‘We’ll be seen leaving the barge,’ Burgess pointed out. ‘As soon as Carandini’s men catch up, they will question the bargee, who will set them back on our trail.’
Darcy nodded pensively. Of course he had no proof that Carandini was on their trail at all; the boat following them out of Lido might have been a fishing craft. But he trusted Mario Carandini’s account of his cousin’s character. Gabriele would not relinquish his obsession so easily. He would go to any lengths, spend any amount of money, to get Elizabeth back …
Darcy woke with a jolt, to discover that the farm workers had left. He cursed himself for giving way to his weariness and dropping off. How much time had passed? Had they been overtaken? He shook Burgess, who was also dozing, and ran up on deck, where the farm workers were exchanging pleasantries with the bargee as they waited to disembark.
‘Where are we?’ Darcy asked in Italian, joining them.
The bargee pointed to a villa with a facade made up of triangles and columns, beautifully composed in the style of a Greek temple. ‘Villa Foscari.’
In the dawn light the villa seemed a fantasy, too good to be true. Darcy looked back along the river bank for evidence of pursuit, but saw no riders.
‘We will disembark now.’
The bargee regarded him strangely. ‘You won’t find anyone here from the family.’
‘I want to see the villa.’
The bargee shrugged and shouted instructions. By the time Darcy returned, with Elizabeth in his arms, Burgess was standing on the grassy bank, next to their luggage, and communicating in a mixture of gesture and Venetian dialect with the farm workers. Darcy seated Elizabeth on the trunk, and she stretched and rubbed her eyes.
‘Where are we?’
He pointed to the villa, and she gasped.
‘Oh my goodness, what a lovely place!’
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Not unwell, but so tired! I could sleep forever.’
‘Don’t be alarmed. It will wear off.’ He turned to Burgess. ‘We need to move quickly from the riverside.’
Burgess pointed to the farm workers. ‘They say we can go to the house. They work for a man named Boscolo, who may be the owner.’
‘Not Foscari?’ Darcy queried.
Burgess threw up his hands. ‘That’s how it seems. But they will help with the luggage if we want.’
‘Well done.’ Darcy nodded to the Italians, asked their names, and helped Elizabeth to stand so that they could carry the trunk. Although impeded by the blankets she tried a few steps, but their progress was too slow, and he gathered her in his arms again; it was in any case a walk of only a hundred yards.
Reaching the villa, he was surprised to find two rustic carts parked outside, with chickens and geese running freely. The centre of the facade extended in a wide balcony, with six columns in front and a room underneath. It could be reached by external L-shaped staircases on either side, and since this seemed the main entrance, Darcy carried Elizabeth up the steps, and motioned to the others to follow.
On the balcony, a low wall helped conceal them from any observers on the river bank. At the back a door was left open, and Darcy found himself in what must have once been a grand hall. Its condition was a shock. Instead of divans, carpets, a formal dinner table, he found only a few rickety benches, several dozen sacks of grain, and a huge open pile of dried maize.
He seated Elizabeth gently on a bench, and they both looked around in wonder.
The interior was arranged in a cross shape, with four corridors leading out from the hall. Over their heads was a vaulted ceiling which, like the walls, was covered in the most amazing frescos of classical themes from Greek mythology. One could have spent days studying the paintings. They were plainly the work of great artists, on a par with the magnificent architecture.
Yet the villa had been abandoned.
Wondering who was in charge, Darcy turned his attention to the other occupants. A few were sleeping on straw pallets. A woman was filling a basket with cobs of maize, perhaps for feeding to chickens. In a corner he spotted a man dressed in breeches and a light jacket, leaning against a sack of grain while he drew in a sketchbook with a stick of charcoal. After a reassuring word to Elizabeth, Darcy crossed the hall to approach him.
‘Buon giorno.’
The man looked up with raised eyebrows, threw down his sketchbook, and jumped to his feet. ‘And good-day to you too, sir!’
Darcy was momentarily lost for words as he stared at a fresh-faced young man with flowing fair hair and a confident manner. ‘You are English?’
The young man bowed. ‘Gerard Hanson, from Woodstock, near Oxford. Of which I am an undistinguished alumnus.’
