She gave an exasperated sigh. ‘I’m all ears, sir.’
The agent didn’t answer immediately. He took out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Venetia, which she declined. The evening had not yet surrendered to night and was almost luminous, iridescent with fireflies; the atmosphere was warm, filled with the scent of roses, and the sound of water lapping softly against the jetty was borne to them on the night air.
‘How well do you know Paolo Barone?’
‘Well enough, why?’
‘Venetia, you must believe me when I tell you that I’m not here to hurt you, quite the reverse. Some things are meant to be and life has a strange way of teaching us lessons. Perhaps Napoleon was right: “There is no such thing as accident; it is fate misnamed.”’ He gave a little dry laugh. ‘I don’t particularly relish being the one to talk to you about this, and I really don’t know how to say it without being blunt.’
‘Well then, go ahead and be blunt – don’t mind me.’ There was impatience and frustration in Venetia’s voice, and contempt in her dark amber irises as she finally met his eyes.
He peered through the cigarette smoke as he exhaled. ‘A long time ago, when you were about eighteen, you were very much in love with a young man.’
Venetia cringed inwardly. Why was this man bringing all that up now? It was none of his business anyhow. ‘Yes, Judd Carter. That’s an old story which I put to bed, as you say, a long time ago, and I fail to see what my private life has to do with anything you might have to say to me,’ she snapped.
‘Gareth Jordan Carter. Well, life has a curious sense of humour and sometimes things have a funny way of cropping up.’
The memories were back, and her pulse started to act erratically. Her mouth went dry. ‘Are you telling me… are you saying that you’re in touch with Judd and that?’
He lifted a peremptory hand. ‘One step at a time, my dear, you’re jumping the gun.’
At that moment, Venetia felt a momentary and irrational feeling of panic. What was all this about? ‘You asked me how well I know Paolo, and then suddenly you’re talking to me about Judd!’
Her father’s friend shifted uncomfortably on the bench. ‘There’s actually no ten ways of telling you this…’ He hesitated and threw his cigarette stub into the canal. ‘Venetia, my dear child, Paolo Barone and Gareth Jordan Carter are one and the same man.’
She stared blankly at him, then the world swayed around her. A cold sweat raced through her spine. Her heart was hammering, the palms of her hands damp; the leaves on the trees were a whirling kaleidoscope of dark patches. I’m going to faint, she thought, and prayed for the strength not to collapse there and then. What Robert Riley had just said was insane; it made no sense at all. A hundred questions flooded into her mind but she felt too confused and faint to ask one.
‘I don’t understand,’ she murmured, trembling with shock and disbelief. ‘What on earth are you talking about? It’s impossible! Judd is English, Paolo’s Italian – they don’t even look remotely alike. They come from totally different worlds… What are you telling me?’
‘I’m afraid that I’m not in a position to give you much more information. Your father has all the answers.’
Venetia felt herself freeze. ‘What has my father got to do with this?’
‘Unfortunately, William played a great part in this mess and I’m sorry to say that I was also part of it.’ He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands together.
‘What about Judd… Paolo…?’
‘He is now Paolo Barone. For all intents and purposes Gareth Jordan Carter is dead and must remain that way – it’s a long story.’
Venetia’s eyes flashed. ‘So all this affair about Paolo being widowed and having lost his memory is a pack of lies?’
‘No, Paolo is totally amnesic. Gareth was very badly injured during an undercover mission in Northern Ireland ten years ago. He almost lost his life.’
‘But Judd was never an agent. He was an officer in the Parachute Regiment.’
Robert Riley sighed and looked somewhat sheepishly back at the young woman. ‘Yes, I know, and that is where your father and I played a not very honourable role. Gareth was very patriotic and had a bit of a chip on his shoulder about not being part of the club – no public school background, and all that. It didn’t take much to convince him to play hero.’
