The Mermaid Garden Read online

  Also by Santa Montefiore

  The Perfect Happiness

  The French Gardener

  Sea of Lost Love

  The Gypsy Madonna

  Last Voyage of the Valentina

  Touchstone

  A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2011 by Santa Montefiore

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Touchstone Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

  First Touchstone hardcover edition May 2011

  TOUCHSTONE and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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  Designed by Renata Di Biase

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Montefiore, Santa.

  The mermaid garden / Santa Montefiore.

  p. cm.

  “A Touchstone book.”

  I. Title.

  PR6113.O544M47 2011

  823′.92—dc22 2011003037

  ISBN 978-1-4516-2430-4

  ISBN 978-1-4516-2431-1 (ebook)

  To my darling Sebag, with love

  Acknowledgments

  I couldn’t have written this book without the help of two very special people. Firstly, my husband, Sebag. I knew my story, but I couldn’t work out how to fit all the pieces of my plot together. Sebag paced up and down the kitchen floor of our cottage while I hugged a mug of tea and wrote notes. We tossed about ideas as the day melted into evening … and then the plot began to take shape. Finally, as the moon settled high in the sky and the owls began to hoot, we put it to bed—exhausted! However, there was one problem—good though we thought it was, we couldn’t work out how to pull off the central twist.

  For such a technical problem I needed an expert. I called upon the experience of my old university friend, Charlie Carr—an investigator. Thank you, Charlie, for slicing through the Gordian knot—it seems so simple in retrospect, but all the best plots do! I couldn’t have done it without you.

  And thank you, Sebag, for once again being my Sherlock Holmes.

  A large part of this story takes place in Tuscany. I lived in Italy in my early twenties, but that doesn’t prevent me from making terrible errors. So, I sought the help of my trusty Italian friends. I thank them all: Eduardo Teodorani Fabbri, Stefano Bonfiglio, and Sofia Barattieri di san Pietro.

  When I was considering where to set my story, I went to stay with Olga Polizzi at her enchanting country house hotel, Endsleigh. There is something magical about Endsleigh. Snuggled deep in the Devon countryside, it is built above a winding river and sheltered by ancient trees. Olga has flair and warmth so Endsleigh feels more like a home than a hotel—and I felt right at home there! It was autumn. Giant log fires filled the rooms with the cozy smell of woodsmoke and clusters of tea lights in purple glass tumblers glowed on every surface. The atmosphere was soft and embracing, and I didn’t want to leave.

  So, I have based my hotel, the Polzanze, on Endsleigh, and hope that I have channeled some of its spirit. I thank Olga for inspiring me because with two small children it’s hard for me to travel, so inspiration is in short supply—I have to rely on memories. But there is nothing as invigorating as discovering new and wonderful places.

  Everything I write comes out of the great big cauldron that contains all my life’s experiences. If it is rich, it is thanks to my parents, Charles and Patty Palmer-Tomkinson. I couldn’t have written a single word without their wisdom, guidance, and love.

  I want to give special thanks to my agent, Sheila Crowley. Tireless in her support and always positive, she’s a valuable ally and a good friend. The team at Curtis Brown are buzzing with energy and enthusiasm, and I thank them all for the work they do on my behalf.

  I am fortunate enough to be published by Simon & Schuster on both sides of the Atlantic. I have two dynamic editors, Suzanne Baboneau in the U.K. and Trish Todd in the United States. Both steer me in the right direction and bring out the best that I can give. I’m so grateful for their belief in my writing and their astute and sensitive editing.

  I would also like to thank Libby Yevtushenko for working so hard on the manuscript and improving it with intelligence and tact.

  The

  MERMAID

  GARDEN

  Prologue

  Tuscany, 1966

  The little girl stood outside the imposing black gates of Villa La Magdalena and peered up the drive. A long avenue of cypresses cut straight through the grounds, climaxing at the end in a tantalizing glimpse of a primrose-yellow palazzo. La Magdalena sat with the dignity and poise of a grand empress. Her tall, shuttered windows were an elegant teal green, her crown a decorative balustrade built along the top of the facade, her walls as resplendent as silk; she belonged to a world as enchanting and inaccessible as fairy tales.

  The bright Tuscan sun threw inky shadows across the drive, and the little girl could smell the sweet scents of the garden that rose in the midday heat and saturated the air. She stood in her sandals and grubby sundress, her long brown hair matted with dust and seawater, hanging down her back and over eyes that were dark and troubled and full of craving. Around her neck she wore a Virgin Mary pendant her mother had given her before running off with a man she had met over the tomato stall in Piazza Laconda, taking her younger brother with them.

