‘You’re very kind,’ the girl said. ‘What did you order for me?’
‘Something to pick you up. A mixture of alcohol, cordial, and herbs.’
‘Oh,’ she caught her bottom lip with her teeth. ‘Thank you.’
It didn’t take long for our drinks to arrive. The girl took a sip and her nose wrinkled. ‘It tastes terrible. So bitter.’
‘Knock it back! You’ll feel better afterward,’ I smirked. ‘It’s an old remedy for fainting.’
‘Anyone would feel better after they’d stopped drinking this,’ she said with a throaty laugh. ‘But I’m not sure I did faint, actually.’
‘What do you think happened, then?’
The girl put her glass down, picked it up, and placed it back on the table. ‘I’m not certain, to be honest. When I was sitting on the rampart, I had this incredible… oh, I don’t know, exactly.’ She shifted in her seat. ‘I felt as if I’d been here before, even though I know I’ve never set foot in this place.’
‘Maybe it looks familiar because you’ve seen some photos?’
‘Could be.’ The girl appeared to be struggling to find the right words. She lifted her shoulders and eyed the clock tower. Shaking her head, she turned back to me. ‘Do you work in Asolo?’
‘My office is in Treviso, but I have an apartment here.’ I shot a glance at the sketchpad poking out of her bag. She must be an artist.
‘Lucky you! I’ve got a flat in Islington and work in the City.’ The girl frowned again, momentarily, then relaxed her expression.
‘I prefer small town living. Not that Treviso is a big city. I have an affinity with Asolo. Always have done.’ I thrummed my fingers on the armrests of my chair. ‘If you’re in Asolo until the end of the month, then you’ll be here for the re-enactment. To celebrate Queen Caterina Cornaro’s court,’ I said with unabashed enthusiasm. ‘A group of us dress up in Renaissance costumes and there are dances and street parties. The whole town joins in.’
‘Sounds like fun. Will you perform the saltarello?’
I lifted an eyebrow. ‘I'm surprised you know about a dance from the 15th century. It’s a tricky one, so we tend to leave it out of the performance.’
The girl tossed her hair back from her face. ‘Must’ve seen a TV programme or read about it somewhere. I’m not a dumb blonde, you know.’
‘I didn’t think you were,’ I said with a laugh. Should I ask about her sketches? But, before I could do so, footsteps crunched on the gravel and Susan Finch came marching up to the table, her short chubby legs enveloped in baggy track-suit bottoms, and her mouth covered with tell-tale crumbs showing she’d indulged in a pastry or two on her way past the Caffè Centrale.
‘My dear,’ she squealed. ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘I’m fine. Just a funny turn, Auntie,’ the girl said. ‘Thank God Luca was here.’ She smiled. ‘He managed to grab hold of me as I was about to fall off the ramparts.’
‘Goodness! What a stroke of luck you saw her.’ Susan shot me a grateful look. ‘Would you like to come to dinner the day after tomorrow? Fern and I would love it. It’s the least we can do.’
‘I’d be delighted.’ Fern… the girl’s name at last. ‘But I really didn’t do much. Fern should see a doctor, though.’
‘We’ll stop off at the hospital on our way home,’ Susan said briskly. ‘To get Fern checked over. Best to be safe than sorry.’ She paused. ‘We’ll expect you at around eight o’clock on Friday evening, then?’
‘Mille grazie. Thank you so much.’
Watching the two women ambling arm in arm down the path, I clapped a hand to my forehead.
Cazzo!
I’d forgotten I was supposed to spend Friday evening with Mother.
Chapter 3
I was sitting in the kitchen, sipping from a glass of mineral water while Auntie prepared our evening meal. At the hospital, after an interminable wait and several tests, the doctors had said I’d fainted as a result of high blood pressure and needed to make sure I avoided caffeine. Probably all that coffee I’d drunk while waiting for the flight at Heathrow. Thank you, four-hour delay! Not to mention my breakfast tea and the cappuccino at the Caffè Centrale. I’d been a caffeine junkie for years, and now I’d have to limit my intake to one coffee and one tea a day.
