Lady of Asolo

by Siobhan Daiko

  The enclosed veranda on the left opened onto the gardens she’d spied earlier. A bald man was coming towards them, dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and grey tie. He bowed before the contessa, kissing her hand. ‘We are honoured by your presence, Madame.’

  ‘Giuseppe,’ the contessa gave a tinkling laugh. ‘Ever the charmer! We’ll sit in the garden as it’s such a lovely day. This is Fern, a friend of my son’s. Please ask the waiter to bring a bottle of acqua minerale frizzante and some of your delicious pastries.’

  Fern sat next to the contessa at a table under a large umbrella on the patio. ‘The manager here oozes charm from every pore,’ Vanessa Goredan said, ‘but he’s a nice man and keeps this place running like clockwork.’

  ‘It’s beautiful.’ Fern breathed in the scent of honeysuckle growing up the side of the building. ‘Seems old, but not as old as the church.’

  ‘You’re interested in history?’ The contessa inclined her head. ‘I believe it used to belong to Robert Browning, the English poet, back in the 19th century, but it was built in the mid-16th.’

  Fern sat back and closed her eyes, the logical part of her brain fighting with the illogical events of the morning. What she’d experienced in the church had been beyond illogical, though; it had been completely, mind-blowingly incredible. She glanced at Vanessa Goredan and said, ‘I can feel the past here in Asolo. It could be my imagination. Except it’s so vivid, it’s as if I’m there.’

  ‘Are you psychic?’

  Fern laughed. ‘Not at all. I’ve always thought anything like that a load of old rubbish.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dismiss the spirit world, Fern. As Shakespeare said, “there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy”.’

  A rush of embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend your beliefs.’

  ‘No offence taken. But I’m certain that the dead can manifest themselves to us. Our villa, for instance, has a presence in it. Not a malevolent one, mind you. Sometimes, I hear the sound of a lute. Comforting, in a way.’

  What would she think if I told her I’d not only heard a lute but had seen the musician himself? She’d think I’m a loony, that’s what.

  ‘I’m researching our family tree,’ the contessa added. ‘Only I haven’t come across the lute-player yet.’

  ‘Fascinating.’ Fern picked up a small doughnut, sugar scattered on top. She bit into it. Custard-filled. Delicious. She eyed Vanessa Goredan; the contessa was leaning forward, staring into her glass, her long elegant fingers spread around the top. ‘Is your home in Asolo?’

  ‘No, it’s halfway between here and Bassano. I’m only in Asolo today as I’ve been to visit an old lady, Freya Stark, the English writer and explorer. She lives near the Santa Caterina church and was a friend of my mother-in-law’s.’

  ‘How interesting,’ Fern said, making her voice should knowledgeable. She had no idea who the writer was.

  The contessa’s eyes met Fern’s as she put her glass down. ‘You must come and see our villa one day. It’s quite famous.’

  ‘I’d like that.’ Fern pressed the pastry crumbs on the plate with her finger. ‘There’s so much to see around here, and I’m only in Italy till the end of the month.’

  ‘Have you been to Venice yet?’

  ‘It’s on my “to do” list.’ A whispered sigh of approval stroked her cheek. She lifted her hand and brushed it away. The air seemed to crackle around her. Stay focused on the present, Fern! She turned to the contessa. ‘I’m looking for a good spot to do some painting. Can you suggest somewhere?’

  ‘Why not stroll up to the cemetery Sant’Anna? There’re some lovely views.’

  ‘Is it very old?’

  ‘Dates back centuries.’

  ‘Oh, perhaps not,’ Fern said, remembering that the girl in her vision - if that’s what it was – Cecilia, had mentioned the year 1504. ‘Is there anywhere only dating from, say, a couple of hundred years ago I could paint?’

  Luca’s mother gave her a questioning look. ‘Why not stay here? The gardens would make a lovely subject. I’ll okay it with Giuseppe for you, if you like.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I meant what I said about visiting the villa. I’d love it if you could meet my daughter. Luca’s sister, Chiara.’ The contessa sighed. ‘She’s got herself involved with the wrong crowd at university. They go around distributing leaflets about how the Veneto should become independent of Italy. I just hope they aren’t about to become terrorists.’

