The Silent Fountain
‘Atmospheric and foreboding this is the perfect contemporary homage to the gothic tradition.’ – The SunBeneath the surface lies a terrible secret…Hollywood, 1975: Tragedy sends troubled film star Vivien Lockhart into the arms of Giovanni Moretti, and it seems her fortunes have finally changed. Until she meets his sister, and learns that dark shadows haunt her new husband’s past…Tuscany, Present day: Everyone in London is searching for Lucy Whittaker – so Lucy needs to disappear. But her new home, the crumbling Castillo Barbarossa, is far from the secluded paradise it seemed.Across the decades, Vivien and Lucy find themselves trapped in the idyllic Italian villa.And if they are ever to truly escape its walls, they must first unearth its secrets…Rebecca meets Sante Montefiore in this atmospheric tale of lies, obsession, and betrayal…‘Wonderfully atmospheric and suspenseful’ – Nicola Cornick, author of The Phantom Tree‘Addictive reading, Victoria Fox hooks you and doesn’t let go. It’s Kate Morton with added sass!’ – Jenny Oliver, author of The Sunshine and Biscotti Club
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VICTORIA FOX divides her time between Bristol and London. She used to work in publishing and is now the author of six novels.
For Joanna Croot
Contents
Italy, Summer 2016
It was always the same dream, and every time she saw it coming. She knew where it began. A bright light, gathering pace from a sheet of dark. A lucid thought, a picture more real than any she could fathom in waking hours. Afraid to look but more afraid to resist, she stepped towards the light, arms open, weak, and she knew it was a trick, but suddenly there she was, blissful, forgetting, her lips on his forehead, his soft skin and his smell; she could capture it now, so many years later and on the other side of consciousness. His hair, the warmth of his body, they were locked away in the deepest parts inside her, still intact despite the storms that place had weathered.
She knew where it ended. He shouldn’t have spoken; he shouldn’t have asked.
Don’t leave me. Come with me. I’m waiting.
I’ll catch you. We’ll be together again.
The water, still and cool and silver and quiet. Inviting. Come with me…
I’m waiting.
*
The woman wakes with a jolt. Her bedclothes are bunched and damp with sweat. It takes a moment to surface, the weight of water all around, pressing down. The air is tight in her lungs.
Adalina, the maid, comes in, opens the shutters and welcomes the day.
‘There, signora, that’s better. How did you sleep?’
Quick, efficient, the maid sets down the breakfast tray, pillows plumped, sheets pulled tight. And then the rainbow of pills, a box of medicines laid out like sweets, as if the colours make it better, make her want to take them, willingly.
The woman coughs; it is like bringing something solid up, a ball of wire.
There is blood on her handkerchief: a spray of bright dots, the worst omen. It won’t be long now. She folds it into her clenched palm. Adalina pretends not to see.
‘I…’ The woman’s mind is empty. Her tongue is swollen, a stranger to her mouth, as if she is the one who has swallowed the swamp.
‘Open the window,’ she says.
A flick of the wrist; the sun spills in. She can see the tips of the cypress trees, twelve fingers pointing towards the sky. She used to think he was up there, believe in useless comforts, but she doesn’t any more. He isn’t in the sky. He isn’t in the clouds. He isn’t even in the ground. He is inside her. Calling her, needing her.
Air. Warmth. Birdsong. She receives the scent of her budding gardens, can picture the roses on the arches beginning to bloom, pink and sweet, and the lavender and chives clustered against their high chalk walls, bursting white and lilac. How easily the outside creeps in. How easily it bridges that line, as fast and fluid as rain. How easily she ought to be able to do the same, one step, one foot in front of the other, that was all it took, that was what the doctors said. The same as trespassing into those rooms, those wings, that have been locked in dust for decades: unbearable now.
‘Such a beautiful house,’ they whispered, in the village, in the city, across the oceans for all she knew. ‘How tragic that she’s the way she is… Still, I suppose one can understand it, after…you know…’
‘The girl is due at midday,’ says Adalina, rattling the pills into a plastic receptacle at the same time as pouring the tea, as if one were no more unusual a feast than the other. ‘I’ve checked the airport and there are no delays. Will you be able to greet her? She’d like to meet you, I’m sure.’
The woman glances away. She watches her pale hands resting like a corpse’s on the sheet, the bloodstained handkerchief hidden there: a terrible key to a terrible secret. Her wrists are brittle, her nails short, and she thinks how old they look.
When did I grow old?
She shakes her head. ‘I shall stay in bed,’ she says. Just like every other day. This house has too many corners, too many secrets, crooked with shadows and silence. ‘And I shouldn’t like any disturbances. You can settle her in, I’ve no doubt.’
‘Very well, signora.’
She swallows the pills; Adalina retreats, her face a mask of discretion. The maid has no need to voice her feelings, but it is no matter. Let them be disappointed. Let them say, ‘
