Marguerite Kaye - The Truth Behind Their Practical Marriage

‘Three sisters?’

‘I have mentioned Eloise. I also have a twin. Phoebe is a chef—chef patron, actually, for she owns her own restaurant in London. Le Pas à Pas, it’s called—have you heard of it?’

‘I’m afraid not. I haven’t had cause to visit London in some time. Is it a popular restaurant?’

‘The most lauded in the whole city,’ Estelle said proudly. ‘It only opened in April, but already she has plans to open another.’

‘I know little of such things—I’m afraid I view food as fuel—but isn’t it quite unusual to have a female chef patron?’

‘Extremely. In fact Phoebe may even be unique.’

‘So the pioneering spirit runs in the family?’

‘If it does, then my sisters have the full quota between them. I’m no pioneer, Mr Malahide, I’m simply a purposeless wanderer, who has taken up far more than her share of the conversation.’

‘Sure,’ he replied in a much-thickened accent, ‘are we Irish not famed for having the gift of the gab?’

‘Nevertheless.’ Estelle pushed her empty dish to one side. ‘That’s quite enough about me. Tell me, what brings you to Florence?’

‘I’ve come to study mathematics. I know,’ he said, holding his hands up and laughing at her bemused expression, ‘a confession guaranteed to stop any conversation in its tracks. I’m also well past student age, but that’s what I’ve been doing none the less, for the better part of the last year. And now I can see you’re revising your opinion of me entirely, from someone you’re happy to while away a convivial hour or so with, to a crusty academic who prefers equations to words.’

‘Or a puzzle you’ve tempted me into solving, more like,’ she retorted. ‘You’re as likely a crusty academic as I am a—a…’

‘Blue-stockinged diarist?’

‘Precisely! Good grief, I hardly know what to make of you now. Do you intend to become a teacher? Or a college fellow—if that is the correct term?’

‘Neither. I study for the sheer pleasure of acquiring knowledge, having granted myself a year’s sabbatical. Though that’s up at the end of August.’

‘And what is it, may I ask, that you took a sabbatical from?’

‘Real life?’ His smile faltered. ‘I turned thirty last August, just before I left Ireland, and it seemed to me that I needed to—to get away for a while. So that’s what I did.’

Get away from what? Estelle wondered, but before she could ask, he pre-empted her. ‘I’m lucky, I’ve an excellent estate manager, but it would be unfair to expect him to hold the fort indefinitely, so I’ll need to return home soon. What about you, is there any end in sight to your sojourn?

There should be. After almost a year, she had a right to expect to have resolved her dilemma, or come up with alternative plans for how she intended to spend the rest of her life. Estelle pushed this increasingly persistent worry to one side. ‘I have nothing in my sights, save luncheon.’

She meant it flippantly, simply as a means of changing the subject, but Mr Malahide checked his watch, looking dismayed. ‘I don’t know where the time has gone. We’ve been sitting here for more than an hour.’

‘Really?’ Estelle exclaimed, ‘I had no idea. I—I’ve enjoyed our conversation, Mr Malahide.’

‘I have too, Miss Brannagh, very much. I’ve talked little but mathematics for nigh on nine months, and barely a word of it in my own language.’

‘You must have an excellent command of Italian.’

‘I studied here when I was younger and picked it up then. Your own linguistic skills must be impressive, given that you’ve managed to negotiate France, Spain and now Italy.’

‘Impressive is not the word I’d have chosen. I learned from textbooks, not from a tutor. I’ve been the unwitting source of hilarity in several inns and restaurants. Eggs, I have found, are one of the trickiest words to pronounce in any tongue. In France I ordered oafs , in Spain hoovos , and here in Italy, oova .’

He laughed. ‘Then what talent do you possess, for I refuse to believe as impressive a young woman as yourself is not blessed with some gift?’

‘I am fond of music,’ Estelle said, rolling her eyes inwardly at this understatement. ‘I have a good ear and a facility for playing almost any instrument.’

‘Now I am truly impressed, for though I enjoy music very much, I’m tone deaf and have a singing voice reminiscent of a distressed Wicklow lamb. Did you know there is a strong connection between music and mathematics?’

‘I did not.’

‘Shall I bore you with it over lunch? That is, if I’ve not intruded too much on your time already?’

Estelle had received many invitations to dine. Having naively accepted several in the early days of her travels, she had quickly realised that an invitation issued by a single man to a single woman tended to imply a hunger for something other than food, rather than a genuine desire to get to know someone. Thus, it was her policy to refuse all but those issued by names on Eloise’s list. It was perfectly acceptable for a woman to eat alone, she had discovered, and she had enjoyed doing so. Which made it all the more curious that she accepted this invitation with alacrity.

‘That’s not an offer a person hears every day,’ she said, pushing back her chair. ‘I’d be delighted to join you for lunch.’

Resisting the urge to take her to one of Florence’s more prestigious ristorante , Aidan decided to risk sharing his favourite humble osteria. ‘The food is simple,’ he said, ‘but it’s much more typical of the region. The kind of dishes that would be served at home, the receipts handed down from mother to daughter.’

‘I thought you viewed food as fuel, Mr Malahide?’

He shrugged sheepishly. ‘I’m Irish, a bit of blarney comes naturally. The truth is, I like food well enough, provided it’s honest and authentic.’

‘That is precisely the kind of food my sister Phoebe loves,’ Miss Brannagh replied, to his surprise, ‘despite the fact that she trained in Paris, in the kitchen of the great Pascal Solignac’s restaurant, La Grande Taverne de Londres.’

‘Judging by the somewhat contemptuous tone in your voice, you are not a fan.’

They were walking along the banks of the Arno, the more scenic if less direct route to the osteria , and Miss Brannagh stopped to gaze up river to the view of the Ponte Vecchio. ‘I am not a fan of Monsieur Solignac the chef or the man,’ she said, her mouth curled into a sneer. ‘More importantly, I am very pleased to say, neither is Phoebe, nowadays. Excellent ingredients, traditional receipts, that is what she serves at Le Pas à Pas . The kind of food that people enjoy eating, not the kind that is served up to be admired.’

‘Is that what Monsieur Solignac does?’

‘I’ve never eaten his food, nor ever will. That man is a—’ Miss Brannagh caught herself short, biting her lip. ‘He treated my sister abominably,’ she finished, her eyes sparking fire, ‘but Phoebe—Phoebe has risen like a phoenix from the ashes. To see her presiding over her stove, in her own restaurant as I did just before I set out on my travels, made me immensely proud of her.’ She blinked, turning her gaze back to the river. ‘Excuse me.’

‘Don’t apologise. You clearly love your sister very dearly.’

‘I love both my sisters very much, we are very close, though of late, seeing them both blossom in their own ways, it’s made me wonder if we’ve been too close.’

‘Is that why you decided to travel the world, to escape them?’

Miss Brannagh laughed. ‘I’m not running from something or someone, I’m looking for something. Inspiration, you could call it. Both of my sisters are happily settled in their different ways. I envy them that—you know, the certainty they have, that they are making something of their lives. I’d like to do the same, but what I want I don’t seem to be able to find, and so far, I’ve not been able to think of an alternative.’