The Echoes of Love

by Hannah Fielding

  She missed Paolo, she ached for him; she couldn’t bear the pain of being without him, especially knowing that he was hurting after what he’d been told. It was as if she had been caught in a great tidal wave. Could he ever forgive? Would he ever forget? If she was irredeemably tainted by her family in his eyes, how could they possibly take up again where they had left off? A hand seemed to close upon her heart, squeezing and twisting it.

  Judd and Paolo were one. Ping Lü had been right – the wise Chineseman had known all along. All becoming is circular, he’d said, with that enigmatic little smile so characteristic of him. Venetia found it hard to say what her feelings for Judd had been all these years. She would probably have denied that she loved him. Besides, how could she love him? She was hurt, broken. Yet all through those years her thoughts had almost always included recollections of some walk or talk with him. Though Paolo and Judd were one and the same, now she knew that it was Paolo she loved, the man who had suffered, and through this suffering he had acquired a sort of compassion, generosity and wisdom that, now she came to think of it, Judd had always lacked.

  Venetia washed her face and combed her hair; she was not going to change. She was not there to entertain or to be entertained, but to find out the last gruesome details of her wretched love story.

  A brooding silence hung over the house when she went down to meet her father. The only sounds she could hear were the beating of her own heart and the tick-tock of the grand-father clock.

  The living room at Aston Hall was one of six reception rooms. It was a large room, almost square. Three of the walls were lined with mirrors, and between each of them, concealed lamps gave out a rosy, flattering glow. The fourth wall was occupied by paintings by Turner and Andrew Wyeth. The paintwork was all ivory, with polished oak floors, covered here and there with a few soft-toned rugs. There were heavy oak beams across the ceiling, and the doors and casement windows were also in dark wood. The Jacobean tapestry on the window seats, curtains and cushions made a perfect foil for the ancient carved furniture and the faint gleam of pewter. Two or three occasional tables and several French gilt chairs were grouped at one end of the room, while at the other end were two brown leather sofas set opposite each other with a Chinese red lacquer coffee table between them. A large stone fireplace housed crackling flames, and above the mantelpiece hung a huge nineteenth-century oil painting of Aston Hall, surrounded by its landscaped gardens.

  When Venetia walked in, she didn’t see her father immediately. He was sitting in the only armchair at the far end of the room, next to one of the windows, under the light of a standard lamp. Next to him was a small round table, and he was smoking his pipe.

  ‘Hello, Father.’

  He got up to greet her as she came towards him. A tall and once muscular man, with a hard but handsome face, Sir William Aston-Montagu was now more portly and balding, with thick, wispy eyebrows that were still quick to express his every mood.

  ‘Ah, Venetia, my dear… You look tired.’

  When she showed no intention of giving him an affectionate greeting, moving instead to stand casually by the old casement window, her father sat down again.

  ‘Well, I haven’t slept for over twenty-four hours.’

  There was silence for a few moments while they seemed to measure each other.

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘I have you to thank for that, of course.’ Venetia’s voice was brittle.

  ‘Come to give me the third degree, eh? Yes, I suppose I owe you an explanation.’

  Venetia looked at her father in the shadowy light, her eyes ablaze with anger and unshed tears. ‘I think you owe me much more than that, Father, don’t you think?’

  For a long moment nothing was said while Sir William drew on his pipe. His expression was unreadable but his eyes looked tired and old in a way they had never done before. ‘Yes. You know, it wasn’t intended to go wrong the way it did – he wasn’t supposed to come to any harm.’

  She hugged herself, gripping her arms tightly to stop her hands from shaking with anger. Her voice was cold and hard. ‘That’s beside the point. How could you bring yourself to interfere, and manipulate my life and that of Paolo’s… I mean, Judd’s, in this most contemptible way? Do you realise what you’ve done? Have you no conscience at all?’

  ‘I can understand your fury, but at the time I thought I was doing the right thing by you.’

