by Anne Mather
Celeste’s fingers with their scarlet-painted nails gripped the bed-cover convulsively, but she controlled the fury of anger that rose up inside her.
‘I see,’ she said quietly. ‘Very well, then, Anna. But you may still run my bath. I can’t lie here all day, and I’m interested to see as much of Venice as I can.’
Anna raised her dark eyebrows ‘Si, si, madame,’ she replied, shrugging her buxom shoulders, and marching into the bathroom to do Celeste’s bidding.
It was no part of her duties to be lady’s maid, and it was with resentment that she filled the huge bath and added the bath essence that Celeste indicated.
‘That will be all,’ Celeste smiled spitefully, and Anna nodded politely and withdrew.
But Celeste’s success with Anna did in no way appease the fury that still raged in her breast at the thought of Emma out with Count Cesare for the whole day. How dare she? Celeste seethed angrily. Particularly after their words of a few days ago. And why had Cesare done it? It could not be because he was interested in a little nonentity like Emma. Celeste had no illusions about her own beauty, and she was aware that beside her Emma’s pale hair and complexion looked insipid.
And yet, at times, even Celeste had glimpsed a warmer, more interesting nature, and she was half afraid that soon, as she grew older and Emma reached the prime of her life, their positions would be reversed. But she was determined when that time came, Emma’s life and her own would be separated for good.
During the afternoon, Celeste rested and then prepared herself for the return of Cesare and her stepdaughter. It was important that Cesare should not suspect that his absence had in any way perturbed her. But Emma would feel the sharp edge of her tongue for her disobedience and complete disregard of Celeste’s instructions concerning the Count.
Late in the afternoon a young man arrived at the Palazzo. Celeste was resting on the loggia, her assumed appearance of relaxation only a façade presented to the Contessa beside her, while her eyes and ears were alert for the return of the motor launch.
The young man was introduced to her as Antonio Vencare, Count Cesare’s cousin, and son of the Contessa’s daughter, Giuseppina. He was not so tall as Count Cesare, but very good-looking, without seeming effeminate. Celeste judged his age to be about twenty-three, and glancingly calculatingly at the Contessa it crossed her mind that the old woman might conceivably have produced this unexpected young man for Emma’s benefit. After all, she as much as Celeste, desired that the Count should marry her goddaughter, and Emma was proving rather a nuisance to both of them.
If this was so, and Celeste was pretty sure it was, it was an interesting plan, and one of which she heartily approved.
In consequence she greeted Antonio enthusiastically, asking him about himself, and what career, if any, he was following. Antonio was quite astonished by her interest, for she was looking particularly attractive in a clinging dress of green chiffon, which moulded her perfect figure, and contrasted strikingly with the red-gold brilliance of her hair.
‘My father is a ship-owner,’ he explained, smiling at her. ‘He owns many vessels, and since I leave the college I am learning the business, you understand?’ His English was not so good as Cesare’s, but his accent was appealing, and Celeste thought with satisfaction that he would easily be able to charm the inexperienced Emma.
The Contessa left them alone while she went to organize some afternoon tea, a habit she had acquired from her English friends, and the motor launch returned almost unnoticed to the landing stage below.
Emma sprang out, leaving Cesare to deal with their belongings, and ran up the stairs to the apartments, her cheeks flushed and her eyes overly bright. She was brought up short at the sight of her stepmother and a handsome young Italian entering the lounge through french doors, their attention concentrated on herself momentarily. She was not to know that the unaccustomed exertion of running up so many stairs had brought the hectic colour to her cheeks, transforming her usually pale features into unusually glowing vitality, while the brightness of her eyes added a brilliance all their own.
‘Oh!’ she said, in surprise, a hand going automatically to her throat, while she struggled to regain her breath.
Celeste’s eyes were cold, but her lips smiled, as she said:
‘Ah, you’re back, Emma. We have a visitor, as you can see. This is Count Cesare’s cousin, Antonio Vencare. Antonio, my stepdaughter, Emma Maxwell.’
