LADY of VENICE

by Siobhan Daiko

  She stood back and raked her eyes over me. ‘He’s not my lover. He’s Cecilia’s.’

  ‘Of course. How stupid of me. Please take that back,’ I said through gritted teeth.

  ‘Please, Luca.’ She took a step toward me. ‘Don’t take it the wrong way. I care about you. But I can’t handle getting serious right now.’

  I kissed her on the forehead. ‘I’d better get to work,’ I said, neither accepting nor rejecting her apology. ‘Remember there’s a rehearsal for the re-enactment this evening.’ I paused for a beat. ‘Oh, and I’m off to a conference in Vienna for five days from tomorrow. A last-minute arrangement. Someone in the office was supposed to go but has come down with ‘flu. Before I set off, though, would you show me your latest painting?’

  She led me to the corner of the kitchen, and I stood in front of her watercolour of the Barco. My skin prickled at how realistic it was. Realistic and incredibly good. ‘It’s brilliant,’ I said, and I meant it.

  ‘Thanks, Luca,’ she smiled.

  She saw me to my car, and I watched her go back into the house.

  I sat for a moment, yearning for her so much it was if I was being wrenched in two.

  With a groan, I banged my head three times on the steering wheel.

  I was well and truly screwed.

  Chapter 18

  I kept myself focused by painting and by doing some local sightseeing. Cecilia stayed away from me. The house blessing must have worked. I visited the city of Treviso, where I strolled under the porticoes of streets echoing to the sound of exuberant university graduates, celebrating their laureate with crowns of laurels and singing raunchy songs in the wine bars.

  Giving them a wide berth, I headed for one of the many canals, to take photos and do some sketching. Treviso wasn’t known as “little Venice” for nothing, and I found it charming. I was behaving like an everyday tourist, interested in the past, but not reliving it. Yet my heart ached for Cecilia and I was regretting banishing her from my life.

  The next morning, I went to Marostica, in the nearby province of Vicenza. There, I gazed up at the ancient walls encircling the fortress at the top of the hill; it seemed as if the fort was reaching its arms down and hugging the town below.

  I strolled to the main square, dominated by the lower castle, where every other year, in September, they played a “live” game of chess with human chess pieces. In a café facing the distant mountains, I sat and thought about Luca. At the rehearsal the other night he’d been distant toward me. I knew I’d upset him. When he’d made love to me, I’d wanted him so damn badly. Sighing, I thought about the strength of his body, the way his hands had touched me, the feel of his lips. I remembered the sensation of flesh on flesh, skin on skin and felt a warm tingle between my thighs.

  Luca wasn’t a typical, debonair, suave Italian, one of those Mills & Boons stereotypes that didn’t exist in Italy from what I’d seen. (Federico’s leering sprung to mind.) Luca was good-looking, granted, but he wasn’t big-headed with it. There was a sensitivity to him and a kindness that touched me deeply. Chiara had said he’d been a playboy, and Luca had admitted to his mother that he’d played around in the past. But I couldn’t imagine him being like Zorzo. Cecilia’s artist was using her as his muse and for sex; that much was obvious.

  Why couldn’t I open my heart to Luca? It was as if there was a lump of stone in my chest. And now he’d gone to Vienna, I was missing him.

  I scrubbed a hand over my face then reached for my handbag. Feet dragging, I went to pay for my drink and then made my way home.

  After lunch, I went riding with Chiara. We rode as far as Asolo, on the unpaved tracks winding between the farms and vineyards. Back at the villa, I stopped for a cup of tea with Vanessa. We talked about her genealogical research. The Goredan family was descended from the Doge of Venice at the time of Caterina Cornaro, she told me, elected as usual by the aristocracy of the city.

  Chiara had made herself scarce, but Vanessa was true to her word and didn’t ask me to tell her about what we’d discussed during our ride. There wouldn’t have been anything to divulge in any case; there hadn’t been the opportunity for a chat as Chiara had taken the lead and galloped ahead of me when dark clouds started gathering above the mountains.

  In the evening, I ate supper back at my aunt’s house. While we were clearing away the dishes, a crack of thunder made my ears ring. ‘Grab the candles,’ Auntie called out. ‘The lights will go out at any minute.’

  Lightning zigzagged through the open windows. I helped her close all the shutters, clear the dishes and then wash up.

