Three young courtiers are ready to accompany us. They’re wearing new-style doublets, so short you can see their bulging codpieces. I regard the men from beneath my eyelashes and recognise one of them. It is the artist; he catches my gaze and I make a face at him. Zorzo from Castelfranco nudges his companions, who fall about with laughter, and the heat spreads to my cheeks, which redden to bright scarlet, I’m sure.
We cross the square and head down the hill. The sound of singing spills out of the tavern. From an upstairs window come the shouts of a housewife, yelling at her children to stop staring at us and do their chores. On the corner, at the farrier’s, echo the clash and clamour of pincers and hammers. Women gossip by the fountain where they are washing their clothes. The church bell tolls, calling the faithful to mass.
I’m not sad for I shall return to Asolo from time to time as the court moves between castle and villa. If the Queen pleases, she’ll take me to Venice when she goes to visit her family. I smile at the prospect of seeing my birthplace and staying in a magnificent palace on the Grand Canal.
Without warning, the skin at the back of my neck prickles. I catch a strange man staring at me. His skin is pale, and his hair is black like a witch’s cat. The sun beats down hard on me, but frost coats my body.
Telling myself not to be fanciful, I focus on keeping my seat. Pegaso has been spooked by the crowds. He rears and prances from side to side. I’m at home in the saddle and can gallop across the fields toward the foothills of Monte Grappa without any difficulty. However, controlling this excitable creature in the midst of all the confusion is beyond my skill.
Maria Santissima!
I lose my seat and tumble from my saddle. Pinpricks of light, and the world around me sways as if it were a tapestry coming away from the wall.
My head was spinning. I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned around. A woman in strange dress was looking at me, concern radiating in her eyes
‘Are you ill?’
‘Ill?’
Why should I be ill?
‘You were swaying. I thought you were about to faint.’
The frescoes had faded, the ceiling had levitated, and the church was empty except for me and this stranger, who was wearing what could only be described as men’s clothing, albeit the strangest masculine apparel: straight beige pantaloons and a tight black doublet. Definitely a woman, from her shape. She had long, dark brown hair pulled back from her face and knotted at the nape of her neck, and some sort of tincture above her deep blue eyes. Something only courtesans wore.
Make-up.
The awareness was like a punch on the arm, shocking me into the twentieth century, and I took in a shaky breath.
‘Oh,’ I said to the woman. ‘Please don’t worry. I was just… daydreaming.’
‘I’m Vanessa Goredan.’ The woman held out her hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
The Contessa! I introduced myself. ‘I met your son yesterday. He’s having dinner with my aunt and me tomorrow evening.’
‘Ah! So you’re the reason he changed his plans,’ the Contessa said with a laugh.
‘Changed his plans?’
‘Not to worry. He can see me any time. You’re still a bit peaky. Let me offer you an aperitivo at the Cipriani.’
‘Thank you.’ I shuddered at the thought of another drink like the one Luca had given me yesterday. ‘I’d love a glass of sparkling water.’
‘And you shall have one,’ the Contessa said, rising to her feet.
We strolled up the road and into the elegant entrance of the hotel, richly carpeted and lined with display cabinets showcasing expensive jewellery. Feeling underdressed, I glanced down at my scruffy sandals and smoothed my skirt. I almost wished I was wearing my summer work outfit of linen trousers.
The enclosed veranda opened onto the gardens I’d spotted earlier. A bald man was coming toward us, dressed in a dark dress suit, white shirt, and grey tie. He bowed before the Contessa, kissing her hand. ‘We are honoured by your presence, Madame.’
‘Giuseppe,’ she gave a delighted laugh. ‘Ever the charmer! We’ll sit in the garden as it’s such a lovely day. This is Fern, a friend of my son’s. Please ask the waiter to bring a bottle of acqua minerale frizzante and some of your delicious pastries.’
I sat next to the Contessa at a table under a large umbrella on the patio. ‘The manager here oozes charm from every pore,’ she said, ‘but he’s a nice man and keeps this place running like clockwork.’
