LADY of VENICE

by Siobhan Daiko

  Luca has fallen for me?

  How had I not seen this coming?

  And how the hell am I going to deal with it?

  My heart skittered in my chest, but I ignored it.

  I was not going to let myself fall for him in return.

  Chapter 14

  I was putting the finishing touches to my painting of the Barco– not a representation of today’s ruined villa, but how it had appeared at the time of Caterina Cornaro. Auntie had given me a strange look when I’d shown her the work but hadn’t said anything. I’d been on the point of making another attempt to share Cecilia’s story with her, but I’d stopped myself. Auntie’s disbelief seemed insurmountable. Weird, really, considering she was a writer and must have considerable powers of imagination.

  I lifted my gaze from my palette, and found my attention distracted by Gucci Cat. His leg in the air, he was cleaning between his toes as he lay on the floor by my easel. With a sigh, I let my thoughts wander. Last night, when I’d got home, I’d been so emotionally drained that I’d gone straight to bed and had slept dreamlessly. Now, however, I couldn’t stop thinking about what Luca had said to his mother.

  After coming out of the bathroom, I’d gone up to him, too flustered to do more than mumble, ‘Buonasera,’ before sipping from my glass of Prosecco. Now my heart skittered. I couldn’t deny it any longer; I liked being with him too much for him to be considered “just a friend”. That kiss, when I’d kidded myself that my response had been Cecilia kissing Zorzo. I’d known damn well what I was doing when I’d opened my mouth under Luca’s.

  I’d sat next to him on the sofa and had looked at his hands, imagining how it would feel to have them explore my body. But it wasn’t right. I had to put a stop to it straight away.

  Before he found out.

  Before he knew.

  Before the truth turned him against me.

  The terrible truth about how I’d caused Harry’s death.

  Luca had asked me if I was all right last night when I’d pleaded a headache and declined his dinner invitation. ‘Just tired,’ I’d said.

  Coward! You should have broken things off with him there and then. Told him you couldn’t help with his sister. Thanked him for everything he’d done for you. Said you’d prefer to spend the rest of your vacation painting and living quietly at Auntie’s as you were still suffering from stress.

  No more Renaissance dancing.

  No more trips to Venice.

  And definitely no more kissing.

  My lower lip trembled, but I stiffened it; I wouldn’t give in to indulgent self-pity. What’s done is done, and can’t be undone, Mum always said. I straightened my shoulders and wiped my paintbrush. Standing back, I scrutinised my work. At least that’s coming along well. I’d need to pay for excess luggage on the plane when I took everything back to London. Hopefully, it’d be worth it. If I could set up an exhibition, I might be able to sell my paintings instead of relying on commissions from greetings card companies. The work I’d accomplished so far in the Veneto was the best I’d ever produced, and I couldn’t help loving it.

  I put my brush back down on the small table Auntie had provided for me.

  My hand touched something rough, and I knew, I just knew without looking, what it was.

  The odour of burnt wood assailed my nostrils and my pulse leapt to my throat.

  I steeled myself as Gucci Cat ran from the room.

  When it came, it seemed to come from nowhere. ‘Lorenza,’ a caress against my cheek, cold and filled with misery.

  ‘Cecilia? What happened? Who is Lorenza?’

  Of course, there was no answer.

  Heart pounding, I pulled out a chair and sat down.

  ‘Dolcezza.’

  I turn and he’s there behind me in the room I share with Dorotea. He holds out a small canvas. ‘I’ve darkened your hair and made your face rounder so no one will recognise you.’

  I feel as if I’ll burst with happiness at the sight of him. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Well,’ he replies softly, his gaze fixed on mine. ‘And you?’

  ‘The same.’

  A sudden shyness has seized me, and I blush as I stare at my portrait. He has painted me showing my naked breast and I have a grave, thoughtful expression on my face. I’m holding open the fur collar of my red robe to expose a pink nipple. What can this mean? Did he draw my bosom while I was resting in his studio? My white skin is delicately shaded, and my breast is like a small hillock. Perhaps he remembered it like that? In the painting, I’m not looking at anything in particular; it’s as if I have a secret that I’m keeping to myself. I stare closely at the canvas and notice a small part of the background is unfinished.