‘Then I fear we will never get on, since my alma mater is Cambridge.’ Darcy wondered whether to give a false name, but decided to risk it. ‘Fitzwilliam Darcy, from Derbyshire.’ He stepped forward and dropped his voice. ‘Are you by any chance on terms with the owner? I find myself in a quandry, and would appreciate some help.’
‘The estate has been rented to a man named Boscolo who owns most of the farmland around here. As you see, the villa has been left to decay, but this floor and the one beneath are used for storage, while the upper rooms are let out for a pittance to itinerant labourers or anyone else passing by.’ He paused. ‘What help do you need?’
‘I’m travelling with an Englishwoman who has been ill. She needs privacy to wash and change. We have not eaten for a long time.’
‘I suggest in that case that you bring your, ah, companion upstairs, where I have one of the chambers. The furniture is dilapidated, but includes a dresser with a jug of water, which she is welcome to use.’
Darcy introduced Mr Hanson to Elizabeth, and he led them through a domed side-room to a staircase. Reaching one of the smaller upper chambers, he held up a hand.
‘Excuse me a moment.’ He opened the door a crack and poked his head inside. ‘Alice?’
There was a moan from within, and with an impudent smile he beckoned Darcy to follow him through. ‘As you see, I also have a lady friend. Don’t worry, she’s still abed. Alice, we have visitors from England!’
Darcy frowned. ‘This is not what I expected, Mr Hanson. Is there not another room?’
Hanson laughed. ‘This is all I can offer, but don’t hesitate on our account. We can leave the ladies in privacy and go in search of breakfast.’
Darcy looked down at Elizabeth, who was observing him with an amused smile. ‘Miss Bennet?’
‘I will stay, if Mrs Hanson permits.’
‘Very well.’ Darcy stepped into the room, where a pale young woman lay in an ornate four-poster that looked as if it might collapse at any moment. He found a similarly regal and dilapidated armchair for Elizabeth.
‘Will you be alright here?’ he asked softly.
‘Fine. Thank you.’
‘What clothes shall I bring?’
‘All of them.’
He turned, with relief, and followed Hanson out.
16
Elizabeth remained seated, adapting to another kaleidoscopic change of scene. She wondered how she could feel so calm after such adventures. To be rescued by Mr Darcy, carried in his arms to a boat, rowed across the Venice lagoon, transported by barge to an abandoned villa, and finally to share this room with this stranger, now observing her with puzzlement. It should have been disconcerting, but she felt instead a drowsy euphoria.
A hand touched her arm. ‘Are you alright?’
Elizabeth blinked. ‘I must have dozed off.’ She smiled at the woman, who stood at her side still wearing an embroidered chemise. She was young, no older than Kitty, and pale, with a freckled face and mouse-coloured hair.
‘Would you like to wash first, Mrs …’
‘Miss Bennet. Yes, if you like.’
There was a tap on the door. ‘Miss Elizabeth?’ Darcy’s voice. ‘I’ll leave your clothes outside.’
The girl peeped round the door and returned bearing an assortment of shifts, petti
coats and dresses, which she laid on the bed.
‘Thank you, Mrs Hanson.’
‘Miss.’ The girl regarded her with a mixture of embarrassment and defiance. ‘Alice Dill.’
‘Miss Dill.’ Elizabeth tried to lever herself up so that she could throw off the blankets.
‘Let me help you.’ Miss Dill took Elizabeth’s arm, allowing the bedclothes to fall, and guided her to the washstand. ‘There’s cold water in the jug, and a flannel.’
Elizabeth watched as the girl poured water, but standing was too much effort. ‘Sorry …’
‘Let’s sit you on the bed.’ Elizabeth submitted gratefully as her nightgown was removed and Miss Dill brought a bowl of water. The room was cold, and she shivered as she wiped her face and arms with the flannel. This quick cleansing was deemed sufficient, and Miss Dill, now taking control, chose undergarments and helped her dress.
‘My turn,’ Miss Dill said cheerfully.
Elizabeth rummaged through her heap of clothes and was rewarded by finding a pair of half-boots to complete her attire. But her hair remained troublesome.
‘Miss Dill, I have no brush or pins.’
