Lady of Asolo

by Siobhan Daiko

  Fern nodded. There was no way she would get on a horse. Not after her strange vision this morning . . .

  ‘Aren’t you staying for dinner?’ Vanessa asked her daughter.

  ‘Sorry, but I’m meeting Federico. I told you this morning, didn’t I?’

  ‘Ah, I’d forgotten. What time are you coming home?’

  ‘I’m twenty-one not eleven. I’ll be home when I’m home.’

  ‘While you live under my roof, you’ll follow my rules. I want you back by midnight.’ Vanessa’s gaze followed Chiara as she marched off, then she turned to Fern. ‘I apologise for my daughter. She’s becoming quite impossible. First, she drops out of university. Second, she runs around with all sorts of wrong people. I don’t know what to do with her.’ She sighed. ‘Dinner should be ready now. Let’s go into the dining room.’

  Luca stood and held out his hand to Fern. He led her into the family’s apartments in the right-hand wing of the villa. Furnished in what she guessed were Italian country antiques, it had none of the opulence of a stately home, even though a maid had prepared their meal and waited on them at table. Fern felt herself relax.

  After a starter of prosciutto with melon, washed down with a lightly chilled red wine, the maid served them thinly sliced grilled fillet steak with roast potatoes and salad.

  ‘This is lovely,’ Fern said. While eating, she racked her brains, trying to remember if she’d read anything about Giorgione before coming to Italy. But she couldn’t place him. She would try and find a book about him when she visited Venice.

  Luca’s brother and his wife joined them after dinner for coffee. Antonio had the same blue eyes as Luca and he chatted to Fern about the family business. His wife, Michela, was mousy and quiet, hardly saying a word. They lived in a house on the estate and had three young children: two boys of eight and six, and a girl of three, whom they’d left in the care of their English au-pair.

  At around eleven, Luca took Fern home. ‘Thanks for a wonderful evening,’ she said as he pulled up in front of Aunt Susan’s house. ‘I like your family. Antonio’s wife is very reserved, though, isn’t she?’

  ‘They’ve been married for ten years and she’s even now somewhat in awe of la contessa, as she still calls her.’

  ‘Oh, why’s that?’

  ‘Antonio met her at Padova University. Unlike me, he opted for further education in Italy. She comes from a family of factory workers. Ma isn’t a snob, of course, and does everything she can to put Michela at her ease. The problem isn’t Ma but Michela. I don’t think she’ll ever change.’

  ‘I see.’ Some people are natural introverts. ‘Are you sure you can spare the time to take me to Venice?’

  ‘Absolutely! I’ll pick you up at 8 am on Tuesday.’ He leaned over to kiss her on both cheeks.

  She pecked his cheeks in return, catching the spicy scent of his after-shave. Luca leapt out of the car and opened the door for her before she had a chance to do it herself. He touched her briefly on the arm. A friendly gesture, nothing more. Fern said goodnight, and marched with determined steps towards Aunt Susan’s front door.

  7

  Sitting on the stone lip of the fishpond, I feel drowsy in the warmth of this early summer’s afternoon. My lady and the rest of the court are taking a postprandial siesta. I couldn’t sleep, and tiptoed out here as soon as Dorotea was snoring next to me in the quarters we share.

  I trail my fingers in the lukewarm water, green like the moss that grows up the statue of a putto, with its childlike genitalia and feathery wings, gracing a plinth in the shade of the cypress tree. Golden carp swim in lazy circles, nibbling at my thumb, and a dragonfly dips down for a drink before flitting away again. I think about the painter and wonder when I shall see him next. Hearing footsteps on the path, I blush and lift my gaze. Not the painter, but the ferrarese, Signor Lodovico. Oh, would that he not see me with my cheeks so pink; he might think I’m blushing for him . . .

  I stand and we make our reverences, Signor Lodovico bowing and doffing his hat. I curtsey and keep my eyes downcast in order for him not to consider me forward.

  ‘Will you go to Venice with my lady next week?’ He lowers himself to sit on the stone bench by the pond. I perch next to him.

  ‘To her palazzo in San Cassiano.’ I’m unable to keep the excitement from my voice. I have heard that Signor Zorzo’s studio is in a campo nearby, and, as he isn’t at court, he might well be there.

