I leap in the dance, heat creeping into my face, my hair flowing behind me, encased in a long net. A prickle of sadness as I remember Zorzo running his fingers through my tresses and lifting them to his lips. How he insisted I leave my curls free when he painted. Why am I thinking of him? Put your mask back on, Cecilia. So I nod and smile and nod and smile.
Lodovico smiles back and whispers, ‘’Tis time for us to go to our room.’
I dip a curtsey and turn away. Walking across the hall, I feel numb. Dorotea falls into step beside me and we make our reverences to the Queen. ‘Bless you, my girls,’ she says. ‘Sweet Cecilia, you’ve done me proud today. I wish you every happiness.’
Dorotea leaves me at the door to the bedroom that overlooks the valley below, and the maid Lodovico has employed to take care of me – imagine! I have a maid of my own – helps me undress. Marta, a peasant woman with garlicky breath, unclasps the gold necklace (the wedding gift from my lady), and places it on the chest in the corner. Then she helps me into my nightdress and braids my hair.
When she leaves, I’m alone and can remove my invisible mask. My mouth droops as I get into the large bed to wait. Hearing voices outside the door, Lodovico’s friends making ribald jokes, I put my “mask” on again and it’s so rigid I fear my smile will crack the pretence.
My husband comes into the room. He stops and rubs his hands together. ‘Ah,’ he says, and my belly quakes. He goes to the chest and takes off his doublet, eyes glinting in the candlelight as he sizes me up like a prize horse he has bought.
I can hear the sounds of our guests, laughing and drinking and dancing now that they’ve seen us to our chamber, and I want to crawl under the covers and never come out again. Act your age, Cecilia. You’re not a child anymore. So I sit up in the bed and the sheet falls from me, exposing my nakedness.
My husband is upon me, pinning me down under his weight, and thrusting into me without so much as a kiss or a touch. My figa is dry from the ground nutmeg and it hurts. It really hurts. It hurts so much that I cry out.
‘Shhh,’ he says. ‘’Tis but your maidenhead. Lie still and let me finish.’ Relief fills me momentarily, but then he ruts into me, rutting and rutting and rutting, making the bed ropes creak and the headboard thump against the wall. I lie there and stare up at the ceiling until he groans and collapses on top of me.
‘Not bad, for a first time. It will improve. Ah, my wife, I’ve waited so long for this day. I knew I’d have to marry you to bed you.’ He withdraws his prick from me and, without so much as a goodnight, turns over and falls asleep. I put my hand between my legs, and when I withdraw it there’s blood on my fingers.
Oh God, oh God, oh God, I’ve lost the baby. Not again. I can’t bear it. She jerked awake, tears streaming down her face. She lifted her hand. No blood. She rolled over in the bed and stared at the sheet. White.
She hadn’t been pregnant; that had been Cecilia. It had brought it all back to her, though, the shame of what she’d done. And the terrible, agonising guilt.
When she’d found out that she and Harry had conceived a child, she’d been in denial. She hadn’t looked after herself. She’d worked all the hours God had sent and, when she’d come down with the ’flu, she hadn’t gone to the doctor. The infection and the raging temperature were what had caused her miscarriage, apparently. She’d been glad at first; she hadn’t wanted a baby. It was too soon, they weren’t married yet, and she needed to get her career established first before taking a break to have children.
She remembered being so angry with Harry for not using a condom that one time. It had been after a party, and they’d gone back to his place a bit tipsy. Perhaps she should have kept the contraceptive coil she’d had put in after they’d started sleeping together. But it had made her bleed constantly, which was why she’d had it removed. Then, when she’d missed that first period, she’d hardly noticed she’d been so busy at work.
After her monthlies hadn’t appeared for the second time, and she’d started the most dreadful morning sickness, she’d bought herself a pregnancy test kit. When the result had shown positive, she’d wept and had kept it to herself for a week. Then she’d told Harry and he’d been over the moon, suggesting they bring their wedding date forward. She’d argued against that. After all, the church and the reception venue had been booked for the following summer. The baby would have been born by then.
