The Echoes of Love

by Hannah Fielding

  He had stated his thoughts so simply and dolefully that Venetia felt her defences crumbling – already they had begun to fall away, even before he had appeared in his study that morning. Her certainty that Paolo was an unprincipled philanderer was slowly beginning to dissolve – only an uneasy suspicion remained, which in that moment she would have given anything to have had proved wrong.

  Now they could not see the sea, as it was more or less screened by trees, but Venetia lost herself in the beauty of the hills. Around every bend in the road was a new vista: a slash of cobalt-coloured ocean through tall hedges, an old water mill, a disused olive oil factory of crumbling brick, a severe fortress church that could have been designed by Giorgio de Chirico, and houses painted in pastels as if a stage designer had created them for a seaside opera, some with laundry outside, spread to dry on bushes like huge flowers.

  Venetia watched Paolo stealthily. There was that daunting air of power about him of which she had been conscious since the first day. She felt like a teenager again – a strange feeling – he couldn’t be that much older than her, but something about him told her that he was a man who would welcome dependency and would never let anyone down. Despite her aversion to overpowering men like her father, it was strange that part of her craved someone to lean on.

  Paolo’s eyes flickered to her and Venetia hastily looked away again.

  ‘We’ll soon be there,’ he remarked, as they started the descent towards a small spectacular bay of clear blue water, sparkling like a jewel at the bottom of the cliffs. ‘I’m afraid we’ll have to leave the car down here,’ he told her as they rounded the cape and came out on to a large plateau. On it stood a little church with a cemetery surrounded by pine trees. He drew up on to a shelf of rock next to it, an area where people parked to admire the view.

  Paolo stopped the car and turned off the ignition. ‘We’ll walk up to the site. For the time being, there’s no road that leads to it,’ he grinned. ‘It’s all part of the challenge.’

  ‘I’m game for it,’ Venetia replied, getting out of the car. What she didn’t tell him was that she had done quite a lot of mountain climbing in Scotland with Judd, and climbing a steep hill wouldn’t be an issue, even though she wasn’t as fit as she used to be.

  They went up the rough and stony lane, which hadn’t been used for decades. The hillside was bathed in warm, calm sunshine. Butterflies zigzagged in and out of the beating sunlight, across the path. Yellow Banksia roses and purple wild wisteria fell in tresses and clusters over crumbling walls and broken stone columns; Venetia caught whiffs of their fugitive scent in the air as she went by. The clumps of elder and bramble were thick and caught at the twill of her slacks. She was thankful she had worn trousers; the claw-curved thorns seemed to reach out and catch their unsuspecting legs as they passed.

  The silence was as tense as if a spell had been laid upon the place, and Paolo and Venetia’s steps sounded loudly as they picked their way over shifting, clinking stones. At one point, Venetia almost stumbled and their fingers brushed slightly. There it was again, that jolt of electricity through her, as if she had touched a live wire, sending heated darts of excitement deep down to the apex of her thighs.

  Paolo stopped still and his eyes held hers as if he had felt it too. Venetia looked for a distraction and pointed to some bits of broken wall and rubble that lay on one side of the path, almost covered by grass.

  ‘Any idea what this is, over here?’ she asked, her voice breathy.

  ‘That’s reputed to be the remains of an Etruscan shrine,’ Paolo answered, his voice husky, mirroring hers. ‘There was an Etruscan city at the top of this hill, as well as a Roman theatre and a Franciscan monastery.’ He gestured for her to go ahead, and Venetia passed in front of him on the rocky path, aware of his eyes following her.

  As they walked up the hill, pausing occasionally to cool down, they talked about the three civilisations – Etruscan, Roman and Christian – gathered there. Venetia was surprised at the extent of Paolo’s knowledge about the art and the history of his country. It was as if she was peeling away new layers and discovering different sides to him. She found him more than interesting, with an eager mind. In some ways, it was as if he belonged to another period; she could quite imagine him at the time of the Renaissance, joining in with the circle of scholars that gathered round Lorenzo de’ Medici, the erudite patron of poets and artists. He seemed to have an affinity with people of that era, discussing mythology and legends, dreams and fate, and such things as Michelangelo believed in.

