A Voice in the Dark

by Claire Lorrimer

Genres: Women's Fiction; Romance; Thrillers

Synopsis

Laura Howard, a young English nurse on holiday in Italy, helps the Contessa dell?Alba return to her home after an illness. Laura is befriended by the family and feels herself drawn to Domenico, the Contessa?s blind son. To her horror, she suddenly realises that his life is in danger. Enmeshed in a web of intrigue and confusion and unable to find the source of the threats, Laura despairs of her inability to convince the family that they are in mortal danger. Finally aware of her love for Domenico, she tries desperately to uncover the mystery but she soon finds out that her own life is in danger too?

Release date: January 30, 2014

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 400

Sample

My first glimpse of the Villa dell’Alba was from the end of a long, straight drive, flanked on either side with tall dark green cypresses pointing up to a post-card blue Italian sky. The great house we were approaching was three storied; balconied; stone-carved; like a palace, or a Stately Home.

In front of the house lay a round green lawn, in the centre of which stood a fountain. Water, diamond-bright, splashed into a huge basin and cascaded down the flanks of a bronze horse – a mythical creature with wings, its two front hooves raised as though in recognition of its own power.

The winged horse was the dell’Alba crest and linked to it was the family motto TERRAM SPERNO, SIDERA PETO. I scorn the earth, I seek the stars!

But I was unaware of this as I was driven towards the house that was to change my whole life; to change me too, so that nothing would ever be the same for me again. I had no inkling of this, no presentiment, no instinctive forewarning of what lay ahead. As far as I was aware, I was unlikely even to enter the big house outside which we had now stopped.

Beside me in the back of the luxurious saloon car, an elderly Italian lady was seated. I had met her quite accidentally when I was in Calmano’s Antique shop in Florence, hoping to find an inexpensive present for my sister. Betty had not been lucky enough to come on the two-week all-in coach tour of Italy with me. She had had to remain at home to look after Father who was partially paralysed and spent his days in a wheelchair.

Just as I was about to purchase a butterfly brooch for my sister the old lady had come into Calmano’s. The antique dealer made such a fuss of her I realised at once she was someone of importance. Then suddenly she swayed and fainted. Being a trained nurse, I naturally offered my assistance. That was when old Calmano told me that she was the Signora Contessa dell’Alba. The name meant nothing to me, of course, but the shopkeeper’s concern for her was considerable. She soon recovered consciousness but I thought it best to offer to accompany her home when she confessed, in impeccable English, that she still felt a little dizzy and that the Villa dell’Alba was several kilometers out of Florence.

At first, the old lady refused to accept my help. She was a tiny, frail looking woman but her fierce pride would not readily permit her to accept help from a stranger – a young rather untidy looking English girl and a tourist at that. I was in no doubt about her poor opinion of me. Not that it bothered me very much just then, but in spite of myself I was curious about her. She was dressed completely in black, with a tiny square of black lace covering her piled up snow-white hair. Her face was olive brown, scored with wrinkles and she had deep-set, heavily lidded eyes, black, penetrating and sad. I think it was the look of intense suffering on her face which deepened my curiosity.

The Contessa had barely spoken a word to me during the drive out from Florence but now, as the chauffeur came round to the side of the car to open the door for her, she suddenly smiled at me.

“You must permit me to offer you some refreshment before you return to Florence. It is very hot and you must be thirsty, child!”

I was twenty-four and a fully qualified Staff Nurse. The word “child” seemed inappropriate until I reminded myself of her great age. She must be over eighty, I thought as I accepted her invitation.

I was deeply impressed by my first sight of the house and longed to see more of it. The fine old stone of its façade reminded me of some of the magnificent architecture I had seen last week in Rome.

Six great pillars supported a wide portico over which hung a mass of brilliant purple bougainvillea. I counted at least twelve long windows, six on either side of the entrance. The double front doors were dark polished wood, studded and hinged with antique ironwork. Two lamps on iron stands stood on either side, like sentinels, or footmen. Over the upper windows there were striped sunblinds and beneath were wrought iron balconies of exquisite design. Along the terrace stood rows of glazed pottery tubs and urns full of bright flowers. Below, the flowerbeds were massed with scarlet carnations. On my left, I could just see more formal gardens surrounded by hedges clipped to the shapes of peacocks. An old gardener was busy spraying water on to an English-looking lawn. It looked deliciously cool and green after the dust and heat of the city.

I was overcome by the beauty of it all and seeing my face the old lady said proudly:

“The Villa dell’Alba has no equal!”