Antonio, with the suave assurance he had cultivated over several years of association with women, took Emma’s hand gallantly and raised it to his lips. Then as her colour deepened, he said:
‘I am delighted to meet you, signorina. It is not often this old palazzo is graced by the presence of two such charming ladies.’
‘Very prettily said,’ remarked a sardonic voice, and Emma stiffened, withdrawing her hand jerkily, and revealing, all too clearly to Celeste’s eyes, the reaction Count Cesare had upon her.
‘Buon pomeriggio, Cesare,’ said Antonio, smiling a little at his cousin’s sarcasm. ‘I trust you had a good day.’
Cesare shrugged, and then looked at Celeste. ‘Ah, cara,’ he murmured, ‘you are better, I hope?’
Celeste came across to him, taking his arm possessively. ‘Much, much better, darling,’ she said, smiling warmly. ‘But I missed you.’ She made a moue with her lips, teasingly. ‘But I’m glad you took Emma with you. It would have been boring for her, here alone.’ She looked across at her stepdaughter, who seemed engrossed in twisting and untwisting her fingers. ‘Still, now there is Antonio, so perhaps Emma will not be lonely after this.’
Antonio made a slight bow. ‘I should be delighted to escort the Signorina Emma she may wish to go.’
Cesare looked bored with the whole proceedings suddenly. ‘Do not be so premature, my cousin,’ he said. ‘Give the signorina time to get to know you. She is English; the English need time to think things over. They are not … how shall I say it? … impetuous, like us Italians.’
‘Oh, I’m sure Emma would be grateful for the attention,’ remarked Celeste silkily. ‘After all, she is younger than we are, Vidal, and the things that interest us are hardly likely to interest her.’
Emma looked at them swiftly. ‘No one need concern themselves on my account,’ she interjected hastily.
‘Don’t be like that, Emma,’ said Celeste smoothly. ‘Antonio will think you’re terribly gauche.’
Emma had never felt so awkward or embarrassed in her whole life, and with a helpless movement of her shoulders she fled into her bedroom, leaving Celeste to make whatever nefarious plans might come to her agile mind. Just at that moment, it didn’t seem to matter what Celeste arranged. She needed to be alone, a few heavenly minutes alone to regain her scattered dignity and self-respect.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ANTONIO stayed for dinner, which was an informal affair with Celeste monopolizing the conversation. There had been no opportunity for Celeste to speak to Emma alone and in private yet, but Emma was convinced that time would come. Celeste would not allow herself, Emma, to spend a whole day in Cesare’s company without there being repercussions of an extremely unpleasant kind. But in a way it had been worth it, despite the rather unhappy end to the afternoon. The morning, and early afternoon had been delightful, and to begin with they had seemed in tune with one another; a situation which Emma recognized as being dangerous.
Tonight she ate the delicious fish soup which Anna had so skilfully served without really tasting it, and the steak and salad which followed might have been sawdust for the notice she took of it. She was wearing one of the dresses Celeste had chosen for her, an insipid pink crêpe, which she felt sure made her look awful. Her hair she had tied back with a ribbon and she felt singularly unattractive.
In contrast, Celeste, in kingfisher blue silk, looked vivid and exciting, and her stepmother seemed to find a sadistic kind of enjoyment in casting pointedly baiting remarks in Emma’s direction.
But for once Celeste’s taunts did not hurt
her. The hurt that Count Cesare had inflicted that afternoon had caused her to withdraw completely into her shell, and it didn’t seem to matter what Celeste might say.
When the meal was over the Contessa rose to her feet, and said:
‘The evening is still young, Cesare.’ She smiled at Celeste. ‘As you are both in evening clothes, why do you not go to the Casino? It is pleasant at the Lido on an evening as perfect as this.’
Celeste clapped her hands together. ‘Oh, yes, Vidal! Could we?’
Antonio looked disgruntled. ‘But … Grandmother! I am not in evening clothes, and I cannot go! Surely, Cesare, you could go to a nightclub instead.’
‘I could,’ remarked Cesare dryly, lighting a cheroot. ‘But I have no intention of doing so.’
