So many of the words were blurred and smudged by the water that it was hard to read, but it seemed to be a love letter.
I could not bear to leave – your words tore me apart – still I love you – but you must know that I too have a past –
Even while she gazed at them, the sentences were melting into a pool of watery blue ink.
My father – utterly thoughtless and without scruple – I cannot –
What could it mean? The very last words at the bottom of one of the pieces of paper, gave her heart a jolt that almost caused her to faint.
Please, please – I must see you again – if you can only forgive my name, which must be utterly hateful to you and understand – that I am most truly – and forever,
yours –
Lord Lyndon Brockley.”
Lord Lyndon Brockley? Were these words penned by a relation of the hateful Lord Brockley? By his son, even!
And was it possible that this letter was intended for her? She stared at the words and read them over and over, until at last she understood. It was Lord Lyndon Brockley she had danced with last night.
Her mind whirled round with a thousand confusing and conflicting emotions. She had given away her secret to the son of the very man who had threatened her happiness!
Yet she could not forget how they had seemed like two halves of the same being, as they both flew across the ballroom together.
And did he not say in this letter something about his father being without scruple and thoughtless?
She stared at the pieces of paper once again, but the words had vanished, melting into a sea of indistinguishable blue marks.
“Signorina,” Giovanni was calling her name softly. “Don’t be sad, Signorina. You will be safe. I take you to Mamma and you will see, all will be good!”
But Rosella did not care too much where he was taking her.
Everything was ruined and broken.
The man who said he loved her was the son of her enemy and her benefactor, the Contessa, had cast her out.
Even her beloved parrot, the last link with the old kind world she once knew was lost forever in this City that now seemed alien and hostile to her.
But worst of all was the realisation that her vision of the ballroom and the illusion of the young man in the painting had been false and dangerous mirages that had led her astray.
Giovanni brought the gondola to a halt at the edge of the City. He leapt onto the shore and tapped Rosella on the shoulder.
“Signorina, come. My friend take you onwards. It is long way and I must go back or the Contessa will – ”
He mimed drawing a sharp knife across his throat.
Rosella stumbled to her feet. Next to the gondola was an old rowing boat filled with sacks with an old man at the helm.
She clambered aboard and sat down on one of the sacks, brushing aside the dry onions and withered carrots that lay there.
The old man grunted and pulled on the oars with his wiry arms and the boat moved slowly out into the wide waters of the Lagoon.
Rosella blinked at the glare of the bright sunshine on the pearly water, as the little boat passed by the familiar island of Murano and made its way toward the hazy blue horizon.
Giovanni was right.
They had a long way to travel.
*
Someone was tapping at Lyndon’s window, calling to him in an odd croaky voice,
“Hello! Hello!”
He sat up in his bed and rubbed his eyes. Who the hell was trying to wake him up?
It was very dark in the room as Lyndon had kept the shutters closed against the bright summer sun and also against the smell of the stagnant canal water that drifted up in the heat.
How could he ever have thought that Venice was a beautiful place?
It was August now, several weeks since the night of the Ballo in Maschera and the sun beat down relentlessly over the City.
Even at night it was too hot and the brick walls of the buildings seemed to give back into the darkness all the heat of the sunshine they had absorbed through the day.
Everything that had once seemed to him mysterious and exciting – the dark alleyways, the deep green water of the canals – now seemed sinister and unpleasant.
“Hello! Hello!”
The strange cry came again and the shutter rattled.
Lyndon then reluctantly staggered out of bed. He had spent long enough hiding in this room, he thought, as he padded across in his bare feet to open the window.
It was time to move on. Perhaps to somewhere like Switzerland, to the clean bright mountains.
He was still half asleep, so it was not until he was about to pull open the shutters that he remembered that his room was on the fourth floor of the building.
His heart skipped a beat.
Was he going quite mad after so long cooped up in this place? Or had some lunatic climbed all the way up the side of the house to pester him?
Lyndon peered through one of the narrow slits in the wooden shutters and a round eye with a black pupil and a pale gold rim stared back at him.
This was no human eye. It seemed to belong to some kind of little imp, some supernatural manifestation of this uncanny City.
Lyndon was about to run out of his room and rush down the stairs to shout for Fabio, who lived below him, when the imp spoke again.
“Good Morning!” it piped up in a perfect English accent.
Lyndon paused and opened the shutter a crack.
There, sitting on the windowsill was the grey parrot that he had first met in London by the River Thames.
It had to be the same one! For had he not seen a grey bird with a bright red tail, flying away from the Ca’ degli Angeli on that terrible morning when he had tried to deliver his letter to the girl of his dreams –
Lyndon brushed the memory of that awful moment out of his mind. There was nothing to do but put it all behind him.
No doubt she was happily in the arms of Algernon Merriman by now. Perhaps they were even married. He must not think about her again.
Rosella. That was her name. He knew it now as all of Venice had been talking of her disappearance after the ball.
He shook his head to banish the painful thoughts.
But what should he do with this bird?
