The Echoes of Love

by Hannah Fielding

  The next morning dawned tranquil and warm after the tempest of the day before. In the bright April sunshine the earth lay damp and steamy, the sea calm. The hillside, which at night had been shrouded in darkness, was now bathed in a mellow saffron light. Among the olives and vines, standing erect, were pointed cypresses and massive ilex trees, which formed great blocks of dark foliage.

  Venetia woke up to a cacophony of birdsong in the trees outside her bedroom window. Instead of pigeons perched on ancient city roofs, here there were thrushes singing in the garden, building their new nests high up in the tall Italian stone pines she had noticed the night before.

  Her first thought was for Paolo, wondering whether he had arrived during the night and, if he hadn’t, if she would see him today. Venetia listened for a moment to the distant, happy twittering, then stretched her limbs lazily. She lifted herself up and leaned against the pillows, her eyes still full of sleep but drawn to the scenery outside the open window. How serene, how fresh it all looked. Beyond the garden, across a narrow valley, were the terraced vines, the silvery-grey olive trees, and the hills with their flower-sprinkled slopes, so jewelled with colour they might have been the background for any legendary story.

  Throwing back the covers and sliding out of bed, she padded barefoot to the other window, which had remained closed all night, and pushed the shutters open. Shafts of incandescent sunbeams spilled into the room. Dazzled by this sudden brilliance, she lifted her face to the warm rays, relishing the feel of them on her skin, and hugged herself. Below, the land fell away in a scattering of white rock and scrub to a semi-circular bay, almost landlocked by wooded promontories. Everything was clear in the crystal air, sparkling in the sunshine and filled with the fresh, tangy smell of salt, seaweed and iodine.

  The Tyrrhenian coast glowed under the wide arc of a burning, cloudless blue sky, the sea a shimmering golden mirror; the sweeping coastline looked out over the distant islands of the Tuscan Archipelago, echoing their beauty with its wild and mountainous landscape, the pale rock densely interspersed with exotically green pine groves, and its almost luminescent aquamarine waters lapping the shores. In the still atmosphere, the picture was overwhelming.

  Miraggio was a name that suited the place well. Hanging on its narrow bluff, it almost hovered in the void like an imaginary vision. Paolo’s precarious home in the clouds seemed fitting for a man robbed of his past, a hunter of memories who, without an identity, could neither live comfortably in the present nor plan for the future. Looking at it from his point of view, Venetia almost sympathised with l’Amante delle Quattro Stagioni’s attitude to life.

  The young woman gazed down in sheer awe at the magnificent scenery below, with the cliffs standing sentinel on each side of the cove. She felt as though, swept up by the sun and the wind above a primitive, surreal world and suspended in the air, she had left behind civilisation to embrace, for some time at least, the uncertain wildness and grandeur of Paolo’s universe – a thought that excited her, even as she found it disturbing and almost frightening.

  Glancing at her watch, Venetia saw it was nearly nine o’clock. If Paolo had arrived during the night he was probably still asleep, but somehow he didn’t strike her as a lotus eater, so she thought she had better get herself ready for the day’s work.

  She showered and took a few minutes to ponder on what she was going to wear. Her choice fell on a peach-coloured, softly tailored Valentino trouser suit – smart but still comfortable if they were going for a site inspection. The long mirror reflected her: tall, slender and long-limbed. The pastel hue of the outfit brought out the warmth of her colouring and the glitter of bronze in her chestnut hair when the rays of the sun caught it. Today she had massed it in a sophisticated bun, held in place at the nape of her neck by an almost invisible net. It made her look a little severe, she thought, but it was appropriate in the circumstances. She was here to work and Venetia wanted the message to be clear, in case Paolo had other plans.

  After making her bed and tidying up her room, she was just about to turn on the kettle when there was a knock at the door. Venetia caught her breath sharply. Her heart did a somersault in her breast and her pulse quickened as she went to open the door.

  ‘Buongiorno, signorina,’ said the smiling woman who stood on the threshold. She was holding a silver tray loaded with a plate of pastries, a large cafetière of steaming coffee, and a pot of thick honey. ‘I thought you might like some breakfast.’

  Venetia returned the woman’s smile as she stepped aside to let her in. ‘Grazie, how very kind.’

