The walls of Venetia’s apartment were covered in pastel silks, and the heavy brocade curtains that hung from the tall windows were in deeper but matching tones, held back by thick cords of the same colour. Each room had a marble fireplace that was elegantly decorated with scenes of mythological fauna and flora. The massive pieces of furniture were a mixture of Baroque and Rococo styles, comfortable and curvy, and also embellished with motifs such as shells, flowers, and the stars of the firmament.
Venetia lay back on her cloud of pillows in the sumptuous four-poster baldachin bed and watched the dance of lights reflected from the canal below as they chased each other on the stucco-decorated expanse of white ceiling. The centre of the plafond was graced with an amber Murano glass lampadario, which hung from a chain of plump, clear glass globules. Lilies and daisies, their flimsy petals blown in tones of honey-coloured opaque glass, peered through their delicate green leaves near the top of the chandelier; and friezes depicting chromatic birds and butterflies adorned each corner of the room, enlivening the pale walls.
The bedposts were draped in vanilla-coloured brocade curtains that matched the bedspread. At the foot of it stood a magnificent cassone, an opulent gilded and painted chest dating from the sixteenth century, which had been in Giovanna’s family since then, and on which were represented winged amorini, the infant cupids pulled in chariots by mythical animals representing the Roman gods. It was customary in those days to place these ornate trunks in the bridal suite as a trophy furnishing of Italian aristocrats. A Carrara fireplace jutted forward into the room from between the two tall, narrow windows, topped by an imposing, gilded Rococo mirror. Immediately opposite was a painting by Francesco Zuccarelli of a river landscape with travellers; and underneath it stood a sofa and two gondola-shaped mahogany bergère armchairs, upholstered in gold silk fabric with laurel and bee motifs. Facing the bed, beautiful panelling, decorated with ton-sur-ton garlands, created a whole wall of built-in cupboards with a secret door into the bathroom, which gave a modern touch to the sumptuous room.
Venetia was unable to sleep. For the first time since she had come to Venice, she found the loneliness and the silence of her room oppressive. Ghosts of the past were crowding in on her. Memories that she thought she had finally banished from her mind, which she had spent years trying to erase, began to drift back. Judd’s handsome, smoothly chiselled face swam before her eyes… Judd Carter, the man who had abandoned her just when she had needed him most.
She had been only eighteen when he swept into her life. They had met at a Christmas Snow Ball in London over ten years ago. Venetia was just starting her architecture degree course at Cambridge. Judd was twenty-eight, and though he came from a modest background, he had managed to make his way through scholarships into The Royal Military Academy, Sandhurst, and had become an officer in the Parachute Regiment. Theirs was a case of love at first sight, and a year later Judd had proposed.
Sir William Aston-Montagu, Venetia’s father, had violently opposed the marriage, forbidding his daughter to carry on the relationship. Despite the fact that he was ex-army himself, he was an overbearing, old-fashioned kind of man, the type who expected his daughter to marry someone from her own background: ‘one of us’, as he used to infuriate Venetia by saying. Lorna, her mother, though sweet-natured and kind, was subdued by her husband’s overwhelming personality and would never have dreamt of contradicting him. Nonetheless, the young couple had carried on seeing each other discreetly, which wasn’t often, as most of the time Judd was called away on duty in Northern Ireland, but they wrote to each other regularly.
And then one day, while Judd was away on manoeuvres in Ireland, Venetia had discovered she was pregnant. She had gone to her parents and told them that whether they accepted it or not she would be marrying Judd Carter, as he was the father of the child she was carrying. Despite his wife’s pleading, Sir William had stood his ground, threatening to disinherit his daughter if she did not end the pregnancy immediately. Even now, Venetia could hear her father’s harsh voice ringing in anger:
‘This young man is a social climber and a gold-digger. He might have wormed his way into Sandhurst, and into your bed, but he’s certainly not going to become a member of this family! I will not let you dishonour the Aston-Montagu name, young lady. You get rid of that thing you’re carrying, or you are no more my daughter and you’ll not see a penny when I’m dead.’