It was looking rather bedraggled and one of its tail feathers was broken and bent sideways.
He opened the window and then the parrot climbed clumsily in. It flew across the room and sat on the back of the chair by his desk.
“Is it time for tea?” the bird asked him in a polite tone and then added, “may I have a nut?”
Lyndon found himself smiling for the first time since the morning after the ball.
“I shall have some sent up for us, if you like,” he joked. “English tea and a plate of walnuts, what do you say?”
“Good afternoon, Pickle!” the bird replied and flew across to sit on his shoulder.
Now Lyndon was laughing.
Pickle! That was the bird’s name, he remembered.
He reached up to stroke the bird’s head.
“So, Pickle, she has deserted you too. But we shall not think about her any more, shall we? We must forget her and get on with our lives. What do you say to that?”
“You’re a very naughty boy!” Pickle replied, but he seemed to like Lyndon, as he nibbled gently on his finger and seemed happy to stay sitting on his shoulder.
*
Rosella and Mimi sat quietly in the shade of a vine, shelling peas into a large china bowl.
The garden where they sat was heavenly, Rosella thought. It was so luscious and so abundant with the green leaves of the vine hanging over their head and everywhere she looked vegetables were growing – pumpkins, tomatoes and cucumbers – everything bursting with life and energy.
Through the leaves she could see the sun shining on the wide waters of the Lagoon.
“You and Giovanni were very lucky to grow up here,” she said to Mimi. “It’s like Paradise.”
Mimi nodded.
Just after the Contessa had thrown Rosella out, the maid had left her position at the Ca’ degli Angeli and come home to this green island on the far side of the Lagoon, where lush kitchen gardens supplied the markets of Venice with produce.
“It’s my home,” she replied. “I am always happy here with Mamma.”
“It is so kind of your family to take me in,” Rosella said, hurriedly opening a few more pea pods, as Giovanni was due to visit them and Mamma was cooking a risotto with peas and artichokes.
She had already called out from the kitchen in the house several times for the girls to hurry up.
Mimi shrugged in her expressive Italian way.
“It was nothing. You are angel, Mamma says. And for me, you are mia sorella – my sister! I have always wanted a sister.”
“I wish that you had not had to lose your job – ”
“I did not,” Mimi interrupted her. “I left! I did not want to stay and work for the Contessa anymore, after she was so unkind to you.”
“But – ”
“Signorina, you must not speak of this again. If I want to work, there are many families in Venice who will take me. But I am so happy here – we have everything we need.”
Rosella looked at the garden, at all its richness and beauty glowing in the golden sunshine.
It was strange to think that she had been here now for almost a month.
Mimi was so right. There was everything here that anyone might ever need, but her heart still felt empty and cold and, in spite of the loving and affectionate family that surrounded her, she felt lonely and abandoned.
If only –
But she must not think of the young man she had danced with. He was a mirage, an illusion, something she had dreamt up in her longing to be loved and cared for.
He might have thought he cared for her, perhaps, for a moment or two, but his love had not lasted.
Almost as soon as he had written the love letter to her, he had torn it in half.
His feelings for her had melted and vanished, just as the words he had put on the paper had disappeared into a blue smudge.
He was Lord Brockley’s son and that was the only thing that mattered. He was the son of a man she detested and hated.
“Buon giorno.”
A man’s voice called. Giovanni was coming up the path into the garden.
His black eyes glowed when he saw Rosella sitting with his sister.
He greeted Mimi and then he took Rosella’s hand in his broad strong grip and raised it to his lips.
‘I think that he is beginning to care a little for me,’ she thought. ‘And I should be grateful as I must think how I am to survive when all of Aunt Beatrice’s sovereigns are gone.’
But her heart did not stir at Giovanni’s touch and her eyes could not meet his.
*
Lyndon peered over the backs of the women who were thronging around the colourful displays of fruit and vegetables in the market.
“We are out of luck, old chap,” he sighed to Pickle, who was gripping tightly onto his shoulder. “It’s not the time of year for nuts yet.”
The bird seemed to have grown fond of Lyndon and seemed quite happy to continue sitting on his shoulder.
It was certainly far better to bring him out than to leave him behind on his own, when he would scream and scream and disturb the whole building.
“What would you think of those cherries, eh? Or perhaps a peach?”
Lyndon bent over a colourful display of fruit.
Suddenly Pickle gave a squawk, flapped his wings and was gone, flying over the market stalls.
“Hey, come back,” Lyndon called out.
But the bird had not gone far.
He had landed on the blue hood of a market girl, who was helping another young woman to unload several baskets of bright red tomatoes onto a stall.
Lyndon pushed his way through the excited crowd, who were pointing and laughing.
“Bad bird! Come back here!” he shouted.
Pickle did not budge. The girl did not seem afraid at having such a large bird landing on her head and she was reaching up to pet him.
“I’m sorry,” Lyndon began and then his heart stood still, as her blue eyes looked at him and he saw the gold hair escaping from under her hood.
“Thank God! It’s you!” he exclaimed.