I’d braced myself to hear the ghostly whisper when I’d returned to Auntie’s, yet the only sound was the echo of church bells emanating from the village, and the noise of a motorbike revving past on the road. I must have imagined the whisper; that drop I’d felt in the temperature probably had something to do with my blood-pressure and feeling faint. There could be no other explanation. My weird experience in Asolo had been my caffeine-loaded brain playing tricks on me. Nothing more.
I took in a breath and there it was again: the faint smell of burnt wood. I wrinkled my nose and put it down to farmers burning stubble in the fields.
Auntie was opening a jar of sauce. ‘Spag bol okay?’ she asked.
‘Perfect.’ My mouth watered. I hadn’t eaten a proper meal since the day before yesterday.
Could be another reason why I’d felt light-headed…
Steam rose from a pot of boiling water, and Auntie tipped a handful of pasta into it while the cat purred loudly at her feet. ‘I’d offer you a glass of wine,’ she said, picking up a bottle of Bardolino. ‘Except, you need to line your stomach first.’ She pulled the cork then wagged a finger at the cat. ‘Shoo, Gucci. You’ve been fed already. Now where are my specs?’
‘They’re on top of your head, Auntie,’ I smiled. She was certainly a one-off, but I loved her so much. Inadvertently, I thought about the man I’d met this morning. ‘Luca seems a nice guy. How did he end up going to school in the UK?’
‘His family’s very wealthy and can afford private education. He was at Eton, you know. Comes from one of the oldest families in the Veneto. In fact, I think they number a couple of Doges, rulers of ancient Venice, in their ancestry. Italy’s a republic now, of course, so no one can call themselves a count or countess with any legitimacy. Otherwise, Luca would be Conte Goredan.’
‘His mother’s English?’
Auntie nodded. ‘She’s a widow. La Contessa, as the locals still like to call her. A lovely lady. I met her when Luca gave his talk at the Asolo Museum.’
‘Interesting. But why did you invite him to dinner? I mean, it was kind of you. Only you didn’t have to…’
‘I just wanted you to have a friend nearer to your own age.’
Hope Auntie isn’t setting me and Luca up. If she is, she has no chance.
We ate in companionable silence and with the last forkful of pasta, my eyelids drooped.
‘An early night for you, Fern.’ She picked up the plates and took them to the dishwasher. ‘I’ll go to bed soon too.’
I was so tired I could barely haul myself up the stairs.
The following morning, I was in the kitchen having breakfast with Auntie. ‘Why don’t you take the car and go exploring?’ she suggested, her mouth full of toast. ‘Just remember to keep on the right side of the road.’
‘I’d like to visit Asolo again. I’m dying to paint it.’ My fingers twitched. I couldn’t wait to take out my colours and lose myself in creativity. Art therapy. It had started as a way of “facing my demons”, but now it had become almost as essential as breathing. A surprise to both myself and the therapist I was seeing for grief counselling.
I helped clear the table, then went to get my things from my room. The drive from Auntie’s village, Altivole, took about twenty minutes. I found a park, then reached for my rucksack. After gazing up at the Rocca, its fortifications etched against the azure sky, I decided not to go there today; I couldn’t face the climb. I’d have a leisurely stroll and find a quiet place where I would paint.
Within minutes, I was ambling down the Via Canova, the sun warming my bare arms, guidebook in my hand. Reading that I should “glance up Vicolo Belvedere, at the corner of the bakery”, I did so. The book
said there’d once been a Jewish Ghetto there.
A mansion painted the colour of terracotta rose up on my left. Apparently, it used to belong to a famous Italian actress. I strolled under an archway and caught sight of an elegant palazzo with gold lettering on a wooden sign saying Hotel Villa Cipriani. I peered through the wrought-iron gate into a lush garden, planted with an array of salmon-pink geraniums.
Next door stood an old house with a balcony, mullioned windows, a portal, and a massive doorway with a shutter and bolts. Recognition rang like a bell, but I furrowed my brows and told myself to keep focused.
There was nothing familiar about the small church on my left. Putting the guidebook into my rucksack, I stepped into the building and sat on a pew at the back.
My breath caught.
I know this place, but something about it is different.
An image swam into my mind, of another church, of mourners in black and a coffin at the altar, the wooden box containing the charred remains of my fiancé, Harry. My chest tightened so much I could barely breathe. Warm tears ran down my cheeks; I brushed them away with trembling hands and stared at the altar.