  ‘Ah,’ the ferrarese frowns. ‘I depart tomorrow to attend the Duke.’

  I’ve heard such stories of the Duchess of Ferrara, Lucrezia Borgia, and ponder whether to ask him about her. In the end, my curiosity gets the better of me and I say, ‘Is it true she did know the heat of a bed with her brother?’

  Signor Lodovico glances from left to right. ‘Those were but rumours put about by the Valentino’s enemies.’

  I’m not interested in politics, and request more information about the Duchess instead. Signor Lodovico appears pleased to spread the gossip. ‘They say she did know Francesco, Marquis of Mantova, but that knowledge has ended since he came down with the pox, and now she has become the lover of Pietro Bembo.’

  ‘Oh.’ Poor Dorotea – she will not be able to compete with a duchess. ‘And does the Duke not mind?’

  ‘As long as she brings forth sons of his blood, and runs the household well, he’s happy to look the other way.’

  ‘And what does he see when he looks?’ I have heard rumours of Alfonso, Duke of Ferrara’s, many affairs.

  ‘No woman as beautiful as you.’

  Cecilia, you should not have spoken of the heat of bedrooms.

  I pretend to be shocked, deliberately opening my eyes wide and letting a hand fly to my mouth. Except, Signor Lodovico leans in and tries to kiss me. I twist my face away from him, repulsed by the fishy stench of his breath. He might have picked his teeth after lunch! He persists, and puts his arms around me, pulling me against him. I wish I had never thought this man fascinating, and I’m filled with disgust. Not only does his mouth stink of fish, but his lips are like fishes’ lips, thin and flat and bony.

  I push my hands against his chest. He takes them in his, and pins my wrists together. ‘Hush, cara. I presume this is your first time. Relax and it will be easier for you.’

  Easier? What does he mean? Surely he’ll not take me here in the open? Am I about to lose my maidenhead? ‘No,’ I say. ‘Not here.’ He’s so much stronger than I am that I won’t be able to stop him if that’s his intent.

  Lodovico laughs. ‘Signorina Cecilia, I did but mean your first kiss. You want me to make love to you?’ His thin lips curl in a smile that makes me recoil.

  ‘No. Of course not,’ I splutter. ‘I’m a maid and will remain so until I’m wed.’

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ he says with another laugh, the straight white scar on his cheek has turned livid. ‘And you shall have an even more spectacular wedding than your sister, I hope. In the meantime, let me caress you. I’ve been longing to taste your sweetness. Don’t deny me!’

  He pulls me to him again, untying the laces on my sleeves so that my shoulders are bared and he slobbers at them like a hungry beast. I flail at him with my fists. He doesn’t seem to notice and his bony mouth travels down to my chest. Summoning all my strength I push at him again. Finally he lifts his head and I catch sight of the spittle on his lips and the hotness of desire in his eyes.

  ‘I said to relax.’ Desire changes to anger in his expression. He takes my hand and places it on his codpiece. ‘Can’t you feel how much I want you?’

  I let out a cry and whip my hand away. ‘No!’

  Fern woke with a start and gulped in the cool night air. Disgust still squeezed her gut - a revulsion so palpable she could taste it. She’d been dreaming, but it had all seemed so real. She could still smell Lodovico’s fishy breath. She gagged.

  A knock at her bedroom door, and Aunt poked her head around. ‘Are you all right, my lovely? I heard a shout.’

  ‘I’m fine. Just a d
ream, that’s all,’ Fern said, her voice scratchy. ‘Please don’t worry.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Aunt gave her an uncertain look. ‘I’ll make you a cup of camomile tea. Come downstairs.’

  In the kitchen, Aunt Susan handed Fern a warm mug. Her teeth chattered as she lifted it to her mouth. She sat on her usual chair and sipped, her mind flitting between what had happened to her as Cecilia and the comforting reality of the woman in front of her, who was adding sugar to her drink and opening a tin of biscuits. ‘Was it the usual nightmare?’ Aunt Susan asked, offering her a digestive.

  Fern shook her head. The memory of Lodovico’s fishy lips on hers made her stomach churn again. Had he gone on to force himself on Cecilia? It was all so strange; she couldn’t continue like this: keeping her dreams and visions from her aunt. She had to tell her.

  ‘I’m not dreaming about the fire anymore.’ She put her mug down. ‘Something very odd is happening.’