The fog of Venetia’s puzzlement started to dispel as she began to understand what he was telling her. The ruthlessness of her father was so sickening that she could hardly bear to think of it. A slow and terrible anger, quite unlike her usual volatile temper, began to rise in her. For a split second, her hatred was like a searing flame, stronger than any emotion she had ever experienced before. If what she suspected was true, her father had destroyed her happiness as surely as if he had murdered his daughter in her sleep.
‘You’re despicable!’ Her words were choked as she fought back the tears of rage and bitterness welling up inside her. For a while, she couldn’t speak. She swallowed and tried to keep her voice from trembling. ‘Does Paolo know all this?’
The agent sat back on the bench, looking straight ahead. When he answered, his voice was low. ‘No, Paolo Barone only knows what we told him after he woke up from the deep coma into which he was plunged for several months. There was no need for him to know more than we thought he should know. He had been totally disfigured and needed extensive surgery. Believe me, your father was assailed by guilt and had him undergo these operations at his expense with a world-renowned American surgeon. He also donated a large sum of money to provide Paolo with a very comfortable life.
‘Gareth was a great soldier, a stoic and courageous man. The dangerous mission he was assigned almost cost him his life. To everyone he knows, he is dead and must remain so, as there’s a price on his head. Paolo is very precious to our enemies, who think that he perished with the warehouse of ammunition he blew up. We had to invent for him a new identity, a whole new life. For two years he was trained until he became this new person. It wasn’t that difficult for Gareth to embrace Paolo’s personality, because of his amnesia. We set him up in Italy because we have close relations with the Italian Secret Service. He has been and will remain always, for obvious reasons, under surveillance.’
Venetia, who had listened silently, scarcely able to believe what she was hearing, looked at him aghast. ‘You mean to say that Paolo is followed everywhere? That his phones are tapped and he has no privacy?’
Robert Riley smiled grimly. ‘Not in the dramatic way you put it, my dear, but we have our methods. That’s how I knew how to get in touch with you in the first place. The altercation Paolo had with Count Palermi di Orellana put your name on the map. One of our agents was there and it’s thanks to him that Paolo was released so quickly. The Count’s bodyguard had put in a complaint, saying that it was Paolo who assaulted them first. The Italian police, because of Umberto Palermi’s status, would otherwise have kept him there for twenty-four hours.’
‘Does Paolo know that he’s being followed?’
‘Yes, to a certain extent, but he’s been trained to ignore it and forget about it. After all, we’re there to protect him, not to intrude in his life.’
Venetia huffed. ‘No, you’re not intruding… Perish the thought that you should stick your noses into other people’s affairs!’
‘It’s for his own protection, and Paolo is quite aware of that.’
‘How did you know we were coming back to Venice? We had intended to spend a week in Sardinia. It’s only because my godmother’s husband was taken ill that we returned.’ She shuddered at the thought of how much she and Paolo must have been watched over the last few days, when she had been so lost in her happiness and thoughts of their future together.
‘We knew you were both coming back to Pisa because your names were on the passenger list. Whenever his name comes up at any port or airport
in Italy, and a few other countries, we’re alerted. And then from there it was easy – our agent followed you to Venice.’
‘So, meeting you yesterday was not a coincidence.’
‘Well, yes and no. We were alerted when you and Paolo first met by accident and I can assure you, that set the cat among the pigeons. But we watched and waited, not knowing for sure what would happen between you. Then it became clear that we would have to intervene soon. I flew into Venice that afternoon when I knew that was where you were headed. I was going to contact you at your home to speak to you, but then we bumped into each other on your way to the restaurant – that was a coincidence. When you introduced Paolo Barone as your fiancé, I knew that I had to act quickly. I rang your father and we decided to tell you the truth immediately, hence my note to you and this meeting.’
‘Still meddling… Does Paolo know you?’
‘Yes, of course – I was involved with him from the very beginning and we meet twice a year to touch base.’