“Is it very old?” I asked, understanding her pride in her home. I was also impressed by the mere thought of having one’s house named after one – or was it the other way round?

“Most of it was built in the sixteenth century. It has been in our family ever since. Only the front terrace and a new wing for servants have been added but that was at least a hundred years ago.”

“And the winged horse?” I asked.

“As old as the house. The horse is the dell’Alba crest, which was given to our great ancestor, the first Conte dell’Alba, for services rendered to Catherine de Medici. He was of her household.”

With the chauffeur, whom she addressed as Guiseppe, I helped the Contessa out of the car and into the house. A small round old woman in a blue linen dress with white collar and cuffs, came hurrying towards us. She wore spectacles. Her hair was white, short and curly. The eyes regarding me were still a bright forget-me-not blue.

“Ah, Boney!” said the Contessa in her perfect English. “I’m afraid I have had to return earlier than expected. I had a slight attack of giddiness in Calmano’s … nothing much, I assure you.”

“Oh, Contessa, for mercy’s sake …”

“Now, Boney, do not get excited. I am perfectly all right. It was just the heat. Allow me to introduce you to the Signorina, Nurse …?”

“Laura Howard,” I filled in, holding out my hand.

“And this is Miss Bone, our English Nanny.”

The pink scrubbed face that had been smiling a welcome at me turned suddenly grey. Tears filled the blue eyes and spilled on to her cheeks.

“You mustn’t call me that, Contessa – you know you mustn’t!”

The voice sounded so agonised I took an involuntary step backwards knowing I had blundered into some personal grief that was not my concern. I glanced at the Contessa’s face and saw that it held a mixture of anger, fear and pity.

“Be quiet, Boney!”

She turned to me and with a visible effort, spoke as if nothing had happened.

“Miss Howard is a trained nurse, aren’t you, my dear? She was good enough to look after me when I fainted.”

It was a moment or two before Miss Bone had herself under control. She took hold of my hand and shook it warmly.

“A blessed bit of luck you were there to help,” she said, the smile returning to her lips.

My trained eye noticed a slight trembling of the Contessa’s hands although her stiff, upright figure had not relaxed since we had entered the hall. I said in a professional voice:

“I think the Contessa should go straight to bed and that a doctor should examine her – just to be on the safe side,” I added, seeing the look of worry on the old nanny’s face.

“Yes, of course. Oh, my goodness! What will Niko say when he hears about …”

“He will not hear!” The Contessa’s voice was suddenly sharp and filled with cold authority. I thought that I, for one, would not like to arouse her anger.

“I forbid anyone to mention this to Domenico,” went on the Contessa. “I will not have him worried. Now, Boney, if you will help me up the stairs? No, Miss Howard, Boney and I can manage. If you turn to your left, you will find the salotto grande – the drawing-room, I think you call it in your country. Mario will bring you something refreshing to drink. Goodbye, Signorina, and thank you for your assistance.”

I murmured good-bye and stood where I was, watching the old English nurse – obviously a privileged person here – help the Contessa up one of the magnificent staircases. There were two of them curving up to a minstrel’s gallery. The panelled walls were hung with oil paintings. I had no time to examine them in detail but could see that they were mostly of men in richly coloured historic costumes – obviously the dell’Albas of the past, I thought entranced. On my right stood a long oak table bearing two great silver tankards and an immense alabaster Greek urn filled with lilies. Dazed by so much grandeur, I moved towards two tall ebony doors with gilded handles. I found myself in what I presumed to be the salotto where the Contessa had told me to wait. It seemed even darker in here than in the hall. All the windows were partially shuttered, allowing only faint glimmers of light to drift through the slats. But once my eyes became accustomed to this religious gloom, a sight of such beauty and elegance gradually unfolded before me that I gasped.

I could not take in so much loveliness all at once. I tip-toed over the black marble floor, set in squares, on which lay one or two fine silken rugs. Six tall windows led out to a terrace. They were framed in violet brocade curtains, shot with gold. Two sofas, of the same colour, with carved gilt backs, stood at right angles to an enormous fireplace carved in pure white marble. On the mantelshelf stood a pair of gold candelabra, each with tall ivory candles. There was also a Venetian clock decorated with china cupids and gold, pink and turquoise blue flowers. Over the mantelpiece there hung a mirror of such fragile glass, so delicately carved and embossed it looked as if it might shatter at a breath. That, I was sure, must have been made in Venice.