  She stared at her father, torn between anger and a terrible sadness. ‘I was in love with Judd, I was going to have his child, for heaven’s sake – your grandchild.’

  Sir William lifted his hands in a small gesture at her challenging tone, looking at her with his usual gruff and irritated expression, tinted with some discomfort.

  ‘Yes, my dear… I know… it’s all very regrettable, but I honestly thought that I was protecting you.’ His eyes switched from her face to the flames flickering in the fireplace and he paused, as if choosing his words carefully, struggling with his pride. ‘I recognise my error now, and for ten years I’ve been carrying my guilt. It’s been a heavy burden … I tried to help Judd as much as I could, without him knowing of course where the help came from. He’s always thought that it was the government who provided him with this new life…’

  Her amber eyes filled with contempt. ‘You mean you tried to salve your conscience.’

  Sir William’s eyes hardened a little. ‘Well, my dear, if you want to look at it that way, suit yourself,’ he answered dryly, tapping the contents of his pipe into the ashtray on his table. ‘But in some ways, your Judd is much better off as Paolo and…’

  Venetia felt almost physically winded by the shock of his words. ‘I can’t believe what I’m hearing… How cynical can one get? You’re completely immoral…’

  ‘No, my dear, I’m realistic and practical,’ he half snapped.

  The young woman stared at her father, eyes blazing. ‘Judd’s totally lost his memory. Do you realise how dreadful it is to live with a vacuum in one’s head… to lose the sense of who you really are?’

  Sir William nodded. ‘I imagine that it’s pretty horrendous, but look on the bright side,’ he said calmly. ‘He knows he’s been a hero who has rendered a great service to his country. He was given a whole new identity, with the means to create a good life for himself – which he has, I must admit, with great success.’

  ‘Don’t be such a hypocrite, Father! All that would have been acceptable if he hadn’t been deliberately manipulated to take on such a dangerous mission in the first place. Your dear friend Robert Riley told me that you exploited his patriotism. You always knew about the insecurity he felt among his public-school peers.’

  ‘You’re right, of course, Venetia. I admit Robert recruited him for this job as a favour to me because I wanted him out of the way. That posting would have separated you long enough for… well, for one of you to sever the ties between you… and I admit that I intercepted the letters that you wrote to each other…’

  ‘Letters? My letters to Judd?’

  ‘Yes, your letters to Judd, which were blocked on arrival and the letters Judd wrote to you, which were seized before they left the barracks.’

  ‘So Judd never knew that I was pregnant, he never knew I was pregnant?’ Venetia repeated her words mechanically, as if she could scarcely grasp their import.

  Sir William paused. ‘No.’

  As a drowning person is said to see his past life before his eyes, so Venetia seemed to see with piercing clarity all the days that she had spent waiting for Judd’s letters, and relive the same disappointment when she’d come back from the postbox at the gate empty-handed. Suddenly everything seemed to fall into focus. There was no mystery about it any longer; Judd had loved her all along. Both of them had been manipulated by those who should have been the dearest to her.

  Venetia sat down on the casement window seat, clenching the edge of the cushions with her fingers.
Tears welled in her eyes.

  ‘Oh, Father, how could you do such a hateful thing to your own flesh and blood?’ she cried out, her voice choked. ‘Just because… just because you didn’t approve of Judd… because he didn’t come from the same snobbish background as you do! How could you? How could you?’ She raised her eyes, though she could barely look at her father. ‘Did Mother know all this?’

  Her father shifted in his chair. ‘Yes, but your mother’s loyalties lay with me. You should not blame her – she believed that I was right and that we were protecting you.’

  ‘That’s no excuse for such deviousness, and you know it. I hate you!’ Venetia was trembling now, unable to contain her distress at the revelation of this betrayal on the part of both her parents.

  ‘Well that, my child, is your prerogative.’ His voice had dropped to a gravelly murmur as he picked up his pipe again.

