It was exquisite; easily as stunning as the stones in the earrings from earlier in the day, and she wondered what the stone could be—a tourmaline, a sapphire, or even a pink diamond. It wasn’t for lack of being eye-catching that she’d hidden away the pink stone and the little box. She knew, deep down, that she’d done so because of all the feelings that came with it, not because she hadn’t been interested or that the little box of treasure hadn’t impressed her at the time. Sometimes, when it came to reminders of her family, it was easier to bury the feelings than confront them.
Georgia placed the box beside her and leaned down to reach under her bed for the Harry Potter bag she always kept there, abag she’d saved after visiting the studio tour with her parents the year before they died. As a teenager sharing a room with Sam, she’d kept it beneath her bed and often reached for it during the night, needing the reassurance of the past, and now as a woman of thirty with her own flat, she still kept it there.
Even after all these years, Georgia was convinced that her father’s jumper still smelt like him, and she took it out now and held it to her nose, inhaling and pressing it to her chest, as if she could imagine he was there simply by holding the garment. She always took everything out in order, and next was a soft cashmere scarf that her mother had worn every day in winter, then photos, her old teddy bear and finally a letter. The letter was always at the bottom, and every time she read it, she wanted to tear it into little pieces; but somehow every single time she packed it back into the bag with everything else.
Because that letter from so long ago had lit a flame in her heart; it had given her the determination to build the company she’d started with Sam when she was barely twenty, had fuelled a desire to rebuild what she’d lost, to create a home and a life that no one could ever take from her. Despite not being wanted by the one family member who could have taken her in, she’d still managed to build a full life.
She read the letter now, her eyes travelling slowly over the words, even though she could have recounted it by heart, she’d pored over it so many times.
To Whom It May Concern,
I do not feel that it would be in the best interests of Georgia to live with me, despite me being her biological grandmother, and I would like to advise that I will not be coming forward to claim guardianship. Her father and I were no longer in contact, and I made it very clear tohim when he chose to marry that I did not approve of his choice. As such, I proceeded to disinherit him from my will as I had instructed him I would do so, and I do not intend to change my mind, despite the circumstances. This means that his daughter will not receive anything from the family estate either now or in the event of my death, and it will therefore be necessary for the child to be placed into alternative care, or to find a family willing to take her in. I am, however, prepared to fund her education if necessary, and any application for such assistance is to be made through my lawyer. I believe that education is the key to any young person’s success, and I can only hope that she chooses to make the most of her life despite the hardships she now faces.
I wish Georgia all the best, although I request that no further contact be made with me directly.
Yours, Cara Montano
As a young child, Georgia had received a small gift each year from her elusive grandmother, always imagining her father to be the one preventing her from being in their lives. It wasn’t ever the type of present she’d hoped for, with her grandmother choosing to send her twenty-five pounds in shares each year, although it was still something. All those years she’d created a picture of a delightful, white-haired woman taking her out for ice cream and to the movies after school or at the weekend, wanting to hear everything about her only granddaughter, had Georgia’s father let her be part of their lives.
But that illusion had been promptly shattered when her parents had died in a car accident just after her fifteenth birthday, leaving her an orphan with only an estranged grandmother to turn to. And when the letter had arrived, she’d known that the grandmother she’d imagined couldn’t have beenfurther from the truth. Her father had never spoken badly of his mother, but Georgia had grown up knowing that her grandmother hadn’t approved of her mum. She remembered him telling her that his family had wanted him to marry someone from a more prominent family, that they’d been horrified her mother had dropped out of university—pregnant—and even more horrified when her father had told them they were getting married. And from what she’d discovered from her mother’s affairs after the tragedy, it had been her who’d stopped Georgia’s grandmother from seeing her. Her mother had written to her to say that she either accepted them as a family and became a proper part of their lives, or she stayed away, and it seemed Georgia’s grandmother had chosen the latter.
Georgia blinked away tears, tears that came every time she read the letter, no matter how hard she tried to fight them, and folded the paper back into the small square she’d found it in. She took a deep breath, about to put it in the bag before changing her mind.