Her companion handed over an ancient mother-of-pearl hairbrush. ‘I found this in a drawer.’ She looked in a silver bag with tassels and threw two comb-shaped clasps on to the bed. ‘I can spare these.’
‘You’re very kind.’ What a relief to brush her hair! She regarded Miss Dill with grateful affection. ‘Where are you from?’
‘The rectory at Woodstock, near Oxford. My father is rector at St Mary Magdalene’s.’
‘And Mr Hanson?’
‘Also Woodstock.’ She sat beside Elizabeth and said in a whisper, ‘Gerard and I are artists. His father owns an estate with £4000 a year, but Gerard has preferred to make his own way and shares a house with friends from his university days. I knew him from church when I was a small girl, and we met again at an exhibition. My father said I should have nothing to do with him, since he had been living with an actress and was not respectable.’
Elizabeth took her hand, in shock. ‘Has he persuaded you to elope?’
Miss Dill smiled. ‘I cannot honestly claim that much persuasion was required. I am a free thinker, Miss Bennet. To leave home has been a breath of fresh air.’
Tears stung Elizabeth’s eyes as she recalled the trauma of Lydia’s lapse with Wickham. ‘But my dear Miss Dill, to be cut off from your family!’
‘I have what I wanted. Freedom. The company of an intelligent man who respects my ambition to be an artist.’ She bit her lower lip, and looked away. ‘But there is truth in what you say. I do miss England, my home, and yes, also my family.’
‘Could you return now?’
Miss Dill shook her head. ‘We have still to see Verona and Florence.’ She sighed. ‘And yourself?’
Revived by the conversation, Elizabeth recognised the implications of this brief query. After all, she too was travelling with a man who was manifestly not her husband. ‘Well, I hail from near Meryton in Hertfordshire, where I met Mr Darcy last year. I came to Venice some months ago with an Italian friend and her family, but we, ah, fell out, and I found myself in something of a pickle until Mr Darcy unexpectedly turned up and offered to help.’
‘So you are not …’
‘Intimate?’ Elizabeth smiled. ‘No. Unless quarrelling is a form of intimacy, for we do a lot of that. Mind you, these last days I’ve been too tired to quarrel with anyone.’
Miss Dill touched her arm. ‘You’ve been ill, I think.’
‘Yes, but Mr Darcy assures me I will soon recover, and since he is always right, I remain sanguine.’
Miss Dill laughed, and they continued talking.
17
After conferring with Burgess, who was keeping watch at the riverside, Darcy followed Gerard Hanson to a kitchen located in the basement. Here they found a merry group gathered around a farmhouse table, served by two women in black peasant garb. The room was warmed by a brick oven in the corner, where one of the women was grilling polenta over the ashes of a wood fire. The other woman tended a stove where delicious smells of chicken, onion and garlic rose from a huge pot of boiling water.
Darcy sat opposite Hanson and accepted a glass of red wine, followed by a bowl of chicken broth ladled from the pot. The hot food revived him, but his pleasure was marred by guilt at pre-empting the ladies. Still, this was no time for worrying about social niceties: at any moment they might have to flee, and he needed all the sustenance he could get.
A slab of polenta arrived in front of him, seared with black lines from the grill. He thanked the cooks and tried to explain that he needed a tray for two people upstairs.
‘They speak only Veneto dialect here,’ Hanson said.
Darcy found a tray and handed two mugs to the woman at the stove, who filled them with broth. At this point everyone caught on, and soon the mugs were joined by a jug of wine, a platter of polenta, even half a boiled chicken. He bowed his thanks and placed a lira on the table, to general merriment.
‘That should pay your board and lodging for a week,’ Hanson laughed as they climbed to the upper floor.
Darcy smiled grimly: if only they could stay that long.
They found the ladies sitting side by side on the bed and talking cheerfully. There was no table, but Hanson found a stool just broad enough to hold the tray if it was balanced carefully. He pulled up two more chairs, while Darcy poured wine and handed out mugs of broth.
‘Thank you.’ Elizabeth smiled sleepily as she held the mug with both hands and took a sip. ‘Miss Dill and I have been comparing notes about Venice.’