  ‘I’ve brought you a gift.’ Zorzo hands me a cloth-wrapped parcel.

  With trembling hands, I untie it to reveal a set of brushes and glass bottles of pre-mixed paint. It must have cost a fortune. Throwing my arms around him, I lift my face to receive his kiss.

  ‘Time for another lesson,’ he says, after kissing me so thoroughly my knees started to swim away. He picks up a brush and holds it out.

  ‘Are you sure?’ I ask.

  ‘See that space there? I’ve left it for you to complete.’ He places the canvas on the table, reaches into his sack, and takes out a palette. Then he mixes the colours, so dark they’re almost black.

  Excitement and trepidation swirl through me. I take the brush from his hand and can no longer tell if my dizziness is a result of the nearness of the painter or the challenge of the painting. Yet when the lustrous colour slides off the brush onto the canvas my nerves settle, and my wrist flicks backwards and forwards, filling the blank space with iridescence. When I encounter the laurel leaves forming a crown around the woman– me– I’m careful and precise. Exhilaration grips me as the scent of linseed oil fills my nostrils, and I feel as if I could go on forever.

  We work in silence, Zorzo mixing the paint for me. Eventually my fingers grow numb and I stop. ‘There,’ I say. ‘It is done.’ I look at him, my breath catching. ‘Will you stay long?’

  He frowns. ‘I must go away this night. I’ve been working on a commission in my hometown, an altarpiece for Tuzio Costanzo. Just a few finishing touches. I have an urge to bestow your sweet lips on the Madonna’s face. And there’s a fresco in the house next door I have to complete.’

  His arms enfold me, and desire wells up like a hot spring between us as we kiss again.

  Jesu Cristo!

  A sudden sound of female voices interrupts us.

  The door bursts open. Fiammetta and Dorotea erupt into the room, laughing together; they stop in their tracks.

  I jump back from my painter, who grabs the canvas.

  Too late.

  Fiammetta sidles up to him and stares at the painting. ‘Is that you, sister?’ she asks, pointing.

  ‘Of course not. It is not my hair you see, is it?’

  ‘Has a look of you. Only I have not seen your exposed breast, so who am I to judge?’ She turns to Zorzo. ‘What, pray sir, are you doing in our room?’

  ‘He’s brought me some paints and he’s been teaching me,’ I say in a steady voice.

  Fiammetta gives me a quick glance before saying to Zorzo, ‘I think it is time for you to leave us. It is not seemly for you to be here.’

  We make our reverences, and I catch the wink in his eye as he departs.

  Dorotea collapses in a fit of giggles. ‘Oh, Cecilia! You are a one. Hiding your secrets from Fiammetta. She should know what you get up to at night in Venice.’

  I grab Dorotea’s shoulder. ‘You promised not to say anything.’

  ‘That was before. It is better she knows.’

  I cross my arms. ‘There’s nothing for you to know, Fiammetta. Dorotea has been imagining things.’

  ‘Me? Imagining? What about the time you sneaked out to visit him? And the day when you pretended your monthly pains to get out of going to Murano?’

  ‘It was only the once. I haven’t had the cha
nce to be with him since.’

  Fiammetta frowns. ‘So, you admit to being with him? Thank God you’re not with child, Cecilia! Whatever have you been thinking of, my dear? Clearly, you haven’t been thinking at all. Your painter can’t afford marriage or even a mistress. I warrant he can barely afford to keep himself. Artists like him are penniless. You’d be much better off with Lodovico Gaspare.’

  I curl my lips. ‘I will not go with that man. He disgusts me.’

  ‘You’re behaving like a child,’ my sister says.

  I practically growl at her. ‘Enough of this talk. We must go now to help the Queen dress.’

  And that is what we do. Later, after dinner, I have the excuse to miss the revelries when Domina retires early. I’m pleased not to have to dance with Lodovico Gaspare, but I’ve caught him staring at me throughout the meal, licking his thin lips as if he would devour me.

  The night is cold, and at bedtime I snuggle together with my sister and Dorotea in the large bed. Soon Dorotea and Fiammetta are snoring softly. I puff out a breath and it steams the freezing air. Sleep comes slowly for I am worried. What will tomorrow bring?