  ‘Tell me what’s wrong, my lovely. I’ll see if I can help.’

  She told Aunt Susan everything she’d told Vanessa and Luca, adding the latest incident. However the more she talked, the more she became aware of how weird she was sounding. Her aunt’s expression was indecipherable and soon Fern began to falter. ‘You think I’m crazy . . .’

  ‘No, I don’t. I think you’re still suffering from what happened two years ago. Somehow, your mind has become confused.’

  ‘But it seems so real.’

  ‘I’m sure it does.’ Aunt Susan sighed. ‘Be sensible,’ she said, her Welsh lilt even more pronounced than usual. ‘We can’t relive past lives. It’s physically impossible.’

  ‘How could I know so much about life hundreds of years ago if I wasn’t actually living it? I do know it sounds impossible. I’ve had that argument with myself, believe me. It’s just that I can smell things, taste things and even touch things, and be touched by them when I’m there.’ She shuddered. ‘You can’t do that in a dream.’

  Aunt Susan patted her hand. ‘You must have read a book or seen a film. And now your imagination is getting the better of you.’

  ‘No. I don’t think so. It’s far too vivid. I couldn’t possibly know so many details unless I’ve actually been there. Cecilia is real; she’s not just in my mind.’

  ‘Something has certainly upset you, I agree. Tomorrow I’ll take you to the hospital and we’ll see if they can prescribe you something.’

  ‘No more medication, Auntie. I’m done with all of that. There’s nothing wrong with me.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I don’t want to see a doctor. Next thing I’ll have a “mentally ill” label slapped on me again, and I’ll be declared unfit to work. I went through all that last year. I’m over it.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely. I know how it must seem, but I’m not making this up.’ She fingered her mouth, still bruised from Lodovico’s advances. How could that be? She felt exhausted, and crushed by her aunt’s lack of belief. ‘I’m sorry to have woken you up. Let’s go back to bed. I feel fine now.’

  ***

  And she was fine; she took her valerian tablets and slept dreamlessly. When she woke, the taste of Lodovico had gone. Bright sunshine lit the garden, illuminating the olive leaves and small white flowers that would later fruit. Aunt Susan had suggested Fern go for a walk after breakfast, so she set off down the road. The closer she got to the ruins of the Barco, the more she felt anxiety prickling her spine. She turned around and marched in the opposite direction, past the row of houses beyond her aunt’s, heading towards the centre of the village.

  The sun warmed her shoulders; she took off her denim jacket and bundled it into her rucksack next to her sketchpad. A watercolour sky, washed with blue, and, beyond the fields soared the Asolan hills, the towers, and the turrets of the town itself. Such light! Her fingers itched to paint it.

  A street market was in full swing when she reached the main square. She sat for a while at a café and contemplated the hustle and bustle, so different yet at the same time so familiar. Brightly coloured vegetables piled high; cheeses of every shape and variety, their rich, greasy aromas tickling her nostrils; scaly fish displayed on crushed ice, mouths gaping and eyes staring blankly. No! Nausea swept over her. Focus on the now! Keep your mind in the present!

  Her ears tuned into the cries of the vendors competing with the shouted conversations of the shoppers, haggling over every Lira. A young couple were holding hands and exchanging kisses at the next table, their backs to her, and a group of elderly men were playing cards at the one beyond. Life going on as usual. No one out of place.

  Aunt Susan had to be right – it was physically impossible to go back and relive the past. There was no need for her to see a doctor and absolutely no reason for any strong medication. Her herbal pills were adequate. She’d slept like a log after she’d taken them last night, hadn’t she? Soon this holiday would be over; she’d go back to her job as an accounts manager at City Bank in London and get on with her life. It was time to move on. She’d never forget the fire and what had happened to Harry, it would mark her forever, but she’d cope with her angst by losing herself in her work and her art.

  She took some change from her purse, and went to pay for her cappuccino. As she squeezed between her table and the next, the young woman who’d been exchanging kisses with the young man looked up. ‘Chiara,’ Fern said, recognising Luca’s sister. ‘Hello!’

