by Lucy Gordon
A Family For Keeps
Lucy Gordon
Vincenzo could see the woman known as Julia had clearly been to hell and back. But he could tell that she needed himto help her enjoy life; to find out how wonderful the world could be. She needed him to help her find her beloved daughter…
And he did both those things. Julia had never thought she would taste delicious food again, or laugh spontaneously… or kiss a gorgeous man. But she did with Vincenzo.
Now they were falling in love. Life should have been perfect, only then Vincenzo discovered that the very child Julia had been searching for was the child he was bringing up as his own…
Lucy Gordon
A Family For Keeps
A book in the Heart to Heart series, 2005
PROLOGUE
This would be a good place to die.
She didn't utter the words but they were there in her heart. They swam up from the depths of the black water. They lingered around the cold grey stones and whispered away into the darkness.
She hadn't thought about dying when she'd planned to come here. Only revenge. There had been a long time to think about that.
The passion for revenge had brought her to this corner of Venice. She'd envisaged no further, certain that the next step would reveal itself when the time came.
Instead-nothing.
But what had she thought was going to happen when she got here? That the first face she saw would be the one she was seeking?
Or rather, one of the two faces she was seeking. One face she might not recognise after so many years, but the other she would know anywhere, any time. It haunted her by day and lived in her nightmares.
It was cold. The wind whistled along the canals and down the little alleys, and there was no comfort in all the world.
'I can't sleep at night, yet now I could sleep for ever. For ever-and ever-and ever-
'Yes, this would be a good place…'
CHAPTER ONE
At midnight Venice was the quietest city in the world, and in winter it could be the most mournful.
No cars, only the occasional sound of a passing boat, footsteps echoing on the hard stones, or the soft lap of tiny waves. And even this would soon die away into silence.
Here, by the Rialto Bridge, shadow merged with stone and stone with water, so that it was hard to tell if the bundle of clothes in the corner contained a living being or not.
At first sight, Piero thought that it probably did not, so still did it lie. He approached the bundle and gave it a tentative prod. It groaned softly, but didn't move. He frowned. A woman from the sound of it.
'Hey!' He tapped again and she rolled a little way so that he could discern a face. It was pale and drawn, and in this light that was all he could make out.
'Come with me,' he said in Italian.
For a moment she stared at him out of blank eyes, and he wondered if she had understood. Then she began to haul herself up, making no protest, asking no questions.
He half guided, half supported her away from the bridge, in to an alley, which turned into another alley and then into another, and another. To the casual eye they looked identical, all cold, narrow, gleaming with rain. But he found his way between them easily.
The woman with him barely noticed. Her heart was like a frozen stone in her body, numbing all feeling except despair.
Once she stumbled and he held her safe, muttering, 'Not much farther.'
She could see now that they had reached the rear entrance of a building. There was just enough light to reveal that it was palatial. There was a large set of ornate double doors, maybe twelve feet high. But he passed these and led her to a much smaller door.
At first it stuck, but when he put his shoulder to it, with a movement that was half a push, half a shake, it yielded. Inside there was a torch, which he used to find the rest of the way.
Their footsteps sounded hollow on the tiled floors, giving her the sense of a grandiose building. She had a brief impression of a sweeping staircase and a wall with pale spaces where there had once been pictures.
A palace, but a shabby, abandoned palace.
At last he led her into a small room, where there were an armchair and a couple of sofas. Gently he guided her to one.
'Thank you,' she whispered, speaking for the first time.
He regarded her with surprise.
'English?' he asked.
She made the effort. 'Si. Sono inglese.'
'There's no need for that,' he said in perfect English. 'I speak your language. Now you must have some food. My name is Piero, by the way.'
When she hesitated he said, 'Any name will do- Cynthia, Anastasia, Wilhemina, Julia-'
'Julia,' she said. It was as good a name as any.
In one corner stood a tall ceramic stove, white with gilt decoration. In the lower part was a pair of doors, which he opened and began to pile wood inside.
'The electricity is off,' he explained, 'so it's lucky that ' the old stove remains. This one has stood here nearly two hundred years, and it still works. The trouble is I'm out of paper to light it.'
'Here. I got a newspaper on the plane.'
He showed no surprise at someone who had managed to buy a plane ticket and then slept in the street. He simply struck a match and in a few moments they had the beginnings of a fire.
At last they considered each other.
She saw an old man, tall, very thin, with a shock of white hair. He wore an ancient overcoat, tied with string around the waist, and a threadbare woollen scarf wrapped around his throat. He seemed a mixture of scarecrow and clown. His face was almost cadaverous, making his bright blue eyes exceptionally vivid by contrast. Even more noticeable was his smile, brilliant as a beacon, which flashed on and off.
Piero saw a woman whose age he couldn't guess except to put her in the mid thirties. Perhaps older, perhaps younger.