In the meantime, they’d decided not to tell anyone. They’d wait until she was showing. She’d insisted on it, saying she didn’t want to jeopardise her chances at work. How selfish of her!
It was the sight of a mother with her new-born baby in a pram at the supermarket that had brought on the guilt. That tiny scrap of human life had seemed so vulnerable, but at the same time so vibrant. She’d wanted to cradle the other woman’s child in her arms and whisper, sorry, as if it had been her own baby.
Harry had been distraught. He hadn’t come out and blamed her outright, but Fern was sure, deep down, that he held it against her. It was the way he’d started being less affectionate towards her, hardly touching her anymore. As a consequence, she’d lost herself in her work again, telling herself he’d get over it.
Within her, the guilt festered like a wound that wouldn’t heal. When Harry had died, she was sure it was some form of punishment for what she’d done. Even when the sensible voice in her head told her not to be ridiculous, divine retribution didn’t exist, she couldn’t help herself. She wasn’t worthy of being loved by any man. She was tainted. Harry had been waiting for her on the concourse at King’s Cross Underground and she’d been late. If she hadn’t cared so much about her damn career, they’d both have left the station before the fire started. She would pay the price for her selfishness for the rest of her life.
A keening sound escaped from deep within her as she sat in her bed at Aunt Susan’s house, tears streaming down her face. A knock at the door, and her aunt poked her head into the room. ‘Whatever’s the matter, my lovely?’
‘She . . . she . . . she’s lost her baby.’
‘Who’s lost her baby?’
‘Cecilia.’
Aunt Susan put her arms around Fern and rocked her gently. ‘Shush! You’ve had another nightmare. There, there. You’ll be fine now.’
She wasn’t fine, but she wouldn’t say anything to her aunt. That part of herself she’d keep buried forever. That hard, ambitious woman wasn’t the Fern of today. That festering guilt would always be with her. And now Cecilia had lost her baby too. I can’t go back there into the past anymore. The pain would be too much to bear.
‘Auntie,’ Fern said. ‘I know you think I’m still suffering from stress and don’t believe I could be slipping back in time. Perhaps you’re right. Whatever the case, I can’t stop it of my own accord.’
‘Then I think you should get medical help,’ Aunt Susan said, stroking Fern’s arm.
‘No, not that. Luca’s mother mentioned we could ask the local priest to bless this house. What do you think?’
‘Hmm. Not sure about all that mumbo-jumbo. But if it would make you feel better, of course.’
‘Thank you,’ Fern said, pecking her aunt on the cheek.
‘How would you feel about a nice cup of camomile tea and a chocolate biscuit? It would help you get back to sleep again.’
Fern followed her aunt down the stairs; she stopped halfway. There was that smell again, the odour of burnt wood, so strong, she could almost be sick. She rubbed her nose on the back of her hand and was hit by a chill that raised the hairs on her arms.
‘Lorenza,’ the voice whispered right by her ear.
She gave a yelp.
17
Luca put the phone down, feeling sceptical. Fern had caught him just as he was setting off for work. Something had definitely spooked her, but what good would a priest do? Cecilia didn’t just come to her at Susan’s place. And why the sudden change of mind on Fern’s part?
He stopped off at the villa that evening. ‘House blessing is a common en
ough ritual,’ his mother said matter-of-factly. ‘You’d know if you’d continued in the faith into which you were baptised.’ She smiled. ‘I’ll see what I can arrange. The priest will advise a full exorcism if he senses an evil spirit or demon. But I don’t think we’re dealing with that, somehow.’
Luca gave a laugh; he couldn’t believe he was discussing demonology with his mother. They were in her small study at the back of the villa, her genealogical research spread out on her desk. ‘How are you getting on with the detective work?’
‘Well, it would help if the family still had any of its palazzi in Venice. The archives from the fifteen and sixteen hundreds seem to have been lost.’