  I took a candle and wished her goodnight. I was tired and there wasn’t enough light to read. My period had arrived and with it unusually fierce dragging pain. I stretched out on my bed and closed my eyes. One crack of thunder followed another. Fireworks, launched to break up the hailstones, competed with the cacophony. Would I ever get to sleep? But I did. Soon I’d fallen into a dream so real I was crying out in agony.

  ‘Make it stop,’ I scream. Another wave of pain hits me and I twist my body. I’m sitting on a birthing chair, the wood hard against my buttocks, with a hole in the middle to allow the midwife’s fingers to poke about inside me. My labour has been going on since dawn and it is now evening. I can’t take any more. Between each bolt of torture, I’ve sunk into near oblivion as exhaustion has claimed me, but then the torment has built again and again, each time closer to the last, wrenching me back into screaming wakefulness. To make it even worse, there’s a thunderstorm going on outside, a veritable tempest.

  I arch my body as the next spasm hits me, and blood squirts onto the straw below the stool. I’m going to die. I’m sure of it. Gripping my robe, I let out a yell then breathe in the sickly-sweet smell of the almond oil the midwife has rubbed on my nether parts. ‘To reduce the tearing,’ she says.

  Fiammetta and Dorotea are both here to help. They don’t know I’ve been carrying the painter’s child and believe I’ve just started my labouring early. Thankfully, my belly has been small, and no one suspects. Another bolt of pain rips through me as lightning streaks the sky outside. I scream, ‘Help me!’

  Fiammetta wipes my brow, ‘Sweet sister, you must be brave and tolerate the discomfort. Baby will come soon enough, and you’ll hold him in your arms, and all will be well.’

  ‘This is not discomfort. This is what Hell must feel like,’ I mutter staring at Dorotea; she’s wringing her hands and bleating helplessly... about as much help as a wet rag in this thunderstorm.

  My sister wipes my brow again while agony knifes through me. I feel as if I’m passing a boulder, a boulder that stretches and tears me apart. Then an irresistible urge to push grabs hold of me and I push, and push and push until the “boulder” slithers out of me, letting out a thin wail.

  There’s bustling and the movement of skirts. The glint of a knife as the midwife cuts the cord. ‘A girl,’ Dorotea says. ‘Very small.’

  ‘Please, can I see her?’

  They place her on my stomach, and she’s sticky with blood and wax, her face red and angry-looking at being expelled from the warmth of my womb. In an instant I forget the pain, as love for my daughter my daughter! rushes through me with such force that I’m left breathless. ‘She’s beautiful,’ I say. And so, she is. Her eyes are blue-black and fringed with dark lashes; her nose is tiny and her mouth like a rosebud.

  Fiammetta asks, ‘What will you call her?’

  I haven’t thought of a girl’s name. Lodovico had been adamant the child would be a boy. He wanted to name him Federico after his father. For some unfathomable reason, the name was abhorrent to me, and I’m relieved to have a daughter instead. The months of waiting are finally over. My fear at losing the baby on my wedding night was short-lived, thank the Holy Virgin, for my bleeding was but momentary. I endured my husband’s rough love-making for the first weeks, until I could use the excuse of my pregnancy for him to stop sticking his “thing” into me. He’s away in Ferrara this night, praise the saint
s; I won’t have to face his disappointment yet. Instead, I can revel in my new motherhood without his disfavour.

  I look down at the child’s wrinkled face and screw up my own as I try to bring forth a name. A name for someone who’ll be wise and practical and with an appreciation of beauty. A name for a girl who’ll grow up strong and independent. A name for a woman who’ll find the fulfilment in life I have yet to attain. The name hovers at the edge of my consciousness like the puff of a breeze and there, I have it. ‘Lorenza.’ I kiss her downy head. ‘Her name is Lorenza.’ A crash of thunder rents the air and my vision blurs.

  Damn storm still going full-tilt. It might upset the babe. I bent to kiss Lorenza’s head again, but my arms were empty. Panic flooded through me. Who had taken my baby?

  A scream rose in my throat. Then the stench of burning filled my nostrils, making me retch.

  I struggled to bring myself under control, taking deep breaths until my pounding heartbeats stilled.

  A flash of lightning, and I saw the piece of burnt wood on my bedside table.