  ‘Gosh! What a worry for you!’

  ‘It’s that boyfriend of hers, Federico, I’m sure of it. He’s got her twisted around his little finger. Luca and I keep telling her how unsuitable he is, but the more we try and convince her the more she turns to the boy. It would be nice for her to meet someone sane like you.’

  Not that sane . . .

  Within minutes the contessa had arranged a small table overlooking the valley and a glass of water for her paintbrush. Then she took her leave, assuring Fern of an invitation to dinner via her son.

  Fern opened her rucksack and took out a small board. Was she having hallucinations? Not exactly. After clipping paper onto the board, she started to work. Spreading water onto the paper, she asked herself if she could be reliving a past life. Ridiculous. There’s no such thing as reincarnation. She added paint to her palette, a small plastic tray. Maybe the young woman, Cecilia, was a projection of herself? She began transferring the scene in front of her onto the paper: the cypress trees, the vineyards and the olive groves. There were definitely some similarities between herself and the young woman - the same hair and build and something about Cecilia’s personality that reminded her of herself before . . . That’s it! Must be something to do with the fire, some bizarre warp in her brain related to the trauma she’d suffered. She dried her brush on the old rag she kept in her bag, then scuffed it and rubbed it on the palette. Time to add some leaves. And time to get a grip on yourself, Fern!

  4

  ‘Siesta for you, my lovely,’ Aunt Susan said, picking up the plates and taking them to the dishwasher. ‘I’ll take a nap myself. Then we can go for a stroll and I’ll show you what’s left of the Barco. It would make a fabulous setting for one of your watercolours.’

  ‘Barco?’

  ‘Caterina Cornaro’s country estate. There’s part of the east wing still standing and this house is built near to where the west wing once stood.’

  A chill sliced through Fern. Why? Then she remembered. Cecilia had been about to set off for the Queen’s villa when her horse had spooked and she’d taken a fall. This is becoming too, too weird.

  Fern poured herself a glass of water and took it up to her room. There was a packet of valerian tablets on her bedside table, and she swallowed two. Stretched out on her bed, she stared at the wall opposite. Aunt had framed a watercolour she’d sent her of Westminster Abbey. Fern had sold the same print to a greetings card company only last month, with the promise of further commissions as soon as she could come up with them. Art was what had saved her sanity after she’d lost Harry. He’d been everything she’d ever wanted, and he’d died because of her.

  She felt tears prickle, but she swallowed her distress. It was something she’d got used to doing; if she’d let them flow she wouldn’t have been able to stop. Don’t think about Harry! Don’t think about what you did! Don’t think about how he died!

  Sleep came, and the next thing Fern knew her aunt was calling from outside her door.

  ‘Wakey, wakey!’

  Fern rubbed her eyes and glanced at her travel clock. Five pm. She’d slept for three hours. No wonder she felt groggy. ‘Give me a minute,’ she called out.

  In the bathroom, she stared at her reflection. A blur. She squinted and the image wavered like a ripple across a pond.

  ‘Lorenza . . .’

  The whisper tickled her neck. Fern spun around. No one. She looked into the mirror again. Her breath caught. Another woman was staring back at her!
The woman had the same colour hair as hers, and there was something about her that was familiar. Perhaps the mouth and the shape of her face, or the curve of her lips and the arch of her eyebrows. The eyes were different, though: deep brown whereas her own were green.

  Who is she? What is she?

  Fern returned to her bedroom, holding the image in her mind. Her sketchpad was on the desk and she grabbed it along with a pencil. It only took a couple of minutes to produce a rough outline of the face, even though her hands were shaking and her heart thudding. She stared at the result. She’d sketched a self-portrait. Pure and simple.

  My imagination getting the better of me. Again.

  She let out the breath she’d been holding, closed the pad and put it into her rucksack along with the rest of her sketching pencils. Aunt Susan had said the Barco was worth painting.

