It was almost five o’clock when she got off the highway and began zigzagging her way down to Porto Santo Stefano, the small seaport town on the north-western promontory of Monte Argentario. Grey wisps of storm clouds, heavy and soft, trailed about the hills, and, as she drove along the wet, tortuous country lanes of Tuscany under the dripping, bowered trees, nothing could be seen of the countryside.
The weather forecast on the radio had threatened a storm, and now a gusty wind began to blow. The first ear-splitting crack was followed by a barrage of rumbling thunder and flashes of lightning from the west, the rain adding its fury to the storm concerto as it hit the aluminium bonnet of her Porsche sports car. There were no other vehicles on the road as she sped through the downpour; the whole region seemed empty in the darkening day.
Venetia felt strangely alone, her only company the monotonous swish of the windscreen wipers and the merry chatter of the radio. Maybe she should have accepted Paolo’s offer and taken the plane instead of stubbornly insisting on driving down. She was tired and was not enjoying this part of her journey one bit. She had been to Florence, Pisa, and the more touristy cities of Tuscany, but had never explored the Tyrrhenian coast and its surroundings. She had thought that travelling this way would be fun and that she would see a little of the Tuscan countryside, but she hadn’t reckoned on the storm.
Venetia sighed and changed the station to pop music. The radio show was streaming out back-to-back hits for the new millennium. The recognisable tumbling strings of Robbie Williams’ ‘Millennium’ played out and for a while she lost herself in the lush harmonies and insistent rhythm. The next song came on, the Italian hit ‘la Fine del Millennio’ by Vasco Rossi, jolting her out of her reverie, its fast, hard rhythms such a coarse contrast. She wondered why the Italians had chosen a rasping, unmelodic song to represent the millennium when they were such a deeply romantic nation. Frowning, she quickly retuned again, landing on a nostalgia radio station. Demis Roussos was singing his achingly romantic seventies hit, ‘Forever and Ever’, and of how his destiny followed his love eternally. At that moment, inexplicably, the words caught at her heart. Overwhelmed by that deepening of emotion which solitude bestows, Venetia’s throat constricted and for a brief moment her eyes welled up with tears of self-pity. They trembled at the edge of her lids, but she was quick to restrain them, chastising herself for being so weak and spineless.
A couple of hours later, she had passed Grosseto. The land around was undulating; it now ran up from sea level and down over the main range of hills. Up and down she went for miles, between the hills that branched from the main ridge, down towards the Tyrrhenian Sea. In better weather the view must be breathtaking, she thought as she came to a junction and followed the signs for Orbetello, an important Natural Reserve along the coast only five miles away from Porto Santo Stefano, where the coast of Tuscany connected to the promontory by three fingers of land. As she drove across to Monte Argentario, with the distant shadow of the sea on both sides and the wind whipping up keenly, in Venetia’s mind it was as if she was crossing into a kind of mysterious isolation from the life she had left behind. This was Paolo’s domain now.
She was nearly there, and for a charged moment Venetia forgot her weariness and her heart beat a little faster in anticipation of seeing Paolo. She could feel swelling up inside her again that languorous weakness edged with excitement that flowed through her every time she thought of him, but she grimly clung to her self-respect, fighting off this unwelcome rush of desire that reminded her she was not yet indifferent to him. She smiled to herself as an Italian proverb Francesca often used crossed her mind: ‘quando ci si priva di cioccolato, se ne ricorda sempre il sapore dolce, when you deprive yourself of chocolate, you always remember the sweet taste’. Would she perhaps lose her craving for Paolo if she mixed with him day in, day out, not only as a friend, but also as a lover, she wondered. Was giving in to him the cure for this strange, feverish addiction?
The directions that Paolo had sent the office to reach Miraggio from Cala Piccola, a tiny village outside Porto Santo Stefano, were clear and detailed. Venetia had no difficulty finding the unlit narrow lane that led uphill to the property. The storm seemed to have stopped as abruptly as it had come on, and although the view was still nebulous in the fading twilight, the wild wind had scattered the clouds, and the sky was faintly luminous. As the Porsche wound its way upwards, she was aware that she was climbing a mighty cliff overlooking an endless expanse of sea on one side and a wide scene of undulating countryside on the other. In front of her, despite the approaching night, she could just make out a magnificent, walled building in the distance.