  ‘Sono Ernestina, la governante di Miraggio,’ the housekeeper introduced herself, once again beaming and showing off a set of surprisingly milk-white teeth. ‘Where would you like to have your breakfast – in the bedroom? The salone? Or maybe you would prefer to sit on the terrazza? It’s a beautiful day.’

  ‘On the terrace would be lovely, thank you.’

  Ernestina was a woman in her late fifties or early sixties, with a bountiful figure and a benign face. She might have been younger, Venetia thought, as she followed the servant into the house; it was true that women from her walk of life, tasked with manual work and often outside, usually aged more quickly. Ernestina’s tanned skin was coarse and lined, her features strong and clean-cut. Her beak of a nose and firm mouth might have been engraved on a coin.

  Venetia watched the servant place the tray on the table in the living room before going into the kitchenette for the china and silver, and she noticed how neat she looked in her black frock, which reached almost down to her ankles, and the red woollen shawl draped about her shoulders. Her iron-grey hair was pulled back, neatly gathered up on the top of her head and held in place by a tortoise-shell comb.

  ‘Ha dormito bene?’

  ‘I slept like a log, thank you – the air is so pure up here.’

  ‘Sì, and you must have been tired driving in the storm. I saw your car in the garage.’

  ‘Yes, it was a long drive from Venice, but the directions I was given were very clear and I had no difficulty finding my way, despite the bad weather.’

  Venetia moved out onto the terrace, picking up a little radio she had spotted lying on a nearby table, and Ernestina brought out the tray, now laden with everything for her breakfast.

  ‘The signore is not yet back,’ explained the housekeeper, with a frown. ‘When Antonio went into town this morning, everybody was talking about the accident. Apparently one of those small planes crashed on the tarmac and the airport in Pisa is closed for now. We have not yet heard from the signore. He was due to arrive on the early Alitalia flight, so no doubt this will have held him up.’

  Though Venetia’s spirits sank at the news of Paolo’s delay she was relieved that, without having to ask, she had received an answer to the question that had been at the forefront of her mind since she had arrived at Miraggio the night before. Still, she was a little put out that Paolo hadn’t had the courtesy to ring the house to enquire whether she had arrived and inform his staff that the airport was closed.

  She put down the radio and took a seat at the table, which was elegantly rustic with its wrought-iron frame topped by a cream slab of stone.

  ‘Have you had a lot of damage on the estate because of the storm?’

  ‘Sì, we have lost a very old oak tree. Ma quel che è peggio, but what is worse, the tree fell on our telephone post and our lines are down. That is why Antonio went into town this morning. He was hoping to bring back an engineer to mend the lines, but the storm has caused tale devastazione that it will be weeks before we can get someone to come over here.’

  ‘Perhaps I should have given Signor Barone my mobile number,’ murmured Venetia.

  Ernestina shook her head. ‘Those things don’t work out here, signorina.’ She shrugged. ‘Ah, questa nuova tecnologia…’

  So Paolo really wasn’t to blame after all for the lack of communication. She realised that
she had been a little unfair.

  Ernestina was considering Venetia with a perplexed frown. ‘Mi permetto di chiedere, can I ask, the signorina is not Italian?’

  ‘You’re right, io sono Inglese, but I’ve lived in Italy for three years.’

  ‘Your Italian is perfetto, if I may say so, signorina, but, yes, you don’t look Italian. Your skin is like the skin of a peach that has been lightly touched by the sun – molto bella.’ The housekeeper nodded and smiled approvingly.

  Venetia laughed. ‘Thank you very much for the compliment, Ernestina.’

  ‘Do you have everything you need here?’

  ‘Yes, grazie, the cottage is really comfortable, and so charming.’

  ‘Signor Barone sarà felice di sentirti … he supervised the refurbishment of La Sirena himself… sì, sì,’ she nodded, ‘and made sure it was assolutamente perfetto. The cottage had been closed for many years and needed a lot of work. The signore had not bothered to start it until he knew you were coming. I lavori sono stati fatti molto rapidamente, the work was done very quickly. It was all finished in two weeks. Incredibile!’

  ‘Well, that’s very kind of Signor Barone, and I will make sure to tell him how agreeable and comfortable it is.’

