LADY of VENICE

by Siobhan Daiko

This was going to be one of my best paintings ever.

  Two hours later, I put down my brush, satisfied. I’d leave my work to dry by the window and have a cup of coffee.

  I sat at the kitchen table and closed my eyes, thinking about my nemesis… as Luca called her. Who was Lorenza? I hadn’t said anything to Luca yet, but something told me Lorenza was the key to the mystery of why Cecilia was possessing me.

  I frowned, trying to remember the names of all the characters I’d met when I’d been in the past. There hadn’t been anyone called Lorenza. Could she have been one of Giorgione’s other models?

  I thought about my visit to Venice. Cecilia was impetuous, that was for sure. She was playing with fire. Fire. The word jangled in my mind like an alarm. I shut my eyes again, and the familiar buzzing sensation filled my head.

  The dining hall in the Barco is decorated for the Christmas celebrations. The Queen is giving a banquet, and we shall feast until we’re fit to burst. It’s been months since I’ve seen the painter. He has a commission in Venice from the Council of Ten, to paint a picture for the Hall of the Audience in the Doge’s Palace. A great honour, and I try not to be sad that we are kept apart by it. Although, if I were to be honest with myself, we’d have little chance to see each other there. It is difficult to get out from under the Queen’s shadow.

  Zorzo and I haven’t lain together since that first time, and I find little consolation in seeking my own joy under the sheets while Dorotea is snoring. After a few fumbled attempts, I’ve given up on it, for the sensation can’t be compared with what I experienced with my painter. As for my art, I do what I can, which is drawing only. How can I find the right materials to paint here in the middle of the countryside? And even if I could find them, I don’t have the coin to buy them.

  I take a sip of wine and glance around the assembled company. There’ll be music and dancing after the meal, but my heart isn’t in it. With my elbow on the table, I rest my chin on my hand. My neck prickles. Someone is staring at me. I turn my head and my gaze encounters Lodovico Gaspare’s. Gesù bambino! He licks his thin lips and smiles. A sense of foreboding grips me, and the saliva drains from my mouth.

  After the last course, we assemble for the dancing. I know the man from Ferrara will be waiting, and he is. ‘Dance with me, Lady Cecilia,’ he says, bowing.

  I drop into a deep curtsey, as I should, and incline my head, as I should. For months I’ve tried to convince myself that I’ll never see him again, but here he is now, standing far too close to me. Thank God his breath is no longer fishy, or it would spoil the scent of pine from the evergreen decorations around the hall. I force a smile, while my whole being shouts, Run away from him!

  The musicians are tuning up and the court takes to the floor. How can I refuse to dance with him? I tell myself there’s nothing he can do to me here in public and I swallow my disgust. I let him take my hand. At his touch, my stomach tightens… and a sick feeling swells my gullet. We join a circle, holding hands, moving to one side and then to the other. Lodovico leans toward me and whispers, ‘I apologise for my behaviour the last time we met. You’ve bewitched me, Lady Cecilia. I didn’t know what I was doing.’

  My chest tightens, and I step back. His crooked white teeth flash, and his thin lips are moist with spittle.

  Oh, blessed Mary, the Queen is signalling to me that she wishes to retire. Relief floods through me as I make my reverences to the man from Ferrara, whose brow wrinkles in a frown.

  The next day, my sister visits. I haven’t seen her since she gave birth to her child at the end of the summer.

  ‘How is the babe?’ I ask, linking arms with her and strolling toward the fountain.

  ‘He thrives,’ she says, smiling. ‘I’ve decided to call him Tommaso after our father.’

  ‘And your husband? Does he thrive too?’

  ‘He’s afflicted with boils at present.’

  ‘Oh, poor man. Where on his body?’

  Fiammetta peers at me sideways. ‘On his buttocks.’

  I put my hand over my mouth, trying to still my laughter. Impossible. I shake with mirth and my sister joins me. We clutch each other, and the tears run down our cheeks.

  ‘Oh, how I’ve missed you, Cecilia. Everyone is so stuffy in Treviso,’ she says. ‘Rambaldo’s family is pompous and disregards me for not bringing a dowry to our marriage.’

  I stare at her. ‘What about your beautiful villa? Surely they would consider it dowry enough?’