  Heart thudding, I fumbled for the box of matches and lit the candle.

  I wasn’t Cecilia; I was Fern.

  With a groan, I lay back on my bed, my arms aching to hold the baby, my body battered and bruised.

  Tears trickled down my cheeks and I cried out for the child; a part of me had gone.

  My breasts were hurting, and I crossed my arms. Oh my God! There was a cold wetness on the front of my cami.

  I ran to the bathroom, where I pulled off my top and let it fall to the floor. My breasts had grown huge and laced with blue veins. A drop of watery-white liquid seeped from my left nipple, and I gasped.

  I stumbled back to bed, grief overwhelming me. I coiled in on myself, and wept for Cecilia, for Lorenza, and for my own lost baby. Then I rubbed at my tears; I hated the loss of self-control. Even when Harry had died, I’d bottled up my emotions.

  Restless, I drifted in and out of sleep. Morning came and the storm abated. After showering, I dressed and stuffed Kleenex into my bra. I caught sight of my print of The Tempest on the wall and my legs turned to jelly.

  The child in the painting was Lorenza.

  No doubt about it.

  I toppled onto my bedcovers, shock wheeling through me.

  ‘Lorenza!’

  How I longed to hold her in my arms. I closed my eyes and waited…

  I’m made to rest in my bed. Fiammetta is back in Treviso and Lodovico has returned from Ferrara with his brother, Giovanni. My husband isn’t pleased that I’ve produced a girl-child. I smile sweetly. ‘We can have more.’ It pains me to say this, but I need to keep my baby safe and the only way to do so is within the confines of this marriage.

  Lodovico grunts and his thin lips curve in such a way that my skin tightens. He’ll have to wait until I’m churched before he can have knowledge of me like I know that he wants. His rough treatment will resume. If only I could be with Zorzo. I haven’t seen him since we conceived our baby, and my entire being longs for him.

  I hold Lorenza. She sucks greedily at my breast, my milk coming in so quickly it dribbles down her chin. Standing next to me, Lodovico gives a shudder. ‘We should get a wet nurse. It is unseemly that you should suckle the babe yourself.’

  ‘I’ve asked around, but there’s no one available,’ I lie. I’ll not have anyone else feed Lorenza. She’s mine. The only person who is mine to love, and, Maria Santissima, I’ll keep her with me.

  The following day, the Queen visits with Dorotea. She picks Lorenza up. ‘She’s like you. A real beauty.’ She kisses my baby on the forehead and hands her back to me. ‘I shall be her godmother.’

  ‘I’m honoured, Domina,’ I say. My sister will be Lorenza’s other godmother, and Lodovico’s brother has agreed to be her godfather. The baptism will take place in Asolo’s main church tomorrow.

  My maid brings refreshments – sweet wine and cakes. As ever, the Queen nibbles daintily, but I’m hungry and so is Dorotea. Soon the carafe is empty and there are only crumbs on the plate. Domina kisses me on both cheeks and chucks Lorenza under the chin. My daughter seems to know that she should not cry and regards her Queen with a solemn expression.

  Alone, at last, I revel in my baby. I stroke her soft cheek and she looks into my eyes and I feel as if my heart will swell out of my chest, I love her so much. Her little hand clasps my finger.

  I would do anything for her.

  Anything.

  I’m tired, but dare not fall asleep, for if I sleep who will check that Lorenza is breathing? I lay her in the cradle beside my bed and watch her small chest rise and fall, rise and fall.

  The next day we set off at midday, and I enjoy leaving the house and getting some fresh air. I inhale the scents of Asolo as we walk up the hill. Roses grow on the wall of the baker’s, their heady fragrance mixing with the aroma of newly baked bread. We pass the blacksmith’s and the sour stench of molten iron tickles my nostrils. Then, there’s the pong of horse manure and I need to move to one side to avoid stepping in dung. I think of Pegaso. He’s remained at the Queen’s stables the past eight months since I was wed. How I long to ride him again…

  I steal a glance at Lodovico, who’s carrying Lorenza. He walks stiffly, unaccustomed to holding such a precious burden. His brother strides on the other side of him; they’re so alike they could be twins: short, thin, with almost-black hair. The only thing different about Giovanni is that his face doesn’t have a scar on the cheek like Lodovico’s. My husband told me he received it in a sword-fight while he was training for the Duke’s cavalry. I wish he would go back there and leave me in peace. We walk quickly, for there’s a chill in the air. My babe is warmly wrapped in woollen blankets and is fast asleep.

