The Italian Matchmaker by Santa Montefiore

eyebrows hopefully. ‘You think so?’
    ‘Ah, my boy, you’re looking for an opening.’
    ‘She’s fascinating.’
    ‘Only because she won’t talk to you.’
    ‘She will.’
    The professor shook his head. ‘It’s that kind of arrogance that will ensure you never get the woman you really want.’
    Cosima spoke so fast her words were like a round of machine-gun fire. ‘They’ve taken his things again. They’re all over the house!’ Her arms flew about, agitating the air around her. ‘Do I have to lock my door against my own cousins? How many times do I have to tell them not to come into my room? Not to disturb his things. They are all I have left of him. If they are all over the house they will get lost and then I will be lost. Don’t you see? Doesn’t anyone see?’ She began to cry.
    ‘Sit down, Cosima,’ said Alba gently, helping her into a chair. Rosa appeared, her shoulders already tense with irritation.
    ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked, trying to sound concerned.
    ‘The children, they’ve taken Francesco’s things again.’
    Rosa’s face darkened defensively. ‘That’s not true. They know not to go in there.’
    ‘Then if they haven’t, who has ?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ said Rosa, crossing her arms. ‘But it wasn’t my children. I swear it.’
    ‘We’ll ask them when we get home,’ said Alba diplomatically.
    ‘Fine. Ask away. But I know I’m right. You can’t go on blaming my children every time one of Francesco’s trinkets appears in the sitting-room.’
    ‘Well, darling, we can hardly blame your father, or Eugenio or Toto.’
    ‘I don’t like the way you’re always accusing me.’ Rosa’s eyes glittered. ‘I skulk around the house, terrified of doing something wrong or saying something wrong. Terrified my children might offend you or cause you pain or worse, blow out the candle you have burning all the time. It’s three years, Cosima.’
    Cosima stared at her cousin. ‘Three years?’ she said slowly. ‘You think three years is long enough? You think I shouldn’t feel pain after so long? Well, let me tell you that every day is an effort to live through. Every second is torture. Every moment of my pitiful life I feel his loss as if I am without my limbs. I wish I could end it and join him wherever he is. But I’m afraid. Because I don’t know if anything comes after.’
    ‘Oh, Cosima,’ Alba sighed, pulling her head against her stomach. ‘Francesco is with God.’
    ‘I’ve had enough!’ Rosa snapped. ‘I’m fed up of being accused. We’ll move out and find a house of our own. It’s too ridiculous all living together. We’re like a tin of sardines.’
    ‘Rosa, don’t be silly,’ Alba began, but Rosa stomped off into the kitchen.
    ‘I’m sorry, Alba,’ Cosima sniffed. ‘But she doesn’t understand.’
    ‘She’s young, my love. She hasn’t experienced death like you and I have. We all go in the end and I promise you we go to a better place. Your Francesco lives on in another dimension.’
    Cosima wrapped her arms around Alba’s waist and sobbed. ‘I wish I had the courage to end it all.’
    ‘It takes far more courage to live.’
    Luca and the professor remained on the terrace until late afternoon. The restaurant began to get busy. Rosa appeared, looking strained. She seemed not to want to discuss the palazzo any more. Luca smiled sympathetically as she brought them the bill and he made sure he gave a generous tip. She nodded at him gratefully before returning to her other customers. After a while Cosima emerged. Her face was red and blotchy from crying, her skin pale against the hard black of her dress. If she saw Luca she ignored him. ‘There goes your beautiful widow,’ said Caradoc. ‘ Grief for a while is blind, and so was mine . I wish no living thing to suffer pain . That, my boy, is Percy Bysshe Shelly.’
    As they got up to leave Luca noticed the little boy standing in the doorway of the trattoria, staring with eyes as round as