She was tall, and her figure, dressed in serviceable jeans, sweater and jacket, was a little too slim to be ideal. Her long fair hair hung forward like a curtain, making it hard to see her properly. Perhaps she preferred it that way because she mostly let it hang. Just once she brushed it aside, revealing that suffering had left her with a weary, troubled face, large eyes, and an air of distrusting all the world.
Her face was too lean and almost haggard. There was beauty there, but it came from a fire that burned far back behind her eyes.
'Thank you for finding me,' she said at last, speaking in a soft voice.
'You'd have been dead by morning, lying in that freezing place.'
'Probably.' She didn't sound as though this were of much interest. 'Where are we?'
'This is the Palazzo di Montese, home of the Counts di Montese for nine centuries. It's empty because the present count can't afford to live here.'
'So you live here instead?'
'That's right. And nobody bothers me because they're afraid of the ghost,' he added with relish.
'What ghost?'
He reached behind the chair to where an old sheet lay on the floor. Draping it over his head, he threw up his arms and began to wail.
'That ghost,' he said, tossing the sheet away and speaking normally.
She gave a faint smile. 'That's very scary,' she said.
He cackled like a delighted child. 'If people didn't believe in the ghost to start with they wouldn't take any notice of me. But everyone around here has heard about Annina, so they tell themselves it's her.'
'Who was she really?'
'She lived seven hundred years ago. She was a Venetian girl with a vast fortune but no title, which mattered a lot in those days. She fell madly in love with Count Ruggiero di Montese but he only married her for her money. When she'd borne him a son he locked her away. Eventually her body was
found floating in the Grand Canal.
'Some said she was murdered, others that she had escaped in a small boat, which capsized. Now she's supposed to haunt this place. They say you can hear her voice calling up from the dungeons, begging to be released, crying to be allowed to see her child.'
He stopped because a faint sound had broken from her.
'Are you all right?' he asked, concerned.
'Yes,' she whispered.
'I haven't scared you, have I? Surely you don't believe in ghosts?'
'Not that kind of ghost,' Julia said softly.
He started the supper. By now the fire was burning merrily, so he fixed a grid over the burning wood, and used this to heat coffee.
'There's some sausages too,' he said. 'I cook them over the flames on forks. And I have rolls here. I have a friend with a restaurant, and he gives me yesterday's bread.'
When they were both settled and eating, she said, 'Why did you take me in? You know nothing about me.'
'I know that you needed help. What else is there to know?'
She understood. He had welcomed her into the fellowship of the dispossessed where nothing had to be told. The past did not exist.
So now she was officially a down-and-out. It was not such a bad thing to be. After the way she'd spent the last few years it might even be a step up.
'Here,' she said, reaching into a bag and bringing out a very small plastic bottle, containing red wine. 'The man next to me on the plane left it behind, so I took it.'
'Would it be indelicate to ask if you obtained the plane ticket in the same way?'
She gave a real smile then.
'Believe it or not, I didn't steal it,' she said. 'If you go to the right airline you can get a ticket from England to Venice for almost nothing. But when you get off the plane-' She shrugged.
'You can find winter prices in the hotels now,' Piero pointed out.
'Even so, I'm not spending a penny that I don't have to,' she said in a voice that was suddenly hard and stubborn. 'But I'll pay my way here,' she added.
'Cheaper than a hotel,' he agreed, waving a sausage.
'And the surroundings are grand. You can tell it's the real thing.'
'Know a bit about palaces, do you?'
'I've worked in a few,' she said cautiously. 'I'm surprised someone hasn't bought this to turn it into a luxury hotel.'
'They keep trying,' Piero said. 'But the owner won't sell. He could be a rich man, but it's been in his family for centuries, and he won't let it go.'
She rose and walked over to the tall window from which came some illumination, even though it was night. She understood why when she looked out and saw that the room overlooked the Grand Canal.
Even in late November, past midnight, this thoroughfare was busy with life. Vaporetti, the passenger boats, still plied their trade along the length of the canal, and lights shone on both banks.
In the room where she stood, beams of dim light coming through the stained glass windows made patterns on the tiled floor. These and the glow from the stove were the only defence against the darkness.
She didn't mind. The gloom of this place pleased her, where bright light would have been a torment.
'Do you live here all the time?' she asked Piero, sitting down and accepting another coffee from his hands.
'Yes, it's a good place. The amenities have been turned off, of course. No heat or lighting. But the pump outside still works, so we have fresh water. Let me show you.'
He led her down to the small stone outhouse where there was the pump and an earth closet.
'We even have a bathroom,' he declared with pride.
'Positively the lap of luxury,' she agreed solemnly.
When they went back inside she was suddenly swept by a weariness that almost knocked her off her feet. Piero looked at her with shrewd, kindly eyes.
'You're almost out of it, aren't you? You sleep on that sofa, and I'll have this one.'
He struck a theatrical attitude.
'Fair lady, do not fear to share a room with me. Be assured that I shall not molest you in your sleep. Or even out of it. That fire died years ago, and even in its better days it was never more than a modest flame.'
Julia could not help smiling at his droll manner.
'I wasn't afraid,' she assured him.
