A frown puckered Fern’s brow. ‘I can sense a darkness in him too. Does Chiara have any other friends? Someone you trust who can talk to her. I know I said I’d try, but surely someone closer to her would have more success?’
‘We’ve gone down that route, believe me. My sister has a strong personality, and her friends have all failed to talk sense into her. They’re at university and concentrating on their studies, like she should be.’
‘All right, then. I’ll do my best.’
Luca restarted the car and drove towards Altivole. He rolled down the window. The night air was redolent with the scent of the honeysuckle growing along the hedges by the side of the road. He wished he could shake off the feeling of foreboding that had settled in his chest.
After he’d switched off the ignition outside Fern’s aunt’s house, Fern reached over and kissed him on the cheek. He turned his head slightly, and her second kiss, aimed at his other cheek, caught him on the side of the mouth. Blushing, she murmured, ‘Sorry.’
‘No need to apologise,’ he said, leaning towards her. Fern’s gaze locked with his and then they were kissing properly. His hands found their way to her hair, burying themselves in her curls. She let out a soft moan and pulled away. ‘Good-night, Luca,’ she said, her voice throaty.
‘Buonanotte, Fern. A domani. See you tomorrow.’
Driving home to Asolo, Luca took a hand from the steering wheel and punched the air. ‘Yes!’
13
‘What are you up to today?’ Aunt Susan asked Fern at breakfast.
‘Just a bit of painting this morning, then I’m going riding with Luca’s sister this afternoon.’
‘That’s nice, my lovely. I remember you used to ride a lot when you were a teenager.’
‘Chiara said it’s like being on a bicycle. Something you don’t forget. Let’s hope she’s right.’ Fern rubbed her tired eyes. Last night, she’d hardly slept for thinking about Luca. She touched her lips, remembering the kiss. How Luca’s mouth had opened over hers and she’d melted into him. The disturbing thing, though, was that when she’d kissed him back, she’d felt Cecilia in her head and it was as if she’d been kissing Zorzo.
Am I going mad? Can I only let myself be attracted to a man who’s been dead for nearly five hundred years?
Fern shook herself. Perhaps she really should see a doctor? This whole situation was becoming far too weird.
She went up to her bedroom and stared at the print of The Tempest, which she’d taped to the back of the door. The girl in the painting seemed to be staring right at her. There was a resemblance to Cecilia, and consequently to herself. The dusky blond hair was held back in a headdress, so it was hard to tell if it was like her own. The girl was definitely a buxom wench, unlike Cecilia, who, so far in the story, had shown herself to be of average build like she was. The Tempest was a highly sensual work of art, though, and she loved it.
She flipped open the book she’d bought on Giorgione and stared at his self-portrait. So strange to find herself here in the 20th Century with her 16th Century love. No! Not your love, Cecilia’s. You really need to get a grip on yourself, Fern!
She spent the morning working on her painting of the palazzo she’d sketched in Murano. It was shaping up nicely. She’d had the photos she’d taken in Venice developed, and she’d pinned them to a board in the corner of Aunt Susan’s kitchen, where she’d improvised her “studio”. She was using acrylics, which worked well with the hard-edged flat image of the building she was depicting.
As she worked, and moved from highlighting the windows and balconies, she began to focus on the trees and sky, remembering Zorzo’s ability to bring movement to the scene through the use of sfumato. She wanted to show the arrival of the night, so she started blurring and softening the sharp outlines by gradually feathering the tones into each other, creating the smoke-like haziness she’d learned from him. That Cecilia learned from him. Then, why not? A stormy sky. Fern shivered with anticipation. This was going to be one of her best paintings ever.
Two hours later, she put down her brush, satisfied. She’d leave her work to dry by the window and have a mug of tea.
Fern sat at the kitchen table. She closed her eyes, thinking about her nemesis, as Luca called her. Who was Lorenza? She hadn’t said anything to Luca yet, but something told her Lorenza was the key to the mystery of why Cecilia was possessing her. She frowned, trying to recall the names of all the characters she’d met when she’d been in the past. No Lorenza. Could she have been one of Giorgione’s other models? Fern thought about her visit to Venice. Cecilia was impetuous, that was for sure. She was definitely playing with fire. Fire. The word jangled in Fern’s mind like an alarm. She shut her eyes again, and the familiar buzzing sensation filled her head.
The dining hall in the Barco is decorated for the Christmas celebrations. My lady 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. ’Tis difficult to get out from under my lady’s shadow.
We’ve not 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 Zorzo. 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. Elbow on the table, I rest my chin on my hand. The back of my neck prickles. Someone is staring at me. I turn my head and my gaze encounters Signor Lodovico’s. Gesù bambino! He licks his thin lips and smiles. A sense of foreboding grips me, and I feel the saliva drain from my mouth.
After the last course, we assemble for the dancing. I know he’ll be waiting, and he is. ‘Dance with me, signorina,’ 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 now here he is, 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 Signor Lodovico? 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. Signor Lodovico leans towards me and whispers, ‘I apologise for my behaviour the last time we met. You’ve bewitched me, Signorina Cecilia. I didn’t know what I was doing.’
My chest constricts and I step back. His crooked white teeth flash, and his thin lips are moist with spittle.
My lady signals to me that she wishes to retire. Relief flooding through me, I make my reverences to the ferrarese, 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 and strolling towards 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 posterior.’
I put my hand over my mouth, trying to still my laughter. Impossible. I sha
ke 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. Rambaldo’s family is pompous, and disregards me for not bringing a dowry to our marriage.’
‘What about your beautiful villa? Surely they would consider it dowry enough?’
