Chiara gave us her blessing, even though she went through the trauma of Federico’s betrayal here. He was sentenced to three years for attempted rape, and I doubt we’ll see his face again. This house is a happy place, filled with good memories of childhood picnics that far outweigh the misery she suffered for a few days. She’s back at the university and has changed her course to political science. She’ll fight for Veneto independence one day, she says. As an elected politician.
Luca calls out, ‘I’m home,’ and comes through the door, into the warmth of the kitchen, where I’m stirring a pot of soup, our six-month old black Labrador puppy Zorzo at my feet.
‘You’ll never believe what Mother has discovered,’ he says, kissing me on the lips. ‘You know that portrait painted by Lorenza of my ancestor? Well, apparently, she married him.’
My jaw drops. ‘What! Married him? How do you know?’
‘Mother’s genealogical research. I had lunch with her at the villa and she told me she’d finally filled in the sixteenth century branch of the family from which we’re descended. There’s a record of the marriage in the library of San Marco in Venice.’
‘Wow,’ I gasp.
He bends and tickles our puppy under the chin, then straightens himself and says, ‘Remember that Mother was going to go there before Chiara took that fall off the horse? Well, she’s been so busy, she only got ‘round to it the day before yesterday. She didn’t want to tell me anything over the phone, insisting I had lunch with her, and she showed me the notes she took. Our ancestor was a nephew of the Doge. We always thought we were descended from Doge Goredan, but Mother discovered his son died in the same plague that put an end to Giorgione’s life, so the line passed through the nephew instead.’
‘How amazing! To think our baby will be descended from the great artist himself.’ I place my hand on the swell in my belly; there’s a bubble of movement under my fingers. ‘Feel this.’ I move Luca’s hand to the small bump. ‘Our daughter is pleased.’
The next morning, I take the pup for a walk down to the old chapel. June this year has been wet and chilly, and last night there was a thunderstorm, the sky like the one in The Tempest. Our house has a lightning conductor, smoke alarms and flashlights in every room, just in case, but my fear of fire still makes my heart quake, albeit much less than before. At least that piece of burnt wood hasn’t made a reappearance in my life, not that I’ve been anywhere near places associated with Cecilia recently.
At the same time as supervising the restoration of the farmhouse, Luca has overseen the rebuilding of Auntie’s place, a bungalow this time. ‘I won’t be able to manage the stairs for much longer,’ she said. ‘And neither will Gucci. He’s getting on in years like me.’ Thankfully, Auntie was fully insured and is delighted to be moving into her new home the day after tomorrow. Also delighted at the prospect of becoming a great aunt in four months’ time. My only regret is my parents live so far away, but flights between the UK and Italy are becoming cheaper; they’ve already visited twice since I left London. They came for the wedding, of course, which took place in Asolo with the reception at the Cipriani, and the second time only last week, to see the house.
My feet crunch on the stony path. The churchyard is up ahead, and I let the pup off his leash. There’s a smell of damp vegetation as I reach for my pad. I haven’t been down here since we moved into Casa Cecilia; I sit on the low wall in front of the church and make a start on my sketch. At Easter, I had an exhibition of my paintings in Castelfranco. They sold well; now I’m hard at work preparing for the next one.
‘Lorenza!’’
Even though I’ve been almost expecting the ghostly whisper, my heart jumps.
‘Cecilia, thank you for helping me reach out to Luca,’ I whisper in the Venetian dialect Luca has taught me to speak. ‘I want you to know that your daughter became everything you wanted her to be. I’m certain, for I’ve seen her work. And I’m carrying her descendent. I had a premonition the baby is a girl. We’ve decided to call her Lorenza.’
A sigh ripples in the cypress trees behind the church. I lift a hand to my eyes.
Two figures, their arms linked, stand in the portal.
A man, dressed in a short doublet, his dark brown hair reaching to his shoulders, and a woman.
Cecilia.
The man, Giorgione, bows and the woman curtseys.
I blink, and when I look again, the figures are gone.
A crow caws in the chestnut tree on the hill behind. I put my sketchpad away, hitch my rucksack over my shoulder, whistle for the pup, and walk back up the road.
Author’s Note
Giorgione, Zorzo or Zorzone, was one of the most enigmatic painters in the history of Italian art. Little is known of his life, which has been romanticised by writers over the centuries.
One of the legends about Giorgione is that his true love was a young woman known as Cecilia. There is some doubt about who she was and if she actually existed. For me, she did exist and was a lady-in-waiting at the Court of Queen Caterina Cornaro. However that is only my interpretation of the myth.
The Tempest has been called the first landscape in the history of Western painting. I love this work and have enjoyed weaving its creation into my romance. Lady of Venice is a work of fiction, however, and just my view of how things could have been.
The creation of Giorgione’s Sleeping Venus has also been romanticised in my novel. Although it’s not obvious from an inspection of both this and The Tempest that they depict the same woman, I have used artistic license and imagined that they did so, and that the woman is Zorzo’s true love, Cecilia.
There was a Venetian noble woman, Caterina Cornaro, who was married to the King of Cyprus and became the Sovereign of Asolo. She died in Venice on 10 July 1510, a year after the Barco, her villa of delights, was damaged by a fire set by the League of Cambrai troops. It was there that she had established a court of literary and artistic distinction and where Pietro Bembo set his platonic dialogues on love, Gli Asolani.
I have read the following books for inspiration and information:
Baldassare Castiglione, The Book of the Courtier
Herbert Cook, Giorgione
Peter W. Edbury, Joachim G. Joachi,. Terence Mullaly, Caterina Cornaro Queen of Cyprus
Antonella Gotti, Caterina Cornaro, Regina di Cipro e Signora di Asolo
Thomas Kabdebo, Tracking Giorgione
Alberto Ongarato, Giorgione da Castelfranco, L’uomo, l’artista, il mito
I hope you have enjoyed reading Lady of Venice as much as I loved writing it. Your feedback is important to me and I would love to know what you thought of Fern, Luca, Cecilia and Zorzo. I’ll keep an eye out for reviews on Amazon and Goodreads, or you can drop me a line by email.
About the Author
A lover of all things Italian, Siobhan Daiko lives in the Veneto region of northern Italy with her husband and two cats. After a life of romance and adventure in Hong Kong, Australia and the UK, Siobhan now spends her time, when she isn't writing, enjoying the sweet life near Venice. She writes steamy contemporary romance under the name SC Daiko. You can find her at scdaiko.com and on Facebook Sign up for her newsletter to be notified of previews and giveaways. She promises not to spam your inbox.
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank the following people:
John Hudspith for his editing of the earlier version of this book, Lady of Asolo.
Trenda Lundin, my current editor, for her encouragement and advice regarding the rewriting of Lady of Venice.
Xavier and Rafa of Cover Kitchen for their beautiful design.
My lovely PA Helena Gant, for looking after me so brilliantly.
Ann Bennett, my writing buddy and friend, for her comments on the first draft.
My beta readers, Fiona, Helena, Joy, Michelle, Nanette and Nico, for sharing Lady of Venice’s journey with me and for their invaluable critique.
Victor, my husband, for his love and support. Our son, Paul, and his wife, L
ili, for their help with technology.
Last, but not least, I thank you, dear reader, for reading this book.
Other Books By Siobhan Daiko
The Orchid Tree
Veronica COURTESAN
LADY of VENICE Page 24