Venetia thought about Paolo’s behaviour since they had met, all the ways in which her own sixth sense had tried to tell her something about him, and how finally, it all made sense. She swallowed again, the enormity of the truth dawning on her afresh.
‘Have you told him the facts now about this whole mess?’
‘Yes, we spoke yesterday evening.’
‘So you’ve interfered again and ruined my life for the second time,’ she threw out vehemently. She got up from the bench and walked away a few steps, hugging herself. If he’d told her all this before speaking to Paolo, despite her own shock she could at least have broken it to him gently in her own way, with all the love she felt for him, now more than ever. She stared across the canal. ‘No wonder Paolo disappeared and couldn’t face me – I can’t believe it!’
‘I don’t think I’ve ruined your life, Venetia,’ the agent told her in a calm voice. ‘It’s clear that Paolo loves you very deeply.’
She remained silent, not wanting to discuss her feelings for Paolo with this man who, along with her father, was responsible for so much loss, so many years of misery and confusion. She looked back at him coldly.
‘I was unable to get in touch with him today. He’s checked out of his hotel and he’s not at home. Nor is he answering his mobile. He’s obviously disgusted with this whole business and I don’t blame him if he never wants to set eyes on me again.’
‘He’s at a monastery in Sardinia. He went there once before, after he left the hospital, when he first started his new life in Italy. As we had never mentioned his love affair with you, these revelations must have come as a great shock to him, of course.’
Robert Riley tapped another cigarette on his packet and glanced up at Venetia, his features appearing strained. ‘He’s hurt and he needs to deal with it. I’m not surprised he’s unreachable there, but he knows you were a victim as much as he was. Still, this adds a heavy load to his already difficult situation, and as I’ve said, he needs to learn how to deal with it.’
‘You’re really a Machiavellian lot, playing God, meddling in other people’s lives. No wonder the world is in such a mess… How can you live with yourselves?’ Venetia was fuming as she paced up and down in front of him. ‘So what was the exact plot?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you more – you’ll have to ask your father. I just wanted you to know that Gareth never dropped you as you’d thought, and that William has been haunted by what he did for the past decade.’
‘But…’
‘Talk to your father, Venetia. He’s waiting for you in England.’
* * *
Venetia was suddenly jolted from her bitter thoughts by the creaking of brakes, as the train slowed to a halt, and the nasal voice of the stationmaster announced Chichester station. She got up and pulled her duffle bag down from the shelf above her seat. She had brought the bare minimum with her as she didn’t intend staying long in England. Forty-eight hours at most – just as long as it took to have it out with her father. This would be a confrontation long past the expiry date.
There was a nip in the air as she stepped down onto the platform, and a thin, dispirited drizzle had just started, something the English somewhat romantically call ‘April showers’. Bracing herself against the cold and sudden desolation, Venetia walked through a small open gateway and out into a lane. A silver-grey Rolls-Royce was drawn up outside the station building, and an elderly chauffeur in a smart grey uniform came to meet her.
‘Welcome home, Miss Venetia,’ he said, a broad smile lighting up his face as he rid her of her bag. ‘Is that all?’
‘Yes, Giles, thank you. Just a short trip this time, I’m afraid.’
Giles had been with her family as far back as Venetia could remember. He had started off as a groom when Sir William was a young man and had been promoted to driver when Venetia was still at prep school. He opened the door of the car and placed her bag in the boot. British summer time had started, so although it was almost seven o’clock, it was still light; that hour between daylight and darkness when it was still too light for the happy glow of lamps, but with the outside world already misting itself into the furry outlines of dusk.
The car turned in at the wrought-iron gates with the familiar coat-of-arms engraved on them, and purred almost noiselessly along the well-kept driveway of fir trees that stretched for almost half a mile. Venetia shivered despite the heating in the vehicle. Inwardly, she was seething with mixed emotions, her temper simmering away in a grimly held silence, while she tried to prepare herself for perhaps the most important challenge that she would ever have to face.