  ‘I’ll never forgive you.’

  ‘That saddens me, Venetia, but I can well understand your reaction. There are days when I can hardly forgive myself,’ he muttered. Sir William gazed into the fire again and pulled a pouch of tobacco from his pocket, tamping it down into his pipe. ‘After you lost the child, and I saw you lying there in that hospital, and Judd was also in hospital… well, I had time to think. I know you may find it difficult to believe, but all these years I’ve wanted to try and put things right somehow, and when we found out that you had accidentally met the boy again, it seemed the opportunity had offered itself.’

  Venetia looked at her father properly for the first time that evening. Yes, he had certainly aged and for such a big, imposing man, he appeared smaller. She was shocked to realise that a sadness had slightly softened his once-proud features. All through her childhood, he had been so wrapped up in his work that he had shown her little interest; and as she had grown into a young woman, he had hardly given her a moment’s consideration – apart from when they were arguing about what she should do with her life, of course. Despite the words that he struggled with now, her anger couldn’t be swallowed in an instant; she was still unable to forgive all the misery he had caused Paolo and herself. Venetia lifted her chin resolutely.

  ‘And interfering again, as Riley has, might have spoilt my life for the second time. I can’t imagine that Paolo will forgive the evil that has touched his life. How can he look into my eyes after what you, my own father, have done to him?’

  Sir William lifted his bristly eyebrows. ‘I think you’re selling him very short – Paolo is an intelligent man. His reaction was rather surprising. He was more upset for you than for himself. The first thing he said when he learnt the truth was: “Poor Venetia, how she must have suffered.”’ He gave a grunt that was nearly a laugh, and looked at his daughter wryly. ‘He’s really quite something, your Paolo! I think now that you’ve found each other again, and despite all these unfortunate events, you’ll have your happy-ever-after, and I’ll be able to go to my grave in peace. Your Nanny Horren often used to say: “If two hearts are really destined to find each other, Fate will find a way of reuniting them.” I never understood half of what that woman said, or what that meant – now I know. Good woman, Nanny Horren… You were obviously going to come together at the end, and after all that’s happened, I’m grateful it’s worked out that way.’

  She glanced at him. ‘I suppose you destroyed the letters?’

  ‘No, I’ve kept both yours and Judd’s in my safe all these years.’ Sir William reached over to the small table next to his chair and picked up a thick white package. ‘Here they are, unopened. You can do as you wish with them.’

  Venetia looked up at her father, with that expression of amazement and scorn. She got up from the window seat and took them. ‘A little bit late in the day, but I’ll have them, thank you. At least you had the decency not to do away with them or pry – I’m sure Paolo will be as eager to read mine as much as I am to read his.’ She found it difficult to keep the sarcasm from her voice and he frowned.

  ‘Need you be so bitter? I’m sorry, Venetia, to have hurt you so badly. I don’t blame you for hating me. Still, I do hope that one day you will find it in your heart to forgive me.’

  Venetia looked down at the envelope, turning it over in her hands. She gave a quiet sigh. After everything that had happened, through her anger, she still wanted to believe that her father was truly sorry. ‘I suppose I’ve already forgiven you deep down. After all, you’re my father… but I could never subject Paolo to your presence. He’s suffered enough and I really don’t know how I will be able to look him in the eye. I’m so ashamed.’

  William Aston-Montagu lifted himself out of his chair and moved towards his daughter. He put his hand on her arm.

  ‘I will not impose myself upon you, but you must know that this house will always be open to you both – and to your children.’

  She looked hard at his face. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. Her expression stiffened again and she stepped away from him, rejecting his tentative sympathy, the short-lived moment of non-combat over.

  Sir William stared at his daughter for one long moment. ‘One last word of advice, though,’ he said finally. ‘It is not a good thing to look back. By all means give the letters to Paolo, but it wouldn’t be healthy to rehash all that again. Now that you know what you needed to know, let sleeping dogs lie and be happy.’