Finally, at the top of the cliffs she came to the towering grey-stone walls that gradually loomed out of the darkening sky. They were interrupted by tall wrought-iron gates, standing open on a plateau that half jutted out over the ocean, and which looked as if it been carved out of the hillside a long time ago. This is it, Venetia thought, her pulse quickening. She hesitated and slowed the car for a second, before sweeping through the entrance and round the slow curve of a lime-bordered avenue leading to a gravelled courtyard. There, a large and beautifully proportioned turreted dwelling stood outlined in the obscurity: Paolo’s home in the clouds.
Venetia drew the Porsche to a halt outside the imposing front door. The house was in darkness, the place looked deserted. Perplexed, the young woman sat in her car on the verge of laughter or tears; she didn’t know which would win. Had she got the date wrong? Was this not Miraggio? She was sure she had followed the directions accurately and anyhow, there had been no other buildings in sight at the top of the cliffs on the narrow plateau. What was Paolo playing at? Was this his idea of a joke to punish her for driving down instead of flying as he had suggested? Or even for not being readily available to speak to him when he called? Such a tumult of feeling was rushing through her that for a moment her vision blurred, before she became aware that someone with a flashlight, and an Alsatian in tow, was coming towards the car from the far end of the courtyard.
The man approaching had a heavy limp and his right shoulder was slightly twisted. He was well over six feet in height and broad with it. A giant of a man, he had a great head of shaggy, grizzled hair which covered a very dark, bronzed face with coarse features. Venetia thought he looked much more menacing than the German Shepherd following him. He reminded her of the Roald Dahl children’s character, The Big Friendly Giant, but there was nothing that seemed either friendly or gentle about this man.
‘Buonasera, signorina, posso aiutarla, can I help you?’ he asked, flashing the torch on to Venetia’s face in a somewhat antisocial fashion, while the dog stood rigidly next to him, staring upwards towards the young woman and emitting a steady long growl.
Dazzled by the torchlight, Venetia lifted a hand to her eyes. ‘Buonasera… è questa la casa del Signor Barone?, is this the house of Signor Barone?’
‘Sì, sì, siete a casa del Signor Barone, but the signore is absent.’
An unpleasant feeling gripped Venetia. Had she been brought all this way to be sent back again, the victim of some humiliating misunderstanding?
‘I am Signorina Aston-Montagu. I was engaged for the restoration of mosaics in Signor Barone’s villa,’ Venetia explained, trying to keep the dismay out of her voice.
‘Sì, sì, lo so, but we didn’t know you were coming today,’ the giant replied, gruffly. ‘Bad weather, so Santo Stefano airport is closed. Signor Barone’s flight is cancelled. We thought you would be arriving with the signore, after the airport opens again.’
Venetia’s spirits quailed as wretched thoughts went racing through her mind. Was she going to have to look for a hotel so late in the evening? Timetables were chaotic in this part of world, flights cancelled, and airports closed at the drop of a hat, it seemed. What if the flights were not reinstated for another few days?
The giant must have noticed the worried look on Venetia’s face. ‘Non c’�
� problema, signorina, the signore asked for the cottage to be made ready a couple of days ago. I’ll take you to it,’ he added, much to her relief before she had time to ask about hotels. ‘Io sono Antonio, il custode,’ he bowed respectfully and smiled, showing off great toothless jaws.
Venetia’s heart gave a lurch as Umberto’s words came back to her in a flash. ‘He’s originally from Verbania, but he moved to Tuscany to reinvent his life and lives there with his regular mistress, Allegra, who is his caretaker’s niece.’ So this was the uncle of the woman in Paolo’s life? She felt a familiar surge of anger. Her instinct was to turn back and leave Miraggio immediately but it was not in her nature to give up, and so she tried to keep her voice deceptively low when she spoke.