Venetia had then written to Judd with the news, but he had never replied. The string of letters she had sent after that, imploring him to get in touch, had all remained unanswered. If he’d been killed in action, she would have found out very quickly, so even having that morbid reason for his silence was denied her. She was devastated. To her parents’ horror, she had moved out of the house and stayed with her best friend, Emma. She was not yet twenty but, despite everything, she had decided to keep the child, too full of her own blind emotions to listen to reason. Three months later, she had fallen headlong down the stairs in a shopping arcade and the injuries to her back had resulted in her losing the baby. Sir William and Lorna had gone to visit her in hospital, where they made their peace, and Venetia had returned home.
She had spent a few months after that in a sort of suspended state, too tired to think coherently, stunned by what she had gone through. But Venetia was not one to be beaten by circumstance and so, with the support of her mother and her friends, she gathered her forces, faced life again, and taken up her studies where she had left them. She had never heard from Judd again.
By now, after a decade, the wound had healed; Venetia had forgiven her father and Judd, but the emotional scars remained, leaving her disenchanted with the whole idea of love and romance. Ever since Judd, she had been wary of relationships, and had never again taken a man to her bed, earning the reputation of being ice-cold among the men in her circle.
Tonight, Venetia allowed her thoughts to turn to Paolo. Her conscience pricked her. Had she been unnecessarily harsh? ‘No, not today, not tomorrow, nor the day after…’ Contrarily now, she wished she had not said those words, with their finality, aware that what had prompted such an extreme reaction was her unwillingness to get involved with this man.
Up until now, Venetia brooded, she had always felt in command of the situation when in the company of the opposite sex, despite the fact that some of the young men she had met over the years had been handsome and successful – dream husband material for any other girl but herself. She had built a fortress around her heart, taking a kind of grim satisfaction in not letting anyone past her defences, content to wield her independence and professional dedication like a weapon against her own loneliness.
Suddenly faced with this stranger, Venetia was disconcerted and she was not sure of herself any more; the conflicting emotions he aroused made her feel keyed-up and restless. The courtesy he extended towards her was all part of the Italian tradition. Nevertheless, his repeated invitations to dinner seemed genuine – in fact she had detected a certain sadness in his eyes and in his voice at her desire not to extend their acquaintance. Still, this was not about Paolo, this was about her, and that odd tingling sensation that had come over her suddenly when she had landed unwittingly in his arms on the boat. At this recollection Venetia felt the same sort of delicious tremor run through her, her heartbeat quickened and she found herself secretly hoping that their paths would cross again – a feeling so different to the loathing and dread she usually experienced at the idea of a man’s touch. Something she couldn’t put a name to, a glimmer of a feeling out of focus, was taking shape inside her, and she was unsure what it meant.
Dawn was breaking and, as Venetia hovered on the edge of sleep, her hazy mind kept interchanging Judd’s and Paolo’s faces behind her heavy eyelids. A vague sense of guilt pricked at her, almost as if she was somehow being unfaithful to Judd. But Judd had abandoned her and she was alone, haunted by his love. Why could she not forget him? She had the singular impression something was escaping h
er, something important that she could not immediately pinpoint… it was there, on the tip of her tongue. And then finally fatigue took over and she drifted off into a deep, troubled sleep. Dreams came to her of a dark figure pursuing her through the streets of Venice, cloaked and masked, whispering her name. But each time she turned round, he had gone.
Chapter 2
The early morning sun, streaming across the marble balcony through the French windows, settled in a bright bar on the bed. Venetia lay sleeping on her back, one bare arm flung out above her head on the pillow and the other resting on the brocade eiderdown. The golden rays crept upward, touched her breast, her alabaster throat and her fine features in repose. Waves of chestnut hair were scattered on the pillow and tumbled in a cascade down her shoulders, framing her diamond-shaped face with its delicate jawline and dramatically prominent cheekbones. It was an unusual face, with an open and alert expression that made artists want to sculpt and paint it; and the young Englishwoman had experienced no shortage of offers since her time in Italy’s most artistic and beauty-obsessed city.
