It was a disquieting thought, and one that hung uneasily in her consciousness.
She could see two heraldic beasts—mythical by the look of them—guarding the ancient-looking front entrance, and some form of hatch inset into the architrave.
Luca was cutting the engine and opening his door. As he did so, someone emerged from thepalazzoand came around to open her door. Murmuring,‘Grazie…’she got out, looking around her. Extensive gardens and grounds surrounded thepalazzo, bathed in warm sunlight, and the scent of flowers was all about.
‘It’s very beautiful,’ she heard herself say.
‘Yes,’ said Luca.
It was all he said.
She realised, with a glance at him, that he was tense, and immediately knew why. Her sense of disquiet grew. He hadn’t wanted to bring her here—she was an interloper, an uninvited guest he was being forced to allow to be here simply for the sake of his godfather’s peace of mind.
But that isn’t my fault!
Protest replaced disquiet. She would not feel intimidated by Luca’s ancestral pile. Yes, it might have brought home to her how glaringly true his words to her six years ago had been, but that did not mean she had to apologise for the differences between them—not then, not now.
And those differences are less—far less now.
She was the niece of his own godfather—legitimate, respectable—and she was her uncle’s heir. Nor was she an East End barmaid pulling pints any longer—someone who’d never heard of Titian, or the Renaissance, or anything else that people like Luca and Matteo took for granted.
Her chin went up.
Even if I still was, so what? That doesn’t make me dirt beneath his lordly feet!
Feeling more resolute, more justified, she followed Luca, stepping into a high-ceilinged marble-floored hall far grander than her uncle’s, and far more graceful too. Pilasters marched along the wall, and sculptures too—busts that looked Roman—and the ceiling, when she glanced up, her eye drawn to it, was adorned with a flamboyant mural of classical gods and goddesses disporting themselves, with cherubs peeping out overtrompe l’oeilbalconies.
‘One of my ancestors got a bit carried away,’ Luca remarked dryly. ‘His wife indulged him for this space, but you will be glad to know she restrained him elsewhere. Come and see. I’ll give you the quick version of the tour, and then we can break for lunch.’
His tone was civil enough, and he seemed less tense. Bianca followed his lead.
Briskly, he showed her around the grand but gracious rooms, giving her a thumbnail commentary on what they were seeing. Despite her mixed feelings about the place Luca called home, she found its graceful, elegant beauty very appealing.
He only showed her the ground floor, ignoring the sweeping double staircase soaring upwards from the wide main hall.
‘We’ll have lunch in the small dining room,’ he said. ‘It’s a breakfast room, really. My mother had it refurbished, as it had become somewhat shabby and neglected.’
He led the way to the rear of the house, to a room opening out by the sweeping double staircase.
Immediately she stepped inside, Bianca exclaimed, ‘Oh, this is so beautiful!’
She gazed about pleasurably. Though far smaller than the grandreception rooms along the front façade, this room was just as elegantly proportioned, and it had an intimacy to it that gave it a charm she could not resist. The walls were hung with warm yellow silk, and there was a delicately stencilled ceiling, an exquisitely woven oval carpet in matching warm yellow, with patterning that echoed the ceiling tracery. An elegant eighteenth-century oval table sat in the centre of the room, set with silver and crystal, and a simple but beautiful floral arrangement of creamy yellow roses was held in a silver-gilt epergne.
To one side of the room French windows stood open to the gardens beyond. Instinctively, Bianca stepped through them. As at her uncle’s house, a paved terrace ran along the rear façade, leading on to the level gardens, but here, because of its elevated position, there was an immediate vista— a sweeping view of the valley beyond the distant edge of the gardens, each side sheltered by the gentle rise of a forested hillside.
‘They chose this site well, I think, my ancestors,’ she heard Luca say, stepping out beside her. And for the first time Bianca heard warmth in his voice.
‘It’s absolutely beautiful,’ she breathed. She gave a low laugh. ‘I seem to be saying that all the time…about everything you’ve shown me!’ She gestured with her hand. ‘I love the way the gardens seem to blend into the landscape all around, as if they are part of it. It’s hard to see where the grounds end and the countryside and woods begin.’
‘That was the idea. The gardens were remodelled in the late eighteenth century, when thevisconteopened up the formalbaroque arrangement to accommodate the natural topography. It was deliberately done in the English style, which was much admired at the time—and not just in England.’
Bianca nodded. ‘Yes, Capability Brown and Humphrey Repton and their followers.’
Luca cast her a swift look. ‘Exactly,’ he said.
She gave a slight smile, gazing about her at the glorious vista. ‘English aristocrats at the time often came out to Italy,’ she remarked musingly, ‘going home with Roman and Greek trophies to ornament their own stately homes, and Italian aristocrats adopted the fashion for naturalistic landscaping. Each borrowing from the other!’ She turned to Luca. ‘I know that many English stately homes are littered withfauxRoman temples in the classical style, but presumably here in Italy you can boast the real thing?’
‘We can indeed,’ Luca said. ‘Where the gardens give way to woodland, as the hill steepens over to the west…’ he indicated with his arm ‘…there are the remains of a very small Roman temple. It’s at the site where a spring that was believed to have healing qualities emerges.’ He paused. ‘I’ll show it to you after lunch, if you’re interested.’