use the weather as an excuse.’ He nodded towards the window, where snow was piling up on the windowsills.
‘I had the same thought. I’ve never been so happy to see snow.’ Livia smiled encouragingly at her father.
Standing in the hall, Livia nervously dialled the villa. The telephone line crackled as she tried to explain to her mother that they would not be back for Christmas.
‘It’s snowing very heavily here,’ Livia explained. ‘We’re worried that the roads will be impassable. I’m so sorry, Mamma.’
She could hear her mother weeping on the other end of the phone. Riddled with guilt, she tried to comfort her, but Luisa continued to sob.
‘Perhaps you should speak to Papa,’ Livia said helplessly, handing her father the receiver.
Giacomo spoke to Luisa for some time. Judging by his responses, Luisa wasn’t giving in without a fight. But Giacomo was immovable. Finally, when he put the phone down, he had tears in his eyes.
‘Oh Papa… I’m so sorry.’ Livia wrapped him in her arms. ‘Was she very upset?’
‘We’ve never been apart at Christmas before,’ he explained. ‘In twenty-eight years – can you believe it?’
‘It’s for the best,’ Livia said encouragingly. ‘I know it’s hard, but what else can we do? Besides… she’ll manage. And so will we.’
‘The worst part,’ her father said, blowing his nose on a large white handkerchief, ‘is not being able to tell her the truth. The thought that she must feel we don’t really care… that we’d rather stay here, that’s what upsets me.’ He looked up at his daughter and kissed her. ‘If she only knew…’ he said sadly, as he walked through to the sitting room.
Twenty-One
Rome
December 1943
Throughout the last few days of December, rain fell day and night. The roads ran with water, the gardens became waterlogged, and the park around Villa Borghese became a sea of mud, as the troops marched back and forth to their rain-sodden tents. The day before Christmas Eve, the temperature dropped below freezing, and when Isabella opened the curtains in Vicenzo’s bedroom, the garden was covered in a carpet of virgin white snow. As she came downstairs, the villa was silent except for the ticking of clocks and the faint sounds of the maid in the kitchen. A fire already crackled in the drawing-room grate. Outside the villa, Isabella knew German troops had taken over the streets of Rome, but here, in Vicenzo’s house, she was the mistress of all she surveyed, enveloped in its opulent embrace.
Hearing her come downstairs, the dogs padded through to the sitting room, followed by Constanza. ‘This was delivered for you this morning,’ she said, handing Isabella an envelope. The handwriting was familiar, and Isabella felt a surge of excitement.
‘Thank you, Constanza,’ she said, ‘you may go.’ She tore open the envelope and read the note.
Meet me at the crypt of the Church of Santa Maria della Concezione dei Cappuccini at two o’clock. Burn this. Vicenzo.
Dressed in her best fur coat and thick winter boots, Isabella walked through the park surrounding Villa Borghese. It had stopped snowing and the sun had come out. The arching pines were weighed down with snow, and the neat hedges lining the paths were covered with white. Everything seemed renewed, and the cream stucco paintwork of Villa Borghese glowed against a bright-blue sky.
She left the park and began to walk down Via Veneto. Three German tanks rumbled by, noisily churning the snow into grey slush. As she passed Hotel Flora, a gaggle of German officers stood on the pavement outside the hotel. They looked cheerful, she thought, as if they had just enjoyed a good lunch. They parted as she approached, allowing her to walk between them. She smiled politely, and nodded her head left and right, not wishing to provoke them in any way. One officer tipped his hat at her.
When she arrived at the church, Isabella checked she had not been followed, before climbing the staircase up to the impressive entrance. She stamped her boots to knock off the snow and pushed open the heavy oak door. Uncertain where the entrance to the crypt was, she began to walk slowly down the aisle. Although only a mile or so from her home, she had never visited the church before, and was impressed by the baroque architecture and magnificent painted ceiling.
She noticed an elderly verger arranging candles on a side altar. He glanced up at Isabella, who nodded politely, and crossed herself. Sensing she was being watched, she slipped silently into a pew, where she knelt,