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He squeezed her hand. ‘Each other?’
She smiled. ‘I want you, Peter. But on my terms this time.’
He frowned. ‘Which are?’
‘Wait for me. Wait until I’m ready to become Mrs Peter Fox. If that sounds too vague or too much, I will continue to love you from afar. You’ve never left my heart, and you won’t now. But today, despite the horror of what occurred, I think Maria might be right. I think the angels are giving me another chance.’
Peter looked thoughtful. ‘Vella said something along the same lines.’
‘Then I would be a fool to ignore the door that has opened for me. I feel like Caravaggio when the Grand Master offered him sanctuary – a chance to fulfil his dreams of becoming part of the Order. I will bear witness to seeing his signature revealed on the only painting he signed.’
‘You deserve to. And I’ll write about it in my book.’
‘Thank you.’
He stared at her for a moment, then nodded sadly. ‘Then I’ll wait. Inspector Vella has given me permission to leave Malta.’
‘You’d better go back and pack. But please say goodbye to Danjel before you leave. He’s at Maria’s.’
‘I’ll go find him now.’
He leaned in to kiss her, and she met him with as much love as she could convey, so he knew she meant every word of her declaration to him. When they broke away from the kiss, they leaned their foreheads together.
‘I love you, Valentina Camilleri.’
The words sent such a thrill through her, because she intended to go back to her true name.
‘I’ve always loved you, Peter Fox.’
‘Promise that you’ll come back to me. I want to take you and Danjel to see all the other Caravaggios around the world.’
‘I promise.’
And as her pilot spun on his heels and headed for the door, this time it was not him walking away from her. This time she was leaving him, but on her terms, with her heart feeling full, and her chosen future unfurling before her.
EPILOGUE
AUGUST 1956
Bath, England
It was one of those glorious, late summer afternoons that Peter felt characterised the England he loved.
Church and Sunday roast were already a memory. Some residents were now industriously pushing mowers over their lawns, and the scent of freshly cut grass danced on the air alongside the aroma of just-baked scones. Others strolled with their dogs, beginning to contemplate supper, encouraged by the fragrance of baking. Children were chalking out hopscotch grids on the pavement outside their homes, while others skipped or rode bikes in small loops around the street.
It was golden hour. Light slanted low from the sun, turning the buildings of Bath Stone – formed over countless millennia – a rich honey. The Romans had first discovered and used it, but soot and dust had built up over centuries and their original architects had likely envisaged something much lighter and brighter than the moody, glowing stone of now. The historic homes hugged the wide streets, following the languid curve of the avenues and crescents.
War’s destruction was still prevalent. It had certainly left its savage mark, but a plan to blot out Hitler’s attempt to destroy England’s beauty was already under way. Majestic Bath would return under the care and love of its residents.
Inside these elegant homes, while their wives baked or sunned themselves in gardens, the men who’d finished the mowing were now dozing by the wireless, listening to the fifth test of the Ashes at the Oval. The first had been a draw at Trent Bridge, but then the wretched Australians had won at Lord’s by one hundred and eighty-five runs. It had felt humiliating, but then the English first XI had roared back with a win at Headingley. Their dare to dream was rewarded with another thumping of the Australians at Old Trafford. No matter what happened at the Oval, they could close their eyes to the warm, sleepy tone of the commentators. There was talk that one of the Aussies’ premium all-rounders, Richie Benaud, was hoping to train as a broadcaster. TV was threatening as the new medium, but for now the comforting drone from the wireless reassured them England was winning.
The world was righting itself, Peter thought, smiling to himself. He’d needed to find reasons to smile. It was now public knowledge that he and his wife were divorced, but what his neighbours and friends didn’t know was that he’d left his heart behind in Malta. But gradually over the most recent English summer, living alone, rediscovering his joy in writing with a mission to finish the book on Caravaggio, alongside his role at the Courtauld Institute, Peter had found a level of happiness that he couldn’t have thought possible a few months ago… certainly not a few years ago, trapped in his unhappy marriage.
He was free now. And Delia was in love. It had been such good news when she’d told him she and Gordon were together now. He’d hugged his ex-wife and shaken her lover’s hand. He couldn’t have been more genuine in his happiness for them.
Now though, there were other reasons to be jolly. Under the last of the sun’s warmth, he was batting for his local team, on his way to a half-century – a perfect way to round off his week.
The spin bowler was back on. Peter could see the patches on the wicket and where the civil servant from Bristol was going to aim. He was ready for him.