The ceiling seemed abnormally high. It was painted with a scene from the Bible – angels, madonnas, saints; like the roof of the Sistine Chapel which I had seen in Rome. Dazed by so much beauty, I stared around me and glimpsed even further magnificence – rich walnut and ebony cabinets full of old glass, ivories and china; gilded chairs; pedestals bearing marble busts. Then, at the far end of this glorious room, I saw a piano.

A concert grand! My heart leapt. I hurried over to it. The case, like so much of the furniture, was painted and gilded. I looked for the name and saw that the instrument was a Bechstein. I sat down and lifting the lid, I dared to touch a note. It was perfect.

Once, music had absorbed my life. Father said I had inherited my talent from his Spanish mother. It had been my ambition from girlhood to become a concert pianist. But that was several years ago. First my mother died and then, just after I had obtained a scholarship to study at the Royal College of Music, my father had a stroke. Although he recovered, he was partially paralysed and since neither my elder sister, Betty, nor I wished to abandon him to a Home, I felt I must share with my sister the nursing care Father required. Albeit reluctantly, Betty agreed that I should give up my dreams of a musical career and undergo nursing training instead. Father never knew what the sacrifice cost me as I insisted that since I had grown up, I had changed my mind, preferring a career I could pursue anywhere in the world. Because I had spoken to him so many times of my longing to travel, he accepted my reasons.

But after I had qualified, between caring for Father and part time nursing there was no opportunity for travel. Nor was there time for music, except when I played at hospital concerts or on the still fine old upright at home, which Father cherished and kept in good order.

I struck another note and then let my fingers run lovingly over the ivory keys of the Bechstein. Soon I was lost in my own harmonies. The tone of the piano was rich and resonant. The fine accoustics of the big, lofty room added to the magnificence of it.

I tried out the slow movement of Tchaikovsky’s Pathétique Symphony. Soon the salotto was filled with the glorious sorrowful sound. Delighted, I drifted into the haunting strains of the Prize-Song from the Meistersingers and from that into the rippling music of Liszt’s Lieberstraum. It sounded to me like the water cascading from the splendid old fountain outside.

Despite my lack of practice I found myself playing well. I thought I was quite alone and abandoned myself to the luxury of playing so perfect an instrument. There was nothing to warn me that the music was reaching other ears than mine.

But as I paused and flexed my fingers a voice behind me suddenly spoke in a rapid flow of Italian. Startled, I swung round. I saw a young man standing just inside one of the long windows. One hand lay lightly on the violet brocade of the curtains, the other held a walking stick. I looked into his face and remembering that moment now, I think it was exactly then I fell in love with him.

It was a handsome face – sun-tanned, sculptured. He was tall and thin but with wide shoulders set off by a pale blue towelling shirt open at the throat. The neck was firm, muscular, reminding me instantly of Michelangelo’s David. He wore dark glasses so I could not see his eyes but I noticed his mouth – wide, beautifully shaped.

He addressed me once more in rapid Italian. His voice had become imperious, almost angry and only then was I aware that I had no right to sit down at this piano as though it were my own.

“I’m awfully sorry,” I said stupidly. “But I’m English and I can’t understand what you are saying. Mi Inglese,” I tried desperately. “I’m very sorry I touched the piano. Mi scusi!”

To add to my confusion my companion suddenly laughed. He began now to speak to me in near perfect English.

“Certainly I will forgive you – if you will go on playing.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. I was not to be thrown out of the place after all.

“Continue, please!” The voice was dictatorial and yet filled with an urgency I did not fully understand.

I was about to obey when a servant came in carrying a large silver tray. He spoke to my companion in an unintelligible flow of Italian which I could not begin to follow. But when he departed the young man came over to me.

“I understand from Mario that I am in your debt. He has told me about the accident this morning and how you assisted my grandmother. It was very kind of you, Signorina.”

“How is she?” I asked. His gratitude made me stupidly shy.

“I am glad to say, quite all right. Our family physician has called to see her and says that a day or two in bed is all she requires. We are fortunate that he lives in the neighbourhood and is close at hand to deal with such emergencies. Mario asked me to apologise for keeping you waiting so long for your drink. He has put lime juice and iced water on the table. Please help yourself, Signorina …?”

“Howard – Laura Howard.”

I held out my hand but he seemed not to see it.

“I am Domenico dell’Alba. Now please take your drink, Miss Howard. As you have no doubt noticed, I am blind and cannot perform the service of pouring it out for you.”

As a nurse I had long since become accustomed to shocks but now I was deeply shaken to learn that this charming, handsome young man was blind. I should have guessed, I thought stupidly. His walking stick was white. I felt a sensation of deep, personal sadness.

