Hand in hand, we left the tourist trail behind, to wander through the hidden calli and across the small bridges spanning a network of tiny canals. Fern gazed around as if captivated. She took her camera from her bag and framed some shots of the strings of laundry hanging from the windows above. We came across a couple of boys, kicking a football in a deserted square. Then we crossed to a darkened alleyway, so narrow we could almost reach out and touch both walls with our outstretched hands. We emerged into the sunshine of a campo, where umbrella-shaded tables cried out for us to take a break and enjoy an aperitivo. I signalled the waiter and ordered Bellinis.
‘Excuse my ignorance,’ Fern said. ‘But what are Bellinis?’
‘Prosecco mixed with peach juice. Invented by Giuseppe Cipriani, the founder of Harry’s Bar,’ I informed her. ‘I’ll take you there the next time we visit Venice.’
‘Oh, is that anything to do with the Cipriani Hotel in Asolo?’
‘The Cipriani family used to manage it during the late sixties and early seventies. Now it belongs to an international chain.’
I took her hand again.
Out of the blue, she snatched it back from me.
I almost fell off my chair. ‘Sorry,’ I apologized. ‘Didn’t mean to upset you…’
Her brows pulled in, and her eyes locked with mine. ‘I really like being with you. I just don’t want you to get the wrong idea.’
‘Oh?’
Where was this going?
‘Remember I told you I’d been in the King’s Cross fire?’ She stuttered out a breath, then breathed in deeply and stuttered out another. ‘My fiancé . . . Harry, he . . . he died in it.’
‘I’m so sorry. How tragic…’ The words seemed trite in the circumstances.
A lone tear ran down her cheek; she wiped it away with the back of her hand. ‘I’m not ready for another relationship,’ she murmured. ‘I apologise if I’ve led you on. You’ve been so kind to me.’ Her voice was quiet, but her tone determined.
Ha, Luca. She’s knocked you back before you’ve even kissed her. Your punishment for all those girls you’ve kissed and ditched in the past. Well, to be honest, more than kissed . . .
‘Can we be friends?’ she asked hesitantly.
‘Wouldn’t have it any other way,’ I lied, disappointment lodged in my chest. Our drinks had arrived, and I lifted mine in a toast. ‘To our friendship.’ I clinked my glass with hers. ‘Can you tell me what happened? To Harry, I mean . . .’
‘We’d arranged to meet in the ticket office and go for dinner nearby. I blame myself as I’d made him wait.’ She glanced away, her lip trembling. ‘If I’d caught an earlier train, we’d both have been out of there before the station went up in flames.’ She met my gaze, and I caught the grief in her eyes. ‘I’d worked late, even though the account I was setting up could have waited until the following morning. Wanted to impress my boss. So selfish of me . . .’
‘You weren’t to know,’ I said reassuringly. ‘It’s lucky you weren’t on the concourse with your fiancé.’
‘I almost was.’ Her mouth formed a straight line. ‘I think I told you before, I was half-way up the escalator. Well . . . suddenly.’ She shuddered, and her expression clouded. ‘Suddenly the steps were on fire, and I looked up and the ceiling was in flames too.’ Her voice cracked. ‘Pieces of debris were crashing down . . . So, the only thing I could do was run back to the platform.’
‘It must have been terrifying.’ Again, I was lost for words. I touched her hand, and, this time, she didn’t pull it away. Her trembling fingers wrapped themselves around mine.
‘The tunnel was filled with dense smoke. I could barely see. People ran up and down, hammering on the closed doors of the trains as they crept past.’ She shut her eyes, visibly shaken. ‘Finally, one of the trains stopped and I jumped on.’
‘Thank God for that.’
She could have died…
‘I turned on the TV as soon as I got home and saw all the black body bags lined up outside the station.’ Tears welled, and she brushed them away again. ‘I’ve been in therapy ever since. That’s when I started painting; it’s been my salvation.’
What could I say? ‘Ah! Good, good. You clearly needed something to focus your mind.’
‘When I smelled burnt wood in my aunt’s house and heard that ghostly voice calling to me, it brought it all back.’ She shuddered. ‘Remember me telling you that your mother thinks Cecilia might have died in the fire that destroyed the Barco?’