  The little girl came to La Magdalena often. She liked to climb the wall where a part of it had crumbled, leaving it low enough for her to scale. She’d sit on the top and survey the beautiful gardens of stone fountains, graceful umbrella pines, and marble statues of elegant ladies and seminaked men twisted into theatrical poses of love and longing. She liked to imagine that she lived there surrounded by such heavenly splendor—a young lady with expensive dresses and sparkly shoes, cherished by a mother who threaded her hair with ribbons, and a father who indulged her with presents and tossed her into the air before catching her in his strong, protective arms; she came to La Magdalena to forget her own drunken father and the little apartment on Via Roma that she struggled to keep clean.

  Her small hands gripped the bars and she squeezed her face between them to get a better look at the boy who was now walking towards her, accompanied by a mongrel dog. She knew he was going to tell her to go away, so she wanted to get a good look first, before running back down the path that snaked its way to the beach.

  The boy was handsome, much older than she, with fair hair brushed off his forehead and a kind face. He appraised her with pale, smiling eyes, and on closer inspection she could see that they were green. She stood her ground, daring herself to remain until the very last moment. Her fingers curled around the bars and she clenched her jaw in determination, but his grin disarmed her; it didn’t look like the expression of a person about to shoo her away. He put his hands in his pockets and examined her through the gate.

  “Hello there.”

  She said nothing. Her head told her to flee, but her legs wouldn’t listen. She remained staring at him, unable to tear her eyes away.

  “Do you wa
nt to come in?” His invitation caught her off guard, and she straightened up suspiciously. “You’re obviously curious.”

  “I was just passing,” she replied.

  “So you can speak.”

  “Of course I can speak.”

  “I wasn’t sure at first. You looked so frightened.”

  “I’m not frightened of you, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Good.”

  “I was just on my way somewhere.”

  “That’s funny, we’re rather isolated here.”

  “I know that. I was on the beach.” Which was true, at least.

  “So you just wandered up to have a look?”

  “It’s so pretty. It caught my attention.” Her face brightened as she mentioned the villa, and her eyes strayed longingly up the drive.

  “Then come in and I’ll show you around the gardens. My family isn’t here so I’m alone. It’ll be nice to have someone to talk to.”

  “I don’t know …” Her eyes darkened again, but he opened the gate.

  “Don’t be afraid. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “I’m not afraid,” she retorted. “I can look after myself, you know.”

  “I’m sure you can.”

  She stepped in, and he closed the gate behind her. She watched him lock it, and her heart lurched a moment with anxiety; but then her gaze was drawn back to the villa, and she forgot her fear. “Do you live here?”

  “Not all the time. I live in Milan mostly, but we summer here every year.”

  “Then I will have seen you.”

  “Really?”

  Her excitement at being in the grounds gave her courage. “Yes, I spy from the wall.”

  “You little devil.”

  “I like to look at the gardens. The people don’t interest me so much.”

  “Then I’ll give you a better look so you won’t have to spy anymore.”

  She walked beside him, her heart now swelling with pleasure. “Is all this really yours?”

  “Well, my father’s.”

  “If this is your summer house, your house in Milan must be built for a king.”

  He laughed, tossing back his head. “It’s big, but not big enough for a king. This is bigger. There’s more space in the countryside.”

  “It’s old, isn’t it?”

  “Fifteenth century. It was built by the Medici family, designed by Leon Battista Alberti in 1452. Do you know who he was?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Ten and ten months. My birthday’s in August. I suppose I’ll have a big party.”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  She looked down at her feet. She had never had a party. Now her mother had gone, no one would even remember her birthday. “What’s your dog called?”

  “Good-Night.”

  “That’s a funny name.”

  “He was a stray I found on the road in the middle of the night. We bonded immediately, so I called him Good-Night, because it was a good night, finding him.”

  She bent down to stroke him. “What is he?”

  “I don’t know. A mixture of lots of different breeds.”

  “He’s sweet.” She giggled as the dog licked her face. “Whoa, steady there, doggie!”

  “He likes you.”

  “I know. Stray animals always like me.”

  Because you look like a stray yourself, he thought, watching her wrap her arms around Good-Night’s neck and rest her head against his fur.

  “I’ve made a friend,” she said with a triumphant smile.

  He laughed at her exuberance. “No, you’ve made two. Come on.”

  They walked the full length of the drive side by side, her confidence growing with each step. He explained the architecture, showing off his knowledge, and she listened, enraptured by every detail, trying to remember in order to later tell her friend, Costanza. The villa was even bigger than she had thought. She had seen only the central part between the trees at the end of the avenue. It had two other wings not quite as tall as the bit in the middle but just as wide. Classically proportioned and unfussy, it had an understated grandeur, the yellow paint giving it a happy, complacent look, as if it knew it didn’t have to try at being beautiful. She longed to go inside, to walk through the rooms and gaze at the paintings that hung on the walls. She was sure it was even more wonderful than the outside. But he took her round to the back, where a sweeping stone staircase descended from the villa into a formal garden of statues, terra-cotta pots of topiary, and lofty pines. It was as though she had died and now walked through paradise, for surely only Heaven could be as beautiful as this?

