something he could do even on a pitch-black night, turning off to other paths until at last he came to the small natural clearing, once his childhood retreat. On the spot where he had built a camp, with blankets, books, a lantern and teddy bear to escape the reality of his father’s harshness, Lucinda and her beloved Polly were now buried. He had made it a beautiful grave for a beautiful girl, his child-bride.
Dipping down and sitting with his back against a beech tree, Jack gazed damp-eyed at the grey-stone grave, closed in by green-painted picket fencing. The only words on the headstone were ‘Lucinda and Polly’. It was all Jack had felt was needed. He never brought flowers. Flowers withered and died and Lucinda had hated dead things. ‘How are you, dear girl? Have you been happily playing with Polly? The angels are looking after you. They must love you so much. You’re so like an angel yourself. They must understand why you did all you did. You know I do. I only wish . . . but that doesn’t matter now.’
His mind slipped back to when he had first come across Lucinda, on an early morning in a quiet piazza in Florence. She had stood out for many reasons, the most compelling her rare and innocent young beauty. Dressed in old-fashioned ankle-length white lace with a pink sash, a bonnet and dainty slippers, she had been clutching a tiny white poodle and had looked lost and frightened. Jack had been gripped by an immense desire to help and protect this ethereal stranger.
He had lifted off his hat and addressed her carefully. ‘Good morning, miss, may I be of assistance to you?’
‘You are English,’ she had chimed in relief. ‘I am also, from Hertfordshire. I was brought here years ago by my guardian, after my parents were killed in a train crash. I’m looking for a respectable hotel to stay in. Do you know of one?’
‘Well, I’m staying at the Hotel Alessandra. I can recommend it. The rooms and service are excellent. My name is Jack Newton, by the way. I’m pleased to meet you.’
She had given him a sweet curtsy and Jack’s fascination with her had grown. ‘I’m Miss Lucinda Aster, and this Polly. Is the hotel far from here, Mr Newton? I feel apprehensive out here in the streets. I’ve walked a long way and I’m rather tired. I would so love a nap.’
A nap? It was obvious Miss Lucinda Aster had been kept as a little girl, and just as evident now Jack had taken a closer look at her were the holes in her slippers and the dust on the hem of her dress. She truly did look overcome with weariness and discomfort. ‘It’s just a couple of streets away, actually. I’m here sightseeing.’ Street sweepers and early risers were staring curiously at Lucinda and Jack felt she was vulnerable and therefore at risk of meeting misfortune, even danger. She needed a protector. ‘Would you like to take my arm, Miss Aster?’
Her careworn frown disappeared and she nodded. Jack had realized how shy she was and what an effort it had been for her to reply to him. She trusted him, and he felt his heart wrapping around her. He could be a charlatan, a terrible threat to her, yet in her limited experience, because there was no doubt she was totally unworldly, she trusted him. Many emotions had hit Jack, and he wanted to be this girl’s shield and minder at all costs. His father had habitually jeered that he would never amount to much, yet something in his character had told this innocent he could be thoroughly trusted and counted upon.
‘I’m so glad I got you away from your misery, Lucinda,’ Jack whispered through the damp night. ‘And that you found peace and a delight in life for so many months, until things overwhelmed you and you took the only way out you felt you could. You’re always on my mind. I just wish I could have done more to save you. Rest in peace, my angel.’
Nineteen
Ladybirds in top hats, butterflies with long tapering tails, a mole in neck ruffles, rabbits dressed as clowns, flowers with smiling faces and multicoloured petals, a faraway castle flying an impossibly long shimmering flag. These were just some of the fairy-tale depictions Finn had added to the copy of Dorrie’s rabbit nursery rhyme.
‘I can’t admire it enough, Mrs R, your wonderfully cute poem and Finn’s brilliantly clever