‘Antonio can take Emma out instead,’ said the Contessa, and Emma was mortified.
‘Oh no!’ she began protestingly. ‘I … I should prefer an early night, if no one has any objections.’
Antonio, who obviously was not enamoured of taking out a girl who dressed so atrociously, gave a sigh of relief, but the Contessa was adamant, for some peculiar reason.
‘Nonsense, Emma. You are on holiday here. I will not have you going to bed early on my account. No, Antonio, you are agreeable, are you not?’
‘Si,’ murmured Antonio, without enthusiasm, and Emma’s cheeks burned. She was conscious of Cesare’s speculative glance upon her for a long moment, before he said, abruptly:
‘Come, then, Celeste. Antonio has his own launch. We will go.’
After the others had gone, Emma began to protest again, but it was to no avail. The Contessa could be very stubborn when she wished, and Emma had no choice but to obey.
‘I … I’ll just wash my hands,’ she said uncomfortably, and left the room.
In her bedroom she studied her reflection critically. No wonder Antonio was so reluctant to take her anywhere. The pink dress reached her knees, and hung without style or fullness from her hips. Her hair, pulled back with the ribbon, drew attention to the paleness of her cheeks, accentuated today, and a hangover from her dose of influenza.
She sighed, and dragged the ribbon off her hair. She would not go on any longer looking like a drudge. If it was in Celeste’s mind to make her stepdaughter as insignificant as possible, she was going to be disappointed. After all, if she could put Count Cesare completely out of her mind, Antonio Vencare was a very attractive young man, and it might be that his company could erase all thoughts of an undesirable nature which might attempt to invade her tired mind. But it would not do to expect Antonio to be interested in a pathetic, inelegant teenager, when it was obvious that girls would fall over themselves trying to date him.
With determined actions, she flung off the hated pink dress and opened the door of the capacious wardrobe, inside which her own small collection of garments looked completely lost. What was there that she could wear that was not old or outmoded, or merely ageing?
Apart from the dresses Celeste had provided her with, there were only two others: a dark blue Crimplene, which, though modern, was more of a day dress, and an apricot-coloured velvet which she had had for several years, but which she had only worn for parties. So she chose the velvet because it was doubtful where they might be going, and it fitted anywhere. It was simply styled, with a low round neck, three-quarter-length sleeves, and a semi-flared skirt which fell to ankle length. She combed her hair and left it loose, and it shone in the warm lights above her dressing-table. At least now she felt and looked more like the Emma Maxwell she had been before her illness and subsequent departure from her old life.
She emerged from her bedroom nervously, and was gratified to see Antonio’s eyes widen in astonishment, and then soften miraculously.
‘Emma,’ he said, half-disbelievingly.
The Contessa stared at her. ‘Why, Emma, you look very attractive!’ Her expression was as astounded as Antonio’s, and Emma wondered what terrible appearance she must have previously presented.
‘Do I look all right?’ she asked, savouring her triumph after the discomfort of the early evening.
Antonio took her hand. ‘You look lovely,’ he said, smiling warmly. ‘Now, where would you like to go?’
They eventually went to a small nightclub, which while being, Emma thought, expensive, was nevertheless a relaxing place to go, where the music was low and rhythmic, and the cabaret was excellent, with a trumpeter and a singer forming a duet.
They returned to the Palazzo about one-thirty, tired and contented, and even Emma seemed to have shed all traces of the unhappy girl she had been. As it was late, Antonio left her at the foot of the stairs leading up to the apartments, and kissed her gently before saying arrivederci.
Emma mounted the staircase slowly, thinking lazily of how nice it would be to climb into her bed. Her feet ached from dancing, and the wine she had drunk seemed to be lightening her head. The staircase seemed long and endless, and she gripped the handrail determinedly, smiling at herself for finding such a small task so wearisome.
Hearing a sound below her, she looked down, but all was in darkness; a kind of deep blackness filled the wide hall below, and she thought how mysterious it looked at night compared to the daylight.