‘It’s beautiful.’ I breathed in the scent of honeysuckle growing up the side of the building. ‘Seems old, but not as old as the church.’
‘You’re interested in history?’ She glanced at me. ‘I believe it used to belong to Robert Browning, the English poet, back in the 19th century, but it was built in the mid-16th.’
I sat back and closed my eyes, the logical part of my brain fighting with the illogical events of the morning. What I’d experienced in the church had been beyond illogical, though; it had been completely, mind-blowingly incredible. I turned to the Contessa and said, ‘I can feel the past here in Asolo. It could be my imagination. Except it’s so vivid, it’s as if I’m there.’
‘Are you psychic?’ She raised a brow.
I laughed softly. ‘Not at all. I’ve always thought anything like that a load of old rubbish.’
‘I wouldn’t dismiss the spirit world, Fern. As Shakespeare said, “there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy”.’
A rush of embarrassment washed through me. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend your beliefs.’
‘No offence taken. But I’m certain that the dead can manifest themselves to us. Our villa, for instance, has a presence in it. Not a malevolent one, mind you. Sometimes, I hear the sound of a lute. Comforting, in a way.’
What would she think if I told her I’d not only heard a lute but had seen the musician himself? She’d think I was bat-shit crazy, that’s what.
‘I’m researching our family tree,’ the Contessa added. ‘Only I haven’t come across the lute-player yet.’
I picked up a small doughnut, sugar scattered on top, and bit into it. Custard-filled. Delicious. I eyed Luca’s mother; she was leaning forward, staring into her glass, her long elegant fingers spread around the top. ‘Is your home in Asolo?’ I asked.
‘No, it’s halfway between here and Bassano. I’m only in Asolo today as I’ve been to visit an old lady, Freya Stark, the English writer and explorer. She lives near the Santa Caterina church and was a friend of my mother-in-law’s.’
‘How interesting.’ I tried to make my voice sound knowledgeable. I had no idea who the writer was.
The Contessa’s eyes met mine as she put her glass down. ‘You must come and see our villa one day. It’s quite famous.’
‘I’d like that.’ I pressed the pastry crumbs on my plate with my finger. ‘There’s so much to see around here, and I’m only in Italy till the end of the month.’
‘Have you been to Venice yet?’
‘It’s on my “to do” list.’
A whispered sigh of approval stroked my cheek.
I lifted my hand and brushed it away.
The air seemed to crackle around me. Stay focused on the present, Fern!
I fixed my gaze on the Contessa. ‘I’m looking for a good spot to do some painting. Can you suggest somewhere?’
‘Why not stroll up to the Sant’Anna cemetery? There’re some wonderful views.’
‘Is it very old?’
‘Dates back centuries.’
‘Oh, maybe not,’ I said, remembering that the girl in my vision— if that’s what it was— Cecilia, had mentioned the year 1504. ‘Is there anywhere only dating from, maybe, a couple of hundred years ago?’
Luca’s mother gave me a questioning look. ‘Why not stay here? The gardens would make a lovely subject. I’ll clear it with Giuseppe for you, if you like.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I meant what I said about visiting
the villa. I’d love it if you could meet my daughter. Luca’s sister, Chiara.’ The contessa sighed. ‘She’s got herself involved with the wrong crowd at university. They go around distributing leaflets about how the Veneto should become independent of Italy. I just hope they aren’t about to become terrorists.’
‘What a worry for you!’
And it must be, or she wouldn’t be sharing it with me, someone she’s only just met.
‘It’s that boyfriend of hers, Federico, I’m sure of it. He’s got her twisted around his little finger. Luca and I keep telling her how unsuitable he is, but the more we try and convince her the more she turns to the boy. It would be nice for her to meet someone sane like you.’
Not that sane…
Within minutes the Contessa had arranged a small table overlooking the valley and a glass of water for my paintbrush. Then she took her leave, assuring me of an invitation to dinner via her son.