I could only nod.
‘The burnt wood I keep smelling could be a vestige of the past, and I’m convinced that’s what happened to her.’
‘You can’t know for sure,’ I said, trying to inject optimism into my tone. ‘It might not have.’
She visibly shook. ‘I’m terrified of fire, Luca.’
I squeezed her fingers. ‘Don’t forget all that happened nearly five hundred years ago. You’re perfectly safe.’
She drained her glass and said, ‘At least let me pay for these drinks.’
I pushed myself to my feet. ‘Absolutely not. I’ll settle up. Then we can go for some lunch.’
With heavy steps I made my way toward the bar.
She wants to be friends. But I want so much more…
Chapter 9
I sat back in my chair. Luca’s reassurances had almost calmed my fears, except I hadn’t told him everything. There was something I’d never told anyone – not even my therapist. It festered inside me, poisoning my life. I’d never, ever be rid of it, and, one day, I’d be called to account for it.
Not today, hopefully. Today I was in Venice, and there was something about this place that called to my heart and soul.
I watched Luca walking toward the entrance of the café, his long legs covering the distance in easy strides. He was so different to Harry— who’d been blond, of medium height and stocky. I was attracted to Luca, of course I was, and I’d had to swallow the lump of unexpected yearning in my throat when he’d willingly agreed to be “just friends”.
With a sharp pang, I remembered the instant attraction between myself and Harry. I’d met him when I’d set up an investment account for him after his uncle had died and left him two hundred thousand pounds. Harry had been cautious with money and insisted I find a safe home for his inheritance. I’d done that for him, and then he’d invited me out to a swanky restaurant. We hardly ate anything, so intense had been the sexual chemistry between us. Back at his place, supposedly for a night-cap, we’d barely stepped through the front door before we were practically ripping each other’s clothes off. And it had been like that for most of the three years I’d known him. That is until…
Damn! That buzzing sensation was back in my head. I gripped the edge of the table so hard my knuckles turned white. Paint was flaking off and had caught under my fingernail. This is what’s real. Hold onto it! I swivelled my gaze toward the far side of the square and let out a gasp. There, in the corner, shaded by the church campanile, was Zorzo’s studio.
My eyes lost focus and the world around me disappeared.
I manage to get myself assigned to a small room on the ground floor of the Queen’s palazzo. Practically a store cupboard, except it’s perfect for my purposes. Dorotea is surprised that I don’t want to share quarters with her upstairs on the piano nobile, and she regards me with suspicion. I hope she won’t guess my motives.
Domina’s Venetian home is on the Grand Canal in the San Cassiano district. I’ve been here before, of course, only now there’s more purpose to my existence than the last time I visited the city. The painter said that he’ll fetch me in his boat this night. I find myself shivering with anticipation.
The evening meal seems interminable, even though the court is tired from the journey. Such a palaver! So many courses! I’m too excited to eat. Finally, we retire, and I wait. And I wait. And I wait. If he doesn’t arrive soon, I fear I’ll collapse with disappointment.
There’s a rattle of pebbles on the window and I jump u
p from my mattress. I beam a smile of pure happiness. Signor Zorzo is below me, his small craft bobbing on the emerald-green water. ‘Come, Lady Cecilia,’ he calls out.
I grab my cape and mask, and then tiptoe across the floor. The painter has nudged his skiff against the landing stage, and I step aboard. He stands at the stern with a set of oars in his hands while I perch at the prow, my identity hidden by the white Bauta with square jaw and no mouth, worn by Venetians all times of the year when outdoors. If I’m seen, no one will know me.
Signor Zorzo rows us past the Campo della Pescaria, and then under the wooden Rialto bridge. Venice is magical tonight, its pearly palaces shining under a full moon, its chimney pots reaching for the stars. Excitement blooms within me. I know I shouldn’t be out alone with this man, except I can’t help myself. I’m like a bee to his flower; he makes me feel important. I’ll pose for him and, in return, he’ll teach me to paint. I trust his promise; there’s no reason for me to suspect otherwise.