  Inside the church, the atmosphere is bright with candlelight. Sunlight filters through the windows and I catch the fragrance of incense. The Queen is here, and Dorotea and Fiammetta. After Mass is said, we gather at the font, a gift from Queen Caterina to the people of Asolo, and the priest, a stout man clearly fond of pasta, intones as he pours the Holy water on Lorenza’s forehead, and signs the cross, ‘Lorenza, ego te baptizo in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.’

  The words echo in my head as if I’m hearing them for the first time and my baby, in Fiammetta’s arms, lets out a hearty cry. ‘It is the Devil leaving her,’ the Queen pronounces, and I laugh before saying, ‘Amen.’

  We progress to the castle, where Domina has ordered a meal to be prepared for us. I feel blessed as we make our way up the steps from the church to the square. No one suspects that Lorenza is not Lodovico’s, much less my husband himself. If only her real father could know her; yet that knowledge might risk her safety, for how could he fail to love her and want to be with her?

  My breasts engorge with milk and wetness trickles down my chemise. Lorenza will be hungry and I’m eager to feed her, to rock her gently as she suckles, and to kiss her sweet head. My fingers itch to take her from Lodovico and hold her in my arms. We pass the blacksmith’s again and my stride falters as a feeling of dread overcomes me. The heat from the forge wafts toward me and the hairs on my arms stand up on end. Horror engulfs me, and I lose my footing, stumbling on the cobbles. Bitter fumes make my eyes water and the breath is sucked from my lungs. I gasp and retch and start to sway.

  ‘Cecilia!’ My sister’s face is pinched with worry. ‘Whatever ails you? Are you ill?’ She links arms and the affection she has for me banishes the demon, for that’s what was plaguing me I’m sure. I shouldn’t have laughed at the Devil back there in the church.

  ‘I’m recovered,’ I say. ‘It was only the heat from the forge.’

  I fall into step beside my husband, and my breath falters. He’s looking at me, his eyes appraising me. The feeling of dread returns and the world around me shimmers.

  I gave a start. Sunlight came through the window; it was still morning. I’m Fern again, of course. So much happened when I was in the past, days would go by, that when I came back to the t
wentieth century it was as if I’d been jarred, the sense of displacement was so great. It reminded me of my one and only ride on a roller-coaster. The mad race along the tracks, the plummeting down the loops and the final grinding halt, jolting me backward and leaving me feeling disorientated and nauseous. I’d not ridden one since, nor did I want to.

  A burning in my breasts alerted me to the fact that I was leaking again, and the ache to hold Lorenza felt unbearable. I prodded the piece of burnt wood on the bedside table. No point in throwing it away; it would vanish of its own ghostly accord.

  I shuddered, then stuffed my bra with more Kleenex. After putting on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, I went downstairs to the phone. I picked up the receiver and dialled Vanessa’s number. ‘Is it all right if I come and see you?’ I asked.

  Chapter 19

  ‘Spontaneous lactation is unusual,’ Vanessa said, pouring a glass of Prosecco and handing it to me. ‘But not unheard of. I read an article about a mother who’d adopted a baby and then started producing milk. Only what you’re suffering from is extremely rare, I think.’

  ‘My breasts are really sore. Isn’t there some kind of medication I can take?’ I asked before taking a sip of my drink.

  ‘Only Paracetamol. You’ll stop lactating in a day or two, as you’re clearly not breastfeeding. I’m so sorry for you, my dear.’ Vanessa leaned across the table and patted my hand. ‘What a disturbing thing to happen!’

  An urge to unburden myself took hold of me. Slowly, haltingly, and then more firmly, I told Vanessa about my pregnancy nearly three years ago. How I’d tried to ignore it, and how I’d lost my baby. ‘And now I feel as if I’ve lost her again,’ I said, unable to stop the hot tears trickling down my cheeks.

  Vanessa got up from her chair and held me. ‘I’m so sorry, Fern.’

  ‘When I thought Cecilia had miscarried,’ I said, wiping snot from my nose, ‘I didn’t want to go back into the past anymore.’