by Hazel Gaynor
“I hope you have a wonderful time in Istanbul,” Clara said, giving them each their miniature portraits. She smiled as they admired the finished items, comparing one with the other, and commenting on the remarkable likenesses.
I was proud of my sister for the work she’d done, and for accepting the payment she deserved for it, although she’d insisted it wasn’t necessary.
“You are a very talented pair,” Mr. Wainwright boomed as he approached me and Clara and shook our hands enthusiastically. “Enjoy your differences. Don’t always push against them.”
We looked at each other in a way that implied we would try.
I promised to write to him soon, and Clara quietly thanked him as he tipped his hat, bid us farewell, and went to gather up his flock of twittering young ladies who had rushed off to show their portraits to their mother.
As they left, I caught sight of Daniel, standing on the platform several paces away, his eyes searching the crowds of disembarking passengers. He was looking for us, no doubt. Though I was still furious about his shocking revelation, I was mostly disappointed he’d turned out to be like all the others, just as I’d started to believe he was different. The fact that I was still thinking about him and what he’d said—that he admired me and liked me, very much—irritated me more than anything.
“There he is.” I scowled.
“Who?” Clara stood at my elbow, following my gaze.
“Dastardly Daniel. Good riddance to him, I say.”
Yet when his gaze met mine, his expression softened to one of apology. I stared back at him defiantly. He shrugged and held up his hands in surrender.
I wanted to speak to him one last time, but refused to give him the satisfaction of apologizing again.
“Let’s go, Clara,” I said, looping my arm through hers. “Let’s see what Venice has in store for us.”
Clara
After the bustling boulevards and narrow streets of Paris, Venice was a gentle, glorious sigh. It was like nowhere else on earth. The sun dappled the water as a vaporetto conveyed us to the hotel where we would now be staying, rather than the venue Violet had arranged. Daniel had promised to leave us alone, but he was still in Venice, and neither of us trusted him. We certainly didn’t want to stay in the same hotel as him. Our new accommodation was also closer to the Rialto Bridge and Matthias Morelli’s gallery.
I pushed everything else from my mind as I gazed at the beautiful palazzos and buildings that seemed to tumble into the water, their reflections captured so perfectly. Sleek black gondolas glided past us, while others were moored to rows of posts along the jetties and down narrow side canals. It was all so enchanting.
“Isn’t it just beautiful,” I said as I pointed out a bright ocher-colored building that housed a florist. Buckets of lilies and irises and roses hugged the storefront, and artful greenery crept over the doorframe.
“It’s lovely,” Madeleine agreed, although she seemed distracted.
“You don’t sound too sure.”
“I am sure. Ignore me, I’m just . . .” Her words trailed off as she turned the page of an Italian newspaper she’d picked up at the station.
“You’re not seriously going to read that while we’re on the Grand Canal are you?”
She looked at me and nodded. “Sure am.”
I shook my head, exasperated, and turned my back to her to focus on the sights.
It really was a stunning cityscape, and I didn’t want to miss a moment of it. For the next wonderful thirty minutes, my mind was too full of Venice’s beauty to be occupied with the ugly business of Charles’s deceit, but the prospect of Edward’s imminent arrival pulled at my thoughts as I gazed at the reflections in the water. Washed by the wake of the passing boats, the images of the faded old buildings shifted and changed, the palette of pastel colors blurring into each other. Find the true colors, Edward would say. The sky isn’t blue at all when you look at it. It is grays and purples, pinks and lavender. What were the true colors of my future? I wondered. What would it look like when the image was complete?
* * *
THE WATER TAXI deposited us at a jetty beside a run-down-looking establishment.
“Bella casa!” the driver joked as we both stepped off the boat.
“This is it?” I took in the terrible sight in front of us. “This is where we’re staying?”
Madeleine consulted the piece of paper onto which she’d written the name and address of the hotel. It had been hastily recommended to her by one of the station porters as we’d left the Orient Express. He’d assured her it was one of Venice’s finest establishments.