Luca patted her shoulder. ‘Shame about that.’ Whenever any of his ancestors had suffered financial difficulty over the centuries, they’d sold off their Venetian properties one by one and today there were none left. Granted, there were several bearing the Goredan name, but the family had no rights to them, and hadn’t for at least two hundred years. All they had was this villa, and the old farmhouse on a hillside below Monte Grappa.
‘I really should go to Venice and visit the library in San Marco,’ his mother continued. ‘They have records of births and deaths going back centuries.’
‘Why don’t you let me handle that for you?’
‘You could take Fern. To see Venice again before she returns to London. A romantic interlude could be just the thing.’
His mother’s words cut into him. Fern would leave Italy in about a fortnight, and he’d pushed the fact of her departure from his mind. ‘Getting nowhere on the romance front,’ he said. ‘It’s impossible to compete with rivals who’re both dead.’
Ma put her arm around him. ‘Do you think Fern is doing the right thing?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Trying to block Cecilia. That woman seems to be a very determined spirit. She’ll find a way to get through, I’m sure she will.’
‘Fern’s adamant she wants nothing more to do with her. She wouldn’t tell me why, except it seems to be connected with the fact that Cecilia has had to marry someone she didn’t love.’
‘It was common enough in her day. I’d have thought Cecilia would have been quite accepting. Especially if it meant financial security.’
‘She was deeply in love with the painter. But he couldn’t support her in the style to which she’d become accustomed, as they say, although I’m convinced Giorgione was a womaniser and liked to play the field. Cecilia seems to have accepted this alternative arrangement readily enough, from what Fern told me. I don’t know why Fern should find that so upsetting.’
‘My darling boy.’ Ma gave him a hug. ‘I can see how much you love her. It breaks my heart she doesn’t love you back.’
‘Mine too,’ he said. ‘Mine too.’ His whole being yearned for her.
***
The following day, he drove to Altivole. The local priest was standing at Susan’s door. He introduced himself as Don Mario and was about ten years older than him, with wavy dark hair that gave him a charismatic look.
‘Buongiorno,’ Luca said. He thanked the priest for giving up his time and coming to the house so quickly.
Susan ushered them into the kitchen, where Fern was waiting, her face wearing a worried expression.
‘Can I get you a coffee?’ Susan asked, patting down her newly-cut hair, a shorter version of her habitual frizz-mop. ‘Posso offrirvi un caffè?’
Luca and Don Mario declined, and the priest unzipped his rucksack
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Susan said stiffly. ‘Have to go out and do a bit of grocery shopping.’ She picked up the handbag Fern had bought her in Castelfranco, a Fendi no less, and went to the door.
Luca shrugged to himself. Fern had told him about her aunt’s disbelief.
The blessing was a simple enough process, it seemed. Don Mario took a bottle of holy water and a crucifix from his bag, and they progressed from the kitchen to Susan’s bedroom and study upstairs, the priest raising his crucifix, and sprinkling the water in every corner, while he blessed the house in Christ’s name and that of His angels.
When they reached Fern’s room, however, her eyes assumed that “rabbit in the headlights” expression. ‘I feel a bit sick,’ she whispered. ‘How much longer is this going to take?’
Luca took her hand and squeezed her fingers; they felt cold and clammy. ‘Nearly done now, I think.’
White-faced, Fern dropped his hand and spun around. ‘Please ask him to stop,’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘I’ve changed my mind.’
Luca shivered. The warmth of the morning had turned into a sharp chill.
‘Lorenza!’
He’d heard it; he’d actually heard the voice. Incredible. Heart thudding, Luca glanced at the priest, but Don Mario, apparently oblivious, was intoning, ‘Visita, Signore, te ne preghiamo, questa abitazione e creatura tua, respingi via da lei tutte le insidie del nemico; in essa abitino i tuoi santi angeli, Michele, Gabriele e Raffaele, che la custodiscano in pace dagli spiriti immondi.’
‘What’s he saying?’ Fern shrilled.
‘He’s begging the Lord to visit you and your room, to banish all signs of the Devil and he’s asking the Holy angels Michael, Gabriel and Raphael to take up residence here so that you can be at peace from unclean spirits.’
