LADY of VENICE

by Siobhan Daiko

She fetched the already open bottle from the counter and poured. I took a sip. That’s better. No need to worry. ‘I think I’ll stay at home tomorrow. And do some painting.’

  ‘Good idea, love. I’ll get on with my writing. Don’t forget that Luca is coming for supper.’

  I glanced at her. ‘Need any help with that?’

  She patted my hand. ‘I’ll cook roast beef and Yorkshire puds to remind him of England. Perhaps you can make a nice English trifle?’

  ‘Of course.’ I turned away from her, pain coursing through me. Trifle had been Harry’s favourite. I swallowed the sudden sorrow in my throat.

  Oh, Harry!

  Chapter 5

  Luca

  I stirred my coffee, replete with the fine food served up by Susan and Fern. The dinner had been a surprise; from my experience, the English tended to overcook their beef. Not that Susan was English; she’d announced proudly that she was Welsh. I’d never been to Wales and had no experience of the food there…

  Even though I had a British passport as well as an Italian one, my preferences were geared toward the local cuisine. But, to give credit where it was due, Susan’s Yorkshire puddings had been as light as air, and Fern’s sherry and raspberry trifle had enticed me into having two servings. I rubbed my stomach. ‘Thank you for a delicious meal.’

  ‘You’re most welcome,’ Susan said. ‘It’s nice for Fern to have someone around who’s closer to her own age than me, although perhaps you’re a little older than she is.’

  A cough came from the other side of the table. ‘I’ll be thirty on my next birthday,’ Fern huffed. ‘Not that much younger than you, Luca, I’d guess.’

  I grinned. ‘Three years. I suppose we’re both part of the baby-boom generation.’

  Susan levered herself out of her chair. ‘Well, I’m feeling a bit tired. I’ll leave you two baby boomers to load up the dishwasher. Just make sure you lock the door and shut the lights before you come up to bed, Fern.’

  I watched Susan shuffle over to the wrought-iron stairs. The proverbial eccentric British woman. I liked her for the fact that she didn’t seem to care what others thought about her. The way she dressed, for instance, and her unkempt hair. Not the sort of person I’d imagined would be a highly successful romance writer. Maybe she lived vicariously through her characters?

  I got to my feet and reached for Fern’s coffee cup. ‘Lead me to the kitchen sink.’ I let out a self-deprecating laugh. ‘But don’t try and give me an apron.’

  It felt companionable, standing next to her as we stacked the dishwasher. Throughout the dinner, I’d tried to draw her out. She’d listened to me talk about my work yet hadn’t said much about herself. How to find out if she had a boyfriend? Could I come right out and ask? Don’t be a fool, Luca! She’s only here for a few weeks. Fern didn’t strike me as being the sort of girl who’d be up for a vacation fling, or any sort of fling for that matter. Best to keep it casual. ‘My mother asked me to remember her to you,’ I said.

  ‘She was lovely to me in Asolo when I had another of my “funny turns”.’ Fern paused. ‘I think it was more than that, actually.’

  ‘Oh?’

  She wrinkled her nose. ‘Can you smell anything unusual?’

  I sniffed. ‘No.’

  ‘Well, I can. Not all the time.’ She picked up a cup from the sink and twisted it in her hands. ‘Occasionally, the odour of burnt wood in this house is really strong.’

  I thought for a moment. ‘I’ve heard that sometimes people smell things which remind them of a particular experience.’

  ‘That could be it.’ She frowned down into the cup. ‘I was at Kings Cross Station when they had that tragic fire.’

  ‘God! How awful! Were you hurt?’ I asked, shocked.

  ‘No, I was on the escalator, saw the fire, and ran back down again.’ She twisted the cup, staring at her hands. ‘I suffered a little physically from smoke inhalation. And a whole lot more mentally from the trauma.’

  Her fingers were shaking, and I took the cup from her. ‘I’m so sorry. What a horrible experience.’

  ‘And now I think I’m going crazy,’ she said, her voice rasping. ‘I’ve been having the weirdest visions since coming to Italy. It’s like I’m being possessed by some sort of restless spirit.’

  I fought to stop myself from staring open-mouthed. ‘What do you mean?’

  She shook her head. ‘You’ll think I’ve lost it.’

