They spoke for a few moments until Violet Costello entered. She was wearing a midnight blue cowl neck dress. Her hair was meticulously styled, as ever. Joseph had not considered her age before then, but, as he assessed her, he guessed that she must have been in her late fifties. She looked younger than that tonight.

She came to the hearth and kissed him on the cheek. “Edward,” she said. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“And you, Miss Costello.”

“Please––it’s Violet.” The butler brought over three glasses of champagne. Violet raised hers and proposed a toast: “To friends and family,” she said, “the only things that really matter.”

Edward touched glasses with Violet and her niece. Friends and family. Chiara winked at him from behind the glass.

“It’s good that we are able to do this,” she said, “during such difficult times.”

“Very,” Edward agreed.

“Did you know Tommy Falco very well?”

“A little––through Joseph. He was a good chap, I thought.”

“I knew his mother and father,” she said sadly. “I remember him as a youngster. He always was a bit of a tearaway, he used to give them both fits. His heart was in the right place, though. He was always good to his mother. He knew what was important.” She smiled a tight smile. “Never mind. We won’t worry about it tonight.”

Chiara excused herself for a moment as the butler returned with a tray of canapés.

Violet regarded him with carefully. “There’s one thing I have to say, Edward, while we’re alone––you should know that I’m very protective of my nieces and nephews, the girls in particular. When my brother, their father––when he died”––she paused thoughtfully––“well, there wasn’t anything else for it. I’ve treated them as my own ever since. It’s flesh and blood, isn’t it?”

“I understand,” Edward said.

“You said you were an orphan,” she said. “Do you mind me asking what happened to your parents?”

The lies were at the front of his mind and came easily. “My mother died when I was a child and my father just after the Great War.”

“How were you brought up?”

“In an orphanage.”

“How dreadful!”

“It wasn’t ideal, but you manage, don’t you?––you do your best with what you have.”

“Was your family from London?”

“Yes,” he said, although they were not. Practice lubricated his lies. He had anticipated questions about his background and had rehearsed the story in the car until he was confident that he could deliver it as if it was the truth. He adjusted his stance, and made it more relaxed by resting his hand against the mantelpiece. Violet’s posture was open and friendly. Edward found he was able to relax.

Chiara returned and Violet insisted that they all have another glass of champagne. Edward sipped his, careful not to finish it too quickly because he knew that she would insist he have another. He was happy to drink enough to quieten his self-consciousness but he did not want to drink so much so that he would become drunk. After half an hour Violet suggested that they should eat and led the way into the dining room. The table had been laid for three, with expensive cutlery and crockery, polished glasses and two large candlesticks with lit candles. They moved across to the table and took their seats. Violet kept returning to the subject of Edward’s childhood. “How did you manage to get to University with such a start? It’s very impressive.”

“Hard work and a bit of good fortune, I suppose. I’ve always been rather bookish and I did well at school, well enough to sit the entrance exam and pass it. The rest took care of itself from then.”

“And what will you do for your career––you don’t intend to knock around with Joseph forever, I’m sure? Will it be medicine?”

He sensed that Violet wanted to hear that he was ambitious, and that his ambitions were legitimate. He was happy to oblige her. “I should think so,” he said and then, as he noticed her approval, he added, “Yes, I think, eventually, it will be medicine.”

The conversation was dull and unchallenging, and Edward was able to navigate it without incident. Violet seemed fascinated by his background and asked what he could remember about the orphanage, and how he had managed to transport himself to the cusp of a career in medicine. She seemed especially impressed with that, and kept returning to it. Edward answered her questions with a combination of modesty and bashfulness, feigning awkwardness at being the centre of attention but, in truth, the evening could not have proceeded any better if he had planned it.

“Did you know I have a son?” she mentioned without preamble.

“I didn’t.”

“Joseph’s never said anything?”

“Not that I remember.”

“I’m not surprised,” she said.

“Joseph and Victor never really got on,” Chiara explained.

“Victor found him a little––limited. Would that be fair to say, darling?”

“I suppose so,” Chiara replied. She rolled her eyes when Violet looked away into the fire.

“Where is he?”

“Italy. He was in the Army, like you. Egypt to start with, then Greece and back to Egypt again. They didn’t know what they were doing at the start of things. Victor was captured at Tobruk and then shipped to Porto St Georgio. And then when the Italians capitulated in 1943 he led the escape from the camp.”

“And then the Germans arrived,” Edward said.

“Of course. I don’t know all the details––lots of secrecy, obviously––but Victor has been fighting as one of the Partisans. Italy is our home and he is a very patriotic boy––to be honest, I wouldn’t have expected anything else from him.”

“Where is he now?”

“A place called Rassa, in the Borgosesia valley. He’s been helping with the rebuilding. And I believe there has been work to do with regard to the Fascists who were left behind, too. Trials and executions.”

“I’d like to meet him,” Edward said.

“I’m sure you will.” Violet smiled absently and stared into the fire again. Chiara raised her eyebrows in mild amusement.

The main course of chicken was brought out. They ate quietly for a while, just the sound of cutlery against their plates breaking the silence. “You have a beautiful house here,” Edward said eventually.

“Thank you.”

“The first time I saw it––my goodness, it took my breath away.”

“We’re very lucky to have it.”

He cast a hand around, gesturing to the room. “I can’t imagine what it must cost to maintain.”

He had made a mistake and he realised it immediately. “What do you mean by that?” she said, her voice suddenly tight and clipped.

He felt Chiara tense next to him. “Just that it’s so big,” he said, “the repairs, the staff––it must cost a fortune.”

“It’s not a problem,” she said. “Why would that be a problem?”

Chiara glanced at him, a warning in her eyes. He began to sweat. He smiled at Violet, trying to recover his poise. “I’m sure it isn’t.”

“Then why would you say that? Do we look like we’re short of cash?”

“No, no,” he said, backtracking furiously, although he could see it was a problem––that much was obvious from the shabbiness of the furniture, the scuffed paint, the leaks and spills that had discoloured the plaster––and he had offended her by suggesting, however obliquely, that they might not have the funds to do the house justice. Why had he said that? What had he been thinking? It was a foolish error.

“I don’t think Edward meant that, Aunt,” Chiara said.

“I think it’s absolutely splendid,” he followed quickly, “I’ve never been anywhere like it before. Spectacular––really quite spectacular.”

Violet allowed herself to be placated. The embers of her temper flickered, then abated. “My brother bought it twenty years ago. Has Chiara told you about him?”

“Yes, Aunt,” she said. “I’ve given him all the stories. I expect he’s heartily bored of all of them.”

Edward smiled at her and said that he was not.