  Venetia smiled ruefully. ‘On this occasion, you may be right…’

  ‘Will you have dinner with me?’

  ‘No, thank you – I’m very tired and I would be grateful if Soames or Jenny could bring a tray up to me. I’ll be leaving first thing in the morning.’

  Sir William gave a grim half-smile and nodded, as if unsurprised by his daughter’s answer. ‘I don’t get much sleep nowadays – just a few hours a night. I’ll be in my study if you would like to say goodbye.’

  Venetia’s face softened a little. She had never seen her father contrite. In the big room now he seemed half the man she had known.

  ‘Yes, Father, of course. I’ll come and see you before I go.’

  * * *

  Night was falling. Paolo was making steady progress as he headed up the winding road back to San Stefano. He glanced at his Rolex. It was getting late and he wanted to get a good night’s sleep before he left for Venice in the morning. A subtle agitation still spread through every part of him, as each turn in the road brought him closer to Miraggio, where he could breathe again and pack his things. At least he wouldn’t have to waste time tackling Antonio on his return, he mused. When he had rung Ernestina to tell her that he was on his way back, she had taken great satisfaction in telling him that the caretaker had already vacated his cottage and disappeared, taking his dog with him. It seemed that he knew what was coming to him and had thought better of facing the wrath of his employer.

  Trees gave way to vineyards sloping away from the road as the car sped onwards beneath a darkening sky. Paolo glanced up at the emerging moon. He wondered what Venetia was doing at that moment, where she was, what she was feeling. Maybe she had left the city; she could be anywhere. All he knew was that he had to find her.

  Venetia… despite the shock it had been to learn about the pernicious manipulation of which he had been a victim, Paolo felt a sort of relief. It was almost as if he had regained part of his identity… Venetia had been, and still was, the only love of his life. It had always been Venetia. Why wasn’t he surprised? It all made such perfect sense now. From the moment he had set eyes on her on that misty evening in Venice, it was as if he had always known her.

  He inhaled deeply, trying to control the agonising need for her that was cramping his body. The muscles around his mouth twitched with the strain of not being able to kiss her immediately, his arms ached with the urge to embrace her, every part of him needing her close. He wanted to hold her supple form against him and fill his lungs with the sweet fragrance of her hair… to touch the velvet silkiness of her skin. Only the
n would the restlessness that pervaded him subside, this lost and lonely feeling that took over his being every time he was parted from her.

  He tried to think of other matters, ones that had been at the forefront of his mind ever since Robert Riley had told him the truth. He had greeted those revelations with mixed feelings. At first his heart had hit so hard against his ribs that his throat had closed, and breathing was impossible; he had thought for a moment that the shock was so great it would kill him. Then, after the impact of the first blow had subsided, incredulity, anger, revolt, hatred, but also love, and a sort of joy, had battled for supremacy in his tormented, confused mind. Riley was to meet Venetia and tell her everything; he would persuade her to then meet with her father in England. What would her reaction be? Would she forgive the lies and deceit of the last ten years? Would she forgive the lies he had been forced to tell her? Slowly, as rational thinking had come back, he had sought refuge at the monastery in Sardinia, where he had been before looking for help and counsel, and the only place he knew could help him again. Shock, and the fear of Venetia’s response, had turned him deeply in on himself. Though it pained him as much as this new collapse of his reality, he couldn’t bring himself to speak to her until he had found the right words to bring her back to him.

  Although the thought of what Sir William Aston-Montagu had done to him, and to his own daughter, still twisted a knife in Paolo’s gut, the acuteness of the initial anguish had passed, and he knew that the few days he had spent in retreat at the monastery had done him good. Talking about his anger and his hatred for the man had, in some ways, assuaged the pain and made him less embittered; and despite some resentment still remaining, he was conscious at last of a great peace and acceptance he hadn’t felt since he had woken up in that hospital bed all those years ago.