  ‘I won’t think anything of the kind,’ I half-lied.

  ‘Remember when you told me about Caterina Cornaro?’ Fern met my gaze.

  I nodded. Where’s this going?

  ‘I think I’m reliving a life as one of her ladies.’ Her breath caught, and she looked away from me. ‘I’m scared I’m having some sort of breakdown,’ she added quietly.

  Holy hell! I was an architect; I believed in hard evidence not fantasy. For the second time in a few minutes, I was lost for words. I chewed on my lip. ‘Would you like to come for dinner tomorrow night and talk about this with my mother. She’s a tad otherworldly, for want of a better word, and won’t be at all shocked by what you’ve told me.’

  ‘Whereas you are?’ Fern asked quietly.

  ‘I’m surprised, more like. It’s not the sort of thing I’ve come across much. Indeed ever, to be honest.’ I gave her what I hoped was a reassuring smile. Her eyes had taken on a “rabbit caught in the headlights” expression. I touched her hand. She jumped back as if she’d been stung.

  ‘I shouldn’t have said anything.’ She folded her arms. ‘You must think I’m more than a little insane.’

  ‘Of course, I don’t.’ I adopted a reassuring tone. ‘Trauma does strange things to people. For example, someone who survived a fire may smell smoke when they feel anxious.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ she said with a sigh. ‘But it’s more the visions than the odour of burnt wood that I find disturbing. They seem so real.’

  ‘Please tell me about them.’

  Maybe by talking, she’d lose that “scared rabbit” look.

  We returned to the kitchen table and I listened while she told me about what she’d experienced in Asolo and at the Barco. It didn’t sound like anything she could have read about or seen in a film. There hadn’t been any movies made about Caterina Cornaro, as far as I was aware, and the books wouldn’t have described such detail. I needed to go to the library and find out more about this kind of psychosis. If that’s what it was. Had to be. The alternative was unthinkable.

  ‘So, you see,’ she said. ‘I’m a bit fragile at the moment. But I’d love to come to dinner. I’m sure Auntie will be happy for me to take the car, and she’ll be glad of an evening on her own to devote to her reading or writing.’

  ‘I’ll pick you up.’ Couldn’t risk her having one of those visions while driving. ‘Would seven o’clock be a good time?’

  ‘Thanks, and apologies again for laying all this on you.’ A smile curled her beautiful bow-shaped lips. ‘Talking about it has helped, actually. And it will be good to get away from here tomorrow. Your mother might be able to offer some suggestions about how to block Cecilia from my mind.’

  ‘I’ll prep her beforehand.’ I rose from the chair and held out my hand. ‘Good night, Fern, and thank you for an interesting evening.’

  She saw me to the door and closed it behind me. I sat behind the wheel of my Alfa and shook my head. Fern was damned attractive, beautiful even, but she was clearly suffering from post-traumatic stress. I was playing with fire even considering helping her, except there was no question of my stepping back. She had drawn me into her orbit like a moth to a flame and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.

  Chapter 6

  The villa stood in solitary grandeur in a sea of green fields. Auntie had mentioned it had been designed by the sixteenth century architect, Andrea Palladio. I did a double take at the sight of such beauty. And wealth. Remembering Vanessa Goredan’s understated elegance, I’d put on something smart: one of my work outf
its, a pair of white linen trousers and a navy-blue cotton blouse. I’d struggled with my hair after washing it and had tamed it by getting Auntie to help me with a loose braid. Hopefully, I wouldn’t look too out of place.

  All the way to the villa, I’d argued with myself about whether to tell Luca not to say anything to his mother. Then I’d remembered he was going to prep her beforehand. How embarrassing to have blurted everything out to him last night. I barely knew him, yet I’d shared something that would categorise me as crazy by anyone’s standards.

  Gravel crunched under the tyres of Luca’s red Alfa Romeo convertible as he parked up. Two chocolate brown Labradors bounded toward him, wagging their tails. He introduced them as Jason and Sam. After stroking their silky ears, I walked with him up a wide ramp with a gentle slope. A flight of steps led up to the loggia at the centre of the villa, which took the form of a portico crowned by a gable that made me think of a Greek temple front. It was awe-inspiring. No other word could describe it.

