The Echoes of Love

by Hannah Fielding

  The architect’s vision was clear to Venetia now. The great structure was dramatically positioned, and the itinerary to reach it unfolded in a sequence: it showed a procession, from the first distant view of Miraggio hovering over the ocean as visitors approached the estate, to the moment one penetrated the great walls and drove up a long avenue of lime trees to arrive in the gravelled courtyard, where the imposing house provided exquisite views and a sensual awareness of the countryside that surrounded it. Paolo’s home, Venetia thought, had both beauty and grandeur, as well as a veil of melancholy laid on it from times long past. She loved it.

  Venetia went over to the parapet, built along the top of the cliff. Quite near the rocky edge, leaning out into the void, grew a mimosa tree. Its fernlike silver-grey leaves with bright yellow flowers grew from its limbs in tight clusters. In the burning silence they shone like little golden globes offering adoration to the sun. Mimosa trees planted too close to an open area of land usually become a weed and spread. Strange how this one had just sprouted there, she thought, a lonely sentry slanting out from the rock in which its roots were embedded. It hung poised over the drop in perfect stillness, yellow against deep blue, with no other vegetation around it.

  Not far from the tree, Venetia noticed broad steps that had been cut in the face of the rock. The craggy staircase snaked down to what looked like a private sheltered bay, lying in the dazzling morning light far beneath. There must be more than a hundred steps, she thought, and wondered whether Paolo ever went down there to bathe in privacy. An unexpected feeling raced down her spine and pooled deep inside her at the thought of his tanned, muscled body glistening as he waded out of the water; and for a few moments she stood there, dreamy-eyed, imagining what it would be like to swim naked with Paolo in the moonlit sea.

  It was a perfect day for sketching and painting. There was so much to see and admire. Venetia settled herself on one of the steps in the shade of the mimosa tree and took out her sketchbook. She looked at the clefts in the rocks at the bottom where the tide surged in and out and at the seagulls perched in sedate companies on the ledges at the top of the cliffs. They were such a curious sight, like newly-painted wooden toys, with their glistening white feathers and heavy orange beaks, their feet close together, alert eyes very bright as they stood there motionless, an air of blank solemnity on their vacant faces.

  She loved the solitude, the vastness of sea and sky, the movement of the shadows, and the way that areas previously in the shade now appeared, shining with brilliance under the sun. Timeless, and devoid of any evidence of modern life, it could be the background to a calm mediaeval picture, and the young woman wondered if perhaps Charles Lamb was not right when he wrote that, ‘as men when they die are not really dead, so perhaps their habitations still persist in the unseen world’.

  Venetia took out her pencils and peered at the horizon, then began to sketch a distant white liner sailing into Porto Santo Stefano. She could understand why Paolo had settled here after his accident and the loss of his wife – it was a good place to heal.

  ‘This is not a playground for the public or a recreation park for tourists. You’re trespassing!’

  Engrossed in her sketching, Venetia nearly jumped out of her skin at the sudden aggressive reprimand. Shielding her eyes from the glaring sun, she lifted her head and was met with the termagant expression of a young woman gazing down at her from the top of a bright bay mare, eyes as wild as those of her mount.

  ‘How did you get in, anyway?’ went on the unfriendly rider.

  A cold anger ran along Venetia’s spine when she saw that it was Allegra, the young girl who had been with Paolo at the restaurant, but she gritted her teeth and contrived an air of insouciance, allowing a smile to touch her lips.

  ‘I came in through the front gates, of course.’

  Raw little flames seemed to smoulder in the dark eyes of her interrogator as they scanned Venetia from head to toe.

  ‘Well, you can get out the same way before I call the police.’

  Venetia, unmoving, coolly looked up into the hostile pupils of the Italian girl. ‘I’m afraid that you’ll have to put up with my company for a little longer.’