  Directly after we break our fast the next day, the Queen sends for me. ‘I have some wonderful news for you, sweet girl. Lodovico Gaspare wishes to marry you.’

  My heart sinks. This is what I’ve been dreading and, when the Queen looks at me with her kind eyes and nods encouragement, I haven’t the nerve to say what I really think. I gulp like one of her golden carp and croak, ‘Oh? When?’

  ‘Something for you and him to decide,’ she smiles. ‘Just know that I give my blessing. And, of course, I shall provide you with a bridal chest of linen. I had a villa built for your sister, Rambaldo insisted upon it. Lodovico Gaspare requires nothing, but I will give you a gold necklace anyway.’

  I drop into a deep curtsey, before explaining that Fiammetta is leaving for Treviso at any minute. ‘Might I bid farewell to my sister?’

  The Queen waves me off and I manage to hold back my tears until I arrive at my quarters. Fiammetta is alone, folding away her nightdress. ‘Whatever is the matter?’ she asks when she sees my face. I explain, and she throws her arms around me. ‘I knew it. Didn’t I tell you?’

  ‘But I don’t love him. I love Zorzo.’

  ‘Per l’amor di Dio, Cecilia. And does he love you? Has he made any such declaration?’

  ‘He doesn’t need to,’ my voice catches on a sob. ‘I can tell it from the way he looks at me.’

  ‘That painter looks at you with lust, not love. I wasn’t going to say anything, but you need to know. He has a string of women visiting him in that studio of his. It is a well-known fact. You aren’t the only one.’

  My breath is sucked from me as I collapse onto the bed. Every bone in my body is shaking. ‘Surely not?’

  ‘This marriage is a wonderful opportunity for you, Cecilia. It is highly unlikely that any other man of such repute and wealth will make an offer for you. You need to be more cautious. Your purity mustn’t be questioned.’ She pauses, appearing to consider what to say next. ‘Lodovico Gaspare is an honourable man and he seems to be smitten with you. Once your betrothal is announced, his family and friends will criticise his choice, mark my words, for you have no dowry. The only thing you can offer is your reputation. If that is sullied, then he will throw you away like a dirty rag. Don’t think me cruel, dearest sister. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about. Did the Queen promise you any kind of settlement?’

  I’m still reeling from her revelation about Zorzo, and struggle to understand what she’s asking. Then I remember the Queen’s reference to Lodovico declaring he requires nothing, and I tell Fiammetta about that and about the necklace Domina will give me.

  ‘As our guardian after the death of Mother and Father, she is generous toward us for their loyalty to her,’ Fiammetta smiles.

  I sniff back my tears and get up from the bed. ‘You will have to explain what to do when the doctors examine me and find I’m no longer a maid.’

  Her face is a picture of confusion and I blow out a laugh. ‘Perhaps I should tell the Queen about Signor Zorzo. But first, I’ll confront the artist and find out the truth.’ My voice is firm, yet my insides are quivering. ‘He’s gone to Castelfranco, so it is too late for me to see him now.’

  ‘What about your answer to Lodovico Gaspare?’

  ‘I’ll think of a way to delay things,’ I say with more confidence than I feel. I place my hands on Fiammetta’s shoulders and kiss both her cheeks.

  A strange ringing sound echoes in my ears and I dart my gaze from left to right. The chime jangles relentlessly, louder and louder, until buzzing fills my head and my vision blurs. I rub my temples, then reach for my sister. But all I encounter is thin air, and I crumple to the floor.

  I found myself sprawled on the tiles, the ringing still echoing in my ears. Shakily I got to my feet. The damn telephone. The realisation sent me spiralling through the centuries, and, as ever, I had to choke back the nausea in my throat. Why doesn’t Auntie answer it?

  The ringing continued. Whoever it was had no intention of hanging up. I lurched across the room and picked up the receiver. ‘Pronto. Hello?’

  ‘Is that Fern? It’s Luca. I was wondering if you’d like to go to Castelfranco tomorrow. I’ve a client I need to visit and thought you might like to see the Giorgione Madonna.’

  I caught my lip between my teeth.

  Castelfranco?

  Oh, my God!

  My heart was almost beating out of my chest at the coincidence.