  Ernestina gave Venetia an oblique look. ‘You must be a good friend of Signor Barone. As I told you, La Sirena has been closed per molti anni, for many years, and the signore never has anyone up here. The poor man leads quite a lonely life, you know, cut off from the rest of the world – when he isn’t away on business, naturalmente.’

  ‘My acquaintance with Signor Barone is purely one of business. He has commissioned my firm with a job and I’m here to work on this assignment,’ Venetia replied guardedly.

  It seemed as though her reserved response spurred Ernestina’s interest. ‘The roses in the salone are from Signor Barone’s rose garden and no one is allowed to tend to them but the signore himself… sì sì, completamente proibito. He gave specific instructions about the flower arrangement before he left and he also asked for a bowl of fruit from the orchard to be put in your room. Non l’ha mai fatto prima, he’s never done that before.’ Ernestina shook her head, a puzzled look on her face. ‘Have you… has your firm known the signore long?’

  Though Venetia could not help but feel warmed by Paolo’s detailed attention to her comfort, she wasn’t about to satisfy Ernestina’s curiosity. ‘All I know is that we value Signor Barone’s custom and do our best to please him, as we do with all our clients.’ Venetia smiled sweetly at the housekeeper. ‘This coffee will soon be tepid if I don’t drink it quickly,’ she said, pouring out a cup of the strong brew. She helped herself to a biscotti and some honey, before turning her attention to the beautiful view that stretched out into infinity before them, indicating that the conversation was closed.

  ‘Se mi permette, I’ll do your bedroom now, signorina,’ Ernestina said meekly, taking the hint and turning to go back into the house.

  Venetia smiled. ‘That’s very kind of you Ernestina, grazie mille, but I have done my bed and tidied up my room and the bathroom. You don’t need to trouble yourself.’

  ‘It is no trouble, signorina, this is what I am here for. As I have told you, it’s not often we get visitors at Miraggio.’ She shook her head, waving her finger, ‘e mai, never sophisticated ladies like yourself.’ The housekeeper’s jet-black eyes settled pensively once more on Venetia’s face and she sighed as she turned away. ‘The casa has many rooms, too many of them unused.’ Ernestina shook her head again, this time in disapproval. ‘Some days, Miraggio is more like a tomb haunted by ghosts than a home,’ she muttered as she disappeared into the house.

  Left alone, Venetia’s mind turned once again to Paolo. So, l’Amante delle Quattro Stagioni kept his conquests well away from his house in the clouds. That was most likely because of Allegra, the woman Venetia had seen with Paolo at the restaurant, la favorita, the one he always returned to. At that thought, she was seized by a moment of desolation so sharp that it seemed almost to take physical form. She shivered and shook the feeling off, knowing that such corrosive ideas were folly to entertain – after all, what right did she have to command Paolo’s sole attention? Hadn’t she declared the last time they had been together that friendship was all she had to offer him?

  She was mad to have come here. She should have explained the situation to Giovanna, but she had deliberately kept quiet because deep down she was curious about the man who had touched a chord at the centre of her being, making her heart beat again. The man who had drawn her with a mysterious, addictive, primitive impulse that made her body vibrate and sing with a fire that she thought had been extinguished forever.

  Venetia had assumed that her experience with Judd had beaten the romance out of her, but since she had met Paolo, all the romantic dreams that had filled her imagination way back were teasing her again with growing potency, and she was behaving like some clichéd heroine in one of the romantic novels she devoured in her teens, for some inexplicable reason finding herself drawn to a stranger. She was disturbed that her heart could behave this way, when her common sense told her that everything she now knew about Paolo meant he was wrong for her.

  Recently she had been re-reading Blaise Pascal, the French theologian of the seventeenth century she much admired, and a phrase that seemed conceived solely for her predicament had leapt out at her: ‘the heart has its reasons, which reason does not know’. How painfully true. Why could she not decipher the workings of her own heart? Was she so wrong to hope that maybe she and Paolo were soulmates who had found each other after life had dealt them each a cruel blow? Venetia sighed as she turned on the radio. She tuned into the Don Giovanni show and its Italian nostalgia songs and heard ‘E Salutala Per Me’ by Raffaella Carrà playing. Finding herself humming along to the beautiful, haunting melody, she smiled ruefully as the voice sang mournfully of those who win and lose in love and questioned the mystery of men. She sighed. Would she win or lose? Despite all that she knew – of Paolo’s reputation as a womaniser, of her own heart’s mystery – Venetia was secretly beguiled by the notion that some small magic might befall her one day, and destiny would show its felicitous hand. She closed her eyes, reprimanding herself for her foolish, adolescent mooning and let the soft sea breeze soothe her face.