  ‘Where did you get all this knowledge? Surely they didn’t teach you history of art at business school?’ she asked.

  ‘I spend a lot of time reading about beautiful things and like to surround myself with them. Albert Einstein said: “The pursuit of truth and beauty is a sphere of activity in which we are permitted to remain children all our lives.”’

  ‘Are you saying you’re some sort of Peter Pan? You don’t strike me as such.’ A child was the last thing she thought of when looking at him.

  Paolo smiled sadly. ‘Sometimes, one doesn’t have the choice – it’s the only way to keep sane,’ he whispered.

  Venetia barely caught his words; they were indistinct, as though spoken to himself.

  She drew a trembling breath, realising how unintentionally insensitive she had been. Of course, Paolo had created his own Neverland, Miraggio, where he could hide in his universe of fantasy, like J.M. Barrie’s character. She slanted a glance at the firm, austere profile… and again something stirred within her, an emotion akin to tenderness, but so much more. There were a hundred things Venetia wanted to ask him. She hated the thought of him being trapped inside such loneliness, but she could not admit to knowing his secret. She wished she could put her arms around him and comfort him – was this only compassion and pity she felt for Paolo, or was the strange sentiment that softened her heart towards him part of something deeper and more meaningful? Her resistance was so fragile now that she wanted more than ever to cross the narrowing divide between them, but she was too afraid to take the final step.

  At last, hot and tired, they reached the crest of the hill. There, lay a vast expanse of ground that held an old Roman temple surrounded by venerable trees and, to the right of it, a huge arena. The temple was derelict; some trees had fallen across it, smashing the columns. The circles and steps of the Roman theatre lay almost intact in the sunshine. The air around it was full of the heady perfume of olives and the myriad tiny flowers almost hidden in the grass. And then much further to the right stood a crumbling villa and a chapel in beautiful pink stone, which, originally, would probably have been reached by a courtyard attached to the main structure. As far as Venetia could assess, the two buildings dated from the late nineteenth century. The Florentine-looking villa was surrounded by its own derelict garden, with a wrecked gazebo covered in clambering ivy and brambles standing under two ancient Judas trees in flower.

  Outside the garden, a viewing terrace had been built on top of a small knoll. Impressive stone steps led up to a colonnaded and paved long rectangular platform, with far-reaching views towards the Chianti countryside.

  ‘This is incredible!’ breathed Venetia, gazing around her. They had stopped among some large stones and Paolo rested his foot on top of one, folding his arms and looking straight ahead. Standing next to him, Venetia was acutely aware of the closeness of his black jeans stretched over his thigh, and deliberately looked away.

  ‘The plans show that the palace was built over the ruins of the Franciscan monastery and that most of the mosaic murals of the chapel date from that time.’ He scanned the site, squinting against the sun into the distance. ‘I won this place at auction. It was destroyed during the war. No one has ever reclaimed it. My lawyer couldn’t find any documents concerning the ownership of the plot, only the old plans remain. After World War Two, the Italian government seized it and put it up for auction. It was brought to my
attention by my good friend Umberto, who knows that I’m always on the lookout for this sort of project.’

  Venetia coloured. His good friend Umberto… She wondered if Paolo would still feel the same if he knew what a snake in the grass the Count had been. She wished she could warn him against Umberto, but how could she, without letting him know that she was aware of his predicament?

  They walked around the site. On the ground between age-old vines, banks of wild iris were just beginning to flower, there were also some tiny daisies and forget-me-nots, bluebells, buttercups and the frailest of scarlet poppies – the very carpet of primavera to walk on. Despite its untidy look, the area had a kind of enchantment that was captivating.

  ‘It’s such a beautiful place,’ Venetia murmured, taking in the wonder of it all. ‘Botticelli must have set eyes on exactly this sort of vivid tapestry of spring. I can understand what attracted you to it. It needs a lot of work and a lot of money spent on it, but I agree, this place could make the most magical resort.’