  He directed her through a small gate in the wall, into a pretty ornamental garden settled within a circular stone colonnade. The centerpiece was a glorious fountain of mermaids throwing water into the air. Around the fountain a path was planted haphazardly with thyme, and pretty iron benches were set on all four sides against low hedges that boxed four neatly trimmed lawns and flower beds. She took a while to take it all in, standing there in her sandals, clutching her heart because she had never before seen so much splendor.

  “This is my mother’s garden,” he told her. “She wanted a place where she could read in private without being spied on.” He winked at her and laughed again. “You’d have to be a very accomplished spy to get in here.”

  “I bet your mother’s pretty,” she said, thinking of her own mother and trying to remember what she looked like.

  “She is, I suppose. One doesn’t really think of one’s mother in that way.”

  “Where does she read?”

  “I think she probably sits on one of these benches, by the fountain. I don’t know. I’ve never bothered to notice.” He ambled over, suddenly infected with the little girl’s awe. “It is rather lovely, isn’t it?”

  “Imagine sitting here in the sunshine, listening to the trickling water and watching the birds washing themselves in it.”

  “It’s very peaceful.”

  “I love birds. I bet you have many birds here. Different ones, probably, from those we have in town.”

  He laughed incredulously. “I think you’ll find the same old birds as the ones you have in Herba.”

  “No, you’ll have special ones in here.” She was so certain, he looked around, half expecting to see parrots in the pine trees. “Do you ever sit here?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  He shrugged. “What would I do?”

  “Oh, there’s plenty to look at. I could sit in here for hours—days even. I could sit in here forever and never want to leave.” She carefully lowered herself onto the bench as if it were a sacred thing she was afraid might break. Once sitting, she watched the water and imagined having a garden of her own where she could enjoy the changing light from dawn till dusk. “God is in here,” she said softly, feeling a strange sense of wonder creep over her skin, like the warm breath of an angel.

  He sat beside her and stretched out his legs, putting his hands behind his head. “Do you think?”

  “Oh, I know. I can feel Him.”

  They sat there a long time, listening to the breeze in the cypress trees and the doves contentedly cooing on the roof of the villa. Good-Night sniffed the borders, cocking his leg against the hedge.

  “This is the best day of my life,” she said after a while. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy.”

  He looked at her curiously, a tender smile curling his lips. “What’s your name, piccolina?”

  She looked back at him, her eyes full of gratitude and trust. “Floriana,” she replied. “And you?”

  Somehow, they both knew that exchanging names meant something. He hesitated, staring into her gaze, which was now open and no longer afraid. He held out his hand. Tentatively, she took it. Hers looked small and dark in his big pale one.

  “Dante Alberto Massimo,” he said softly. “But you can call me Dante.”

  1.

  Devon, 2009
<
br />   ARTIST WANTED

  TO SPEND THE SUMMER

  TEACHING RESIDENTS TO PAINT

  AT THE HOTEL POLZANZE, DEVON

  FREE BOARD & LODGING

  TELEPHONE: 07972 859 301

  The Morris Minor rattled down the narrow lane towards the village of Shelton. The hedgerows were high and luxuriant, laced with pretty white cow parsley and forget-me-nots. A spray of sparrows took to the sky, where feathery clouds floated inland on a salty wind. The car moved cautiously, swerving into a lay-by to avoid an oncoming lorry, then continued through the quaint hamlet of whitewashed cottages whose gray-tiled roofs shone like gold in the enthusiastic glare of dawn.

  In the heart of Shelton a gray stone church huddled among a cluster of magnificent plane trees, and below, a sleek black cat trotted lithely along the wall, returning home from a successful night’s hunting. At the end of the village, as the lane turned sharply to the left before descending to the sea, a pair of imposing iron gates opened onto a narrow drive that swept in a graceful curve through banks of rhododendron bushes, already in flower. The car turned in and made its way past fat pink flowers to the gray stone mansion at the end, positioned in splendid seclusion overlooking the sea.

  The Polzanze was a harmoniously proportioned mansion built in 1814 by the Duke of Somerland for his whimsical wife, Alice, whose asthma benefited from the sea air. He demolished the old building, an unsightly pile of bricks dating back to the sixteenth century, and designed the present house with the help of his talented wife, who had strong ideas of what she wanted. The result was a mansion that felt like a large cottage on the inside, with wood-paneled walls, floral wallpapers, log fires, and big lead windows that looked onto the lawn and the ocean beyond.

  The duchess adored her garden and spent her summers cultivating roses, planting exotic trees, and designing an intricate maze of walkways through the lush woodland. She constructed a small garden for her children outside her study, where they could grow vegetables and flowers, and edged it with a miniature aqueduct so that they could float their boats in the water while she wrote her letters. Enamored of Italy, she decorated her terrace with heavy terra-cotta pots of rosemary and lavender, and planted vines in the conservatory, training them to climb the trellises so that the grapes hung from the ceiling in dusty clusters.