Venetia stirred; the dark heavy lashes lying in two feathery arcs below her closed lids fluttered up as the gold-flecked eyes opened wide. With a languid movement she lifted her head and glanced at the little bedside clock on the night table just as the great bells of the Campanile started to swing and the whole of Venice vibrated with overwhelming, melodious noise. It was nine o’clock; the day had officially begun.
Venetia had barely slept two hours – but she had no work today, apart from meeting with Francesca in the afternoon; she could afford a lie-in. She knew that she would not get much sleep during the coming week as she prepared for the grand exhibition at the much celebrated palace, Ca’Dario. Getting a little extra sleep now would be sensible, but the airy room was filled with light. Her bedroom windows stood wide open all night no matter what the weather, a habit acquired since her boarding-school days in England. Leaning back into the pillows, she pulled the heavy bedspread closer about her shoulders and curled down again.
Snuggled under the quilt, Venetia lay still a few minutes, listening to the familiar sounds of Venice floating on the air: the lap of water against the quayside, the light swish of a gondola racing by, the strident whistling of the vaporetti, the distant raucous hoot of a ferry carrying tourists to and from other parts of the world, the cooing of pigeons that came to rest outside her windows on the balcony, and the fluttering gentle thunderstorm of their wings as they flew back into the sky. She loved this district, Dorsoduro. Quiet, and more like an island than the touristy areas of the rest of central Venice, it was full of artists and students, hanging out in bohemian caffetterias and bars, talking, reading, discussing life and art over coffee or a glass of wine. She allowed herself to drift off again, enjoying this moment of tranquillity.
Finally she slipped out of bed and ran to the window that overlooked the lagoon. As her apartment was on the third floor, the stretch of shoreline was visible for miles. The waters were very blue under the cloudless sky, sparkling in the sunshine; everything was clear in the crystal air, but it was still very cold. A heavenly morning, too beautiful to stay inside!
Venetia went into the adjoining bathroom and ran herself a bath. She loved its pink mosaic walls and the way the tub had been enthroned beneath the window on a cream-coloured stone platform, reached by a couple of shallow polished steps, so she was able to enjoy the view over Venice as she lay in the warm soapy water. A grand Baroque gilt-framed mirror hung over the sink, and scalloped Murano glass sconces, shaped like shells, were placed on either side of it, diffusing upwards their mellow light. A delicate pink chandelier hung from the domed ceiling, complementing perfectly the warm brass fittings of the elegant room, all of which gave an air of comfortable opulence.
As Venetia lingered in a mass of scented bubbles, thoughts of Paolo fought for supremacy in her mind. She pushed them away determinedly. True, she hoped their paths would cross again, but she was not going to go looking for him. After all, she still didn’t feel ready to launch into a relationship, and in her experience men seldom looked for friendship – they usually wanted much more. So what was the point? Better to think of the morning ahead. Perhaps she should use it to go over to Torcello. She never tired of visiting this almost deserted little island, at the northern end of Venice’s lagoon, which was so famous for its mosaics; but maybe that would be too ambitious. At this time of year the cathedral might be closed, and the waterbuses going to the island were not that frequent. She stepped out of the bath and, towelling herself, went back into her bedroom.
Venetia loved clothes. She had taken like a duck to water to the traditional Italian way of living, la bella figura, which prevailed in Venice more than anywhere else in Italy, and she followed the prevailing fashion that happened to suit her so-called ‘stick’ figure. Her godmother had told her many times that if one day she tired of being an architect, she could always become a model. Much of her wardrobe was made up of mini-skirts, skinny jeans, jumpers and silk blouses, with a few smart suits for work, some easy morning frocks, and short and long evening dresses.
Casual but smart in tight black jeans, a white cashmere jumper and a short, glossy sable jacket, Venetia went into town to buy a newspaper and stroll the narrow streets of the city. She had been very busy at the office since Christmas, preparing for the photography exhibition of all the restored palazzi that her department, Marmi Storici e Pietra, had been involved in during the past twelve years. Gathering and putting together a collection of the drawings, designs, the plans and snapshots, material samples, building fragments and models of the palazzi end products had been a huge job; and she had worked on the project almost single-handedly, helped from time to time by Francesca, the only other specialist in the restoration of historic buildings that worked for the firm.