She’d kept it to prove her grandmother wrong, to show her that she had succeeded without her: without her love, without her compassion, and certainly without her money. She’d founded a business that had been bought out by one of the biggest cosmetics companies in the world, but even that still didn’t seem enough.Now I know how you felt, Dad. Nothing you did could ever live up to her expectations, or the expectations you had for yourself. Her grandmother had passed away a few years earlier, something Georgia only knew about after receiving an email from a lawyer advising her of the fact, but somehow she still had the power to hurt her.
Georgia scrunched the paper in her palm and threw it to the floor, not sure whether she’d retrieve it in the morning or scoop it up with the rubbish. She held the scarf, her teddy, and then thejumper one last time before carefully placing them all in the bag, and turned her attention back to the stone.
Tomorrow she would take it to the auction house and see if they could value it and put it up for sale. Her grandmother hadn’t wanted her, so she didn’t want the jewel, it was as simple as that. And once she’d had the stone appraised, she would find someone to translate the newspaper clipping, just in case it contained important family information that had a link to her father, and then she could forget all about the meeting she’d had and her grandmother’s potentially illegitimate past.
Georgia put everything back in the box and placed it on her bedside table, turning off her lamp and snuggling down under the covers.
It was the right decision, getting rid of the stone, just as it was the right thing to do to get rid of the letter after all these years. She’d felt melancholy all day thinking about the grandmother she’d never even met, and the best thing for her was to dispose of anything that made her feel sad or unworthy. She’d worked too hard to put her past behind her to let it catch up with her now.
Georgia laughed to herself as she shut her eyes. It was probably a worthless fake anyway, nothing like the tourmalines she hadn’t been able to keep her eyes off at the auction house. After a life of being miserable with money, there was no way her grandmother could have left behind a valuable jewel for her granddaughter to claim. Or was there?
3
ITALY, JUNE 1951
Delphine was surprised to see her husband, Giovanni, taking breakfast with the children when she came downstairs. Often, she took her breakfast in bed, but today she’d wanted to come down and sit with the children before they left for school. Her husband had been absent for almost two weeks, and although it still astounded her that he could disappear for so long, she was starting to become used to it.
‘Good morning,’ she said, gliding past the children and pressing a kiss to first her son’s head, and then her daughter’s as she did so. She looked to her husband, who gave her a polite nod and a smile. ‘It’s lovely to have you back, Giovanni. Did you arrive home late last night?’
‘Indeed, I did,’ he replied, without looking up again.
Early in their marriage she’d wanted to take the paper from his hands and beat him about the head with it each morning, so desperate was she to get more than a simple nod from him when it was just the two of them. She’d wanted him to look at her, to talk to her, to have a lively conversation to start the day, to give her something to look forward to each morning. It hadn’t been any better when he came home for dinner at night—he would kiss her cheek when he returned for the day or sometimes thetop of her head in the same way she now greeted her children, and they would eat dinner in a silence that she would not have described as companionable.
When she’d given up on hoping that he would love her, Delphine had wondered if any reaction would be better than the bland way he greeted her each day. Once she’d imagined throwing her coffee cup at his head to see if he was at least capable of anger if he wasn’t capable of love. But, of course, she wasn’t that childish. Or stupid. She was painfully aware that some husbands had fiery tempers that left their wives with black eyes and hidden bruises. But she also knew that many more husbands loved their wives in ways that hers simply wasn’t interested in. He hadn’t visited her bedroom since they’d conceived Isabella, their youngest child, and she’d long ago given up hope that he ever would again.
‘How is everyone this morning?’ Delphine asked brightly, taking her seat and looking first to her son, Tommaso, who was seated across from her.
His almost black hair was damp and brushed back from his face, curling slightly behind his ears, so like his father in looks although nothing like him in temperament. Her darling, sensitive boy.
‘I am well, Mama,’ he said with a smile.
She nodded and turned to her daughter, who was eating the same milk with bread as her brother. It irritated her husband that the children still ate what he considered either baby’s food or a peasant’s meal, depending on the day, but she was of the mind to let them eat whatever brought them joy.
‘Isabella?’ she asked her daughter.