  I’ll make a start on something today and forget all this nonsense, Fern told herself. She was a rational person; she’d never given in to occult imaginings before, and she certainly wasn’t in any fit state currently for all that malarkey. At school, when her classmates had messed about with Ouija boards and tarot cards, she’d been the sensible one who’d talked them out of their fantasies. She would carry on being sensible now.

  ***

  Crickets screeched in the low bushes beside the dusty road as she strolled with her aunt towards a group of buildings. The air was oppressively hot and perspiration wet Fern’s hairline.

  ‘It seems we’re in for a thunderstorm,’ her aunt said, pointing to the bank of clouds gathered over the distant mountains.

  Within minutes, Aunt Susan was pushing open a gate to what looked like an abandoned farmyard. Fern traipsed behind, her heart fluttering. She knew this place; she was sure of it.

  She turned to her right. More faded frescoes. This time of a hunting scene. Ladies and knights on horses, giving chase to a deer. Something stirred her memory, and she thought of muscular arms holding a paintbrush.

  Fern glanced towards the far end of the building. Where were the fish ponds, the gardens, and the peacocks strutting about with their tails fanned in splendour? The courtyard should be peppered with courtiers or at least their servants, the air redolent with the scent of herbs and spices from the kitchens. All she could see were cornfields. And what had happened to the towers and fortifications?

  Fern’s legs dragged and soon Aunt Susan had left her behind. Almost in a dream, she sat on the balustrade below one of the five rounded columns. They reached to roof height and were mirrored on the opposite side of the building, creating an open area like a patio.

  A loggia, that’s what it’s called . . .

  She took out her sketchpad, but her head spun and that buzzing she’d experienced this morning echoed in her ears.

  ‘Cecilia!’

  I swivel around and let out a gasp.

  ‘Dorotea! You gave me a fright!’

  ‘I don’t know why that should be,’ Dorotea mutters. She pouts in that annoying way of hers. ‘There’s nothing frightening about me.’

  ’Tis true that she is pretty, with her chestnut-coloured hair and milk-white complexion. She’s one of the Queen’s ladies like me, but Dorotea flaunts herself before the court, constantly pulling down her gown to show off her plump breasts, lumpy like pillows. I glance down at my own chest. There would be no point in my doing the same. My bosoms are as small as my fists.

  ‘I have searched for you everywhere,’ she says. ‘Why are you sitting here?’

  I peer around and give a shiver. I had been feeling lost for some unfathomable reason; the world about me had crumbled and changed. But now everything is as it should be and I tell myself not to let fantasies rule my mind. ‘I was daydreaming,’ I say, slipping the sheet of paper and black chalk into my pocket. I will not show my work to anyone.

  Dorotea lets out a dismissive laugh. Far be it for her to ever have her head in the clouds or even do anything the slightest bit creative. ‘My lady requests our presence,’ she says. ‘There’s to be a banquet this evening, don’t forget. For the Hapsburg Emperor and his wife.’

  We make our way upstairs to the Queen’s chamber and Dorotea whispers, ‘Pietro Bembo will also be at the feast. He proposed a liaison last time he was here. I would love to be his mistress.’

  I glance at her, torn between disapproval and jealousy. My lady insists her women keep their virtue, and I have done so. Except Bembo, her kinsman, is possessed of such wit and good looks that Dorotea has sought his attention. I pray she will not be hurt, for his station is high and this can only be a dalliance on his part, especially as he is a cleric. It would be wonderful if he decided to read from his discourse on love. He wrote it on the occasion of Fiammetta’s wedding, and I long to hear it.

  I miss my sister. Fiammetta is expecting a child - as she should be after a year of marriage. What is it like to lie with a man? The thought makes my chest squeeze and the blood pulse between my legs. Yet I know that I would not give myself to any man who flattered me; I’m hoping for marriage.

  Stupid Cecilia, your life is here with the Queen. No one will want you as you are poor and, even if the courtiers compliment you on your beauty, none of them will take you to the altar. It has been the greatest surprise of my twelve months at court that men should consider me beautiful in spite of my small bosoms.

  As if reading my thoughts, Dorotea says, ‘Isn’t it about time you took a lover, Cecilia?’

  ‘M . . . m . . . me?’ I stutter.