“Apparently so,” she replied. “Let’s hope it’s better inside.”
I muttered that it couldn’t be much worse and followed her inside, only to be greeted by ladders and scaffolding and complete disarray. Dark water stains ran along the bottom half of the walls.
“Buongiorno!” A pleasant-looking woman approached us from a side door. She glanced at our outfits and the small cases we each carried. The rest of the luggage was to be brought on later. “Ah, tourists,” she added, throwing her hands into the air.
“Yes,” Madeleine replied, brightly. “We were hoping to stay?”
The woman shook her head. “No rooms. I am sorry. The acqua alta. The floods. They damage too much.”
“Oh. I see.” Madeleine turned to me. She looked as fed up as I felt. “What do we do now?”
“Could you recommend somewhere?” I asked, throwing the woman a hopeful glance. “We’re tired after a long journey.”
“Yes, yes. Un momento.” She scribbled something onto a piece of paper and handed it to me. “This is molto bella! Perfect for two ladies.”
I read the name of the hotel she’d inscribed on the page. Hotel Giovanni. The hotel Violet had arranged for us. I sighed and showed it to Madeleine.
“Looks like we might not be such seasoned travelers after all,” I said as we thanked the woman, wished her good luck with her repairs, and began the short walk to the Hotel Giovanni, a few streets away.
“Well, at least we tried,” Madeleine said, striding ahead. “All the best explorers have to be prepared to make new plans on the fly.”
“But we’re not making new plans,” I countered as I scurried after her. “We’re just reverting to the old plan.”
Hotel Giovanni was like a palace in comparison to the establishment we’d just left. I was so relieved to see its gleaming marble floors and gilt picture frames. Well-dressed attendants instantly greeted us and assured us they would arrange for our luggage to be collected from the other hotel. I hardly cared that Daniel Miller might appear from behind a parlor fern at any moment.
Our suite was well appointed, as we had come to expect from Violet’s exquisite taste. It offered spectacular views across the Grand Canal and made me more eager than ever to get outside and capture the famous Venetian light on paper.
“Shouldn’t we track down Matthias first?” Madeleine asked as I gathered up my pastel pencils and other supplies. “His gallery isn’t far, and I’m dying to know who he is.”
“Later,” I said. “Let’s just be tourists for a couple of hours first. I can go on my own if you’d rather rest?”
“Rest? In Venice? Are you mad?” Madeleine laughed. “Sometimes I think you hardly know me at all. Besides,” she continued as she picked up her gloves and hat, “Venice is notorious for its winding streets, and for getting people lost. Best stick together. Safety in numbers.”
“I thought you were the one who liked to seek out danger. Or are you going to tell me Mussolini might arrest us for having the wrong political ideals?”
She gave me one of her knowing looks. “It’s nothing to joke about, Clara. If you took a moment to read a newspaper or ask me about things, you might not be so casual about it. You don’t realize how precarious the situation is here.”
“Fine. I’ll stay by your side.” And while I pretended to be indifferent about it, I was pleased that we would sightsee togethe
r, unlike in Paris, where we had instantly gone our separate ways. Perhaps we were making some progress after all.
Being with Madeleine made sense, even if we found fault with each other and disagreed too easily. The farther we’d traveled from New York, the more I’d found myself wanting to spend time with her, to share things with her, ask for her advice and opinion. Since finding out about Charles and Daniel’s scheme, I’d come close to confronting Charles about it. But I’d held back. My bride-to-be nerves had developed into nagging whispers of doubt that seemed to grow louder with every mile traveled. But part of me wanted to hear Charles’s side of the story. I wanted him to explain it wasn’t how it seemed, that he’d only had my best interests at heart, and that he was acting from an urge to protect me rather than from any sense of mistrust.
Just as we were about to leave the suite, a bellboy delivered a small packet addressed to me.
I took it from him and opened it. Inside was a lapel pin, and a note.