The cold was eating into his bones. Fern’s face had become rigid and her eyes expressionless. Was she about to go into one of her trances? He put his arm around her and felt her body shaking. ‘I think I’m going to throw up,’ she said.
Electricity crackled through the air. Surely Don Mario could sense it?
‘La tua benedizione sia sempre sopra di noi. Per Cristo nostro Signore. Amen,’ the priest said, calmly, as he lifted his crucifix. ‘Ho finito.’
‘Oh, thank God, thank God, thank God,’ Fern said, holding her head in her hands. ‘I thought my brain was about to explode. Cecilia’s voice was in my head, repeating, Lorenza, over and over. I couldn’t bear it.’
‘I heard it,’ Luca said.
Fern stared at him, her mouth falling open.
Don Mario made the sign of the cross on his forehead, intoning the blessing of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. However, when the priest lifted his hand to bless Fern, she ducked away, and muttered something about needing the loo.
Luca thanked Don Mario and gave him fifty thousand Lira for the church. As he saw him to the door, the said, ‘Peace be with you, and with the signorina. I hope my prayers today will be enough to keep the fantasma away from her.’
‘Spero anch’io. I hope so too.’ So Don Mario had sensed Cecilia’s presence. Of course he had; he was a priest, wasn’t he? Dealt with the supernatural all the time . . .
‘Thanks for doing the honours,’ Fern said when Luca had returned to the kitchen. She’d sat herself down at the table, but she still looked terrible – her face pale and her eyes stricken. ‘I wasn’t up to it.’
‘No. I can see that. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea.’
‘I could feel Cecilia’s misery, you know, more sharply than ever before.’
He took Fern’s hand. ‘Can you tell me why, all of a sudden, you decided you wanted nothing more to do with her?’
Fern’s brow furrowed, and she pulled back her hand. ‘I can’t tell you. Not yet. I will, though,’ she said haltingly. ‘Soon.’
‘Is the smell of burnt wood still here?’
‘No. Do you think the priest has managed to send Cecilia away? Part of me wants that, and another part of me, the part that empathises with her and wants to know what happened, is worried she’s gone for good.’
‘Then why did you ask for the priest?’
‘I can’t tell you.’ She had the grace to look flustered and gave his hand a squeeze. ‘You’re a lovely man, Luca, and I really do like you.’
‘I know you do,’ he said, his arms enfolding her. She lifted her lips and kissed him. He kissed her back, long and hard, loving her so much he felt as if his heart would b
reak. His hands found their way to her hair, then cupped her face and then her firm breasts and then his hands were around her buttocks, pulling her body against his.
Fern stood back and slipped off her t-shirt. She reached behind to unclasp her bra, her gaze holding his. She stepped out of her jeans and all that was left were her panties. After unbuckling his trousers, she ran her hands up inside his shirt over his chest. Oh God, oh God, oh God. A quick kiss and she was undoing the buttons.
They were frantic, lips on mouth, throat, behind the ear, the mouth again. Together, they pulled off their underwear and he lifted her onto his erection. She wrapped her legs around his waist as he leaned against the table, pushing himself up into her, his soul singing.
He held back until she let out a gasp and her body convulsed, then he lost himself within her. He lowered her legs gently to the floor and she looked up at him, her hair swinging forward covering her breasts.
‘Luca, I’m so confused,’ she said.
‘What do you mean?’
Fern bent to retrieve their clothes. Handing him his shirt, trousers and underpants, she said, ‘I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.’
‘What idea would that be?’
‘That we can be together. There’re things you don’t know about me, and those are things I don’t want you to know. Not now. Not yet. Something’s blocking me, you see. Maybe when I’ve got to the bottom of the mystery of Cecilia.’ She sighed. ‘I just don’t know.’
‘Dolcezza. We can take this as slowly as you like. One thing I want you to know, I’m in it for the long-term.’
‘What did you just say?’
‘That I’m prepared to wait.’
‘No. What did you just call me?’
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