‘Huh! They’re wealthy, but greedy with their riches. They say ’tis too small an abode. And what about you, my 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 them queuing up for you before too long.’
Footsteps sound on the pathway. Signor Lodovico. 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 my lady’s desire to retire early. At least I’m in the company of my sister now. There’s nothing he 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, Signor Lodovico is a veritable Adonis.
We stroll past the fountain towards the bare trees in the fruit orchards, the grass crisp with frost beneath our feet. I wrap my cape around me, for the cold of the day has turned into early evening’s freeze.
Signor Lodovico 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. ‘You think? 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, in spite of her wish to believe the contrary. I’ve noticed a difference since my wedding. You know she isn’t well.’
’Tis true. From the time of our return to the Barco from Venice, my lady 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?’
‘Quite.’ My sister’s tone is practical. ‘You’ll need a protector. ’Tis the way of the world, my dear. I’ve heard of the ferrarese. His family is rich with lands and money. If he doesn’t ask for your hand, you should become his mistress. Signor Lodovico will ply you with gifts and property to keep for your old age.’
‘I’m not a courtesan,’ I say, shocked.
‘No, 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 that 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 ferrarese. Gesù bambino, spare me, I beg of you!
Our circuit of the gardens over, we return to my lady’s chamber to help her prepare for lunch. Fiammetta will stay tonight and return to Treviso tomorrow in time for Christmas. I hope Signor Lodovico’s visit will be just as short.
After we’ve eaten, my lady retires for a siesta. With time to myself, I take my sketches from the chest in the corner of the room 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.
‘Are you asleep?’ a voice echoed in her head. She’d been dreaming. Of a man she couldn’t have. Of an impossible love. Zorzo in Venice and her, penniless, dependent on the ailing Queen.
‘Fern?’ the voice repeated. ‘Wake up!’
She opened her eyes, and her soul cried out in pain. She didn’t want to be in the 20th Century. She wanted to be back in the room she shared with Dorotea. To find out if that whispered, dolcezza, had been real or not. She rubbed her throbbing forehead.
‘Oh, it’s you, Auntie,’ she said, peering at the woman who was touching her arm in concern.
Aunt Susan knitted her brows. ‘Have you had another funny turn?’
‘Just a strange dream. What time is it?’
‘One o’clock. Lunch first. Then you should get ready to go riding.’
Fern got to her feet. A pile of potatoes was stacked by the sink. ‘Let me peel those for you.’
***
Chiara was right. It was like getting back on a bicycle. Magic’s back was broad, though, and Fern’s jeans chafed against her thighs. She’d borrowed a pair of boots and a hat from Vanessa, who wore the same size as her, but borrowing jodhpurs hadn’t been an option. Both Chiara and her mother were much taller.
Side by side, Fern and Chiara took the path that meandered between the cornfields, trotting down the dirt track, the late afternoon sun warming their backs. A cuckoo was making desperate calls in the cherry tree to their right, and soon came the bubbling reply of his mate. Shame they lay their eggs in other birds’ nests.
‘I can see you know what you’re doing,’ Chiara said. ‘Let’s have a canter.’ She was riding a much livelier mount than Fern’s. ‘Pegasus can’t wait much longer.’
‘Pegasus?’ Fern 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!’ Fern gathered in the reins and urged the animal forward. She’d always loved cantering and relaxed into the movement, her buttocks taut. It was just a coincidence that Chiara’s horse should have the same name as Cecilia’s. A common enough name. But, even so, the hairs on Fern’s arms tingled. She stared ahead, keeping Chiara in sight.
I hope she waits for me.
Chiara had disappeared in a cloud of dust, but Magic’s pace, even though he was giving it his best shot, was much slower.
Where is she? I can’t be on my own, not doing something 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 bit lame,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, but I’ll have to walk him back.’
‘Not to worry.’ Fern dismounted and fell into step beside Chiara. ‘I don’t mind walking.’
‘Are you sure? 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.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it. A walk will do me good and we can have a chat.’
Chiara regarded her suspiciously. ‘Oh? What about?’
‘Nothing special. 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 in the City.’ She wouldn’t tell Chiara about her ambition. How it had driven her. How it had almost destroyed her. It was a part of her life she’d buried. She’d asked for a demotion when she’d returned from sick leave after Harry’s death, and these days kept strictly to what was required of her, 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.’
‘Why don’t you chuck in your job and give it a go? What’s hol
ding you back?’
‘Fear of failure, I suppose. Also, I’ve got rather a large mortgage.’ Harry hadn’t made a will, even though they were engaged. The proceeds from the sale of his flat and all his investments had gone to his parents. The old meanies hadn’t offered her anything, and she’d been too distraught to ask.
‘I can see my brother is very taken with you,’ Chiara said. ‘I’ve never seen him so besotted.’
‘No, you’ve got the wrong end of the stick. We’re just friends.’
‘When people say they’re “just friends” it usually means the complete opposite, in my experience.’
Fern let out an embarrassed laugh. ‘Not in our case. 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 her a searching look. ‘I rather think he’s done that now. He doesn’t regard you as a friend, believe me. How do you feel about him?’
‘Well, you certainly don’t stand on ceremony, do you?’ Fern laughed again. ‘I like him very much. But there are issues in my life I need to sort out, I’m afraid.’ Time 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. When I talked with him, I just knew he was the guy for me.’
‘Oh? How’s that?’
‘He’s so passionate. About politics, about life, about everything.’ Chiara’s face lit up. ‘Don’t you think he’s wonderful?’
‘Well, he’s certainly different.’
‘Isn’t he? 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.’
‘The one you’re fighting so hard to preserve?’
Lady of Asolo Page 11