She turned away, as if she was afraid of him.
“Please, please we must talk – ” Lyndon now found himself gabbling, the words tumbling over each other,
“I – have thought of you every moment – I cannot lose you again.”
He fell onto his knees among all the debris of the marketplace and caught her hand, holding it to his lips.
A wave of joy broke over his body as she turned back to him and he felt her fingers touch his hair.
Rosella’s heart soared at the same time.
Her dream man from the painting at New Hall had appeared once again in her life and this time she absolutely knew that he would stay with her for ever.
It was her destiny, and his, written in the stars thousands of years ago.
*
Summer was almost over in Venice and a cold wind was blowing off the Adriatic, as Rosella and Lyndon stood on the wide golden sands of the Lido, waiting for the boat that was to come and carry them away to Greece.
“Where is Giovanni, do you think?” Rosella asked. “He said he would come before dark.”
A tremor of fear stirred in her heart, as she knew that the handsome gondolier had been more than a little in love with her.
It must have been hard for him to see her over the last few weeks always with Lyndon.
But he had promised to help them. He was a good man, he would not let them down surely.
“He will come, he gave us his word.”
Lyndon drew her nearer to him, holding her against the warmth of his body.
“Soon we will be far away from prying eyes and it will be just the two of us and then we will be married,” he sighed.
She closed her eyes, feeling the complete bliss of his nearness.
“When I think of all the times that I almost flung myself into the Grand Canal, just like Lord Osborne did,” he was saying.
Rosella shivered, for the thought that he might have ended his life, destroying for ever the incredible happiness they both now felt, was unbearable.
“Now that I have found you again, I am so utterly happy,” he continued and pressed his lips to her forehead.
She felt her happiness bloom inside her, like a full-blown, sweet-scented rose.
“The days I have spent with you in that garden on the island have made me want to live forever,” Lyndon said and she felt the passion in his voice vibrating through her body.
“To be with you always, Rosella. I did not know that life – that love, could be like this.”
Now his lips found hers and Rosella felt her soul fly to join with his, as her body lay against his warmth and strength.
His kisses then took her into the sky and she was touching the stars and the moon all at the same time, as he became more passionate and demanding.
“But, my love, we will have so little,” he said after a moment.
“I would love you if you had nothing,” she replied at once, hating to see the look of doubt that shadowed his eyes.
“And Pickle – you told me once that you would never part with him.”
Rosella laughed.
“He is in parrot Heaven!” she said. “Mimi and her Mamma adore him. He has all the fruit and vegetables he can eat and a storeroom full of nuts! It would be cruel of me to take him away.”
Lyndon smiled.
“I shall miss that bird,” he sighed, “but I think you are right.”
Her reassurance had made him happy again and the brightness in his face reminded her of the painting in her bedroom at New Hall.
She knew now that it was a portrait of his ancestor, Lord Osborne. It had been painted in
Venice and sent home to England after Osborne’s death.
Rosella understood too that her strange visions had not deceived her, as they had brought her to his moment and to the love that was the centre and the whole purpose of her life.
Perhaps the spirit of Lord Osborne, who had met such a sad end, had conspired to bring her here to ensure a happy ending for her and Lyndon.
Now he gripped her arm.
“Look, Rosella!”
A tall ship had appeared just offshore and sailors were rushing to bring down the full sails so that she might come to a standstill.
“It’s La Maschera, Lyndon gasped. “I saw her in Limehouse. The Contessa’s ship.”
“We must run!” Rosella cried, her heart pounding.
But there was nowhere to hide on the wide empty beach of the Lido.
Now she could hear, faintly on the wind, someone calling her name.
“It’s Giovanni,” Rosella said, her heart sinking, as she saw the gondolier climbing over the side of the ship and leaping into a rowing boat.
“He – must have told the Contessa.”
How could it be that in one moment her happiness could turn to such black despair?
Lyndon gripped her cold fingers tightly.
“Wait, my love,” he urged. “Giovanni is all alone, he cannot force us to go with him.”
Rosella shivered at the thought of the gondolier’s strong hands and brawny arms, so powerful from years of plying the oar of the gondola.
What would happen if it came to a fight?
But Lyndon was without fear.
“Be brave, my darling,” he said. “I will not let you come to harm.”
The rowing boat drove into the sandy edge of the beach and Giovanni leapt out.
He ran towards them, a large white envelope in his hand.
“Giovanni – what are you doing?” Rosella began. “You promised you would help us.”
He held out the envelope.
“A letter came for you, Signorina.”
Puzzled, Rosella took the envelope from him.
It was indeed addressed to her and in large uneven letters, as if a child had written it. She would read it when they were safely on their way to Greece.
“Giovanni, we must leave tonight – you said you would find a boat for us.”
The gondolier bowed his head.
“Signorina, I have come from the Contessa. Her mood has been so dark, so bitter, since you left. When the letter came and she saw your name, she wept, Signorina. She cried out that she could not forgive herself for sending you away. And I told her – ”
100. A Rose In Jeopardy Page 13