  Her standoffish answer seemed to take the wind out of Allegra’s sails, and the girl stiffened imperceptibly, before recovering her composure in a flash. ‘And why is that? Who are you? Or, more appropriately, who do you think you are?’ she taunted, keeping her impatient horse still with a tug of the reins.

  ‘I’m Venetia Aston-Montagu. I’m the architect Signor Barone has appointed to carry out some work here.’

  The rider arched an eyebrow. ‘What works? Signor Barone is away, and he left no instructions about this.’

  ‘Perhaps you should check with Signor Barone in that case. I can assure you that he’s aware of my presence.’

  A malicious smile hovered on Allegra’s full, rosebud lips. ‘Paolo and I speak every day. He would have told me if we were expecting anyone. During his absence we’re not allowed to let anybody on the premises for security reasons. I must insist that you leave.’

  Liar! Venetia was on the point of remonstrating, but kept silent, counting to ten instead. She had made herself known, and there was no point in locking horns with Paolo’s mistress, who had taken great satisfaction in establishing their intimacy.

  Her chin came up a fraction. ‘Unfortunately, I must contradict you on this point. I was let in yesterday night by Antonio, the caretaker, and I spent a very comfortable night in one of the estate’s cottages,’ she replied calmly.

  The Italian beauty contemplated her opponent with undisguised venom. Venetia felt as if the girl was summing her up, stripping her naked as she contemptuously dismissed her in one burning look from under silky, black lashes. Allegra flung up her head, small hands clenching and unclenching on the reins, and then gave the mare a cup on the neck that sent the creature bounding forward, and they disappeared in a cloud of dust.

  Shaking uncontrollably now with fury and humiliation, Venetia watched Allegra gallop away. For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, her first impulse was to go back to the cottage, pack up her bags and leave for Venice – or even as far as England! But she had never run away from a job or a person in her life, and she wasn’t about to start now, all because of some arrogant, spoilt girl’s devious machinations.

  Still, Venetia knew that Allegra was not just any young girl; she was as luscious and beautiful as a flower in its early bloom, with silk-smooth, jet-black hair covering her shoulders like a cape, satin warm-coloured skin, and the most expressive, dark, velvety bedroom eyes she had ever seen. The girl possessed an impertinent tilt to her small nose, which gave her a kind of haughtiness that Venetia sensed few members of the opposite sex could resist the need to break down – she was the dream inamorata par excellence of a million men. Venetia had no doubt how easy it must have been for Allegra to bamboozle a rich, widowed amnesic man, and she momentarily pitied Paolo.

  Yet it was with a burst of frustrated anger against herself, and a rush of antagonism towards the Italian girl, that she recognised the jealousy that swept over her like lava at the thought of Paolo in the arms of the dark-eyed virago, a feeling that left her suddenly cold and implacable. Gathering her sketchbook and pencils, she walked back to the cottage, her heart a little heavier than it had been when she had started out that morning.

  What was so special about this man? He was not that handsome – not in a conventional way, anyhow; quite the reverse. Certainly he didn’t have the fine bone structure that had so attracted her to Judd, or the aristocratic regular features and Norse god colouring that had earned Umberto the title of Mr Venice when he was twenty. But Paolo’s whole being held something else, something much more powerful: a primitive look that made him different to other men, as the jungle animal is different from its domestic counterpart; a savage harshness, which gave his face a certain sexual appeal that she found almost
irresistible. Obviously she was not the only woman on whom he had this effect. She had seen how others flocked to him, the way their heads turned and their eyes followed him, so it was not overly surprising he had been nicknamed l’Amante delle Quattro Stagioni.

  Back at the cottage, Venetia found a tray waiting for her with a salad of baby vegetables, a plate of cold meats, a loaf of crusty bread, olives, cheese and a bottle of red wine. The large bowl of fruit was still standing untouched in the alcove where she had noticed it the night before. She had planned to go into town for lunch, but this uncomplicated meal was a far more attractive alternative – Venetia had always admired the Italian art of living simply and exceedingly pleasantly. Exploring Cala Piccola and Porto Santo Stefano in the afternoon seemed a good option, and maybe she could ask around to find out if the airport in Pisa had reopened. On reflection, it was quite astonishing that Paolo hadn’t just taken a train or driven down to Miraggio. It seemed strange that neither course had apparently crossed his mind, she thought, a little miffed at this somewhat cavalier attitude, given his insistence on her coming down.