  ‘Huh! They’re wealthy, but greedy with their riches. They say it is too small.’ She sighs. ‘And what about you, sweet sister?’ She lifts my chin and turns my face from side to side. ‘Has any man shown an interest yet?’

  I’ve never kept secrets from Fiammetta in the past; however, I know she’ll not approve of my painter. ‘No,’ I lie, crossing my fingers behind my back. ‘They all consider me a child still.’

  Fiammetta stands back and looks me up and down. ‘You’ve filled out since last I saw you. Those womanly curves will have men standing in line for you before too long.’

  Footsteps sound on the pathway and I let out a gasp as Lodovico Gaspare approaches. Maria Santissima, will I ever be free of that man? We make our reverences and I introduce Fiammetta, taking care to stress her married name.

  His eyes flick over her as if she were a juicy piece of meat. Last night, I’d escaped him for the Queen’s desire to retire early. At least I’m in the company of my sister now. There’s nothing Lodovico can do to me here. I glance at her and, Madre di Dio, she’s fluttering her eyelashes at him and giving him one of “her” smiles. Of course, compared with Rambaldo, Lodovico Gaspare is a veritable Adonis.

  We stroll past the fountain toward the bare trees in the fruit orchards, the grass crisp with frost beneath our feet. I wrap my cape around me; the cold of the day has turned into early evening’s freeze.

  Lodovico Gaspare leaves us, and my sister pinches my cheek. ‘He will ask for your hand, mark my words, Cecilia. You’ve made a formidable conquest, and this will be a good match.’

  My bowels turn to water. ‘No. I’m sure you’re wrong. He will try to make me his mistress, and I’ll refuse him. That man disgusts me.’

  Fiammetta takes my hand. ‘Sweet sister, you have to think of the future. The Queen is ageing, despite her wish to believe the contrary. I’ve noticed a difference since my wedding. You know she isn’t well.’

  It is true. From the time of our return to the Barco from Venice, Domina has taken to her bed more and more often straight after supper. A tremor passes through me and I grab hold of Fiammetta’s arm. ‘What will happen to me if she should die?’

  ‘You’ll need a protector.’ My sister’s tone is practical. ‘It is the way of the world, my dear. I’ve heard speak of the man from Ferrara. His family is rich with lands and money. If he doesn’t ask for your hand, you should become his mistress. Lodovico Gaspare will ply you with gifts and property to keep for your old age.’

  ‘I’m not a courtesan,’ I say, shocked.

  ‘Of course, you aren’t. This is different. He would be the only man to whom you’d give yourself.’

  Unable to tell my sister what I truly think, I distract her from this topic of conversation by asking about Tommaso. Fiammetta then gives me a blow by blow account of the first three months of her baby boy’s life. I wonder how she could leave him with his wet nurse so much does she dote on him. All the while she prattles on, encouraged by the occasional nod from me, I worry about the man from Ferrara…

  Baby Jesus, spare me, I beg of you!

  Our circuit of the gardens over, Fiammetta and I return to the Queen’s chamber to help her prepare for lunch. My sister will stay tonight and go back to Treviso tomorrow in time for Christmas. I hope Lodovico Gaspare’s visit to the court will be just as short.

  After we’ve eaten, the Queen retires for an afternoon rest. With time to myself, I take my sketches from the chest in the corner of the room that I share with Dorotea, and where Fiammetta will also join us
tonight. I unroll the parchment and stare at the drawing I made of Zorzo. Bending down, I kiss his charcoal lips. A feeling of such longing passes through me. I stifle a sob.

  ‘Dolcezza,’ comes a whisper.

  I turn around, my head spinning.

  ‘Are you asleep?’ a voice echoed. I’d been dreaming. Of a man I couldn’t have. Of an impossible love. Zorzo in Venice and me, penniless, dependent on the ailing Queen.

  ‘Fern?’ the voice repeated. ‘Wake up!’

  I opened my eyes, and my soul cried out in pain. I didn’t want to be in the twentieth century. I wanted to be back in the room Cecilia shared with Dorotea. To find out if that whispered, dolcezza, had been real or not. I rubbed my throbbing forehead.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Auntie,’ I said, peering at the woman who was touching my arm in concern.

  Auntie knitted her brows. ‘Have you had another funny turn?’

  ‘Just a strange dream.’ I shook my fuzzy head. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘One o’clock.’

