Heavy-hearted, Ferne wandered out into the gardens, heading for the trees where she’d seen them go. She could understand the way Dante flinched from being reduced to this, being pitied by everyone. If only there was some way to convince him that her love was different. Inside her heart, hope was dying.
She heard them before she saw them. From somewhere beyond the trees came the sound of weeping. Following it, she came across the two men sitting on a fallen log. Dante had his arms around his uncle, who was sobbing against his shoulder.
He looked up as she approached. He said nothing, but his eyes met hers in a silent message:
‘Stop crying,’ he said gently. ‘I want you to meet a friend of mine. You can’t cry when a lady is here-she’ll think you don’t like her.’
The gentle rallying in his voice had its effect. Leo blew his nose and tried to brighten up.
‘No, no, my friend is English,’ Dante said. ‘We must speak English to her. She doesn’t understand foreign languages as we do.’ He emphasised ‘we’ very slightly, clearly trying to create a sense of closeness that would comfort Leo. ‘Her name is Ferne Edmunds.’
Leo pulled himself together. ‘Good evening, Miss Edmunds.’
‘Please, call me Ferne,’ she said. ‘I’m so glad to meet you.’ Floundering for something to say, she looked around at the trees. ‘This is a lovely place.’
‘Yes, I’ve always liked it. Of course,’ Leo added earnestly, ‘it’s a lot of work to keep it in good condition. But it’s been in my family for such a long time, I feel I must-I must-’ He broke off, looking around in bewilderment.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Dante said, taking his hand and speaking quietly. ‘It’s all being taken care of.’
‘I so much wanted everything to be right when he came,’ Leo said sadly. ‘But he isn’t coming, is he?’
‘Leo, it’s me,’ Dante said urgently. ‘Look at me. Don’t you recognise me?’
For a long moment Leo gazed into Dante’s face, his expression a mixture of eagerness and sadness. Ferne found herself holding her breath for both of them.
‘Do I know you?’ Leo asked sadly after a while. ‘Sometimes I think-but he never comes to see me. I wish he would. He said once that he was the only person who really understood me, and he’d always be my best friend. But he doesn’t visit me, and I’m so sad.’
‘But I do visit you,’ Dante said. ‘Don’t you remember me?’
‘Oh no,’ Leo sighed. ‘I’ve never seen you before. Do you know Dante?’
At first she thought Dante wouldn’t answer. His head was bowed as though some terrible struggle was taking place within him, consuming all his strength. At last he managed to say, ‘Yes, I know him.’
‘Please, please ask him to come to see me. I miss him so much.’
Dante’s face was full of tragedy, and Ferne’s heart ached for him. He’d been right; the reality was more terrible than anything she could have imagined.
‘Let’s go back inside,’ he said, helping Leo to his feet.
In silence they made their way back across the lawn. Leo had recovered his spirits, as if the last few minutes had never been, and was chatting happily about the grand estate he believed was his.
The nurse came out onto the step, smiling kindly at Leo, welcoming him inside.
‘We’ve got your favourite cakes,’ she said.
‘Oh, thank you. I’ve been trying to explain to my friend here about Dante. Look, let me show you his picture.’
From a chest of drawers behind the bed Leo took a photo album and opened it at a page containing one picture. It was Dante, taken recently. He was sitting with Leo, both of them smiling and seeming content with each other. Leo looked at it with pride.
‘That was taken-Well, you can see that he’s nothing like…’ He looked at Dante sorrowfully.
Ferne felt her throat constrict and knew that in another moment she would be weeping. The picture was clearly Dante, and the fact that Leo didn’t recognise him told a terrible story about his mental state.
‘You see what a nice boy he is,’ Leo said, running his fingers over the face on the page. ‘He was always my favourite. Look.’
He began turning the pages, revealing earlier pictures. Ferne gasped as she saw Leo as a young man before his tragedy, sitting with a little boy on his knee. Even at this distance of years she could recognise Dante in the child. His face was the one she knew, bright and vivid with intelligence, gleaming with humour.
But the greatest tragedy of all was the fact that the man’s face was exactly the same. Their features were different, but their expressions were identical. In his day, Leo had been the man Dante was now, dazzling, charmingly wicked, capable of anything.
And he had come to this.
Turning the pages, Leo revealed more pictures, including one of a beautiful young woman.
‘That was my wife,’ he said softly. ‘She died.’
But Dante shook his head, mouthing, ‘Left him.’
There was the child Dante again, with a man and a woman.
‘My sister Anna,’ Leo said proudly. ‘And her husband, Taddeo Rinucci. They died in a car accident years ago.’
He switched back to the modern picture of Dante and showed it to the real man.
‘You see? If you could remember what he looks like, and then-?’ Tears began to roll down his face.
Ferne’s heart broke for Dante, sitting there regarding this tragedy with calm eyes. When he spoke to Leo, it was with tender kindness, asking nothing, giving everything.
‘I’ll remember,’ he said. ‘Trust me for that. And I’ll try to find some way of making things nicer for you. You know you can rely on me.’
‘Oh yes,’ Leo said brightly. ‘You’re always so good to me-who are you?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Dante said with an effort. ‘As long as we’re friends, names don’t matter.’
Leo beamed.
‘Oh, thank you, thank you. I want-I want-’
Suddenly he was breathing wildly and shuddering. His arms began to flail, and it took all Dante’s strength to hold him in his chair.
‘You’d better go,’ the nurse said tersely. ‘We know what to do when he’s like this.’
‘I’ll call later,’ Dante said.
‘By all means, but please go now.’
Reluctantly they did so.
‘What happened to him?’ Ferne asked as they left.
‘He had an epileptic seizure,’ Dante said bluntly. ‘That’s another thing that happens with his condition. He’ll lose consciousness, and when he awakens he won’t remember anything, even our visit. Once this happened and I insisted on staying, but my presence only distressed him. Possibly it’s my fault he had the seizure, because seeing me agitated him.’
‘That poor man,’ she said fervently.
‘Yes, he is. And, now you know, let’s go to the airport. You’ve seen all you need to.’
She agreed without argument, sensing that Dante was at the end of his tether.
They spoke little on the short flight back to Naples. Ferne felt as though she never wanted to speak another word again. Her mind seemed to be filled with darkness, and she could see only more darkness ahead. Perhaps things would be better when they got home and could talk about it. She tried hard to believe that.
But, when they reached home, he stopped at the front door.
‘I’m going for a walk,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back later.’
She knew better than to suggest coming with him. He wanted to get away from her; that was the truth.
And perhaps, she thought as she opened the front door, she too needed to be away from him for a while. That was the point they had reached.
The apartment was frighteningly quiet. She’d been alone there before, but the silence hadn’t had this menacing quality because Dante’s laughing spirit had always seemed to be with her, even when he was away. But now the laughter was dead, perhaps for ever, replaced by the hostility of a man who felt he’d found betrayal where he’d thought to find only trust.