The faded frescoes were brightening as the roof began to squeeze down on me.
The colours had become even more vivid.
I closed my eyes and grabbed hold of the pew in front. Only it was no longer the wood of a pew, but the stone of a castle parapet, rough against my fingers. Music lifted from the park below . . . and the sound of singing.
My head swam with dizziness.
I squirm, feeling lost, but it is my own singing that I hear and I’m delirious with it.
Who am I? Where am I?
For a moment I’m confused, as if floating in a daydream. Then I’m back where I belong. I’m Cecilia and it is the year of our Lord 1504. My world is as it should be, and I sing along with my sister Fiammetta while she plucks her lute in the shade of the cherry tree. The rhythm never falters as the tune rises and falls. When Fiammetta sings, Orpheus could not fail to be astounded at her skill; she can keep perfect harmony on her instrument, bringing melody to the inflections of the song. No wonder she’s the Queen’s darling.
We sing of the bitter sweetness of love and I take hold of my sister’s hand. ‘I’ll miss you when you are wed.’
‘My dear. At court you’ll be too much in demand to think of me.’
Think of me. These three words soar in the breeze with an echo. Think of me. Think of me. Something makes the skin on my arms prickle and I spin around. A shadowy figure floats at the top of the castle wall. I look again, but all I see are the usual caper plants; the parapet is empty. The moment passes, and I’m caught up in singing once more. Fiammetta plays a different tune; I screw up my eyes to remember the words and the melody.
‘Shall we dance?’ I ask, tired of singing. ‘I need more practice.’ I love to dance. To twirl until I fall over with the dizziness of it. I can’t wait for the time when I shall step out with a handsome suitor, whom I don’t yet know, but who will adore me as I’ll adore him. Even more than dancing, however, I like to draw – covering paper with black chalk representations of the people and landscape of Asolo. So much more enjoyable than endless embroidery.
‘Have you learnt the saltarello?’ My sister inclines her head toward me.
‘It is the most difficult of dances and I’ve yet to master it. Fiammetta puts down her lute, holds my hand high, and counts the five beats. We move our feet gracefully, right, left, right, left, then execute a short jump before repeating the movement by starting the sequence on the opposite foot. We go over the steps again and again until Fiammetta, playing the man, bows, and I drop into a deep curtsey, perspiration dampening my armpits.
The rough lawn is springy beneath the soft soles of my shoes and I sit down, my skirts billowing around me. I run my hands through the grass, plucking at the pink valerian flowers and lifting them to inhale the vanilla fragrance. The delicate scent reminds me of something, but the memory eludes me.
Fiammetta’s dark hair cascades in a long braid down her back and curls escape to frame her face. My breath catches, and I try to hold the picture in my mind. When she is married, she’ll live with her husband, of course; she will have no time for me. The compensation will be that I’ll take her place at court and will make frequent visits to Venice. I only vaguely remember the city where we were born. I was barely a child of five when we were dispatched here after our parents died in the plague.
‘Will you not miss the Queen’s parties in her palace on the Grand Canal?’ I asked my sister.
‘Why would I wish to be there? I’m promised to Rambaldo, who loves me.’
Rambaldo Azzoni Avogadro, that nobleman from Treviso, is too ugly for her, but he’s wealthy and doesn’t need a bride with a dowry. Even so, the Queen has been generous with her wedding gift to Fiammetta: a small villa on the road to Venice.
My dreams of a handsome suitor are mere fantasies, however. I push the thought from my mind; I will not dwell on it. Who knows what the future will bring? Lying back on the grass, the warmth of the sun caresses me and dispels my disquiet. Horse hooves clatter on the cobbles and the bell in the clock tower strikes the hour.
Fiammetta tugs at my sleeve. ‘You have grass stains on your kirtle, Cecilia. Remember, we are soon to go with the Queen to sing the Te Deum. You need to dress appropriately.’
Standing, I brush down my dress before sprinting up the steps to the building where I’ve lived for the past ten years. The Queen is there, and I drop into a deep curtsey. ‘Are you ready for your debut, child?’ she says.
A smile spreads over my lips. ‘Yes, Domina.’