  What about my resolution not to see Luca again? Just hearing his voice made my heart hammer. ‘Th… th… that would be lovely. What time?’

  ‘I’ll call for you at nine. And you can take me to lunch, if you like.’

  With a smirk, I agreed.

  After I’d hung up, a sudden chill prickled my arms.

  The air in the kitchen shifted.

  ‘Lorenza!’ the ghostly voice whispered.

  And I yelped.

  Chapter 15

  ‘I went to the library in Treviso yesterday,’ Luca said, starting the engine of his Alfa as I settled myself into the passenger seat the following morning. ‘I tried to find out more about Giorgione. The art historian, Giorgio Vasari, who wrote in the mid sixteenth century, claimed Zorzo was only thirty-three years old when he died.’

  ‘Yes, I know that from the book I bought at the Accademia. So young.’ I stared down at my hands. ‘It’s really sad. He was the same age as Harry…’

  ‘And me,’ Luca said with a frown. ‘Giorgione died of the plague, apparently. There’s a letter dated October 1510 that’s survived, written by Isabella d’Este, the Marques of Mantova. She asks a Venetian friend to buy a painting by him for her collection. The letter shows her awareness that he was already deceased.’

  ‘Ah, that’s interesting,’ I twisted my fingers together. ‘Did she get the painting?’

  ‘No. There’s a reply saying it wasn’t to be had at any price.’

  I gave Luca a quick glance. ‘Have you found any reference to Cecilia anywhere?’

  ‘None at all. No one wrote letters about her and she clearly wasn’t a letter-writer herself. Most of our knowledge of life in the distant past comes from correspondence, you know.’ He paused. ‘Have you had any more episodes?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, and went on to tell him about Zorzo’s visit to Cecilia’s room, followed by the offer of marriage from Lodovico and all that it entailed. ‘I feel so sorry for her. She’s caught between a rock and a hard place.’

  ‘I expect her sister was right about his women. He would have met several before and after Cecilia appeared on the scene. Not all of the paintings look like her…’

  I wondered again if Lorenza could have been one of those women and I clenched my jaw to stop myself for making a sneering remark about them.

  How ridiculous to feel jealous on Cecilia’s behalf… or my own, to be honest.

  Luca and I lapsed into silence for
a few minutes, and then I said, ‘I’m really grateful to you for being here for me. Don’t know what I’d do otherwise.’

  He took his hand from the wheel and squeezed mine briefly. Heat flushed through me. I was intensely aware of him, his long, lean thighs and his broad shoulders. To distract myself, I stared out of the window at the passing countryside, the villages with their church spires, ice-cream shops and cafés, interspersed with cornfields, fruit orchards and vineyards. There was an assortment of factories, too, in tastefully-built modern buildings, testament to the wealth based on manufacturing of this industrious part of Italy.

  Such an amazing place.

  Luca found a place to park in the main square of Castelfranco, just outside the moated old part of the town, or centro storico. We sat on the terrace of a café opposite a grassy piece of ground, where a statue of Giorgione had been placed. A pigeon fluttered down and perched on the statue’s head.

  I laughed. ‘It’s not much like him. They’ve made him too “pretty”. Zorzo wasn’t a “pretty boy”.’

  Luca’s smile crinkled the corners of his deep blue eyes. ‘I’ve seen a photo of his self-portrait. In my Giorgione book. Yours too, I presume?’

  I glanced away. I wouldn’t mention the effect that photo had on me, how I’d fingered the sensuous mouth and been captivated by Zorzo’s brooding expression. I gave myself a shake. ‘When’s your business meeting, Luca?’

  ‘Just before lunch. Shall we visit the cathedral and take a look at the maestro’s masterpiece?’ he said, putting change on the table to pay for our coffees.

  ‘Lead the way!’

  He took my hand, and I loved how he made me feel; I was a woman enjoying the company of an attractive man.

  A very attractive man.

  I leaned into him as we walked under the archway below the clock tower then followed the cobbled street to the cathedral.

  The altar piece towered over the vaults in the Costanzo chapel, to the right of the nave. A soldier in shining armour graced the left of the canvas, and a monk in Franciscan garb stood on the right. The Virgin sat enthroned on a high pedestal in the centre.