  ‘I’m pleased you like it, cara. Your opinion is important to me.’ He glanced at her, his eyes burning with an emotion that made her mouth go dry. ‘I told you it had been neglected for years and I know it will need much spent on it but after all, what’s the use of money if it isn’t for creating beautiful things? Unfortunately, I neither paint, nor do I write poetry.’ He turned to look out at the scene before them. ‘The only way I know to give back to art is by restoring and reinstating what has been abandoned.’

  Venetia thought again of Paolo’s compulsion to transform, mesmerised by the rugged outline of his face that stirred so many dark and complicated emotions within her. He then shot her a dazzling smile, making her legs turn to liquid, and nodded questioningly in the direction of the small hill.

  ‘Shall we?’

  ‘Yes, I think we should.’

  They went up the steps to the terrace that lay in the sunshine. Here, tawny bees hovered and settled on the wild roses and honeysuckle that smothered the balustrades and columns in a tangle, the tranquil air pervaded by their fragrant scent, made stronger by the heat.

  A panoramic view met them. Venetia looked around and then over the parapet. Down among the broken rocks were several fragile-looking reptilian skins that could not have been shed earlier than this spring. Venetia thought of the lovely lines from Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream:

  And there the snake throws her enamell’d skin,

  Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in.

  The idea of fairies seemed very apt in such a place at such a time. Not a stir, not a sound; she and Paolo might have been alone in the world. She could hear nothing except for the humming of bees resounding loudly in the silence. The whole place left the impression of peace and they stood there for a while, neither of them speaking, absorbing the atmosphere of another epoch.

  A deep melodious bell chimed once in the church below. The sound echoed up to them, and suddenly a cloud of pigeons swept out of one of the old stone pines with a whirr of wings, circled in midstream and returned to the tree, vanishing in its dense green foliage. For a moment, Venetia turned, half startled to see that Paolo was staring down at her with unusual intentness; but he looked away and glanced at his wristwatch.

  ‘That’s the toll, “Il tocco” in old Tuscan dialect,’ he told her. ‘It’s one o’clock. Bells chime only once during the day, at this time… a custom in Tuscany to remind people that it’s lunchtime. Before we go for lunch, I would like you to have a look at the mosaics in the chapel attached to the villa.’

  ‘Yes, of course – after all, that’s why I’m here.’

  ‘Is that the only reason?’ he said softly, taking her hand to help her down the steps, his concentration on her face.

  The sun was warm on Venetia’s back; Paolo’s hand was warm around hers. The place was one of the most romantic she had come across, and suddenly all she wanted was to be in his arms. She didn’t answer his murmured question, instead giving her whole attention to the steps, fearful lest her legs should give way, so conscious was she of his proximity and of the thumb now sensuously caressing her wrist. It was such a light touch and yet it sent her hormones rioting as her heart skipped a beat.

  Venetia knew he was watching her, felt him trying to read her mind, compelling her to look at him. Her pulse was racing, and panic quickened in her throat as she desperately tried to bring herself under control. She untangled herself from his hold and in doing so tripped, letting out a small cry.

  Paolo sprang forward to stop her from falling, shielding her with his body; but as he caught hold of her waist he tumbled with her, holding on to her as they hit the ground so that Venetia landed on top of him, his strong arms tightly clamping her to him. Her mouth was inches from his, so close, too close, his sparkling blue eyes boring into hers with piercing intensity. For moments they lay still, his head and chest slightly raised from the ground, cradling her against his body. Venetia could smell the faint trace of aftershave lotion that lingered on his skin, and could hear his thick breathing; she could feel the potency of his virility pressing against her. The intimacy of that burning contact was feeding her desire like fuel poured on to a smouldering fire, which would soon erupt into flame.

