‘Ha! Ha! Very clever,’ Chiara giggled. ‘Actually, recently we’ve thought about joining the Anarchist Party.’
‘Goodness!’ Fern clamped her jaw tight to stop it from dropping. ‘That’s a bit extreme, isn’t it?’
‘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 Fern didn’t want to go down the route of political discussion. She didn’t know enough, nor did she want to. ‘Tell me more about Federico. Does he have a job?’
‘He’s an undergraduate still. At least that’s his “cover”.’ Chiara glanced from left to right and Fern had to bite her lip to stop herself from laughing. This whole charade seemed terribly childish. Student pranks, that’s all. How could Luca and his mother be so concerned? Then she remembered the bad vibes she’d felt radiating from Federico, and the way he’d tried to come on to her; she shuddered.
‘We’re nearly there,’ Chiara said. Within minutes they were unsaddling their horses. ‘You go ahead. I need to bandage Pegasus’ leg. Luca will be back from work soon, and Ma 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 talking with you.’
‘I did too,’ Fern said, returning 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.’
***
Vanessa got up from her chair in the sitting room as Fern came through the door. The two Labradors, lazing by her feet, lifted their heads then went back to sleep. ‘How did you get on?
‘Fine,’ Fern said. This was so difficult. What did Luca and his mother expect of her? Best to come clean, she 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.’
‘Oh, quite. ‘I understand. Enough said. Pop along to the cloakroom and freshen up while I get us some Prosecco.’
Fern changed into her trainers, used the loo, and washed her hands. She checked her hair was as tidy as it could be, then made her way back to Luca’s mother. She could hear voices as she approached. Luca’s and Vanessa’s voices. She paused in the passageway, not wanting to intrude. ‘I’ve fallen in love with her, Ma,’ he was saying. ‘‘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.’
14
Fern was putting the finishing touches to her painting of the Barco – not a representation of today’s ruined villa; she’d painted how it had appeared at the time of Caterina Cornaro. Aunt Susan had given her a funny look when she’d shown her the work, but hadn’t said anything. Fern had been on the point of making another attempt to share Cecilia’s story with her, but she’d stopped herself. Her aunt’s disbelief seemed insurmountable. Strange, really, considering she was a writer and must have considerable powers of imagination.
Lifting her gaze from her palette, Fern’s attention was distracted by Gucci Cat. His leg in the air, he was cleaning between his toes as he lay on the floor by her easel. She let her thoughts wander. Last night, when she’d got home, she’d been so emotionally drained that she’d gone straight to bed and had slept dreamlessly. Now, however, she couldn’t stop thinking about what Luca had said to his mother. She’d turned on her heel after hearing his declaration, and had gone back to the downstairs bathroom. Then she’d shut the door hard, so they’d think she’d just come out from there.
She’d gone up to him, too flustered to do more than mumble, ‘Buonasera,’ before sipping from her glass of Prosecco. Now her chest tightened. She couldn’t deny it any longer; she liked being with him too much for him to be considered “just a friend”. That kiss, when she’d kidded herself her response had been Cecilia kissing Zorzo. She’d known damn well what she was doing when she’d opened her mouth under Luca’s.
Sitting next to him in his mother’s sitting room, she’d looked at his hands and had imagined how it would feel to have them explore her body. But it wasn’t right. She had to put a stop to it straight away. Before he found out. Before he knew. Before the truth turned him against her. The terrible truth about how she’d caused Harry’s death.
Luca had asked her if she was all right last night when she’d pleaded a headache and declined his dinner invitation. ‘Just tired,’ she’d said.
Coward! You should have broken things off with him there and then. Told him you couldn’t help with his sister. Thanked him for everything he’d done for you. Said you’d prefer to spend the rest of your holiday painting and living quietly at Aunt Susan’s as you were still suffering from stress. No more Renaissance dancing. No more trips to Venice. And definitely no more kissing.
Her lower lip trembled, but she stiffened it; she wouldn’t give in to indulgent self-pity. What’s done is done, and can’t be undone, Mum always said. Fern straightened her shoulders and wiped her paintbrush. Standing back, she scrutinised her work. At least that’s coming along well. She’d need to pay for excess luggage when she took everything back to London. Hopefully, it’d be worth it. If she could set up an exhibition, she might be able to sell her paintings rather than rely on commissions from greetings card companies. The work she’d accomplished so far in the Veneto was the best she’d ever produced; she couldn’t help loving it.
She put her brush back down on the small table Aunt Susan had provided for her. Her hand touched something rough, and she knew, she just knew without looking, what it was. The stench of burnt wood assailed her nostrils and her pulse leapt to her throat. Fern steeled herself as Gucci Cat ran from the room.
When it came, it seemed to come from nowhere. ‘Lorenza,’ a caress against her cheek, cold and filled with misery.
‘Cecilia? What happened? Who is Lorenza?’
But of course there was no answer. Heart pounding, Fern sat down and waited.
‘Dolcezza.’
I turn and he’s there behind me in the room I share with Dorotea. He holds out a small canvas. ‘I’ve darkened your hair and made your face rounder so no one will recognise you.’