Shivering, she hastened her steps unconsciously, with a kind of suffocating awareness that someone was down there, watching her. She stumbled, and breathing swiftly she ran up the remainder of the stairs. Reaching the top, she pushed open the door into the lounge of the furnished apartments, and found a light burning, although the place was deserted.
She closed the door, fumbling for the key, and turning it in the lock. Then leaning against a chair she recovered her breath. She was probably being stupid, and all kinds of a fool, but after the day she had experienced that last little incident was too much.
Straightening her shoulders, she walked across to her bedroom door, and entered her own room thankfully. She looked round her expectantly, but all was as she had left it, and she breathed a sigh of relief.
Undressing, she had a swift wash before climbing into bed. She could discern the faint sounds of the water of the canal as it brushed gently against the sturdy walls of the Palazzo, and her eyelids drooped wearily. She must have slept for a while, because she was awakened by knocking, and she opened her eyes wondering what on earth was going on. Then she remembered, She had locked the outer door, and apparently Count Cesare and Celeste were not then home.
She slid swiftly out of bed, pulling on her dressing-gown hastily, and feeling rather ridiculous she ran across the wide lounge and unlocked the door.
Celeste brushed past her arrogantly, enveloping Emma in a wave of expensive perfume. Count Cesare waited until Emma had turned and followed her stepmother before entering himself, and closing the door, leaning heavily against it for a moment.
Some premonition of disaster caused Emma to glance round, and her eyes widened in horror. The Count was wounded; blood was pouring from his shoulder, and the front of his immaculate white shirt was stained a brilliant red.
‘What’s happened?’ Emma did not stop to analyse her actions. All her nursing training came swiftly into play, and she went across to the Count, helping him to peel off his jacket with the least possible effort.
But Count Cesare did not want her attentions. ‘Get Giulio,’ he ordered, gritting his teeth as the movement of his arm opened the wound more fully. ‘Don’t play around with things you don’t understand!’
‘Oh, but I do …’ began Emma, only to be silenced by Celeste.
‘Do as Count Cesare says,’ she commanded angrily. ‘Don’t argue!’
Emma compressed her lips, gave a despairing look at the torn flesh, visible now as Count Cesare opened his shirt with difficulty, and ran across the room to the kitchen quarters. She knew the wound needed stitching; she knew he needed the services of a doctor, someone capable of dealing with that type of injury, but all he asked for was Giulio. What could Giulio do? And how had it happened anyway?
Giulio helpe
d his master into his bedroom, and the door was closed firmly on the three women, for now Anna had come to join them. The old Contessa had not awoken, which was just as well, in the circumstances.
Emma lit a cigarette, and then looked at Celeste. ‘How … I mean what happened?’
Celeste shed her wrap carelessly, drawing deeply on her own cigarette. She looked pale, and disturbed, and Emma thought it was the first time she had seen Celeste this way. She had seen her angry many times, but not nervous like this.
Celeste shook her head now. ‘It happened so quickly!’ she said, as though talking to herself. ‘We had just entered the lower hall when this man sprang on Count Cesare from behind. I couldn’t even scream; I was petrified! They fought, but it was so dark … and the man had a knife, while Vidal …’ She shivered. ‘It was terrible! And so pointless!’
‘A thief!’ said Anna firmly, folding her arms across her ample girth.
Emma frowned. ‘There’s nothing in the lower hall for a thief to want,’ she countered, remembering her own feeling of impending danger, so evident as she had mounted the staircase earlier.
But, if this were so, and she had subconsciously sensed the presence of disaster, what had the man been doing? If he were merely a thief he would have had plenty of time to make his getaway between her arrival and the much later arrival of Count Cesare and her stepmother. It didn’t make sense. There was nothing in the hall, so the man must have been waiting for the Count. But why?
Her brain could not find reasons, and gave up in despair. There seemed to be so many things she couldn’t understand. Not least of which was the Count’s inexplicable absence that afternoon, or rather the previous afternoon, for it was already the early hours of the following day.
Celeste turned her gaze on Emma, and her eyes were cold. She stubbed out her cigarette deliberately, and then lifted her wrap from its resting place, and said:
‘Come, Emma. I wish to talk to you.’