William Aston-Montagu was someone who was used to getting his own way; no doubt life as an army man had made him so intransigent, she thought. Still, his overbearing ways had alienated Venetia ever since she was a child, and her rebellious, independent streak only served to infuriate him on many an occasion. She didn’t relish this meeting with her father, but she knew that for her own peace of mind she needed to know all the facts behind this gritty episode of her life. She must have it out with him so that she could put it behind her but, however much she tried to feel relaxed, she was feeling the opposite – so much had happened in the last forty-eight hours that it was hard not to feel shell-shocked.
Ping Lü’s wise advice came back to her. She touched her talisman and reiterated it to herself as they approached the house. To be wronged is nothing unless you continue to remember it… Crush the rose of anger so it may only leave its delicate fragrance on your hands… Learn to forgive an evil deed so you do not remain the victim of its consequences forever. She resolved instantly that whatever it cost her, she would not use hurtful words.
Aston Hall was a Grade I-listed Jacobean property that had been built to last. It stood in a spectacular setting, dominating the surrounding countryside, its imposing red-brick façade pierced by mullion windows with diamond-shaped panes of glass, and a central portico sheltering stately, iron-studded oak double doors. The austere rambling house was three storeys high, with elaborate multi-curved Flemish gables, Tudor arches, and barley-sugar twist chimneys typical of the Jacobean age. It was framed on both sides by mature pink rhododendron bushes, which helped to assuage its gloomy aspect. The place was grand rather than handsome, stilted as opposed to comfortable, and Venetia had always hated it.
There were trees everywhere: poplars and willows and deep evergreens, flowering shrubs and fountains. In the far-off distance, beneath the house and overlooking the lake, a giant magnolia on the lawn was in bloom, in the shade of which Venetia had spent most of her summers reading.
In her mind’s eye, Venetia could see the terraced garden at the back of the house, which at this time of year was bright with spring flowers: tulips, daffodils, zinnias and marigolds, seemingly grown with careless grace between the winding paths; aubrietias cascaded over the rocky walls in brilliantly hued profusion. She much preferred those parts of the grou
nds which, because out of the way, were less formal and so much more colourful.
The car came to a halt at the front of the house. Venetia instinctively lifted her chin and braced her shoulders as Giles opened the car door for her. The iron-studded oak doors opened as if by some automatic signal and Soames the butler appeared.
‘Good evening, Miss Venetia. Welcome home, I hope you had a pleasant journey?’
‘Good evening, Soames. Very pleasant, thank you.’
‘Sir William is in his study. He said to let him know when you would be ready to join him for a glass of sherry in the drawing room. Dinner will be at eight o’clock, as usual.’
‘Would you please tell Father that I’ll join him at seven-thirty, thank you, Soames.’
The hall was grand, with a black and white marble floor. Its walls were painted the colour of old gold, the wide staircase that led off it to the upper floors thickly carpeted in leaf-green. Concealed electric lights flooded the interior with a soft glow; the hangings across the big landing window were dark green, slashed with gold. The only decoration was a round ebony table standing in the middle of the room with a great jar of arum lilies spilling out – cold, austere and beautiful.
More than ever, Venetia hated the place. Instinctively she compared it to Miraggio. Even though Aston Hall was far grander and more spectacular, with a museum-like quality about it, she couldn’t wait to get back to the warmth of Italy. The grandfather clock in the hall boomed seven strokes as she made her way up to her bedroom.
The room was exactly as she had left it a year ago. Venetia took off her chic Parisian mackintosh and went to look out of the window. A milk-white mist lay across the lake and covered the lower part of the garden and grounds. Far beyond, on the opposite bank, the forest stretched like a black reef washed by silver foam. The sheer ethereal beauty of the scene made her catch her breath, yet there was an added poignancy in the very illusion of peace it created. For there was no peace in her heart, only an ongoing passion which burned like a flame. She was dismayed and almost frightened by the intensity of it.
The Echoes of Love Page 38