The models were done by Fabrizio, a brilliant young Venetian who had been with the practice for six years. After studying architecture for over seven years, he had decided that all he liked to do was build models, a passion nurtured since the age of five. But building models was not Fabrizio’s only passion. The flamboyant Italian was in love with Venetia and had courted her since the first day she had joined the firm; but, as with other men, her heart had remained tightly closed to his advances. ‘Cara, you break my heart every day, but I forgive you because you are so lovely,’ he would gently scold her in his inimitably Italian way.
Venetia spent the morning window shopping, sauntering aimlessly amidst the tourists, just one of the crowd. The city, being so compact, was ideal for strolling down side-streets and picking up an array of strange and wonderful curiosities in Venice’s old shops, from exotic fabrics, objets d’art and antiques to speciality foods, collectors’ books and convex ‘witches’ mirrors’ so particular to the city. She hadn’t had any breakfast, so just before one o’clock she ended up at a pretty trattoria in Piazza San Marco that had just opened its doors a few weeks ago in honour of the Carnival. Pleasantly exhausted, she sat outside in the winter sun, under its red awning and next to its hedge of potted ferns, sipping her glass of white wine. As Napoleon was reputed to have said of the city’s most famous public square, it was ‘the drawing room of Europe’, and Venetia watched the antics of the people in the piazza as though she were in an outdoor parlour. Absorbed in the silence of centuries, she feasted her eyes on the relics of Venice’s architecture and art history.
She looked up at the Torre dell’ Orologio, representing the three pillars of La Serenissima’s power: scientific progress, civic enlightenment and Christian faith; a splendid specimen of Venetian artwork and engineering. Its mystical, pagan influences were no less beautifully depicted in the exquisite representation of the blue and gold zodiac on the clock face. Still, she could never look at the clock without shivering at the thought of the gruesome myth attached to it. According to local legend, the engineers who built the mechanism of the gold and blue chef d’oeuvre had their eyes gouged out so as to pre
vent them from building a similar piece, and ensure that no other city could have such a magnificent clock as Venice.
Stretching alongside the Torre dell’ Orologio in front of her were the fifteenth-century Procuratie Vecchie buildings housing an arcade which extended the length of the north side of the piazza with its shops and restaurants, round to the west wing of San Marco, constructed by Napoleon. To her right, at the eastern end of the square, St Mark’s Basilica stood majestically, a symbol of Venice’s history of wealth and power and a famous example of Byzantine architecture with its opulent mosaics, marble decor and huge arches. The four colossal bronze horses set into the façade of the magnificent cathedral looked out over the square like triumphant guardians. Venetia never tired of looking at the five glorious golden domes sitting on top of it, exotically eastern, and in front of it, the freestanding belltower of the Campanile, towering above her. As the waiter glided outside with her lunch on a tray and people began filling up the tables, she decided that she liked this pretty new trattoria and would come again.
Venetia tucked in to her grilled soaso – a tiny Adriatic turbot taken from the lagoons near Venice – and was just starting on her gelato al cioccolato all’azteca, a hot pepper and cinnamon-infused dark chocolate ice-cream, when her heart lurched and her breath caught in her throat. A man and a stunning-looking young woman, who looked scarcely out of her teens, had just arrived at the trattoria and were being shown to a table with a reserved card on it, two tables away from hers.
Paolo’s tall, imposing frame was clad in close-fitting black cords, a grey jumper and silk scarf under a dark-grey blazer. Sunglasses protected his eyes from the glare, or maybe like most Italian men and women he wore them as an affectation. It was a cultural artifice that still made Venetia smile. There was an impression of nonchalant ease as he stood, broad-shouldered and loose-limbed, waiting for his companion to shed her coat.
The Echoes of Love Page 4