‘Miss Dill?’ Darcy frowned at Hanson. ‘I assumed …’
‘That we were married?’ The young man grinned at Alice Dill, whose cheeks had turned pink. ‘Not yet, anyway.’
Darcy studied Elizabeth for signs of shock or embarrassment, but she looked down and avoided his eye.
‘You disapprove?’ Hanson asked.
Darcy glanced at the ladies before glaring at him. ‘This is hardly the moment …’
‘I’m sorry.’ Hanson sipped wine with a smile which reminded Darcy of Wickham at his most impudent. ‘I had also made an assumption, apparently incorrect, regarding yourself and Miss Bennet.’
Darcy nearly dropped his glass. ‘How dare you!’
The young man held up a hand, as if to pacify him. ‘I apologise again, but what was I to think when you arrived unchaperoned, carrying Miss Bennet in your arms?’
Darcy took a deep breath. ‘You have a point there. We do indeed find ourselves in—unusual circumstances.’
Elizabeth gave a little cough. ‘You should know, Mr Darcy, that Miss Dill has looked after me with exceptional kindness.’
Darcy turned to Hanson. ‘Please excuse my outburst. You have given help when we desperately needed it. For all I know there are special circumstances in your case too.’
‘Not really.’ Hanson glanced at Miss Dill, and sighed. ‘We are artists, Mr Darcy. Most of our friends are also artists, or poets, or musicians. Since I was up at Oxford I have moved in circles where individual freedom matters more than convention. Even so, I would have gladly married Alice, had her father approved the match, and I hope to do so once she has attained her majority.’ He smiled at Miss Dill. ‘If she will have me of course.’
Darcy shivered as he imagined how this conversation must be upsetting Elizabeth. ‘It was not my intention to intrude or pass judgement. I was concerned only for … Miss Dill’s reputation.’
Miss Dill regarded him earnestly. ‘Pray Mr Darcy, I am not the innocent that you imagine. On the contrary, it was I that had to convince Gerard of the necessity of flight. Of course there are consequences. To lose the esteem of my parents has been a sad blow. But there would have been consequences too if I had bowed to my father’s will and married a man I could not love or respect.’
Darcy glanced at Elizabeth, who was listening to Miss Dill with evident admiration. He spread his arms. ‘Let us spea
k of this no more. Pray try the polenta, which is excellent.’ He handed them the platter, and turned to face Hanson. ‘How are you travelling? Have you a carriage by any chance?’
‘We took the stagecoach from Venice.’ Hanson pointed to the back of the villa. ‘It crossed the river at the lock, and from here runs south down the coast. But our plan is to head west towards Padua, Verona, and then Florence.’
‘When?’
‘As soon as possible.’ Hanson glanced at Miss Dill, as if to confirm her agreement. ‘The farmer sold me an old wagon which should get us cross-country to Verona.’ He paused. ‘Are you in need of transport?’
On impulse, Darcy decided to trust the runaway couple. ‘Yes, and with some urgency.’ He lowered his voice, as if in a symbolic appeal for secrecy. ‘We are being pursued, and may need to hide or flee at short notice.’
Miss Dill gasped, and took Elizabeth’s hand. ‘But you said nothing! How can you be so calm?’
The opiate, Darcy thought, but the tender moment was interrupted by a rap on the door, at which they all froze.
‘Sir?’
Darcy recognised Burgess’s voice and ran to open the door. ‘News?’
‘Begging pardon, sir.’ Burgess edged into the room and whispered: ‘Carandini’s manservant has just galloped past with four constables in his wake.’
‘Could they have seen you?’
‘Not a chance.’ Burgess looked offended.
‘Good man.’ Darcy moved closer. ‘Now listen. They’ll catch the barge and race back within the hour. Get some breakfast from the kitchen. Then move our luggage to the back of the villa and wait there.’
18
The wagon was little more than a cart on which a canvas roof had been stretched over wooden hoops. Lying back against the rim, Elizabeth was grateful for the blankets that had accompanied her all the way from Venice. Beside her, Alice Dill sat cross-legged, reading a spiral-bound notebook, with Hanson observing over her shoulder, and Darcy at the back keeping watch.
Darcy's Journey Page 7