A crystal jug stood near me on the silver tray, a bucket of ice beside it. I helped myself to a glass of fresh lime juice.

“May I pour you a drink?” I asked. I was unsure how to address him. If he was the Signora Contessa’s grandson, he, too, must have a title.

He shook his head.

“I want nothing but that you should play to me again,” he said briefly. “You cannot know what a pleasure it was for me to listen to you just now. Miss …” he pronounced it Mees “… Howard, I beg you to spare me more time in your generosity and play again.”

I was flattered and at the same time, nervous. I was dreadfully out of practice and playing to amuse myself was quite a different matter from playing to a critical audience. I put down my glass and sat down once more at the piano. His voice behind me said:

“You play professionally, Signorina?”

I explained as briefly as I could the circumstances that had forced me to abandon my hopes of becoming a concert pianist.

“So I became a nurse,” I ended my dull little story from which I had omitted the terrible heartache the end of my musical career had caused me.

“That is tragic!”

There was so much genuine pity in his tone, I looked up at him surprised and suddenly grateful for his intuitive understanding. Betty, who lacked any musical appreciation, had said with grim practicality:

“It’s probably all for the best, Laura. Music could never be a nice steady job like nursing!”

Nevertheless, I loved my elder sister who was as much a mother to me as a sister. She was fifteen years older than I and since Mother died, she had looked after me. Security to her meant everything … which was just as well since Father and I were hopelessly impractical.

“I minded it terribly at the time,” I answered. “But these things happen. Anyway, looking back on it, I don’t think I would ever have been good enough to make the top grade. I worried about appearing in public for one thing and for another, I got tired of practising scales. I just wanted to play – to spend my life playing the music I love.”

I broke off, realising that I was probably boring my companion. A strange uneasy silence filled the room. I looked down at the keyboard and felt a great longing to touch the notes just once more; yet I had the feeling that I was expected to leave. I had certainly outstayed my welcome, I thought. Good manners demanded that I go. But I sat still, clasping my hands together, waiting without quite knowing what I was waiting for.

Suddenly my companion spoke.

“I do not expect you to understand, Miss Howard – how could you?” he said. “But just as you enjoy the playing of music, so I enjoy listening. You play with your heart – not just with technical ability. I have an excellent tape recorder and stereo record player to which I can listen but to me, music always loses something essential in this form of reproduction, no matter how brilliant the performer.” He paused and when he spoke again, he seemed under some kind of strain. “Since I have been unable to see, my hearing has become doubly important. No one in this house plays the piano. That is why I was enthralled by your performance.”

“You don’t play yourself?”

“Very indifferently. I do have a balalaika on which occasionally I strum. But I have the wrong fingers for a pianist.”

He spread out his hands in front of me. They were long and beautifully shaped. On one finger was an onyx ring with a crest. It stood out remarkably against the brown skin. They were the hands of an aristocrat but, as he had said, not of a pianist. I remembered my teacher telling me that short, square hands, strong and flexible, were the best – like mine.

I looked up at his face, trying to see his eyes hidden behind the dark glasses. I was suddenly intensely curious about his blindness. It wasn’t a nurse’s professional curiosity but a personal one. Before I could stop myself, I was asking him how long he had been blind. He did not seem to be offended.

“When I was quite a small boy, I lost the sight in one eye following a stupid accident when I ran into a thorn bush. Unfortunately, I developed some trouble with my good eye last year and I have been sightless for over six months now.”

He gave the technical reason for his affliction in Italian but from the little I knew about ophthalmics, I guessed he was describing a detached or damaged retina.

“Surely there is a remedy? An operation?” I faltered. “One day you will be able to see again?” I felt absurdly anxious.

His mouth curved into that strange half smile.

“I hope so very much. I am to have the operation in a few weeks time. Meanwhile, I must stay quiet and do nothing and I find this torture. Mine is not the nature to stay still. I am a restless creature.”

I could believe it. Already I had sensed that this young Italian was highly strung; certainly not the type to sit and dream away his life.

“Now that we have exchanged the stories of our lives, Miss Howard, will you please continue to play for me?”

It was not so much a request as a command. Clearly, he was used to giving orders and to getting his own way. It was hardly surprising. It was obvious the dell’Albas were rich. The Villa, the gleaming car belonging to the Contessa, the beautiful objets d’art and paintings in the room all suggested the kind of wealth I had read about but had never thought to come in contact wi. . .