Darling girl! I took the liberty of signing you up! Mrs. Charles Hancock is now a member of the yacht club. I thought you might like to wear the pin next to your heart, to keep me close while you are far away.
C
I returned the pin to the packet and placed it on the table. Membership of the yacht club as Mrs. Charles Hancock. Was that what my life was to become?
“Another gift from Charles?” Madeleine asked as she grabbed her scarf and dashed into her bedroom to change her shoes.
I couldn’t hold back a heavy sigh. “Yes,” I called in reply. “But I’d rather not discuss it.”
I turned to the desk to pick up my gloves, and saw the postcards I’d bought at the train station and written to Mother and Violet. As I picked them up, I noticed Madeleine also had two letters to mail: one addressed to her roommate, Jenny, in Manhattan, and another to a Mr. Gerald McDougal at the New York Herald Tribune. She was so determined to be published, she was submitting articles all the way from Venice? Good for her. I sealed the envelope, noticing that she’d forgotten to, and put everything into my handbag. We could stop by the ufficio postale on the way to Matthias Morelli’s gallery.
“Are you ready?” I called.
Madeleine emerged from the bedroom with a grin. “Yes. I now have appropriate footwear. Let’s get lost somewhere.”
* * *
MADELEINE BOUGHT GELATO from a stand while I ducked into the post office, and after browsing the markets together, and stopping for espresso and cantuccini biscotti while I made a few quick sketches, we made our way back to Calle del Toscana and, hopefully, to Matthias. Although we knew we weren’t far from his gallery, we became hopelessly lost through the ancient winding streets and had to retrace our steps several times before we eventually found our way nearly two hours later. By then, my feet were aching and my enthusiasm for our task had waned.
Morelli’s was exactly where Violet had told us it would be, in a narrow side street close to the Rialto Bridge, beneath an arched walkway. Clearly, she remembered it well, despite the many years since she’d been here.
A pasticceria, a pretty little pastry shop, stood on one side of the gallery, while on the other side was a shop that specialized in the famous Venetian Carnevale masks.
“I’ve always wanted to experience Carnevale in Venice,” Madeleine said as she stopped to admire the ornate masks. “Wouldn’t a masked ball be exciting?”
“You’ve read too many novels,” I replied, pulling her away from the window.
“There’s no such thing as too many novels,” she replied.
As I tentatively pushed open the door to the art gallery, a small bell danced on a wire overhead. The light jingle was cheery and welcoming and helped to ease my apprehension a little. I wasn’t sure what to expect, or how this man from Violet’s past would take to two American women arriving unannounced with a letter from someone he hadn’t seen in almost fifty years.
A woman emerged from a back room and said something in Italian that neither of us understood.
“Buongiorno, signora,” I said, noting the wedding ring on her finger. “My name is Clara Sommers, and this is my sister, Madeleine. We’re visiting from America. We are looking for a Signor Morelli? Matthias. Do you speak English?”
The woman studied us both carefully. “Lucia Lambretti,” she said in perfect English as she offered her hand in greeting. “Matthias Morelli is my uncle.”
I shook her hand. Madeleine stepped forward to do the same as I continued.
“I’m sorry for the intrusion, but our grandmother is—was—a friend of your uncle’s. She isn’t well and has asked us to deliver a letter to him on her behalf.” I placed Violet’s letter on the countertop, admiring her elegant script and the name written on the front of the envelope: Matthias. “Her name is Violet.”
“Violet?” At the name, Lucia frowned as if searching her memory.
“Yes. Violet Bell. Although he would have known her by her maiden name, Violet Lawson,” I added.
A black cat slinked through a window and wound around Lucia’s legs. She bent to pick it up and nestled her pet in her arms.
“I’ve never heard of a Violet Lawson. I’m very sorry, but I don’t think I can help you.”
I glanced at Madeleine. She looked as disappointed as I felt.
“Well, hopefully your uncle will remember her?” I prompted. “Our grandmother was very eager for Matthias to read her words.” I reached for the letter and returned it to my pocket. “It means an awful lot to her.”