‘Thank you, Antonio. Where should I leave my car?’
‘If you give me the keys, I’ll park it in the garage next to the stables. It’s a walk, you know. Maybe you city folk aren’t used to walking. Got your cars to take you round everywhere instead of your feet.’ He eyed her speculatively. ‘The storm has messed up the grounds – we’ve lost an oak tree.’ He grunted and lifted his brows. ‘Il signore will be upset, he’s very fond of his trees.’
Venetia looked out of the window and down towards the dog, who was still grumbling menacingly. She frowned. Alsatians could be quite aggressive and this dog did not seem happy at all. Venetia was distinctly wary of him.
The caretaker read her mind. ‘Don’t worry, signorina, Rufus won’t harm you. É un cane bravo, he is a good dog. He’s only doing his job, protecting his owner.’
‘Is he your dog?’
‘Sì, signorina.’
‘Will you ask him then to stop growling and be a little friendlier?’
Antonio gave a hoarse, croaky laugh. ‘He’s not growling, signorina, that’s just groaning. There’s a difference.’
Venetia sighed; she was not familiar with dog language. ‘If you say so!’
Reluctantly, she opened the door and set one hesitant foot on the ground. Rufus seemed more relaxed and was not making eye contact with her any more. She stood up and, after pausing a moment, gave Antonio the keys – she didn’t much like her car being driven by other people. Her father used to say that women and cars should only be used by one person: the owner. A rather coarse comparison, she had always thought, but William Aston-Montagu found it a great joke, and Venetia agreed that at least about cars, he had a point.
Venetia rounded the vehicle, making sure she did not pass near Rufus, and opened the boot to take out her luggage.
‘I’ll bring your bags for you, signorina.’ Antonio reached into the boot and negotiated the young woman’s two suitcases with surprising ease as he moved ahead, followed by his wolf. Despite his disability, he was athletically built and Venetia could see now that his shoulder only looked twisted because of the way he walked. This was a strong man, and coupled with his dog, they made mighty guardians. It would be very courageous robbers indeed who took on that formidable pair; Paolo’s assets here were well protected.
There was no moon, but the windswept sky was so clear now that the stars glittered with icy clarity, and the black leaves of the trees sparkled with rime and diamond drops. Venetia followed the caretaker along a short narrow path with coarse grass on either side, which had a delightful, aromatic scent and led to a picturesque stone dwelling, facing the lawns of the main house. Half her mind was concentrating on her surroundings and the other half was thinking of Paolo, wondering when she would see him again and why he had not informed Antonio that she was arriving today.
The cottage where Venetia would be spending the next few weeks was made of stone and stood snugly behind the big house, alongside the cliff, nestled in its own sunken garden. Two very tall, elegant Italian stone pine trees stood guard on each side and bougainvillea cascaded in profusion over the low rocky walls that surrounded it. In the semi darkness, the garden looked old and somewhat untidy, set in the side of a terraced slope that rose steeply away from both the main house and its small, stony companion. A little mossy flight of steps ran through the garden up to the cottage, which was covered by a great many flowering bushes, a tangle of pergola vines and climbing roses.
‘La Sirena,’ Antonio rasped, shuffling to a stop and waving his torch in the direction of the little house. There was an enormous magnolia in bloom on the lawn next to the cottage, and a pond with rushes and other plants that she couldn’t recognise in the dusk. Like a large part of the main house, the cottage, enclosed on three sides by its low walls and thickly clustering bougainvillea, had a magnificent view over the sea on the fourth side, and the sight of it had Venetia transfixed.
Antonio looked back. ‘This way, signorina,’ he called out as he unlocked the door to La Sirena, interrupting her reverie. He led the way in and ordered Rufus to wait for him outside.
It was a single-storey dwelling. The caretaker switched on the lights at the entrance that gave into a lobby. The inner door was open and through it Venetia could see a spacious sitting room. A floor-to-ceiling picture window with a sliding door swept the length of the room, looking over the cliffs, past a belt of trees, down to the Tyrrhenian Sea. Even on this moonless night, Venetia could appreciate the dramatic view of rocks and the turbulent sea below. Immediately outside the room was a long flowery terrace with two recliners and four painted resin chairs, arranged around a stone table set with a furled umbrella.