'No, I suppose certain things about me are fairly obvious,' said the gaunt scarecrow before her.
'I didn't mean that. I meant you've been kind and I know I can trust you.'
He gave a sigh.
'How I wish you were wrong!' he said mournfully. 'There are cushions over there, and here are some blankets. Sleep tight.'
She thanked him, curled up on the sofa in a blanket and was asleep in seconds. Piero was about to settle down for the night when a footstep outside alerted him, and a moment later a man entered, making him smile with pleasure.
'Vincenzo,' he said softly. 'It's good to see you again.'
The newcomer, who was in his late thirties with a lean, harsh face, asked, 'Why are we whispering?'
Piero pointed to the sofa, and Vincenzo nodded in understanding.
'Who is she?' he asked.
'She answers to Julia, and she's English. She's one of us.'
Vincenzo nodded, accepting the implication of 'us', and began to unpack two brown paper bags that he'd brought with him.
'A few leftovers from the restaurant,' he explained, bringing out some rolls, a carton of milk, and some slices of meat.
'Doesn't your boss mind you taking these?' Piero asked, claiming them with glee.
'Perks of the job. Besides, I can handle the boss.'
'That's very brave of you,' Piero said with a knowing wink. "They say he's a terrible man.'
'So I've heard. Has anyone bothered you here?'
'Nobody ever does, although the owner is an even more terrible man. But if he tried to throw us out I expect you'd handle him too.'
Vincenzo grinned. 'I'd do my best.'
This was a game they played. Vincenzo was actually il Conte di Montese, the owner of the palazzo where they were standing, and also of the restaurant where he worked. Piero knew this. Vincenzo knew that he knew it, and Piero knew that Vincenzo knew he knew. But it suited them both for it to remain unspoken between them.
On the sofa Julia stirred and muttered. Vincenzo moved a little closer and sat down, watching her.
'How did you find her?' he asked quietly.
'Curled up in a corner of an alley, which is odd because she says she flew here.'
'She took so much trouble to come to Venice, only to collapse in the street?' Vincenzo mused. 'What the devil is driving her?'
'Perhaps she'll tell me the reason later,' Piero said. 'But not if I ask.'
Vincenzo nodded, understanding the code by which Piero and those like him lived. He was used to dropping into his empty home to find various squatters sheltering there.
He knew that a sensible man would have driven them out, but, despite his grim aspect, he lacked the heart. He looked in occasionally to keep an eye on the place, but he'd found that Piero was better than any caretaker, and the building was safe with him. Now his visits were as much to check on the old man's welfare as for any other reason.
Julia stirred again, settling into a position where more of her face was visible.
Moving quietly, Vincenzo dropped to his knees beside her and studied her. He supposed he shouldn't be doing that while she was unknowing and defenceless, but something about her drew him so that he could not turn away.
Her face spoke of mysteries and denied them in the same moment. She wasn't a girl, he thought, probably somewhere in her thirties, marked by grief and with a withdrawn look so intense that it was there even in sleep.
Her mouth was wide, generous, designed to be mobile and expressive. He had known women with lips like that. They laughed easily, talked well, and kissed urgently with warm, sweet breath.
But this woman looked as if she seldom smiled, except as a polite mask. And sh
e had forgotten how to kiss. She had forgotten love and pleasure and happiness. This was a face from which tenderness had been driven by sheer force. Its owner was capable of anything.
But it hadn't always been true. She had started life differently. Traces of vulnerability were still there, al-though perhaps not for long. Something had brought her to the point where life would harden her quickly.
Then a strange feeling came over him, as though the very air had moved, and the ground beneath him had trembled. He blinked, shaking his head, and the feeling vanished. Quickly he moved away.
'What's the matter?' Piero asked, handing him a cup of coffee.
'Nothing. It's just that for a moment I felt I'd seen her before. But where-?' He sighed. 'I must be imagining it.'
He drank his coffee and turned to go. At the door he stopped and handed Piero some money.
'Look after her,' he said quietly.
When Vincenzo had gone Piero wrapped himself in a blanket and lay down on the other sofa. After a while he slept.
Doors clanged again and again. It was a dreadful, hollow sound, and it soon became agonising.
She flung herself against one of those iron doors, pounding and shrieking that she should not be here. But there was no response, no help. Only stony, cold indifference.
There were bars at the windows. She pulled herself up to them, looking through at the world from which she was shut out.
She could see a wedding. It did not seem strange to find such a scene in this dreary place, for she knew instinctively that they were connected.
There was the groom, young and handsome, smiling on his day of triumph. Was there something about his smile that wasn't quite right, as though he was far from being the man his bride thought?
She knew nothing of that. The poor little fool thought he loved her. She was young, innocent, and stupid.
Here she came, glowing with love triumphant. Julia gripped the bars in horror as that naive girl threw back her veil, revealing the face beneath-
Her own face.
'Don't,' she said hoarsely. 'Don't do it. Don't marry him, for pity's sake don't marry him.'