Shadows of the Past Read Online Free Page A

the flesh, trying to remember … something , anything . For a moment she felt confused, uncertain as to where she was. Struggling out of the tangle of bedding and leaving the bed, she went to the window, throwing back the wooden shutters to look out on a scene of misty whiteness.
    Thin streaks of sunbeams speared the pale mist that clung to the tops of the trees. Everything was glistening damply. There was the sound of birds but little else, just above the swirling mist she could see the very blue ocean. Of course, it was Santa Caterina. She was staying with her husband, Conte Mazareeze.
    The view was so perfect and yet somehow, deep inside her, there was a feeling of — what was it? She sought to describe it — discontent ? She shrugged the thought aside; the feeling came from her momentary confusion and nothing more.
    Turning from the window she saw her cast-off clothing and without thought, she pulled on the jeans and the cashmere sweater. She had to get out. The room seemed to stifle her, the scarlet and green, the overripe maidens and cherubs on the ceiling were too sensual and, at the same time, suffocating.
    The house was silent; she passed through it quietly. From somewhere she could smell the delicious aroma of fresh bread and coffee. Her stomach gurgled a little with pleasure but ignoring it, she flung back the great door and stepped on to the tiled terrace.
    She headed swiftly for the domed building she had seen yesterday. Reaching it, she saw it was as the conte had told her, a summerhouse — a classical, white portico building, quite exquisite. She peered inside through the glass doors; it was furnished with the kind of furniture that would not have disgraced a sitting-room. Trying the door she found it locked. There was something about this spot that awakened an alien feeling inside her. She could not comprehend what kind of feeling it was, was it fear? Or was it sadness? She could not sort out in her mind how she felt, but that she felt something was evident. Her spine felt as if cold fingers were running along the bones.
    It made no sense and yet she wanted to run away from the place.
    Spying a path running to the back of the building she ran towards it, taking it at a fast pace, wanting to get away from the summerhouse and whatever it was that had once happened there to make her feel so strange.
    The path twisted through a copse of trees, spiralling downwards. Eventually after about a mile, she came to a wrought-iron gate. She opened the gate and found herself on a rutted road. The road was steep but she took the downward slope. On one side of the road were olive groves and on the other was the high, honey-coloured stone wall that encircled, she assumed, the palazzo.
    Unsure of where she was going and what she was doing, she nevertheless followed the road as it twisted and turned. The walls of the palazzo were gone now and in its place were vineyards. The waves of white mist drifted by her like a wraith, yet never obscured the way.
    At last the road levelled out; the first red-roofed house appeared and then another and another, until at last there was a cluster of houses, the road became a cobbled street and she found herself in a small village of brightly painted houses. There were passages between the houses — some were broad cobbled steps — but she kept to the main road. Eventually the road opened up and she found herself in a square. There was a church, a baker, a bar and a shop that appeared to be a general store.
    Four men were sitting at a table outside the bar. They had cups of coffee and had been chatting loudly when she first came into the square then, seeing Alva, they stopped talking and stared at her.
    After hesitating, she walked on, as she neared them she murmured, ‘ Buon giorno .’
    To her surprise, the men stood — three were wearing caps and these they removed, bowing their heads lightly. ‘ Buon giorno, Contessa,’ they said.
    Nervously she smiled, and then hurriedly crossed