  I got to my feet. A pile of potatoes was stacked by the sink. ‘Let me peel those for you, Auntie.’

  ‘Thanks, love. I’ll grill us some chops for our lunch.’

  ‘Remember I’m going riding this afternoon,’ I reminded her as I picked up the peeler.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time.’

  Chiara was right. It was like getting back on a bicycle. Magic’s back was broad, though, and my jeans chafed against my thighs. I’d borrowed a pair of boots and a hat from Vanessa, who wore the same size as me, but borrowing breeches hadn’t been an option. Both she and Chiara were much taller.

  Side by side, Chiara and I took the path that meandered between the cornfields, our horses trotting down the dirt track, the late afternoon sun warming our backs. A cuckoo was making desperate calls in the cherry tree to our right, and soon came the bubbling reply of his mate.

  ‘I can see you know what you’re doing,’ Chiara said. ‘Let’s have a canter.’ She was riding a much livelier mount than mine. ‘Pegasus can’t wait much longer.’

  ‘Pegasus?’ I repeated, stunned.

  ‘Not very original, is it?’ Chiara laughed then surged ahead. Her back straight, she seemed practically glued to the saddle.

  ‘Come on, Magic!’ I gathered in my reins and urged him forward. I’d always loved cantering and relaxed into the movement, my bottom taut. It was just a coincidence that Chiara’s horse should have the same name as Cecilia’s, I told myself. It was a common enough name. But, even so, the hairs on my arms tingled. I stared ahead, keeping Chiara in sight.

  I hope she waits for me.

  She’d disappeared in a cloud of dust, but Magic’s pace, even though he was doing his best, was much slower.

  Where is she?

  I can’t be on my own.

  Not doing something that Cecilia loved.

  I’ll have a flash-back and fall off.

  The path turned at the end of the field and there was Chiara, who’d dismounted and was examining Pegasus’ right foreleg. ‘He’s gone a little lame,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, but I’ll have to walk him back.’

  ‘No problem.’ I dismounted and fell into step beside her. ‘I don’t mind walking.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ She shot me a glance. ‘Not much fun for you. Why don’t you ride back the way we came? You can’t miss the villa if you follow the track.’

  ‘No way.’ I said firmly. ‘A walk will do me good and we can have a chat.’

  Chiara regarded me suspiciously. ‘Oh? What about?’

  ‘Nothing special.’ I pretended nonchalance. ‘I’ll tell you about my painting, if you like.’

  A spark of interest flashed in Chiara’s eyes. ‘What do you paint?’

  ‘Mostly landscapes, although I’ve tried my hand at portraiture.’

  ‘Is that your work? I mean, are you an artist?’

  ‘No. My day job is with a bank.’ I wouldn’t tell Chiara about my ambition. How it had driven me. How it had almost destroyed me. It was a part of my life I’d buried. I’d asked for a demotion when I’d returned from sick leave after Harry’s death, and these days kept strictly to what was required of me, leaving the other “bright young things”, the yuppies, to fight and outdo each other on their way to the top. ‘I’d give anything to earn enough from my art to devote myself to it full-time,’ I said.

  ‘Why don’t you chuck in your job and give it a go? What’s holding you back?’

  ‘Fear of failure, I suppose. Also, I’ve got a big mortgage…’

  Harry hadn’t made a will, even though we’d been engaged to be married. The proceeds from the sale of his flat and all his investments had gone to his parents. They hadn’t offered me any of it, and I’d been too distraught and too proud to ask.

  ‘I can see my brother likes you a lot,’ Chiara said, changing the subject. ‘I’ve never seen him so besotted.’

  I frowned. ‘We’re just friends. Nothing more. Nothing less.’

  ‘When people say they’re “just friends” it usually means the complete opposite, in my experience,’ Chiara smirked.

  I let out an embarrassed laugh. ‘Not in our case.’ I tilted my head. ‘However, I did wonder why he hasn’t married yet…’

  ‘He used to be a bit of a playboy and always said he hadn’t met the right person.’ Chiara gave me a searching look. ‘Something tells me he’s done that now. He doesn’t regard you as a friend, believe me. How do you feel about him?’

  ‘Well, you don’t pull any punches,’ I laughed again. ‘I like him. I like him a lot. But there are issues in my life I need to sort out...’ My turn to change the subject. ‘Tell me about Federico. How did you meet him?’