  Heat flooded her loins and her head span. Her heart, her senses were letting her down; she was not proof against this, against those lighted eyes, that look which she knew, the significance of his clasp, the strong beat of his heart. He had to be aware of it because she was trembling. She wanted him to reach down with that mouth and kiss her now, more than she had ever wanted anything. Paolo closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He opened them and there was a look of hesitation, and then steely resolve.

  ‘You’ve had a shock, cara, you’re trembling,’ he said in a choked voice as he loosened his embrace before placing his large hands on the side of her shoulders and gently sliding her off him. ‘Have you hurt yourself?’ He jumped up and held a hand out to her.

  Venetia ignored it, chilled by his rejection of her willing surrender, and leapt to her feet, brushing the dust from her clothes and smoothing her trousers over her hips. ‘No, no, I’m fine, thank you. Are you all right?’ she asked breezily, trying not to sound too disappointed. ‘You’re the one who took the brunt of it.’

  A glimmer of a smile lit up his eyes, blue as the Tyrrhenian Sea. ‘On the contrary, Venetia, I can put my hand on my heart and say that for me it was a pleasure.’

  A pleasure? Then why hadn’t he taken advantage of the moment? She’d been in his arms, ready and willing. Paolo was an experienced womaniser, and even if he hadn’t been, he couldn’t have failed to notice the symptoms of her need. Venetia knew that her eyes, her mouth, her whole body had been crying out for him, and he had just ignored it and pushed her away. Was this his revenge for her slip of the tongue the previous night, or was Paolo playing hard to get? Whatever the reason, Venetia felt a little humiliated. The ease with which he had been able to cut himself off hit her with a shock, and her amber eyes darkened with a mixture of desire and confusion.

  Paolo stared down at her, something very serious in his gaze. Had he sensed her change of mood? But all he said was, ‘Maybe we should call it a day, and I’ll take you to lunch. We can come back some other time.’

  ‘No, no, really I’m fine. I’d like to get on with visiting the rest of the site, please.’ Now awash with humiliation, she wanted to move away from him as quickly as possible.

  ‘Well then, I’d better hold on to you. Next time we may not be so lucky, cara. What would I tell Signora Lombardi if you returned with a broken leg?’

  And before Venetia had time to protest, he had taken her hand again and was holding it as though he had no intention of letting it escape from his grasp. Compelled against her will, she looked up at him and met the steady gaze that held a dozen different expressions: dominant, possessive, challenging and… tender.

  The old villa insid
e was nothing less than she had expected, with generous proportions and elaborate ornamentation. Within the ruined, beetling walls, the place was faintly lit by the diffused glow of daylight, which came through the shuttered windows with their half-open or broken slats, and shafts of sunlight that penetrated here and there through holes in the main structure and ceiling. There was a particular fragrance in the air, for the whole villa and its treasures were redolent with the glories of a past age. The faded curtains and tapestries, though magnificent and irreplaceable, were not only worn and shabby but torn. The place represented the splendour and lavishness, the decadence of earlier years.

  Paolo and Venetia walked slowly over the disused floor, alive with vegetation in some places, picking their way through rubble, large portions of broken stone, some of which were still coloured with gold and pastel hues, chunks of solid wood with beautiful carvings, and fractured rods of wrought iron. She was glad of Paolo’s grip now. The colour scheme in the main reception room had once been reminiscent of a spring garden on a sunny day, with wooden columns depicting exotic trees climbing from the baseboards up onto the coved ceiling. Today, the walls were stained and peeling and the superstructures rickety, with ivy, maidenhair and acanthus creeping down them, forming fantastic bowers at the entrances to the rooms.

  There was a Gothic Room, a Renaissance Room and most extraordinary of all, a Moorish Room, which seemed to have been added at a later date and had a meretricious air, a shoddiness beneath its carved arabesques, a hint of dirt and gloom behind the grilled arches. Hanging on the walls were rusty, curved swords and spears. The atmosphere was secret and mysterious. The utter stillness of the place, broken by the occasional cry of a bird outside, imparted a sinister expectancy to such luxuriant silence, as though some witchery lurked behind it all. Venetia shivered.