“Yes. We found that our tastes were identical in many respects. I did not know of my brother’s death until the 2nd of January. No one in Beechcroft had my address, and my solicitor’s office was closed on the holiday. Mr. Capella called on me, by request, the day after the ball, and already I became aware of his admiration. Italians are quick to fall in love.”
“And afterwards?”
“When poor Alan’s murder appeared in the press, Giovanni was among the first to write me a sympathetic letter. Later on we met several times in London. I did not come to reside in the Hall until all legal formalities were settled. A year passed. I went to Naples. He came from his estate in Calabria, and we renewed our friendship. You do not know, perhaps, that he is a count in his own country, but we decided not to use the title here.”
“Then Mr. Capella is not a poor man?”
“By no means. He is far from rich as we understand the word. He is worth, I believe, £1,500 a-year. Why do you ask? Had you the impression that he married me for my money?”
“There might well be other reasons,” thought Brett, glancing at the beautiful and stately woman by his side. But it was no moment for idle compliments.
“Such things have been done,” he said drily.
“Then disabuse your mind of the idea. He is a very proud man. His estates are involved, and in our first few days of happiness we did indeed discuss the means of freeing them, whilst our marriage contract stipulates that in the event of either of us predeceasing the other, and there being no children, the survivor inherits. But all at once a cloud came between us, and Giovanni has curtly declined any assistance by me in discharging his family debt.”
Brett could not help remembering Capella’s passionate declaration to Helen, but Margaret’s words read a new meaning into it. Possibly the Italian was only making a forlorn hope attack on a country maiden’s natural desire to shine amidst her friends. Well, time would tell.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Capella’s outburst of confidence was valuable.