I feel as if I’ll burst with happiness at the sight of him. ‘How fare you?’
‘Well,’ he replies softly, his gaze fixed on mine. ‘And you?’
‘The same.’ A sudden shyness has seized me and I find myself blushing as I stare at my portrait. He has painted me showing my naked breast and I have a grave, thoughtful expression on my face. I’m holding open the fur collar of my red robe to expose a pink nipple. What can this mean? Did he draw my bosom while I was resting in his studio? My white skin is delicately shaded and my breast is like a small hillock. Perhaps he remembered it like that? In the painting, I’m not looking at anything in particular; it’s as if I have a secret I’m keeping to myself. Staring closely at the canvas, I notice a small part of the background is unfinished.
‘I’ve brought you a present.’ He hands me a cloth-wrapped parcel.
Hands trembling, I untie it to reveal a set of brushes and glass bottles of pre-mixed paint. It must have cost a
fortune. Throwing my arms around him, I lift my face to receive his kiss. Our lips meet.
‘’Tis time for another lesson,’ Zorzo says, after kissing me so thoroughly my knees start to swim away. He picks up a brush and holds it out.
‘Are you sure?’
‘See that space there? I’ve left it for you to complete.’ He places the canvas on the table, reaches into his sack, and takes out a palette. Then he mixes the colours, so dark they’re almost black.
Excitement and trepidation swirl through me. I take the brush from his hand, and can no longer tell if my dizziness is a result of the nearness of the painter or the challenge of the painting. Yet when the lustrous colour slides off the brush onto the canvas my nerves settle, and my wrist flicks backwards and forwards, filling the blank space with iridescence. When I encounter the laurel leaves forming a crown around the woman – me – I’m careful and precise. Exhilaration grips me as the scent of linseed oil fills my nostrils, and I feel as if I could go on forever.
We work in silence, Zorzo mixing the paint for me. Eventually my fingers grow numb and I have to stop. ‘There,’ I say. ‘’Tis done.’ I look at him, my breath catching. ‘Will you stay long?’
He frowns. ‘I must away this night. I’ve been working on a commission in my home town, an altarpiece for Tuzio Costanzo. Just a few finishing touches. I have an urge to bestow your sweet lips on the Madonna’s face. And there’s a fresco in the house next door I have to complete.’
Zorzo’s arms enfold me, and desire wells up like a hot spring between us as we kiss again. There’s a sudden sound of female voices and the door bursts open. Fiammetta and Dorotea erupt into the room, laughing together; they stop in their tracks.
I jump back from my painter, who grabs the canvas. Too late. Fiammetta sidles up to him and stares at the painting. ‘Is that you?’ she asks, pointing.
‘Of course not. ’Tis not my hair you see, is it?’
‘Has a look of you. Only I have not seen your exposed breast, so who am I to judge?’ She turns to Zorzo. ‘What, pray sir, are you doing in our room?’
‘He’s brought me some paints and he’s been teaching me,’ I say in a steady voice.
My sister gives me a quick glance before saying to Zorzo, ‘I think it is time you leave us. ’Tis not seemly for you to be here.’
We make our reverences, and I catch the wink in his eye as he departs.
Dorotea collapses in a fit of giggles. ‘Oh, Cecilia! You are a one. Hiding your secrets from Fiammetta. She should know what you get up to at night in Venice.’
I grab Dorotea’s arm. ‘You promised not to say anything.’
‘That was before. ’Tis better she knows.’
‘There’s nothing for you to know, Fiammetta. Dorotea has been imagining things.’
‘Me? Imagining? What about the time you sneaked out to visit him? And the day when you pretended your monthly pains to get out of going to Murano?’
‘It was only the once. I haven’t had the chance to be with him since.’
Fiammetta folds her arms. ‘So you admit to being with him? Thank God you’re not with child! Whatever have you been thinking of, my dear? Clearly, you haven’t been thinking at all. Your painter can’t afford marriage or even a mistress. He can barely afford to keep himself, I’ll warrant. You’d be much better off with Signor Lodovico.’
I stamp my foot. ‘I will not go with that man. He disgusts me.’
‘You’re behaving like a child,’ my sister says.
We go to help my lady dress, and, after dinner, I have the excuse to miss the revelries when the Queen retires early. I’m pleased not to have to dance with Signor Lodovico, but I’ve caught him staring at me throughout the meal, licking his thin lips as if he would devour me. The night is cold and I snuggle together with my sister and Dorotea in the large bed. Soon Dorotea and Fiammetta are snoring softly. I puff out a breath and it steams the freezing air. Sleep comes slowly for I am worried. What will tomorrow bring?
Directly after we break our fast the next day, my lady sends for me. ‘I have some wonderful news for you, sweet girl. Signor Lodovico wishes to marry you.’
’Tis what I’ve been dreading and, when the Queen looks at me with her kind eyes and nods encouragement, I haven’t the heart to say what I really think. I gulp like one of her golden carp and croak, ‘Oh? When?’
