JUST a few more minutesâjust tenâthen fiveâthen they would reach Venice, the city Sonia had sworn never to set foot in again. As the train rumbled across the lagoon she refused to look out of the window. She knew what she would see if she did. First, the blue water, sparkling under the winter sun, then the roofs and gilded cupolas, gradually emerging from the mist on the horizon. It was perfect, magical, a sight to lift the heart. And she didnât want to see it.
Venice, the loveliest place in Italy, in the world. Sheâd come here once before, and later fled, blaming it for her misfortunes. But for the summer beauty of the city she might never have been tempted into a disastrous marriage to Francesco Bartini. She knew better now. Sheâd fled Francesco and the heartbreakingly beautiful surroundings where theyâd met, vowing never to be seduced by either of them again.
She tried not to think of him as he had seemed to her then, smiling, at ease with himself and everyone around him. He wasnât handsomeâhis features werenât regular enough for that, his nose too large, his mouth too wide. But his eyes were dark and full of delicious wickedness, his smile was brilliant, and when he laughed he was irresistible. Sheâd been enchanted by his charm and good nature, the speed with which heâd fallen in love with her, as though heâd been only waiting for her to appear to recognise the love of his life.
âBut thatâs true,â heâd said once. âWhy delay when youâve met âthe oneâ?â
Heâd been so sure she was âthe oneâ that heâd made her believe it too. But Venice had helped him, with its beauty, its glitter of romance that was there around every corner. Venice had helped to deceive her into thinking a holiday flirtation was a lasting love, and she would never forgive Venice for that.
So why was she coming back?
Because Tomaso, her father-in-law, had begged her, and she had always liked him. Even in the bad days of her marriage the hot-tempered little man had always made her feel how fond of her he was. On the day she left he had wept, âPlease, Soniaâdonât goâI beg youâti pregoââ
Officially, she was only returning to England for a visit, to âsee how she feltâ. But none of them were fooled, especially Tomaso. He knew she wasnât coming back.
Heâd held onto her, weeping openly, and his wife, Giovanna, had regarded him with scorn, because who cared if the stupid English wife left? Sheâd been a mistake from the start and thank goodness Francesco had realised at last.
Tomaso had wept despite his wife, and Sonia had wept with him. But still she had left. Sheâd had to. But now she was back, because Tomaso had begged her.
âGiovanna is very ill,â heâd said, the day he turned up at her London apartment. âShe knows she treated you badly, and it weighs on her. Come home and let her make her peace with you.â
âNot home, Poppa. It was never a home to me.â
âBut we all loved you.â
And that was true, she reflected. With one exception they had all loved, or at least liked her: Francescoâs sisters in-law, his three brothers, his aunts, his uncle, his endless cousins, had all smiled and welcomed her. Only Giovanna, his mother, had frowned and been suspicious.
How could she return? It was nearly Christmas. Travelling would be a nightmare. Worse, she would have to see Francesco again, and what would they say to each other after the last dreadful meeting in London? Heâd followed her there to make one final effort to save their marriage, and when it failed heâd been curt and bitter.
âI wonât plead with you any more,â heâd raged. âI thought I could convince you that our love was worth saving, but what do you know of love?â
âI know that ours was a mistake,â sheâd cried, âif it was love at all. Sometimes I think it wasnâtâjust a pretty illusion.â
Heâd given a mirthless laugh directed at himself. âHow easily you talk love away when it suits you. The more fool me, for thinking you had a womanâs heart. Well, youâve convinced me. You want no more of me, and now I want no more of you. Go to hell in your own way, and I will go in mine.â
Sheâd never seen him like that before. In their short marriage heâd been angry many times, with the hot temper of the Latin, flaring now and forgotten a moment later. But this bitter, decided rejection was different. She should have been glad that heâd accepted her decision, but instead she was unaccountably desolate.