  ‘I have seen the gleam in men’s eyes – even Bembo’s – yet you seem oblivious to their admiration. What are you waiting for?’

  ‘I’m not waiting.’ I cannot tell Dorotea of my hopes for a good marriage like my sister, and of going to my wedding night pure. Dorotea would think me naive; she would not be wrong, perhaps. ‘My lady keeps me close to her. There has not been the opportunity.’

  ‘Not true and you know it,’ she says and her laughter echoes up the stairwell. She pinches my cheek. ‘This fair flesh will fade before too long. How old are you now?’

  ‘Sixteen,’ I retort and I cannot keep the irritation from my voice. Who is she to talk to me this way? Only one year older, and the daughter of a local aristocrat who has fallen on hard times, she has much in common with me. Except for her easy virtue.

  ‘Let’s hurry,’ I say. ‘My lady doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’ And I bite my tongue before I let it give her a piece of my mind.

  The wooden stairs have been polished until they gleam and the soft soles of my shoes make no sound as I follow Dorotea to the landing. ‘Just a moment. I need to wash my hands.’

  There’s a washstand at the end of the corridor and a jug of water beside it. I glance at my reflection in the mirror. A strange woman stares back at me. Her hair is uncovered, and ’tis unruly like mine. The woman has a look of me, except her eyes are green. I glance behind me, yet there’s no one there. And when I gaze in the mirror again, ’tis but myself that I see. Very strange! I didn’t take any wine at lunch, so I can’t blame my vision on drink. ‘Tis but a figment of my imagination, I decide.

  I wash the black chalk from my fingers, turn on my heel, and go to my lady. She smiles when she sees Dorotea and me. ‘My sweet girls,’ she says. ‘What took you so long?’

  We drop into deep curtseys and, as I rise, I feel as if I am not really there but looking at myself from a great distance. ’Tis the same feeling I had when I was sitting in the loggia. How odd! Pure whimsy, I tell myself and brush the feeling aside. Yet a chill squeezes my heart at the same time.

  ‘Fetch my best pearls,’ my lady commands. ‘And I would like to wear cloth of gold this evening. In honour of our visitors.’

  Running a comb through the Queen’s thinning hair, I wonder about the Emperor and his wife, Bianca Maria Sforza, the daughter of the Duke of Milan. Is she beautiful?

  ‘Ouch,’ my lady says. ‘Take care!’

  ‘Pray forgive me, domina,’ I mumble, dropping into another curtsey. My poor lady has suffer
ed so much from my ineptitude when dressing her. She has a soft spot for me, however, thank the Holy Virgin, and always excuses me.

  The banqueting hall next to the loggia is large, with three long tables making the three sides of a square. We sit at the central table. Musicians tune their instruments in the gallery at the far end.

  I gaze around at the assembled company and let out a gasp. Seated at the right of the Empress, is a man I am sure I have seen before. He’s short and thin, his face is pale, and there is a scar on his left cheek. Shuddering, I turn my glance to Bembo, on the Queen’s left. Fair-haired and light-eyed, he is the complete opposite of the stranger. Bembo speaks in Tuscan, the language in which he writes. I can follow his discourse without difficulty, for I have studied the great writers of that province. Nevertheless, I wish he would not show off so. I would prefer him to speak Venetian or even the Greek to which I am more accustomed.

  ‘Well, Bembo,’ my lady says. ‘You think we should all be conversing in the tongue of Florence, do you?’

  ‘In every town in Italy the mode of speech is different from everywhere else.’ His smile is lopsided. ‘Yet Florentine is the language of Petrarch, and this is the model I take for my writing, for it is the most lucid and elegant. Do not call this Tuscan, but Italian.’

  ‘There is no such thing as Italy,’ she says. ‘Even the Borgia Pope failed to conquer us all and form one state.’

  Bembo gives her a steely look. ‘Not so. There is strength in unification. Italy needs to face up to the French and the Spanish.’

  ‘I quite agree,’ the Emperor Maximilian says. I remember he was unable to stop the French king from conquering his wife’s city of Milan four years ago. I eye his beaky nose and loose, fleshy lower lip. An ugly man and his wife is hardly a beauty either, with her receding chin.