  ‘At a rally organised by the Veneto Freedom Party. Some friends of mine from the university took me along.’ Chiara’s face had assumed a dreamy expression. ‘When I talked with him, I just knew he was the right guy for me.’

  ‘Oh? How’s that?’

  ‘He’s so passionate. About politics, about life, about everything.’ Chiara’s smile would have lit up the world. ‘Don’t you think he’s wonderful?’

  I cleared my throat. ‘Well, he’s certainly different.’

  ‘Yeah. He’s nothing like the boys I grew up with. All mammoni.’

  ‘Mammoni?’

  ‘Mamma’s boys. Luca and I are lucky our mother’s English, otherwise we’d suffer from the same oppressiveness as the rest of this matriarchal society.’

  I lifted a brow. ‘The one you’re fighting so hard to preserve?’

  ‘Ha,’ Chiara shrugged off my sarcasm. ‘Actually, recently we’ve thought about joining the Anarchist Party.’

  ‘Wow!’ I clamped my jaw to stop it from dropping. ‘Isn’t that a little extreme?’

  ‘We decided against it,’ Chiara said in a serious tone. ‘Too Tuscan. We feel the influence of Florence and Rome, especially Rome, is bad for the Veneto. And we’re not really Communists.’

  ‘I don’t know much about it. But I do know there are far too many political parties in Italy.’

  ‘You’re right there. The sooner the Veneto can become independent of the frenzy of corruption and argument that rules in Rome the better.’

  Chiara sounded as if she were quoting a dogma, but I didn’t want to go down the route of political discussion. I didn’t know enough about Italian politics, nor did I want to. ‘Tell me more about Federico,’ I said. ‘Does he have a job?’

  ‘He’s an undergraduate still. At least that’s his “cover”.’ Chiara glanced from left to right and I had to bite my lip to stop myself from laughing. Student pranks, that’s all. How could Luca and his mother be so concerned? Then I remembered the bad vibes I’d felt radiating from Federico, the way he’d tried to come on to me, and I shuddered.

  ‘We’re nearly there,’ Chiara said. Within minutes we were unsaddling our horses. ‘You go ahead. I need to bandage Pegasus’ leg. Luca will be back from work soon, and Mum will no doubt want to find out what I’ve said
to you.’ She grinned. ‘I’m not stupid, you know. But I like you and really enjoyed our ride, what there was of it, and I liked talking with you.’

  ‘I did too.’ I returned Chiara’s grin.

  ‘Let’s do it again, then. When Pegusus’ leg is better. I’ll take you farther afield next time. There’s an old Roman road to an ancient chapel hidden in a valley near the mountains. We could take a picnic lunch there. I go to the farmhouse nearby sometimes with Federico. It belongs to my family and it’s the ideal place for him and me to be alone.’

  ‘Sounds wonderful,’ I said.

  I left her at the stables and went back into the villa.

  Vanessa got up from her chair in the living room as I came through the door. The two Labradors, lazing by her feet, lifted their heads then went back to sleep. ‘How did you get on?’ she asked.

  ‘Fine,’ I said. This was so difficult. What did Luca and his mother expect of me? Best to come clean, I supposed. ‘Look, Vanessa. I’m happy to befriend Chiara. She’s a lovely girl. The thing is, she’s realised that you set us up. If I’m to gain her confidence, I can’t be a “spy” … if you know what I mean.’

  ‘I understand,’ Vanessa smiled. ‘Enough said. Pop along to the cloakroom and freshen up while I get us some Prosecco.’

  I changed into my sandals, used the facilities, and washed my hands. I checked my hair was as tidy as it could be, then made my way back to Luca’s mother.

  I could hear voices as I approached.

  Luca’s and Vanessa’s voices.

  I paused in the corridor, not wanting to intrude.

  ‘I’ve fallen for Fern,’ he was saying to his mother. ‘All these years I’ve been searching for someone, not knowing who that “someone” was. Everyone thought I was playing around. It wasn’t a deliberate choice, believe me. Every woman I met felt wrong. That’s not the case with Fern. For the first time, I’ve met someone who feels right. Only she doesn’t seem to want to know.’

  Mortified, I spun on my heel and returned to the bathroom. Then I slammed the door hard, so they’d think I’d just come out from there.