‘Something for you and he to decide. Just know that I give my blessing. And, of course, I shall provide you with a bridal chest of linen. I had a villa built for your sister, Rambaldo insisted upon it. Signor Lodovico requires nothing, but I will give you a gold necklace anyway.’
I drop into a deep curtsey, before explaining that Fiammetta is leaving for Treviso at any minute. ‘Might I bid farewell to my sister?’
My lady waves me off and I manage to hold back my tears until I get to my quarters. Fiammetta is alone, folding away her nightdress. ‘Whatever is the matter?’ she asks when she sees my face. I explain and she throws her arms around me. ‘I knew it. Didn’t I tell you?’
‘But I don’t love him. I love Zorzo.’
‘Per l’amor di Dio, Cecilia. And does he love you? Has he made any such declaration?’
‘He doesn’t need to. I can tell it from the way he looks at me.’
‘That painter looks at you with lust, not love. I wasn’t going to say anything, but you need to know. He has a string of women visiting him in that studio of his. ’Tis a well-known fact. You aren’t the only one.’
My breath is sucked from me as I collapse onto the bed. My whole body shakes. ‘Surely not?’
‘This marriage is a wonderful opportunity for you, Cecilia. ’Tis highly unlikely any other man of such repute and wealth will make an offer for you. You have to be more cautious. Your purity mustn’t be questioned.’ She pauses, appearing to consider what to say next. ‘Signor Lodovico Gaspare is an honourable man and he seems to be smitten with you. Once your betrothal is announced, his family and friends will criticise his choice, mark my words, for you have no dowry. The only thing you can offer is your reputation. If that is sullied, then he will throw you away like a dirty rag. Don’t think me cruel, dearest sister! Believe me, I know what I’m talking about. Did my lady promise you any sort of settlement?’
I’m still reeling from her revelation about Zorzo, and struggle to understand what she’s asking. Then I remember the Queen’s reference to Signor Lodovico declaring he requires nothing, and I tell Fiammetta about that and about the necklace my lady will give me.
‘As our guardian after the death of Mother and Father, she is generous towards us for their loyalty to her in Cyprus.’
There are stories I’ve heard about what went on at that time. So many plots and intrigues to de-throne the Queen. In the end, the Council of Ten enforced its authority, for she’d been made an adopted daughter of the Republic before her marriage. I sniff back my tears and get up from the bed. ‘You will have to explain what to do when the doctors examine me and find I’m no longer a maid.’
Her face is a picture of confusion and I let out a laugh. ‘Perhaps I should tell my lady about Signor Zorzo. But first, I’ll confront the artist and find out the truth.’ My voice is firm, yet my insides are quivering. ‘He’s gone to Castelfranco, so it is too late for me to see him now.’
‘What about your answer to Signor Lodovico?’
‘I’ll think of a way to delay things,’ I say with more confidence than I feel. I place my hands on Fiammetta’s shoulders and kiss both her cheeks.
A strange ringing sound fills the air and I dart my gaze from left to right. The chime jangles relentlessly, louder and louder, until buzzing fills my head and my vision blurs. I rub my temples, and lurch towards my sister. ‘Help me!’
She found herself sprawled on the floor, the ringing echoing in her ears. Shakily she got to her feet. The telephone. The realisation sent her spiralling through the centuries, and, as ever, she had to choke back the nausea in her throat. Why doesn’t Aunt Susan answer it?
The ringing continued. Whoever it was had no intention of hanging up. Fern lurched across the room and picked up the receiver. ‘Pronto. Hello?’
‘Is that Fern? It’s Luca. I was wondering if you’d like to go to Castelfranco tomorrow. I’ve got a client I need to visit and thought you might like to see the Giorgione Madonna.’
Fern caught her lip between her teeth. Castelfranco? Bloody hell! Her heart was almost beating out of her chest. What about her resolution not to see Luca again? Just hearing his voice took her breath away. ‘Th . . . th . . . that would be lovely. What time?’
‘I’ll call for you at nine. And you can take me to lunch, if you like.’
Laughing, she agreed. A sudden chill and the air in the kitchen shifted.
‘Lorenza!’
15
Her aunt saw her off the next morning. ‘Have a wonderful time.’
‘You too.’ Aunt Susan had finally decided to get something done about her hair, and had booked herself an appointment at the hairdresser’s in Asolo. ‘I’m expecting to see a new you when I get back this evening,’ Fern said.
‘Fat chance, but I need a shorter style for the summer,’ her aunt said, smiling.
Fern pecked Aunt Susan on the cheek, catching the scent of face powder. ‘Can I bring you something back from Castelfranco?’
‘Hmm. Can’t think of anything, my lovely. Maybe you can surprise me?’
‘Will do.’
***
‘I went to the library in Treviso yesterday,’ Luca said, starting the engine of his Alfa as Fern settled herself into the passenger seat. ‘I tried to find out more about Giorgione. The art historian, Giorgio Vasari, who wrote in the mid-16th century, claimed Zorzo was only thirty-three years old when he died.’
‘Yes, I know that from the book I bought at the Accademia. So young! How terribly sad. Same age as Harry . . .’
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