  Although the sun was as brilliant as ever, it was not too hot to sit on the veranda, so Venetia opened up the umbrella and settled herself to look out over the beautiful Tuscan countryside surrounding the property, with the ground sloping down in parts to the valley and the main road from Miraggio, to the far-off town of Porto Santo Stefano. Wisteria was in full bloom now, clambering over the rough whitewashed walls of the sheds and stables on the estate.

  Venetia’s heart gave a little squeeze as the purple clusters brought back the memory of the magical evening she had spent with Paolo at La Lanterna, only spoilt when he had taken that phone call, an action that had raised all her defences. She had ended their date ungraciously. He had asked why she was denying them simple happiness when the fire in her eyes reflected the passion that filled her soul, and she could not answer him... nor could she forget the sad, almost bewildered expression on his face when she had pushed him away with words she had not even believed herself. My tongue – my dreadful tongue! What had possessed her to let it run away with her like that? The answer was simple and she knew it: the deep-seated fear of relationships that had plagued her life since her devastating experience with Judd all those years ago.

  Still, had she not saved herself from a more terrible heartache by rejecting Paolo? How could she regret the way she had reacted to his advances in view of the present circumstances? It was all for the best, she told herself for the umpteenth time. Yet deep down, Venetia knew that something irrevocable had happened to her when she had met him. It was as if the far-off echoes of her love for Judd, the only true love she had known, were coming back to haunt her; and fight it as she may, Venetia doubted very much she would be able to stifle the flame that seemed to burn relentlessly day and night, hot and fierce, in her breast… although this new flash of passion, she knew, was not burning for Judd.

  It’s only chemistry, a voice at the back of her mind whispered. But could it really be only sexual desire that meant when Paolo kissed her, when he held her so close against him, and she could feel every hard muscle in his body, it was somehow never enough? Was it simply physical attraction that made her want to be closer, so much closer, to feel his warmth seep into her, his skin against hers, so not only their bodies, but their souls would blend forever?

  She sat absorbed in thought, unconscious of the passing of time. It must have been an hour later, at least, when she heard someone come into the cottage, and a moment after, Ernestina appeared on the veranda.

  ‘Oh, signorina, you didn’t like Ernestina’s salad?’

  ‘On the contrary, Ernestina, I enjoyed your salad very much, thank you, but I’m not used to having a large meal at lunchtime,’ Venetia said hastily, realising guiltily that she had hardly touched her food.

  ‘Not even a glass of wine? La cucina piccola fa la casa grande, a small kitchen makes a house big, and anyone will tell you, Ernestina has the best kitchen around here. The bread was baked this morning. The signore will eat only homemade bread and ours is delizioso, squisito!’ Pursing her lips, the housekeeper made a little sound to express the delectability of the crusty loaf for which Venetia had not shown enough appreciation.

  Venetia smiled a little sheepishly; the last thing she wanted was to ruffle the kind old woman’s feathers. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll have some tonight with my dinner. I’m really not hungry right now.’

  Ernestina gave a pert nod, as if placated by this answer, then her brow furrowed slightly. ‘I hope the signore will be back for dinner,’ she said, almost apologetically. ‘The telephone lines are still down and Antonio hasn’t had time to go into town again to ask about the airport.’

  ‘Not to worry, I’m going to explore Porto Santo Stefano this afternoon and I’ll investigate and let you know.’

  They went back inside. As Venetia was picking up her bag from the sofa, her eyes fell on the painting over the fireplace that she had been looking at the night before. Having seen Miraggio in daylight, she had no doubt now that La Torretta and Miraggio were one and the same. The only difference was the profusion of climbing roses and other vegetation that now dressed the somewhat severe walls of the house and gave Miraggio the air of a fairyland castle instead of that of a medieval fortress.

