Marguerite Kaye - The Truth Behind Their Practical Marriage

‘And your own mellifluous tones betray the fact that so indeed are you. Aidan Malahide, at your service.’

‘Estelle Brannagh.’

He sketched a bow. ‘It is a pleasure, Mrs Brannagh.’

‘Miss,’ she corrected him, blushing as she curtsied.

‘Miss Brannagh.’

Was she imagining his gratification at her single state? They smiled awkwardly at each other. He shuffled his feet, as if he was about to move on, but he made no move. Was this it then, the beginning and end of their briefest of acquaintances? In England, without anyone to make formal introductions, it would be. But they were not in England.

‘What do you make of the…?’

‘Are you enjoying…?’

‘Please,’ she said, indicating that he should continue.

‘I was merely wondering whether you were enjoying the paintings.’

‘I was—it is—there is so much to take in,’ Estelle floundered, unwilling to lie, but not wishing to be branded a Philistine. ‘It can be a little overwhelming. I was going to ask you the same question.’

‘I’ll be honest. I think the building more interesting than the content. The proportions and the perspective of the architecture—that, I could study all day.’

‘I’m so glad you said that, for it allows me to be honest too. This,’ Estelle said, indicating her favourite view, ‘I think it quite beautiful. As to the paintings—sadly, I find myself quite unable to go into raptures over them, let alone transcribe those raptures into my journal.’

‘As every other visitor to Florence does!’ To her delight and relief, he laughed. ‘There now, I knew from the moment I set eyes on you, taking your coffee in the piazza on Monday, that you were different. Most ladies taking coffee on their own have a book or a journal, but you seemed quite content in your own company. Not,’ he added hastily, ‘that I’ve been spying on you, it’s merely that I noticed you.’

‘It’s my hair.’ Self-consciously she put a hand to the nape of her neck. ‘Redheads are not very common here on the Continent.’

He studied her for a moment, one brow raised. ‘You must know perfectly well that you are a beauty, and an uncommon one at that.’

‘Not so very uncommon at all, actually. I have two sisters, both also redheads and very similar in looks.’

‘Ah now, I’ve put your back up and I didn’t mean to. It’s why I didn’t speak to you, though I wanted to. I reckoned you must be sick of being accosted, and—well, as I said, you’d an air about you, of being perfectly content in your own company. Which I’ll leave you to now.’ He sketched another bow. ‘It was a pleasure, Miss Brannagh.’

It took her until he had turned his back and taken two steps to summon up the courage to call him back. ‘Mr Malahide, don’t go just yet.’ But as he turned, her nerve was already crumbling. ‘You probably prefer to be alone—I noticed that you too seemed very content in your own company, but if you would like—oh, this is too awkward.’

‘It is indeed,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘You know nothing about me, and under normal circumstances, my being very much aware of that fact, I wouldn’t dream of inviting you to take coffee with me.’

‘Or perhaps an ice?’

‘Or indeed, an ice. Would it be presumptive of me to issue such an invitation?’

‘An ice, in a café in full public view,’ Estelle said, ‘hardly an unseemly suggestion. Admiring art is very tiring work. Your invitation isn’t in the least presumptive, Mr Malahide, it is very welcome, and I am happy to accept it.’

They sat in a café in another of Florence’s many piazze . Mr Malahide drank coffee. Estelle ate a gelato flavoured with lemon.

‘What brought you to Florence?’ he asked her.

‘The pedantic answer is a ship. I sailed from Nice to Leghorn.’ She contemplated a spoonful of ice, allowing it to melt on her tongue before continuing. ‘In terms of my thinking, notwithstanding my views on art, all the guide books insist that no trip to the Continent is complete without a visit to Florence—so here I am.’

‘You’re travelling around Europe on your own!’

‘Is that so surprising?’

‘Yes,’ Mr Malahide said frankly. ‘You must be an extremely intrepid young woman, with a remarkably complacent family back in Ireland.’

‘Oh, as to that, my parents died ten years ago, and I’d label them rather more indifferent than complacent. But that is not to say that I’ve no one to worry about my welfare,’ Estelle added hurriedly, castigating herself for her indiscretion, even if it was the truth. ‘My Aunt Kate, who took us girls in when we were orphaned, would do plenty of worrying, were it not for Eloise—that is my eldest sister. She has done a great deal to grease the wheels of my wandering, so to speak, and to ensure that none of them worry needlessly about me either. I have a portfolio of names and addresses, letters of introduction, lists of people in every city I can turn to if I need help of any sort.’

‘Your sister must be extremely well connected.’

‘And practical. Her husband is—was—in a senior position in the government. Thanks to him, I’ve had my currency changed, accommodation recommended, and my papers accepted at every border without question. I promised to ensure that someone on my list knows that I have arrived, and someone knows where I am headed next so that my sister can keep track of me. So, you see, I’m not really very intrepid at all.’

‘I beg to differ. Intrepid, and modest with it,’ he insisted, eyeing her with flattering respect. ‘How long have you been travelling?’

‘I left England back in June. Since then I’ve been to France, Spain, Portugal and now Italy.’

‘Good Lord, that’s quite a tour. Will you be publishing your journals when you return home?’

‘Shall I? Tales of a Single Lady Traveller ,’ Estelle opined, slanting him a mischievous smile. ‘It’s the whole point of travelling, isn’t it, to share one’s experience with the world, to prove that travel is elevating. ’

Mr Malahide eyed her sceptically. ‘I could be wrong, we have only just met, but you don’t strike me as either a diarist or an educationist.’

‘You are sadly right. To be honest, I have not once felt in the least bit elevated by any of the paintings or the tapestries or even the statues in the Uffizi, though I assure you, it is not for want of trying. They say, don’t they, that the more one stares at a painting, the more one appreciates it. Well, I have stood in front of countless Old Masters trying to absorb their greatness. I am beginning to think,’ she concluded sorrowfully, ‘that I am a heathen. Or perhaps my female mind is too feeble for the task.’

She was pleased to note that he was not in the least bit taken in. ‘And I am beginning to think that your female mind, far from being feeble, takes great pleasure in making fun of conventional wisdom. I’d also hazard a guess that what you really like is to observe real people, rather than portraits on a wall. An Englishwoman alone would sit in that café only long enough to finish her coffee,’ Mr Malahide added, seeing her surprise. ‘You take your time, content to simply watch the world go by.’

‘Ah, but that may be because I am simply empty-headed.’

‘I already know that is far from the case.’

‘But indeed, Mr Malahide, my ignorance of culture knows no bounds. My education was—well, let’s say sporadic, at best. My parents, like many others, it seems to me, considered education wasted on girls, and therefore money spent on governesses squandered, so we three sisters had scant experience of either.’