‘He didn’t tell you?’ she asked.
‘He did not. This place is enormous.’
A woman in a faded black dress with a tiny white collar and small bib apron came through the archway. She didn’t smile or speak but indicated they should follow her up the stairs. She was tall and stick thin, with a grey plait wound into a bun at the back of her neck and eyes as black as midnight.
As she climbed the wide white steps Florence couldn’t wait to see inside but had to curb her impatience as the woman moved so slowly it seemed as if her every joint needed oiling. At the top she unlocked the bronze door – oxidised by time or weather, or probably both, it had a delicate patina of greenish blue. They entered a long room with a dozen open windows along one side where cream-coloured Italian lace curtains billowed in the breeze this side of the blinds she’d seen on the outside. Florence saw Jack’s eyebrows rise, as awed by it as she, for it felt as ifthey had been ushered into a world that had long gone. The room was pure nineteenth century, a place where the passing years had touched nothing. No electric lights – and she doubted there’d be running water – yet everything looked exquisite. Dark carved furniture and chairs upholstered in a striped gold fabric. Candelabra on the side tables and the most stunning tiled floor she had ever seen in intricate Arabic patterns of blue, ochre, white and terracotta.
‘Incredible,’ Jack muttered. ‘Completely intact.’
He glanced up, whistled and she followed his gaze to a frescoed ceiling where cherubs danced among the clouds.
The past was all around her, and the spirits of the past too. She heard whispering and the ringing of a ghostly bell. She pictured the people who’d lived there, and they didn’t seem gone. Not gone at all. Had they just slipped out for a minute? Maybe headed off to the beach with a picnic, returning at any moment to wonder what these travellers from another age were doing in their home? She could hear the whoosh of the distant sea and felt an uncomfortable shiver. There was something menacing in the air, and she felt the spirits here were not the happy kind.
The housekeeper smiled grimly and spoke to Jack.
‘What?’ Florence asked.
‘She says her name is Claudia and we are to follow her to our rooms.’
They passed a few rooms where open doors revealed furniture covered in dust sheets and at the end Claudia showed them two rooms, one on either side of the corridor. He glanced in both then tilted his head at her.
‘Choice is yours, Florence.’
The rooms were identical save for the fact that one looked out at the mountain, which seemed incredibly close, and the other faced the sea. She dithered, drawn by the mountain and yet it was … intimidating? Ominous even? Still, despite that, she pointed to the mountain side.
‘You’re sure? You wouldn’t rather have the sea? It’s lighter.’
She looked and shook her head. ‘I’m sure.’
Claudia spoke to him again and he translated for Florence. ‘She says she will take care of all the meals, and she has a letter for me.’
‘Really? How come?’
He shrugged. ‘Search me. She’s gone to fetch it now.’
The woman had left the room while Jack was talking and returned now with a white envelope with his name scrawled on it. He put down their bags, tore it open and read.
‘Who is it from?’ Florence asked, curious.
‘Edward, the one who owns this place. He’s already in Sicily.’
‘Coming here?’
‘No, I’m to go to him at his place in Donnafugata apparently, take my report with me.’
‘Has he asked you to take charge of restoration?’
‘No. He only wants an honest view of its condition before he goes any further.’
‘How long before we can go to Malta?’
‘It’ll take a while to survey this place properly and then to see him about it.’
Florence fingered the silver charm bracelet she wore round her wrist and remembered her mother’s strangely bright eyes as she’d given it to her. She had seen how thin Claudette had been then, had felt it when she’d hugged her, but when she’d asked, her mother had grown impatient. ‘I’m absolutely fine,’ she’d said.
She had hoped Claudette would visit her in Devon before they left for Sicily, and in fact a visit had been planned, but when the time came, her mother had written to say she had a touch of flu, nothing serious, and couldn’t make the trip. She thought of Rosalie and of her mother. How must it feel not to have seen each other for twenty years? It was unimaginable not to see your sister for so long and she wished she could tell Claudette how close she was to Malta now.
CHAPTER 34