‘We’ve arrived,’ he says, tying up by some steps. In one bound, he’s ashore holding out his hand. My own is like a child’s compared with his. The warmth of his touch surprises me, and I let out a small gasp. ‘Do not fear,’ he says, misinterpreting my exclamation. ‘I shall treat you with the utmost respect.’
I feel the heat in my cheeks and glance away from him. If only he knew how much I long for him to crush me against his strong chest, and to feel his lips on mine once again. I should keep to my resolve and remain a maid until my wedding day. Much better! My maidenhead will be checked by doctors before I go to my bridal bed, as is the custom. You are a fool, Cecilia! Who will want to marry you? You have no wealth. My shoulders sag.
The painter’s studio is at street level. Windows give onto a campo, dark shadows outlined by the moonlight. He has set up tallow candles around the room and holds a taper to them from the fire he has kept burning in the grate. ‘Please sit here.’ He indicates a stool. ‘I’ll paint you first. Then I’ll give you some instruction on the use of colour.’
The chair has been positioned on a small platform so that my eyes are level with the painter’s. I remove my mask and cape, which he takes and hangs on a hook by the door. ‘Loosen the stays on your sleeves. I’d like your shoulders bare. And remove the net from your hair. It is too beautiful to hide.’
My fingers tangle in my ribbons as they tremble at my shamelessness. If the Queen saw me now, she’d banish me from her court. Yet I can’t resist wishing to please this man, who looks at me with admiration and, at the same time, honours my virgin flesh. What they say about him being a womaniser cannot be true. Or perhaps he doesn’t consider me woman enough?
I steal a sideways glance at him. He has rested a canvas on a wooden contraption, which, I’ve found out, is called an easel. He holds a twin-headed stick in his hand and is sketching in the highlights and lowlights of my portrait.
‘Stay still, dolcezza,’ he admonishes. ‘You’re fidgeting.’ He has called me sweetness, but not in a lover’s voice. He has used the same tone an uncle would use with a niece. The painter must think me such a child, even if he can’t be more than ten years my senior.
Keeping my gaze on the far wall, I let my mind wander. What would Dorotea do to show this man that she’s ripe for plucking? No, Cecilia! You mustn’t think like that! You need to keep your purity.
The artist picks up a palette, the wood curving in such a way that it seems as if some beast has bitten a chunk out of it. He clips on his swag of brushes and his pot, with what I presume is a mixture of linseed oil and turpentine. I’m envious as I study him, wishing I had his abilities.
At length he has finished. ‘Are you thirsty, Lady Cecilia? Would you like some wine?’
I nod my agreement, get up from the stool and wander over to the easel. He hands me a goblet and I stare at the canvas. Not only has he caught my physical characteristics, he seems to have caught my spirit as well: the flash of defiance in my eyes, the stubbornness of my chin. I’ll never be as great an artist as this man. ‘My art is nothing compared with yours,’ I say.
‘Let me be the judge of that. Did you bring anything to show me?’
‘No. I rushed out when I heard you call and left my work behind.’ I decide there and then not to let him see what I’ve accomplished thus far. Better to learn from him first.
‘Come, let me show you my paints and explain the language of colour.’
He leads me to the far wall, where there’s a grindstone and glass jars containing vivid powders. ‘These are liquefied with oil, drop by drop.’ He picks up his brushes and caresses them lovingly as if they were women’s tresses.
‘What are the brushes made of?’ I ask, although I know the answer already.
‘Horsehairs wrapped with waxed string onto sticks, or small clumps of squirrel fur forced into bird quills which are then inserted into narrow wooden batons.’
‘How interesting,’ I say, with a flutter of my eyelashes.
‘The brushes are graded according to the size of the bird that suffered to provide them: crow, duck, small swan, large swan…’
I put my hand to my mouth. ‘They aren’t alive, surely, when they’re de-feathered?’
The artist laughs and indicates his collection of colours, showing me the most precious ultramarine blue, ground from lapis lazuli, and cerulean, as transparent and luminous as the lagoon. Cobalt needs the addition of lead white to maintain intensity, whereas indigo, dark blue-black like the night sky, should be used for background work. He goes through all his other tints, talking of them as if they were old friends. My head is spinning by the time he has finished.
