later this afternoon. It’s our youngest one’s saint’s day. I want you to come.’

I grew suspicious.

‘Oh for heaven’s sake, Santina, it’s just for some fresh air, why the look?’

‘You’re meddling, and I can’t put my finger on what.’

She straightened her blouse over her middle, revealing a little more cleavage. I loved how at home she felt in her skin. Perhaps I envied it a little. Her hair waved down her back, lifted away from her face in bold quiffs.

‘And also,’ she carried on, ‘the new folks who moved in two houses down are looking for occasional help. They’ll be doing lots of entertaining, they said, over this coming year. Two sisters. German, I think. I told them I could gather a list of some girls. Thought you’d like some extra money before you leave?’

‘And Elizabeth?’

‘I can look after her.’

I shook my head. ‘I don’t know.’ The thought of floating the suggestion to the Major made me uneasy.

‘Suit yourself, Santi, I’ll call for you in a couple of hours.’

Before I could reply she sauntered up the steps toward the alley that ran the length of the back of the villa leading to her house.

Nocelle was Positano’s sister: smaller, older, remote. The one thousand steps that led us up to it were unrelenting, passing through the gorge of the valley. Deep green rose on either side of us, as the stairs wound in and around ragged rocks, undulating through the ancient pines, till we reached the outskirts of the small village. Here the stone steps took us in between homes, bright red geranium blooms cascading from terracotta pots balanced on a prayer along uneven walls, palms offering regal salutes, cacti in the warm glow, their fruits ripening in the sun.

Rosalia’s sister’s home was modest, perched along the precipice of the cliff. She had a small terrace and two rooms. The table was laid with sfogliatelle and a large cake. The linen tablecloth lifted on the breeze. We took our seats upon the wooden benches and heaved a sigh of collected delight when she brought out a jug of home-made limonata. My legs were accustomed to walking these inclines but even I welcomed the respite. Elizabeth guzzled her drink. Rosalia lifted her up from me and sat her upon her lap, then gave her the reins to an imaginary horse so she could jiggle her into the infectious laughter of a toddler.

We toasted Rosalia’s sister. Then one of their brothers brought out a huge box. From inside he lifted an enormous record player to squeals of delight. He placed it upon the table and wound it up. Marino Marini began to tinkle his latest hit, ‘Piccolissima Serenata’. Everybody rose to their feet. Rosalia danced with Elizabeth upon her hip. Her sister held her husband. I turned toward the feeling of a tap at my elbow.

‘Shall we?’ Paolino asked. I hadn’t noticed him slip into the party. I could have avoided this had I done so. ‘Just one dance. Then I’ll leave you in peace.’

Perhaps it was the atmosphere, the folks about me caring little about their troubles for a short pause. They had neither the comfort nor security of wealth, nor regular work, but were full of celebration. I longed to know what that felt like. So long had I been fixed on my next voyage that I failed to enjoy these moments passing by. I watched the family around me, my mind filled with Marco. How long would I have to knit our pasts together before I departed again?

Without thinking I let my hand slip into Paolino’s. It was square and strong, a little rough along the tips of the fingers. He held mine with more grace than I would have expected and kept a polite distance, much to my relief. I felt a sudden awareness of my calf as we spun, then admonished my vanity. No one here cared whether it was half the size of my other one. I wasn’t here to impress anybody – least of all my dance partner.

‘You think they dance under the sun in America, Santina?’ he whispered in my ear.

I stiffened.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, his face relaxing into an expression close to genuine embarrassment. We swayed for a few beats. Rosalia’s family filled in the quiet gaps of our own dwindling conversation.

He stopped dancing but didn’t let go of my hands. ‘Can we talk somewhere?’

I noticed Mr Marini had moved onto ‘Perdoname’, his lament begging for forgiveness from his lover. Paolino led me out of the terrace and sat upon the wall surrounding the house. I felt for the donkey grappling the stairs as it passed by us, loaded with lemons in deep baskets hanging either side of his body, an unrelenting porter behind jeering him on.

‘Santina, I need to say these things. If I wait I’ll never forgive myself.’

I looked at my hands for a moment. Where was my mother’s fire to spit some wise retort at him, just enough to steer the conversation away from where I intuited it was headed?

‘You won’t believe me, for whatever reason. But truly, you are the most beautiful woman in this town.’

I took a breath, but should have known he would misunderstand it as a signal of studied feminine modesty.

‘You’re different,’ he added, ‘you’re not like the others. You’ve got your sights set on a bigger, brighter future than this little fishing village. I know that. I love that.’

‘Paolino, please,’ I interrupted at last, ‘stop before you say something you’ll be embarrassed about later.’

‘Nothing I want to tell you can embarrass me. I’m not scared of the truth. You shouldn’t be either.’

I stood up.

‘But you are,’ he said.

I hovered, angry that he was using his words to prod uncertainty out of me. His charm was as clumsy as I would have expected it to be after all.

‘I don’t think you’d know what the truth was if it slapped you round the face, Paolino. You know nothing about me.’

‘I know you’re compelling. You’re not like those girls who strut around town plastered with makeup to grab the attention of the foreigners. And you’ve survived living with my mother – that’s a small victory in itself!’

My involuntary laughter annoyed me. His smile changed his face. If I squinted I might even catch the bud of humility there.

‘Santina, I know nothing about you, it’s true. And I want to know everything.’

His eyes turned a deeper chestnut. I’d never noticed how thick his eyelashes were.

‘I’ve said too much. Sorry, Santina. You must have a lot on your mind. This is my final act of selfishness.’ He shrugged.

I said nothing.

He took my hand and kissed it.

My stomach tightened.

‘Come on, Rosalia’s tongue will be wagging!’ He smiled, changing trajectory with surprising ease.

We walked back onto the terrace. The sun had begun its descent.

‘I’ll be heading home now, Rosalia,’ I said, lifting Elizabeth out of her arms.

Her eyes twinkled with a familiar mischief. At last her plan unfurled.

‘And before you say what you’re thinking: No.’

‘No what?’

‘No to whatever scheme or romantic plan you’ve been salivating over. Paolino likes to say things he doesn’t mean. Or understand. You of all people can see that, surely?’

‘I see a lot of things, but that’s not one of them.’

I turned before she could tease me any further, kissed her sister on both cheeks and hiked downhill through the valley.