I opened my rucksack and took out a small board. I frowned. Had I been suffering from hallucinations? Not exactly. After clipping paper onto the board, I started to work. Spreading water onto the paper, I wondered if I could be reliving a past life.
Ridiculous. There’s no such thing as reincarnation.
I added paint to my palette, a small plastic tray. Maybe the young woman, Cecilia, was a projection of myself? I began transferring the scene in front of me onto the paper: the cypress trees, the vineyards and the olive groves. There were definitely some similarities between me and her— the same hair and build and something about Cecilia’s personality that reminded me of myself before…
That’s it! Must be something to do with the fire, some bizarre warp in my brain related to the trauma I’d suffered.
I dried my brush on the old rag I kept in my bag, then scuffed it and rubbed it on the palette. Time to add some leaves. And time to get a grip on yourself, Fern!
Chapter 4
‘You should have an afternoon nap, my lovely,’ Auntie said, picking up the plates and taking them to the dishwasher after we’d eaten. ‘Then we can go for a stroll and I’ll show you what’s left of the Barco. It would make a fabulous setting for one of your watercolours.’
‘Barco?’ I asked, handing her a wine glass,
‘Caterina Cornaro’s country estate. There’s part of the east wing still standing, and this house is built near to where the west wing once stood.’
A chill sliced through me. Cecilia had been about to set off for the Queen’s villa when her horse had spooked, and she’d taken a fall.
With a sigh, I poured myself a glass of water and took it up to my room. There was a packet of valerian tablets on my bedside table, and I swallowed two. Stretched out on my bed, I stared at the wall opposite. Auntie had framed a watercolour I’d sent her of Westminster Abbey. I’d sold the same print to a greetings card company only last month, with the promise of further commissions as soon as I could come up with them. Art was what had saved my sanity after I’d lost Harry.
Sudden pain pierced me.
He’d been everything I’d ever wanted, and he’d died because of me.
Tears prickled, but I bottled up my unhappiness. It was something I’d got used to doing; if I’d let them flow, I wouldn’t have been able to stop.
Don’t think about Harry!
Don’t think about what you did!
Don’t think about how he died!
Sleep came eventually, and the next thing I knew Auntie was calling from outside my door.
‘Wakey, wakey!’
I so loved her old-fashioned expressions.
I rubbed my eyes and glanced at my travel clock. Five pm. I’d slept for over three hours. No wonder I still felt groggy. ‘Give me a minute,’ I called out.
In the bathroom, I stared at my reflection, but it had started to blur.
I squinted, and the image wavered like a ripple across a pond.
‘Lorenza…’ The whisper tickled my neck.
I spun around.
No one.
I looked at the mirror again and let out a gasp.
Another woman was staring back at me.
The woman had the same colour hair as mine, and there was something about her that was familiar. She had my mouth and the shape of her face was like mine, also the curve of her lips and the arch of her eyebrows. Her eyes were different, though… deep brown whereas mine were green. And she was much younger than me.
I blinked and caught my own refection. The apparition, if that’s what it was, had disappeared.
With determined steps, I returned to my bedroom, holding the image in my mind. My sketchpad was on the desk and I grabbed it along with a pencil. It only took a couple of minutes to produce a rough outline of the face, even though my hands were shaking and my heart thudding. I stared at the result. I’d sketched a self-portrait. Pure and simple.
Just my imagination getting the better of me.
Again.
I let out the breath I’d been holding, closed the pad and put it into my rucksack along with the rest of my sketching pencils.
Auntie had said the Barco was worth painting.
I’ll make a start on something today and try to forget all this weirdness.
I was a rational person; I’d never given in to occult imaginings before, and I wasn’t in any fit state currently for all that silliness. At school, when my classmates had messed about with Ouija boards and tarot cards, I’d been the level-headed one who’d talked them out of their fantasies.
I’ll carry on being level-headed now.
Crickets screeched in the low bushes beside the dusty road as I strolled with Auntie toward a group of buildings. The air was oppressively hot and sweat beaded my hairline.
‘It seems we’re in for a thunderstorm,’ Auntie said, pointing at the bank of clouds gathered over the distant mountains.