  Chiara introduced her boyfriend, Federico, who flashed a crooked white-toothed smile at Fern. Lodovico’s smile. Her pulse leaping, Fern felt as if past and present had smashed into each other in a warped collision. All she could do was stand and stare, while every instinct screamed, Get the hell out of here! Chiara was gazing at Federico in adoration. The young man gave Fern a lazy smile, curling his thin lips in a way that was all too familiar.

  She clenched her fists and brought her trembling hands under control. This couldn’t be Lodovico, pursuing Cecilia down the centuries. Such things didn’t happen. He was just Chiara’s boyfriend who, on closer inspection, looked nothing like Cecilia’s antagonist. Much better-looking, in fact. Federico’s skin was lightly tanned whereas Lodovico’s had been pale. Chiara’s boyfriend’s sun-streaked brown hair was spiked up with hair-gel and the only thing he had in common with Lodovico was thinness about the lips. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said.

  The skin at the back of Fern’s neck tingled. That voice! The timbre of it was exactly the same. Don’t be ridiculous! The dream from last night is still with you, stirring up your imaginings. Yet when Federico’s eyes rested on her, she felt a sharp stab of loathing. The young man was dangerous, she was convinced of it. No wonder Luca was concerned. Federico’s whole aura radiated a need to control other people, much like Lodovico had tried to control Cecilia. ‘Well, it was lovely to see you again, Chiara, and to meet you, Federico,’ Fern said. ‘I should be off now, though.’

  Luca’s sister hardly registered her leave-taking she was so enthralled to the young man, but Federico smirked at Fern and his eyes lingered on her body as if they were undressing her. The little shit! Turning on her heel, Fern made for the bar, where she settled her bill.

  Half an hour later, she arrived at the front gate of the house. It was still early and Aunt Susan would be tapping away at her typewriter. The vista of the hills lured Fern on, and she found herself walking towards the Barco as if she were being reeled in by an unseen cord. She knew this place, after all; it was in her soul. She sat on the same balustrade in the loggia where she’d sat before, only this time instead of that feeling of trepidation her heart was singing. The faded frescos on the far wall shimmered in the sunshine and she could feel Cecilia’s presence.

  The swelling between Signor Lodovico’s legs disgusts me. At my touch, it moves like a snake. Does he want to stick it into me? I push him so hard this time that he falls back. Seizing my chance, I gather my skirts and run to the loggia. The far wall is covered with scaffolding, and there is Signor Zorzo, perched at the top,
dipping his paintbrush into a pot.

  I can see the cartone stuck to wall on the left of him, a drawing of my lady on her destrier with the outline pricked out so it can be transferred to the wall in charcoal. I know how frescoes are created. My whole being cries out to learn more as the desire to paint surges through me. The artist clambers down the ladder and we make our reverences to each other. How I long to throw aside this politeness between us. Instead, I keep my gaze averted and say, pointing to the fresco, ‘How do you do that? Can you show me?’

  ‘You?’ he says in an astonished tone.

  ‘I draw, but I would like to learn the techniques of painting. There is no one here to teach me. If I had been born a boy, I would have been apprenticed to a master just as you were to the great Bellini.’

  ‘Oh, so you know all about me, do you?’ His voice is soft and a smile crinkles his eyes.

  I stamp my foot. ‘Only that you are conceited, and arrogant, and laugh at me for wanting to be something I can never be.’

  ‘Ha! To be a true artist you need a burning in your soul. If you burn with the desire to paint, Signorina Cecilia, you will do so whatever hindrances are put in your way.’

  ‘Please, teach me. I can be your pupil in secret.’

  He bends to gather up his paintbrushes, saying nothing. How dare he ignore me! ‘Let me show you my work,’ I plead.

  ‘Only if you will pose for me, signorina. I have longed to paint you ever since I first set eyes on you.’

  ‘When?’ I ask, unable to keep the eagerness from my voice. Finally, someone will show me how to develop my skills.

  He glances through the arches. ‘There’s time to make a start before the court wakes up. The light is good this afternoon. Follow me.’

  Slinging a bag over his shoulder with one hand, he takes my hand with the other and leads me outside. I look around, checking for Signor Lodovico, but he’s nowhere to be seen. Honeysuckle scents the air and the call of a cuckoo echoes from the lime trees beyond the rose bower. My lady has planned this garden for enjoyment and there are stone benches on the other side of the bushes, hidden from the sight of anyone who might be gazing from a window. ’Tis the perfect place for us.