I run to change my attire. Today, after luncheon, I shall join the court at her country villa at last. The castle in Asolo is too cramped and crude for the Queen’s tastes and she only visits when necessary. Excitement sparks in my chest, and I feel I’m about to explode with happiness.
‘Sit still,’ Fiammetta gives my arm a shake. ‘You’re supposed to be praying, not fidgeting.’
My eyes fly open and I peer at the frescoes, confused by their brightness. I clutch my psalter to my chest. What am I doing here? Then, I remember. The church of Santa Caterina. We arrived here a few moments ago.
From my left comes the most melodic voice, deep and true. A young man, with dark brown hair flowing to his shoulders. Bowing my head, I pretend to ignore him, while taking surreptitious peeks. He stands next to the Queen in the opposite pew. My gaze travels to his mouth and my heart flutters.
What am I thinking, staring at a man so boldly?
I can’t help it. For once I feel as beautiful as the other ladies. Over my shift, I’m wearing my kirtle, with the sleeves of my shift pulled through the slashes in puffs along the arm. The latest fashion. My over-gown of pale blue satin is sleeveless and laced at the front. I stroke the material and blush with pleasure. ’It is a gift from the Queen for my debut.
How kind she is!
After the service, we progress up the hill to the castle, where a meal has been prepared. The heady perfume of roses in vases on the long wooden tables mingles with the aroma of roasting beef. My mouth watering, I take my seat beside Fiammetta; I ate little at breakfast and hunger twists my belly.
Fiammetta nudges me, ‘That man is staring at you,’ she says, breaking off a piece of bread and stuffing it into her mouth. ‘Looks like you’ve made a conquest. Except, I wouldn’t be too pleased. He’s an artist, a womaniser, and he likes to drink.’ Fiammetta’s eyes take on a dreamy expression, even though she’s to be married soon. ‘So handsome. I do believe he’s known as Zorzo from Castelfranco.’
‘I don’t like him,’ I say. Best not reveal what I really think. His smile fascinates me, as do his full lips that turn up at the corners. Wish I could feel that mouth on mine. I give a start, shocked at my thoughts, and cut a slice of meat with my knife. I can’t help feeling a stab of jealousy that he, a man, can be an artist, whereas I, a woman, can have no such hope.
The strum
ming of a lute interrupts my thoughts. It is that deep, melodic voice again, singing, ‘Subtle beauty of the golden tresses, can you see that I am dying for you?’ I flick a look at the musician and his eyes meet mine. I huff and glance away.
If you think I will succumb and become one of your women, Signor Zorzo, you’d better think again!
I do not let myself observe the artist further, although every word coming from him seems to be directed at me. ‘Breeze, blowing that blonde curling hair, stirring it, and being softly stirred in return, scattering that sweet gold about, then gathering it, in a lovely knot of curls,’ he sings. I’ve worn my so-called tresses loose today, not encased in a hair-net. I hate to dress my hair, there’s far too much of it and I think it my worst feature.
Oh, foolish Cecilia! I realise that the artist is singing a sonnet of Petrarch’s set to music, not his own words. He could be addressing them to any of the ladies assembled here, although I’m the only blonde besides the Queen. Domina! Of course, he’s serenading her. I’m such an ingénue…
Finally, the time has come to depart, and we make our way to the courtyard. The stable-boy, his smile revealing blackened teeth, hands me my horse’s reins. I stroke my grey steed’s soft velvety nose and his sweet hay-breath makes me sneeze. I’ve named him Pegaso. Only recently schooled, he’s young and full of life. Pegaso’s bristles tickle my wrists, and I laugh as the boy helps me up. Sitting astride with my dress spread out behind me, I’m ready to ride at the back of the procession.
The townspeople have come out to watch, and I sense their delight at the sight of us for we are wondrous to behold. The Queen leads the parade on a splendid black destrier; no milksop palfrey would suit her. She expects her ladies to be like she is, and to equal the knights in their equestrian skills when they join the hunt. Even though Domina is no longer young, she’s energetic and radiates an inner beauty and intelligence that have made her court the place where writers, poets, artists and musicians congregate from miles around. I can’t wait to be a part of it and, at the same time, tremble that I might not be worthy.
LADY of VENICE Page 2