Within minutes, she was pushing open a gate to what looked like an abandoned farmyard. I trailed behind, my heart fluttering.
I know this place.
On my right, I spotted faded frescoes of a hunting scene. Ladies and knights on horses, giving chase to a deer. Something stirred in my memory, and a picture came into my mind of strong arms holding a paintbrush.
I glanced in the direction of the far end of the building. Where were the fish ponds, the gardens, and the peacocks strutting about with their tails fanned? The courtyard should be peppered with courtiers or at least their servants, the air redolent with the scent of herbs and spices from the kitchens. All I could see were cornfields. And what had happened to the towers and fortifications?
My legs dragged and soon Auntie had left me behind. Almost in a dream, I sat on the balustrade below one of a set of five rounded columns. They reached to roof height and were mirrored on the opposite side of the building, creating an open area like a patio.
A loggia, that’s what it’s called . . .
I took out my sketchpad, but my head had started spinning and that buzzing I’d experienced this morning echoed in my ears.
‘Cecilia!’
I swivel around and let out a gasp.
‘Dorotea! You gave me a fright!’
‘I don’t know why that should be,’ Dorotea mutters. She pouts in that annoying way of hers. ‘There’s nothing frightening about me.’
’It is true that she is pretty, with her chestnut-coloured hair and milk-white complexion. She’s one of the Queen’s ladies like me, but Dorotea flaunts herself before the court, constantly pulling down her gown to show off her plump breasts, lumpy like pillows. I glance down at my own chest. There would be no point in my doing the same. My bosoms are as small as my fists.
‘I have searched for you everywhere,’ she says. ‘Why are you sitting here?’
I peer around and give a shiver. I had been feeling lost for some unfathomable reason; the world about me had crumbled and changed. But now everything is as it should be, and I tell myself not to let fantasies rule my mind. ‘I was daydreaming,’ I say, slipping the sheet of paper and black chalk into
my pocket.
I will not show my work to anyone.
Dorotea lets out a dismissive laugh. Far be it for her to ever have her head in the clouds or even do anything the slightest bit creative. ‘Domina requests our presence,’ she says. ‘There’s to be a banquet this evening. For the Hapsburg Emperor and his wife.’
We make our way upstairs to the Queen’s chamber and Dorotea whispers, ‘Pietro Bembo will also be at the feast. He proposed a liaison last time he was here. I would love to be his mistress.’
I glance at her, torn between disapproval and jealousy. The Queen insists her ladies keep their virtue, and I have done so. Except Bembo, her kinsman, is possessed of such wit and good looks that Dorotea has sought his attention. I pray she will not be hurt, for his station is higher than hers and this can only be a dalliance on his part, especially as he is a cleric. I sigh to myself; it would be wonderful if he decided to read from his discourse on love. He wrote it on the occasion of Fiammetta’s wedding, and I long to hear it.
I miss my sister. Fiammetta is expecting a child— as she should be after a year of marriage. I pull at a loose strand of hair. What is it like to lie with a man? The thought makes my chest squeeze and the blood pulse between my legs. Yet I know that I would not give myself to any man who flattered me; I’m hoping for marriage.
Stupid Cecilia, your life is here with Queen Caterina. No one will want you as you are poor and, even if the courtiers compliment you on your beauty, and your bloodline is noble, none of them will take you to the altar.
It has been the greatest surprise of my twelve months at court that men should consider me beautiful in spite of my small bosoms.
As if reading my thoughts, Dorotea says, ‘Isn’t it about time you took a lover, Cecilia?’
‘M… m… me?’
‘I have seen the gleam in men’s eyes – even Bembo’s – yet you seem oblivious to their admiration. What are you waiting for?’
‘I’m not waiting.’ I cannot tell Dorotea of my hopes for a good marriage like my sister, and of going to my wedding night pure. Dorotea would think me naive; she would not be wrong, perhaps. ‘The Queen keeps me close to her. There has not been the opportunity.’
LADY of VENICE Page 3