  ‘This is how Miraggio used to look before Signor Barone bought the place,’ said Ernestina, noticing Venetia’s pause in front of the picture. ‘La Torretta was derelict in those days. It belonged to un cantante d’opera ben noto. God save us from such evil, but this opera singer was murdered by one of his mistresses, and some say the house is haunted by il suo fantasma.’ Ernestina looked up and crossed herself before carrying on. ‘But we mustn’t think about that. Bad thoughts bring vibrazioni negative, and the house has had many owners and a long history. Although the signore has had them blocked up, the dungeons are still in the original part – you know, facing the lake. And there’s still that old, clunky machinery for flooding the lowest dungeon.’

  ‘Miraggio also has a lake?’

  ‘Yes, it’s small e molto inquietante, and very spooky. Nothing grows well around it and Signor Barone never goes there. Legend has it that in medieval times, the owners of La Torretta used to tie their prisoners to iron rings in the dungeon walls and drown them slowly, inch by inch. Later, they let the water out again and put weights on the bodies before throwing them into the sea.’

  Venetia let out a horrified cry. ‘How morbid!’

  Ernestina shrugged with Italian matter-of-factness. ‘An effective way of disposing of i tuoi nemici, your enemies, all the same!’

  Venetia shivered; it all sounded extremely macabre. She picked up her bag. ‘Where is the garage, Ernestina? I gave my car keys to Antonio yesterday and he hasn’t returned them.’

  ‘They’ll be in the car. This place is very safe, molto sicuro. No one can get to the garage without passing the stable block or outbuildings, where there’s always someone working, even during the siesta. And at night, that wolf of a dog Rufus is on guard. Come, I’ll show you.’

  They went out into the sunshine and took a wide path along the back of the cottage, past a vine-covered pergola, haylofts, and other outbuildings, each overshadowed by age-old oaks, cedars, and beech trees, with here and there a tall, elegant cypress, the very signature of Tuscany. A couple of men were working outside and Venetia felt their curious eyes scrutinising her as she passed by – they were obviously unaccustomed to having strangers on the premises.

  When the stable block came into view, a single glance sufficed for Venetia to assess that this was a state-of-the-art equestrian building. U-shaped, it comprised five stables, a wash room, a tack room, and a feed room, set in lines on either side of a dramatic stone archway with wisteria and Virginia creeper hugging its walls. Built in hardwood with oak posts, beams and stays, it had high eves with a tiled overhanging roof in brown asphalt shingles. A fleeting peep i
nside showed the stalls to be spacious, with fresh straw on the ground, and four beautiful, well-groomed and contented-looking animals housed there.

  Venetia had ridden all her life. Sir William owned extensive stables in Berkshire where he used to hunt. She herself had never participated in that sport, but had been given her first pony when she was seven and had been through pony club, dressage lessons and competitions, and had even won a trophy when she was sixteen. Judd was an accomplished rider and she had wonderful memories of their horseback hikes around Hyde Park in the early mornings during summer. A pang of sadness gripped her once more, as she took in these familiar surroundings.

  ‘Signor Barone is an expert rider,’ Ernestina told her, jolting her out of her reflection. ‘He oversees the work on the property a cavallo, on horseback, instead of going round with a car or one of the estate trailers.’

  And he’s obviously always accompanied by his mistress, Venetia thought hollowly. For two pins, though, as pride gave her a poke, she would have asked the friendly housekeeper about the young girl she had seen that morning on horseback, but she kept silent. Everything comes to him who waits, she told herself philosophically.

  ‘And that is where Antonio lives,’ muttered Ernestina she hurried past the large stable cottage. It was larger than La Sirena but somehow not as charming. Venetia suddenly realised that Allegra must also live there and it took all her willpower to bite her tongue.