‘Come, dolcezza,’ he says. ‘I must take you back to the Queen’s palazzo. Can you feign sickness tomorrow? I shall come for you in the morning. We can make a start on your lessons.’
I realise that if I do nothing, he will not kiss me, and I have been thinking of nothing else for hours. So, I plant myself in front of him and place my hands on his chest. I raise my head and, finally, his lips meet mine and he kisses me so deeply I’m dissolving. My body becomes liquid in his embrace, and the feeling is wonderful.
Finally, he pulls back and gazes into my eyes. ‘Lady Cecilia, you have my heart.’
What does he mean? I want to ask, but he grabs my cape from the hook by the door and wraps it around my body. ‘Come,’ he says. ‘The hour is late.’
Back in San Cassiano, I collapse on my bed, my entire body throbbing. Eventually, I drop off to sleep, with the memory of his kisses in my thoughts. Some hours later, although it seems like only moments, Dorotea is shaking me. ‘Wake up, Cecilia!’
I groan and open my eyes. Then I clutch my belly. ‘I have my monthly pains,’ I lie. ‘Can you manage without me?’
‘We shall have to, won’t we?’ she huffs.
A smile bubbles up from within me. I gulp it back down again and make an effort to look indisposed. ‘I shall be better momentarily,’ I say. ‘Must be the journey here that has upset my humours.’
‘Domina has just told me we go to her villa on Murano tomorrow. She has invited the Marques of Mantova for a pranzo.’ Dorotea shakes a finger. ‘You had better be well enough by then.’
I peer up at her from my pillow, only something strange is happening. The edges to Dorotea’s body are blurring and she starts to fade.
Then I feel someone shaking me.
Shake, shake, shake. I wished whoever was doing that would stop. It was most rude of them.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Zorzo?’ I reached for his hand and found my own enveloped in a bear paw. What was Zorzo doing in my room?
‘It’s Luca,’ the voice said. ‘You’ve had another one of your episodes.’
‘Who?’ His tone was familiar, but my mind struggled to place the name. I opened my eyes, then closed them again, blocking out the sight of a stranger with hair cut shorter than I’d ever seen anyone wear and strange, dark eyeglasses. I pulled my hand back.
‘Luca,’ the man repeated.<
br />
Recall whooshed through my mind, whirling around like surf on a beach before retreating and leaving me giddy.
‘Luca . . .’ I ran trembling hands up and down my arms.
Of course.
I’d come to Venice with Luca.
We’d gone to the Accademia and I’d seen Giorgione’s painting. I remembered staring at the naked lady, remembered seeing Cecilia staring back, remember Luca calling her my nemesis. I remembered the bolt of familiarity as I’d contemplated the two other paintings by Bellini. Remembered the cocktail I’d drunk had been named after him. Remembered staring at this square and seeing Zorzo’s studio, the place where love had flowed through my veins for the first time. Not your veins, Fern. Cecilia’s. Your first love was Harry, wasn’t it?
Suddenly, the blood rushed from my head and I swayed. I wanted to be back with the painter; my soul ached for him.
‘Here, take a sip of water,’ Luca said, grabbing the bottle and glass from the next table and ignoring the startled expressions of its occupants.
‘I’ll be fine. It always feels like this when I come to. Just give me a minute.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely,’ I said, sipping from the glass and swallowing my anguish. ‘Maybe you should apologise to those people…’
Luca clapped a hand to his forehead. ‘Scusi,’ he said to the startled elderly couple. He handed the half-empty bottle back and ordered another one for them. After paying for it, he held out his hand to me. ‘Some lunch will make you feel better.’
I kept my hand in his, telling myself we were walking alongside canals and crossing bridges, and, if I had another so-called episode, I didn’t want to fall into the water.
My hand feels safe in his. Protected. Cared-for.
I stopped myself from thinking silly thoughts, and soon we’d arrived at the Trattoria alla Madonna, where we ate a delicious meal of fish risotto, followed by grilled sea bass and green salad served with chilled white wine. I filled Luca in about what had happened between Cecilia and Zorzo. He listened, nodding but keeping his thoughts to himself. ‘I’ll show you San Marco,’ he said when we’d finished our lunch. ‘It’s definitely worth a visit.’
LADY of VENICE Page 8