“My uncle is visiting relatives in the country.”
“Do you know when he might be back?” Madeleine asked.
Lucia shook her head. “I’m sorry, I cannot be sure. Perhaps he will return this afternoon. Perhaps he will return tomorrow. My uncle does not like to make plans. He lives on impulse.”
She put the cat down and shooed it away into the next room.
Madeleine cast me a look that I recognized. She was preparing to dig her heels in and ask difficult questions. I reached for her arm, indicating we should leave. We would have to return later, and perhaps often, to meet this Matthias, but at least we knew he was still alive.
“We’ll stop by again the next time we are passing,” I said.
“You could leave the letter with me?” Lucia suggested. “I can pass it to my uncle when he returns. Save you the need to come back?”
“Thank you, but we would rather give it to him in person,” Madeleine said. “Violet was very insistent on that. She wanted us to meet him. Thank you for your time.”
We left the gallery, disappointed not to have seen Matthias.
“Well, that didn’t go very well, did it,” Madeleine said once we were outside the gallery. “Let’s just hope he returns while we’re still here. Otherwise, we’ll have to leave the letter for him, and hope for the best.”
“At least we found the right place,” I agreed. “We can go back tomorrow.”
I tried to sound optimistic, but just as with Grandpa Frank, it seemed that finding Matthias Morelli wouldn’t be straightforward. I couldn’t help feeling there was more to Matthias than Violet had implied, and I wondered if he might have had something to do with the falling out between Violet and Margaret. I glanced at Madeleine, who was as lost in thought as I was. Perhaps she was thinking the same.
We were already halfway through our trip, and there was still so much to discover.
Maddie
Deflated by missing Matthias, we cheered ourselves up with a box of cakes and delicate pastries from the pasticceria beside the gallery and strolled back along the maze of winding streets, toward the Piazza San Marco.
Venezia, the Floating City, was as beautiful as Paris, but in its own unique way. I wished I’d studied Italian in school, but to my surprise, I found it somewhat similar to French and could make out signs and menus without much trouble. The trouble I did have was keeping my article about Charles a secret. I had to bite my tongue to keep from mentioning it to Clara. And though I was truly excited by the
prospect of it being accepted, the promise of publication was tempered by the risk of ruining things between us—again. I thought of the envelope on the table in our suite, already addressed though not yet sealed. A mark of my lingering indecision. I’d need to decide what to do soon, or the opportunity would be lost.
The Piazza San Marco was a large open square in the center of the old town, a place Violet had not only instructed us to visit, but a location associated with so many of her fondest memories of the city. We found a table at a café beneath the ornate arches, and while Clara added to her sketchbook, I studied a map of the area, the cluster of many islands making up the historic city, and the canals that washed into the Adriatic Sea. I was fond of Venice already, but almost as important as the things I’d seen was the thing I hadn’t: Daniel Miller. It seemed he’d been respectful enough to keep his promise, and his distance. Perhaps he really didn’t enjoy the task Charles had sent him to do after all, and he was mortified by how upset he’d made Clara and me. I mused over the thought for a while as I watched people stride through the piazza, anxious to get somewhere, and others who strolled languorously beside a friend.
When I had only a few sips of coffee left, I pulled out my journal to detail my first impressions of bella Venezia.
VENICE
I can see why Violet fell in love here. The scent of delicious fritole—already my favorite Venetian treat of fried dough dusted with sugar—wafts from a nearby doorway, and an endless flotilla of boats and gondolas slip by on the Grand Canal. The piazza is magnificent with the Doge’s Palace and the impressive Basilica di San Marco standing watch at the easternmost edge. Laughing children gather near the bell tower while enjoying a break from classes.
I continued writing for a while, lost in my thoughts and my words, until the clock tower chimed the hour. I snapped my journal closed and reached for my scarf.
“Time to get going. Come on. Let’s see if we can climb that bell tower.”