Venetia drew in a sharp breath. ‘It’s utterly charming,’ she whispered.
Looking around her, she spotted a great wooden bowl filled with fruit, creating a lovely splash of colour on the coffee table, and a vase of tastefully arranged bright-yellow roses and blue irises in an alcove.
Antonio followed her gaze. ‘Ernestina, the housekeeper, came in this morning and made sure the cottage was ready for you.’ He scratched his head. ‘We didn’t expect you tonight so there’s no meal. But there’s a loaf of bread, tea and coffee in the kitchen, and some cheese, milk e una bottiglia di vino nel frigorifero.’
Venetia could not help but be warmed by the attention to detail paid to ensure her comfort and she wondered if Ernestina had acted on her own initiative or Paolo’s instructions.
The caretaker put down Venetia’s cases on a rack in the vast bedroom. The double bed in the corner was so high that it reached the windowsill, and there was a sofa and two armchairs, a small dressing table, a bijou desk, and built-in cupboards. Leading off the bedroom was a separate cloakroom and a magnificent marble bathroom in iridescent rose-petal pink, which was divided in two with a sunken bathtub and basin on one side and an open shower area on the other.
‘There’s plenty of hot water and you’ll find clean towels in the bathroom cupboard.’
‘Thank you, Antonio, this is perfect.’
He gave her a curt nod. ‘Staying long, are you?’
‘As long as I’m needed by Signor Barone to finish the work.’
‘Heh, long enough then.’ He looked at her suspiciously, making her feel that she wouldn’t be becoming firm friends with the giant any time soon.
She smiled as sweetly as possible. ‘Yes, I suppose. Is that a problem?’
‘Nessun problema, signorina. Antonio likes to know what goes on around here, that’s all. Well, buonanotte, signorina. Have a good night.’ With that, Antonio lurched out of the door, whistling for Rufus to follow him.
After the caretaker had left, Venetia made another quick exploration of the cottage. The main sitting area and the bedroom were tastefully decorated in tones of beige and yellow, with shaded lamps here and there. Lightweight curtains gave privacy without blotting out the light and Venetia could imagine them billowing and swaying in the breeze. The walls were hung with watercolours depicting the surrounding countryside, and over the mantelpiece in the living room there was an oil painting of a turreted house in a landscape of pale blue and powdery green, where cypresses pointed stiffly upward in the silvery ai
r. Venetia presumed it was an illustration of Miraggio, but on looking more closely she saw printed on the frame underneath the picture, La Torretta, 1969.
Venetia threw one of the two windows of her bedroom wide open and leaned out. How wonderful! The sky had cleared; a damp, sweet air blew in, laden with moist scents. Over the shoulder of a nearby dark hill, the stars sparkled, large and bright; in the faint light, a small ruscello could dimly be discerned splashing down through the grass, and, in front, slanting across that little stream and swaying in the breeze, leaned the branch of an apple tree. She loved the purity of that air, fraught with wildness and wet. No wonder poets were invented, she said to herself, leaning out into that freshness, unwilling to come back into the room; but she was exhausted and finally closed the windows.
Venetia had to admit that she was disappointed not to have seen Paolo, and it made her a little sad. Her confusion about what to do, what to feel, had not abated. Still, she would have a long hot bath in the sunken tub, make herself some bread and cheese and a hot glass of milk, and go to bed. Hopefully, tomorrow would be a better day. At least she could explore this dramatic place and see if it shed any light on its enigmatic owner.
Chapter 6
It had been late when Venetia had finally retired to bed, but nonetheless she had not been able to sleep. Although the storm had subsided and the night was still, her brain refused to cease its chaotic tumble. Everything that had happened since she had met Paolo came back to torment her. At last she drifted off and, like most nights, was visited by a succession of erotic dreams that left her breathless and her heart pounding when she awoke in the dark.
The Echoes of Love Page 16