  ‘See those,’ Luca said, pointing out the two colonnaded wings at each side of the main building. ‘They originally housed the grain stores, which needed to be under cover.’

  ‘What sort of grain?’ I asked, staring at the most beautiful so-called storage areas I’d ever seen.

  ‘My family introduced the cultivation of corn here’ He pulled in a deep breath. ‘Now it’s grown all over the Veneto and has become a staple in the form of polenta.’

  ‘Polenta? That’s what the Americans call grits, isn’t it?’

  His smile was easy. ‘Similar, but polenta is made from ground yellow corn and is much coarser.’

  I tilted my head toward him. ‘Do you still grow it?’

  ‘Yes. And we also have vineyards and our own wine label. My brother, Antonio, has taken over running the estate since our father died. We no longer store the corn here, by the way, but have built barns over there.’ He pointed to the left. ‘The offices and family accommodation are now in the wings. The original living area is open to the public three days a week, and far too swanky for us. I’ll give you a quick tour of the piano nobile then we’ll go out to the garden.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan,’ I smiled.

  He led me into a large, square room, richly decorated with frescos. ‘You can see why we don’t live here. It would be like living in a museum.’

  ‘So beautiful,’ I said, my feet sliding on the smooth marble floor. The walls were decked with paintings of gods and goddesses indulging in rural pursuits. It was unlike any house I’d ever been in, and unease spread through me.

  I’m way out of my comfort zone here.

  Outside the window, I could see a private garden with manicured lawns and flower-beds. An umbrella shaded a table on the patio in the corner. Trailing geraniums tumbled from urns, and red roses crowded a bed hugging the honeysuckle-smothered wall. About ten times bigger than Auntie’s patch, and Mum and Dad’s country garden near Chepstow in the UK. It was more the sort of place Cecilia was used to, living a life of luxury in Caterina Cornaro’s Barco, than what I’d experienced up to now. The lump of unease had lodged in my throat and I swallowed hard.

  ‘My mother’s waiting for us.’ Luca took my hand. At his touch, the tension within me evaporated. A friendly gesture, not a come-on, and reassuring for its naturalness.

  ‘How lovely to see you again,’ Vanessa Goredan said, glancing up from her seat as we entered the garden. The Labradors had flopped down at her feet, and both rolled over for me to tickle their bellies. ‘Please take a seat,” her face broke into a smile. ‘Luca will fetch us a bottle of Prosecco and we can toast your first visit to the villa.’

  I pulled out a chair and sat on the soft cushion. The air was filled with the jasmine scent of honeysuckle. No odour of burnt wood here. ‘Thank you for inviting me, Contessa Goredan.’

  ‘Please, call me Vanessa,’ her voice purred. ‘Now, tell me. Luca mentioned that you’ve been having strange visions. I thought something was going on when I saw you swaying in the church the other day.’

  ‘Didn’t want you to think I’d gone crazy. If someone had told me a couple of days ago that they’d experienced what I’ve been experiencing, I would have thought they’d totally lost it.’

  ‘I can assure you I won’t think anything like that.’ Vanessa’s eyes met mine. ‘Remember the lute-player I told you about?’

  ‘Yes…. Okay…’ I released my pent-up breath and told her everything – from the ghostly whispers in Auntie’s kitchen to my strange experiences in Asolo and at the Barco; they didn’t sound as weird as they had done when I’d blurted out my concerns to Luca last night. ‘What do you think?’ I asked Vanessa when I’d finished recounting the whole sorry saga.

  She eyed me with a thoughtful expression. ‘Well, in my opinion you’re lucky.’

  ‘Lucky?’

  ‘I mean to have been given the chance to re-experience the past so vividly.’

  ‘I don’t feel lucky. I feel… I feel as if I’ve become some sort of conduit.’

  ‘Possibly,’ she said. ‘Cecilia seems to be using you to tell her story.’

  ‘But why? And why me?’

  ‘Is there something you might have in common with the girl?’

  I creased my brow, trying to come up with an explanation. ‘The only thing I can think of is that Cecilia has ambitions to be an artist. She likes to draw.’

  ‘That could well be why she’s selected you.’ Vanessa tapped her chin. ‘What about this odour of burnt wood? Luca said you were at King’s Cross when they had that awful fire. Perhaps fire is another thing you share?’

