The Villa in Italy: Escape to the Italian sun with this captivating, page-turning mystery
Escapist and completely absorbing, The Villa in Italy is the perfect, mouth-watering summer read.Four very different people are named in a will. All are summoned to the Villa Dante, home of the late Beatrice Malaspina. But who was she?While they wait to find out, the villa begins to work its seductive magic. With its faded frescoes and magnificent mediaeval tower, it’s unlike anywhere they have been before. Slowly, four characters who have gone to great lengths to hide their troubles find that change – and even hope – is possible after all. But the mysterious Beatrice has a devastating secret to reveal that will change everything . . .The perfect holiday read for fans of Rosanna Ley and Rachel Hore, The Villa in Italy is a beautiful evocation of Italy in the aftermath of World War Two.
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ELIZABETH EDMONDSON
The Villa in Italy
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Harper An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2006
Copyright © A.E. Books Ltd 2006
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2014
Cover images © Shutterstock.com
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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Source ISBN: 9780007223770
Ebook Edition © AUGUST 2009 ISBN: 9780007343416 Version: 2017-04-26
For Teresa Chris Thank you!
Table of Contents
The package from the lawyers arrived early one foggy April morning. It was wrapped in brown paper, tied with string and sealed with red wax.
The postman came whistling through the door to the offices of Hawkins & Hallett, bringing with him a gust of cold, damp air, and greeted the thin-lipped, middle-aged receptionist with a cheery, ‘Good morning.’
Miss Jay looked at him over the top of her half-moon spectacles, her eyes cold and disapproving. ‘What’s this?’ she said, as he handed her the package. Her mouth tightened as she saw the seal, complete with crest; really, these authors did give themselves airs. She turned it over, and saw the sender’s name: Winthrop, Winthrop & Jarvis.
‘Lawyers, I reckon,’ said the postman. ‘What have you lot been up to? Or maybe it’s the juicy memoirs of a judge. Anyhow, it’s to be signed for. The rest will be along later, same as usual.’
She signed the slip in neat, upright strokes, and handed it back to the postman. Then she drew the post book out of her drawer and made an entry. As she did so, the door opened again, letting in another blast of chilly air and a girl in a duffel coat.
‘Good morning, Miss Hallett,’ the receptionist said icily, and looked pointedly at the large clock. ‘Five minutes late again.’
The girl grinned and heaved herself out of her coat, which she hung on the hatstand behind the door. ‘What’s five minutes between friends, Miss Jay?’
‘Please take this package upstairs to Miss Hawkins. Right away.’
‘Okey-dokey,’ and the girl bounded up the brown lino stairs two at a time, her pony tail swinging as she went.
Miss Jay winced. Susie Hallett might be a partner’s daughter, but taking on a girl like that was a mistake, even if she only came in two mornings a week.
Susie swung herself round on the polished curve of the banister rail on the first floor and skidded to a halt outside a panelled door with ‘Miss Hawkins, Publishing Director’ written on the name board in bold gold letters. She knocked on the door, and went in without waiting for a reply. ‘Hello, Miss Hawkins. Post.’
‘Good morning, Susie. Why has Miss Jay sent it up to me unopened? What’s got into her?’
‘Dunno. She just told me to bring it up. Looks important, string and sealing wax.’
Susie lingered, curious, as Miss Hawkins snipped the string and unwrapped the parcel. Inside was a manuscript, and on top a covering letter.
Olivia Hawkins read the letter swiftly, and then put it down. She said nothing, but looked out of the long, elegant sash window, not seeing the raindrops dribbling down the panes, or the dingy light of a bleak spring morning, but instead, brilliant sunlight on an Italian landscape; in her mind, she was in Italy, sitting under the colonnades, laughing, drinking a toast with a woman no longer young, yet every bit as full of life as young Susie.
She blinked, and reached down into her handbag for a handkerchief.
‘Is something the matter? Is it a book?’
‘Yes, it’s a book. The memoirs of Beatrice Malaspina.’