  In spite of the riotous whirl of her thoughts, nothing could spoil Venetia’s delight in the view before her. She sat there drinking it all in: the dreamy peace, the scent of flowers and burning brushwood floating in the air, and the tang of the sea. Her drooping shoulders rose philosophically. ‘Quel che sarà, sarà,’ went the Italian saying. It was a glorious morning, and moping around churning up black thoughts was doing her no good at all; she might as well take this opportunity to explore the grounds and maybe drive into town for a spot of lunch.

  There are things that need to be put away in a little compartment at the back of the mind where they can be hidden and ignored until either the time comes to revisit them, or the day arrives when they are altogether forgotten. So it was with Venetia. She pushed aside all thoughts of Paolo and decided to enjoy her day.

  As Venetia was about to get up, Ernestina came bustling on to the terrace again. ‘I have attended to your room, signorina. There was not much for me to do. You must leave everything to me in the future, as I have told you. This is my job and Signor Barone would be very upset if he knew that I was not attending to it properly.’

  Venetia gave a crystalline laugh. ‘Well, Ernestina, if you insist – I wouldn’t like you to get into trouble on my account. But you must at least let me make my bed. A bed is a very personal thing, don’t you think?’

  Ernestina chuckled harshly, shrugging. ‘Dio mio, questi Inglesi! Va bene, as you like.’

  ‘The weather’s so lovely, I think I’ll change into something more comfortable and go for a walk in the garden.’

  ‘Of course, you must. The grounds are beautiful and you need
to visit the signore’s rose garden. But be careful if you walk along the edge of the cliffs: the slope is slippery and the earth is all loose, especially after yesterday’s storm – molto pericoloso,’ Ernestina warned her with a wave of her hand as she left the cottage.

  Venetia switched her trouser suit for a pair of tight-fitting cotton beige slacks, drawn in at the waist by a brown suede belt, and a bright-orange silk top with small round iridescent buttons. She undid the more sophisticated hairstyle she had adopted that morning and tied her hair into a loose ponytail instead. Then, armed with a pad and pencil, just in case she felt like sketching, she went out into the sunshine.

  The cottage garden was a riot of colour, shimmering in the sun. Although on first sight it seemed unkempt, Venetia had guessed at its luxuriance the night before in the dark and she had been right. The enclosure, rimmed by a stone parapet, was smothered in bougainvillea that fell in purple and yellow cascades to the cliffs below. The walls of the cottage were framed in jasmine and brilliant clusters of begonia. Polyanthus and tulips looked like sparkling gems in the beds scattered on the grass, and the apple tree in front of Venetia’s window was thick with white and rosy buds. Trickling splashes from the small brook running through the garden added a sort of tranquillity to the surroundings. The hovering breath and scent of spring was everywhere.

  Curious to see what the main house looked like in daylight, Venetia walked out of the sunken garden and retraced her steps along the narrow path, back to the courtyard where she had left her car the evening before… and there it stood in splendour.

  Constructed in an unusual pale, golden stone, Miraggio, with its Gothic turret at one end, was an imposing old building that commanded sweeping views of the surrounding countryside. Like a Goliath, solidly rooted on a rocky outcrop jutting into the Tyrrhenian Sea, it was framed on one side by stretches of well-tended vineyards, olive groves and fragrant orchards, and on the other by a great expanse of glittering deep-blue and turquoise water. The awe-inspiring residence was erected on four floors with a subterranean level built right into the rock. Its great masonry walls were smothered in climbing roses that poked at the elegant, tall windows and rambled over its beautiful, arched wooden front door, softening the building’s austere appearance. A colonnaded veranda encircled three-quarters of the crenulated turret and the remaining open space included a south-facing terrace. The columns were festooned with flowering vines, and huge earthenware pots of climbing geraniums stood between them.