Lucy Gordon: A Proposal From The Italian Count

This wasn’t what she’d expected to hear.

‘What on earth are you saying?’ she demanded. ‘You can’t mean that he didn’t tell Daddy he’d won? That would be dishonest, and surely—’

‘It was the only dishonest thing he ever did, and it tormented him. He told me about it just before he died.’

‘Is this—this what you’ve been trying to say?’ she stammered.

‘Yes, it took me this long to pluck up the courage to tell you that my family has damaged yours. I’m sure you’ll find it hard to forgive. Right at this minute you probably hate me.’

That was closer to the truth than he could possibly know. As her dreams collapsed, leaving her in the middle of a desert, she felt a terrifying rage begin to take her over.

‘There’s something else I have to tell you,’ Vittorio said. ‘I’m not sure how it will make you feel.’

‘Try me,’ she whispered, with a faint flicker of renewed hope.

‘Papà made me promise to find your father and sort things out.’

‘Sort things out? What do you mean by that?’

‘I planned to give him the money Papà took from him. A million pounds. I hoped it would make everything all right.’

She stared at him, barely able to believe what she was hearing.

‘You hoped what?’ she said furiously. ‘You really hoped things could be made “all right” after so many years? After Daddy suffered so much from poverty and it made his wife abandon him? After the way he died in despair? You can’t give him your money now.’

‘But I can give it to you.’

‘You think that will make his suffering all right?’

‘I didn’t mean it that way,’ Vittorio said tensely.

‘Oh, yes, you did. You think money can solve everything—but when a man’s dead it can’t solve anything at all. You don’t understand that, do you? Hand over a cheque and everything’s settled! Maybe that’s true in business, but not in real life. But you don’t know anything about real life.’

‘Jackie, please—let me explain. I only want to—’

‘You only want to make yourself feel good.’

‘I don’t think money solves everything, but I’d like to pay the debt my family owes.

‘This is a con. Do you really expect me to believe that you can hand over a million pounds, just like that?’

‘You think I don’t have that much? You’re wrong. My father didn’t waste the million he gained.’

‘You mean the million he stole,’ she raged.

‘Very well—he stole it. But he wanted to pay it back. He invested it successfully, so that it made several more millions. I can give you back every penny—plus a few thousand for interest.’

‘Oh, you think it’s so easy, don’t you? I wouldn’t take money from you if I was starving. This conversation is at an end.’ She stood up. ‘And don’t you dare follow me.’

He’d reached out a hand to stop her, but something fierce in her manner made him draw back.

‘Please—’ he began.

‘No. Don’t you understand? No!’

She fled, fearful lest her true feelings become too plain. Instead of the loving emotion she’d hoped for he’d offered her money. If she’d stayed a moment longer she was afraid she might have done something violent.

Her departure left Vittorio in a state of total confusion and misery. Nothing had worked out as he’d intended. He’d failed to fulfil his father’s dying wish. Guilt tore at him.

He paid his bill and went out into the street, walking back in the direction of the shop. There was no sign of her.

There was nothing to do but return to the hotel and do some serious thinking about what he was going to do next.

But he found that serious thinking was very little help in a situation he didn’t understand.

* * *

The rest of Jackie’s day and night was tormented. The incredible events of the morning whirled through her brain, and at the end of the day—even though she was exhausted and wrung out when she finally got to bed—she couldn’t sleep. Instead she sat up in bed and opened the laptop she always kept with her.

She did a search on ‘Count Martelli’. She was half ready to learn that he didn’t exist, that the whole thing had been a con, and for a moment it seemed that her suspicions were correct. The picture that appeared on the screen was of a man in his sixties.

He’s lying, she thought furiously. That’s the real Count.

But then she saw the text.

Count Franco Martelli, taken just before his death four weeks ago. His heir is his son, Vittorio Martelli, latest in a line stretching back five hundred years.

She clicked the link marked ‘Count Vittorio Martelli’ and and at once saw a photograph of the man she recognised. There was no doubt.

Her temper surged once more at the memory of Vittorio trying to pay her off to assuage his family’s guilt. But had she been too hasty? Had she let her temper get the better of her once again?

Vivid in her mind was the memory of her father’s suffering. He’d tried to put on a brave face for her sake, but he hadn’t always been able to manage it. Often she had found him in tears. He’d smiled and reassured her, but over time she had come to understand the problems. Her heart had broken for him. She had become his comforter, intent on giving him some kind of happiness.

But the last year of her father’s life had been the saddest she had ever known. She still wept when she remembered his suffering.

Vittorio thought money was the answer to everything!

And yet she knew there was another reason for her rage. When she remembered how her hopes of winning Vittorio’s feelings had risen, and then been smashed to the ground, she felt capable of murder.

He had just been playing a game until he had what suited him. He hadn’t spared a thought as to what it was doing to her.

So accept the money, said a voice in her head. He offered you a million—more than a million with interest.

Because he thought it would put right what his father had done. If he wasn’t such a heartless monster he’d know that nothing could ever make it right.

What would her father have done? If he were still alive it would be so different. Then of course they would have accepted the money. It would have been his due. But now he was gone would it be right for her to accept it on his behalf?

She closed the laptop and went back to bed. At last she managed to nod off, sinking into a deep and dreamless sleep.

* * *

Vittorio’s night had also been troubled. He’d fallen asleep easily, but found his dreams haunted by Jackie’s contempt until they were practically nightmares that woke him in a cold sweat.

He rose out of bed. He had no desire to go back to sleep lest the alarming female return to torment him. Day was breaking and he felt the need of a fresh air. Dressing hastily, he went downstairs and out into the street.

His thoughts were full of the promise he’d made to his beloved father. Come what might he had to make this right—for everyone’s sake.

Almost at once the shop came in sight. It was time for it to be open, so he went closer and looked through the glass door, but he could see no sign of anyone. Moving quietly, he opened the door and slipped inside. At once he heard the sound of voices coming from deep within. One was Jackie’s, and the other he recognised as the weasely boss who had appeared during his first visit. His voice was raised in annoyance.

‘Jackie, you’re mad. You should have got all you could out of the Count and then invested in this place. I could do with some money to cover the debts. You could have helped me out and you just turned it down? How could you be so stupid?’

She replied in a voice filled with rage that reminded Vittorio of the way she’d spoken to him with equal fury during last night.