  I clasped my hands to hide their trembling and my heart gave a stutter. ‘Cecilia might have been in a fire?’

  ‘She could well have been. Most of the Barco was destroyed by fire in 1509. Perhaps she was caught up in it?’

  Fear pierced me. ‘I don’t want to relive a fire.’ I suddenly felt sick. ‘There must be some way I can block Cecilia from my mind...’

  ‘If she’s a restless spirit, it might be a good idea to call on the local priest and ask him to bless your aunt’s house,’ Vanessa said calmly. ‘If you wear a cross around your neck, it might afford you some protection.’

  I let out a gasp. ‘Do you think Cecilia wants to harm me?’

  Vanessa shook her head. ‘Quite honestly, I don’t know what to think, my dear.’ Her eyes followed a bumblebee dipping and darting over the flower bed. ‘Have you talked to your aunt about what’s been happening to you?’

  ‘Not yet. I’m planning to tell her. Just haven’t got ‘round to it...’ No point in explaining my reluctance. Auntie couldn’t hear or smell what I’d heard and smelt in the house; she probably wouldn’t believe me. ‘How’s your family tree research coming along?’ I asked Vanessa to change the subject. I didn’t want to talk about Cecilia anymore; things were moving too quickly for me to process.

  ‘Oh, it’s terribly complicated.’ Vanessa said brightly. ‘I’ve managed to go back to the start of the nineteenth century, which is as far as the records here at the villa go. I’ll need to visit Venice and search there next.’

  ‘A little like looking for a needle in a haystack,’ I laughed.

  ‘Very much so,’ Vanessa said, standing. ‘Luca must have gone to the stables to see his sister. She’s always messing about down there. I’ll be back in a minute with the Prosecco.’

  A horse whinnied in the distance and I closed my eyes. The sun had moved ‘round so that I was no longer shaded by the umbrella. I rubbed my arms. Why were they suddenly cold? The crow in the tree to my left gave a mournful caw. Then the chair beneath me started moving, my legs astride in voluminous skirts instead of stretched out in front of me. Holy shit, I was riding a horse; I’d ridden a lot when I was a teenager, but this was incredible. The world around me took on an iridescent brightness and my head swam away from my body.

  Pegaso is fighting the bit; he wants to gallop, except we’re at the back of the hunt. Queen Caterina and her knights are giving
chase to a deer and we’ve left the confines of the Barco. Turf flies up around us. The hounds are baying and the horns sound as we cross a wide field; we’ve come far. Pegaso prances from side to side and I give up trying to hold him back.

  He gives a surge and we’re going like the wind. Patatatum, patatatum, patatatum. Soon we are neck and neck with Lodovico Gaspare. I’ve heard he’s a cavalryman for the Duke of Ferrara; he certainly rides like one. He glances at me and beams, revealing his uneven white teeth. Something in me recoils and longs for another man’s smile, the turning up of a mouth at the corners, but I have not seen the artist for months.

  The chase is long, yet I do not tire. Finally, up ahead, the deer doubles back on its own tracks and runs through a stream as it tries to hide its scent. We come upon it and the dogs surround it. I stare at the magnificent hart with beautiful antlers; the animal heaves in exhaustion. I wish that it could be saved, yet I know it would be impossible.

  Lodovico Gaspare dismounts and approaches the beast, raising his sword. I can’t look. The horns blow the morte in celebration. Domina directs one of the huntsmen to cut the deer apart and divide the meat. The crows in the trees by the stream start cawing for the carrion.

  I’m surprised to find that I am crying. Why is this? I’ve never cried before at the death of a hart. Hunting is a part of my life at the court. I love galloping across a field, Pegaso and I together.

  The scene around me takes on a strange aspect. It’s as if I’m gazing at a painting and not part of reality anymore. I have felt this before and don’t like it. I blink as if it might dispel my unease, except it makes things worse and now my vision is blurred as sorrow for the deer fills my eyes.

  I jolted back into the twentieth century with a lurch. I wiped my tears and gazed at the field beyond the garden. There was a stream shaded by willows. Could it be the same stream where that magnificent animal had been hacked apart? I could still smell the blood and nausea swelled my gut.