‘But they did not,’ he went on. ‘The child would have died if it had not been for you, Mademoiselle. I owe you an eternal debt of gratitude.’
‘It was nothing,’ she muttered once again, scuffing the ground with her foot. ‘Is he all right now?’
‘Yes, thank God. The doctor’s been, and a specialist. The Duchess was frantic, but they reassured her that all was well. Ricky is sleeping now. The Duchess is naturally still very shaken, but she would very much like to meet you.’
‘Oh, really, she doesn’t have to. I mean. .’ Imogen stammered, terrified at the prospect.
‘Please, Mademoiselle. It will mean so much to her. She wishes to thank you personally. I have my car here. May I drive you up to the house?’
Imogen looked at Matt beseechingly, but he was shaking with laughter.
‘You are a dark horse, darling.’
‘Why didn’t you tell us?’ said Nicky.
‘We probably didn’t ask her,’ said Matt.
Imogen turned to Braganzi. ‘All right, I’d like to come.’
‘Wonderful.’ Braganzi turned and raised a hand. It was the first time Imogen had noticed the tattoos on his thick, muscular arms. Next moment a black car that seemed as long as the beach glided up to them.
A chauffeur got out and opened the door for them. As she climbed inside Imogen felt like Jonah being swallowed by the whale. She wondered if she’d ever see the others again.
‘Where did you learn your first aid?’ asked Braganzi as the car climbed the hill. ‘Are you nurse?’
Imogen told him about working in a library, and someone having to do a first aid course. ‘I grumbled like mad at the time, and I was awfully bored, but I’m very glad I did now.’
‘So indeed are we, Mademoiselle. Can I please tell you something, now we are alone a few minutes? You know perhaps a little about the Duchess and me?’
Imogen nodded.
‘When she leave England to come to me, she had to leave her children too. I am not considered suitable stepfather, you understand. Nor are the children allowed to visit us, although we are fighting court battle. Camilla misses the children, although she doesn’t show it, so all her love has gone into little Ricky. She had him late in life. We both did. He is — how you say it? — an autumn crocus. She is forty-three now. When she had Ricky she nearly died and the doctors later insisted on a hysterectomy; so it’s no more children for either of us. Now you can appreciate how important Ricky is to both of us, and what you have done by saving his life.’
Imogen glanced up and saw that his dark eyes were full of tears, and knew that she was no longer afraid of him.
‘How did you track me down?’
‘I have, how you say, impeccable spy system.’
Imogen was very nervous about meeting the Duchess. But one glance at that lovely ravished face, with its brilliant grey eyes which were still red from crying, and all her fears vanished.
The Duchess walked forward quickly and took both Imogen’s hands, and then kissed her on both cheeks, saying in a choked voice,
‘I can never begin to thank you. I really don’t know how to start.’ But she was so friendly and natural and incredibly grateful that, after a few minutes, armed with a large glass of whisky, Imogen began to feel she really had done something rather good after all. They sat on the terrace, chatting twenty to the dozen together, and breathing in the heavy scent of the tobacco plants and the night-scented stock and later they went up and looked at little Ricky asleep in his cot in his pale blue bedroom, a Basil Brush on the pillow beside him. His cheeks were pinker now, his black hair flopped over his forehead. The Duchess moved round the room on tiptoe, straightening his bedclothes, adjusting the pillow, arranging toys, and checking the heat of his forehead with her hand.
‘He looks much better,’ said Imogen.
‘He does, doesn’t he? The doctor says there’s nothing to worry about, but I have to keep checking.’
As they went downstairs Imogen noticed a Picasso, a Modigliani and a Matisse on the wall. Braganzi was waiting for them.
‘All right, darling?’ he said, taking the Duchess’s hand. He must have been three or four inches smaller than her, but somehow his width of shoulder and force of personality made it seem as though he was protecting some infinitely fragile object.
‘Miss Brocklehurst must be hungry. Shall we eat now?’
‘Yes, of course. How awful of me.’ The Duchess turned, smiling, to Imogen. ‘You will stay, won’t you? We see so few people here, and there are so many things I want to ask you about your holiday and about England.’
‘But you must be far too exhausted after such a terrible shock,’ stammered Imogen, terrified her table manners wouldn’t be ducal enough. But in the end they persuaded her and she found she was absolutely famished. All her worries about her table manners vanished when she saw Braganzi falling on his food like a starved dingo, elbows on the table, taking great swigs of wine with his mouth full, and picking away at his teeth.
They had some kind of fish mousse, then delicious chicken. If the Duchess and Braganzi both picked their bones, Imogen supposed it was all right if she did too.
‘And who did you come out here with?’ asked the Duchess.
‘He’s called Nicky Beresford.’
‘The tennis player? Oh, he’s frightfully glamorous. I’ve admired him at Wimbledon so often.’
‘And he thinks you’re marvellous too,’ said Imogen, her mouth full of fried potatoes.
‘How lovely.’ The Duchess looked pleased. ‘So you’re both having a wonderful holiday?’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Imogen.
‘You don’t sound very enthusiastic,’ said Braganzi. ‘What was Mr Beresford doing leaving you alone on a hot summer afternoon?’
‘He — er he — it’s really very boring,’ faltered Imogen, but she was so longing to tell someone.
‘Go on,’ said the Duchess. ‘Enrico and I have so little excitement.’
And then the whole awful story came pouring out. ‘We came in a party,’ said Imogen, ‘but it was quite obvious even before we left London that Nicky had fallen for one of the other girls.’
‘Did she come with a boyfriend?’
‘Yes. He’s called Matthew O’Connor.’
‘He’s a journalist, isn’t he, a very good one?’ said the Duchess. ‘When I can face the English Sundays I always read him.’
‘He’s terribly nice,’ said Imogen, flushing.
‘Then why don’t you do a swap?’ said the Duchess.
‘He loves Cable, this other girl. He just ignores her and waits for her to come back. Occasionally they have terrible rows, but he realises she’s only doing it, well, to make him keener on her.’
‘How very complicated,’ said the Duchess.
‘O’Connor seemed quite keen on you the other night outside,’ said Braganzi drily.
Imogen went crimson.
‘How do you know?’ she stammered.
‘Enrico knows everything,’ said the Duchess with pride.
Goodness, thought Imogen, darting a startled glance at Braganzi, so he knew Matt and I were casing his house all the time.
They had their coffee on the terrace. The night was black now, sprinkled with huge stars. The fireflies darted above the tobacco plants and the Duchess bombarded Imogen with more questions, about her holiday, about her home in Yorkshire and then about England in general. Imogen suddenly realised it was very late.
‘I must go.’
‘Not yet. Enrico will take you back. Darling, go upstairs and just check if Ricky is all right.’
When he had gone, Imogen turned shyly to the Duchess.
‘What a sweet man he is,’ she said. ‘I never dreamt he’d be so kind.’
The Duchess’s face lit up. ‘You think so? I’m so pleased. People in England find it quite incomprehensible that I threw up everything to run off with him.’
‘I understand it perfectly,’ said Imogen stoutly. She was suddenly aware she was more than a little drunk.
