‘Dolcezza. Italian for sweetheart.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t call me that,’ she said in a brittle tone.
Her statement was like a slap in the face. Luca dressed quickly and said nothing, keeping his eyes down.
‘Forgive me. I didn’t mean to be so blunt. You must think me such a cow. It’s what Zorzo called Cecilia, you see.’
‘Oh, that’s all right then,’ he said unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice. ‘Your long dead lover can call you sweetheart, but I can’t.’
Fern touched his arm. ‘He’s not my lover. He’s Cecilia’s.’
‘Of course. How stupid of me. Please take that back.’ He kissed her on the cheek and made his way to the door. ‘I’d better get to work. And there’s a rehearsal for the re-enactment this evening, don’t forget. Oh, and I’m off to a conference in Vienna for five days from tomorrow. Bit last minute. Someone in the office was supposed to go, but has come down with shingles. Before I go, though, would you show me your latest painting?’
He stood in front of her watercolour of the Barco. His skin prickled. Pazzesco! ‘It’s very good.’
When Fern had seen him to his car and gone back into the house, he sat for a moment. Then, yearning for her so much he felt as if he were being wrenched in two, he banged his head three times on the steering wheel.
18
Fern kept herself focused by painting and by doing some local sightseeing. Cecilia stayed away from her. The house blessing must have worked. She visited the city of Treviso, where she 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, she headed for the Buranelli Canal, to take photos and do some sketching. Treviso wasn’t known as “little Venice” for nothing, and she found it charming. She was behaving like an everyday tourist, interested in the past, but not reliving it. Yet her heart ached for Cecilia and she began to regret banishing her from her life.
The next morning, she went to Marostica, in the nearby province of Vicenza. There, she 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.
Fern 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. It would be interesting to see it one day.
She sat at the café facing the distant mountains and thought about Luca. At the rehearsal the other night he’d been distant towards her. She knew she hadn’t been fair on him. When he’d made love to her, she’d wanted him badly. She thought about the strength of his body, the way his hands had touched her, the feel of his lips. She remembered the sensation of flesh on flesh, skin on skin and felt a warm feeling between her thighs.
Luca wasn’t a typical, debonair, suave Italian, one of those Mills & Boons stereotypes that didn’t exist in reality from what she’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 her. Chiara had said he’d been a playboy, and Luca had admitted to his mother that he’d played around in the past. Fern couldn’t imagine him being like Zorzo
Why couldn’t she open her heart to Luca? It was as if there was a lump of stone in her chest. And now he’d gone to Vienna and she was missing him. She paid the bill and made her way home.
That afternoon, she went riding with Chiara. They rode as far as Asolo, on the unpaved roads winding between the farms and vineyards. Back at the villa, Fern had a cup of tea with Vanessa. They talked about the contessa’s genealogical research. The Goredan family was descended from the Doge of Venice at the time of Caterina Cornaro, elected as usual by the aristocracy of the city. What a heritage!
Chiara made herself scarce, but Vanessa was true to her word and didn’t ask Fern to tell her about what they’d discussed during their 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 Fern as dark clouds were gathering above the mountains.
In the evening, she had supper back at her aunt’s house. As they were clearing away the dishes, a crack of thunder made her ears ring. ‘Grab the candles,’ Aunt Susan said. ‘The lights will go out at any minute.’
Lightning zigzagged through the open windows. Fern helped her aunt close all the shutters, clear the dishes and wash up. Then, taking her candle, she said goodnight. She was tired and there wasn’t enough light to read. Her period had come and with it unusually fierce dragging pain. Stretching out on her bed, she closed her eyes. One crack of thunder followed another. Fireworks, launched to break up the hailstones, competed with the cacophony. Would she ever get to sleep?
‘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 ’tis evening now. I can’t take any more. Between each bolt of agony, I’ve sunk into near oblivion as exhaustion has claimed me, but then the torture has built again and again, each time closer to the last, wrenching me back into screaming wakefulness. 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 swipes through me. 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.’ Dorotea is wringing her hands and bleating helplessly. She’s about as much help as a wet rag in a 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. ‘It’s 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 ejected 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 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 has been adamant the child would be a boy. He wanted to name him Federico after his father. For some unfathomable reason, the name has been abhorrent to me, and I’m glad 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, as 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 prick into me. He’s away in Ferrara this night, praise the saints; 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.
Wretched storm still going full-tilt. It might upset the babe. She bent to kiss Lorenza’s head again, but her arms were empty. Panic flooded through her. Who had taken her baby? A scream rose in her throat. Then the stench of burning filled her nostrils, making her retch. She brought herself under control, taking deep breaths until her pounding heartbeat stilled. A flash of lightning, and she saw the piece of burnt wood on her bedside table. She fumbled for the box of matches and lit the candle. She wasn’t Cecilia; she was Fern.
She lay back on her bed, her arms aching to hold the baby, her body battered and bruised. Tears trickled down her cheeks and she cried out for the child, a part of her had gone. Her breasts were hurting and she crossed her arms. Oh my God! There was a cold wetness on the front of her nightie.
Fern ran to the bathroom, where she pulled off her nightdress and let it fall to the floor. Her breasts were huge and laced with blue veins. A drop of watery-white liquid seeped from her left nipple.
She stumbled back to bed, grief overwhelming her. Coiling in on herself, she wept for Cecilia, for Lorenza, and for her own lost baby. Then she rubbed at her tears; she hated the loss of self-control. Even when Harry had died, she’d bottled it all up.
Restless, she drifted in and out of sleep. Morning came and the storm abated. After showering, she dressed and stuffed tissues into her bra. She caught sight of her print of The Tempest on the wall and her legs became water. The child in the painting was Lorenza. No doubt about it. Fern toppled onto her bedcovers, shock wheeling through her.
‘Lorenza!’
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 soul longs for him.
I hold Lorenza. She sucks greedily at my breast, my milk coming in so quickly it dribbles down her chin. Lodovico gives a shudder. ‘We should get a wet nurse. ’Tis not right 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. All I have to love, and, Maria Santissima, I’ll keep her with me.
The following day, my lady visits with Dorotea. The Queen 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. My lady 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 break, 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 ’tis good to leave the house and get 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 have to move to one side to avoid stepping in dung. I think of Pegaso. He’s remained at my lady’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 marches 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 got it in a sword-fight when 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 my lady 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. ‘’Tis the Devil leaving her,’ my lady pronounces, and I laugh before saying, ‘Amen.’
We progress to the castle, where the Queen 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 sucks, 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 towards 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. ‘’Twas only the heat from the forge.’
Falling into step beside my husband, my breath falters. He’s looking at me, his eyes appraising me. The feeling of dread returns.
She gave a start. Sunlight came through the window; it was still morning. I’m Fern again, of course. So much happened when she was in the past, days would go by, that when she came back to the present it was as if she’d been jarred, the sense of displacement was so great. It reminded her of her 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 her backwards and leaving her feeling disorientated and nauseous. She’d not ridden one since, nor did she want to.
A tingling in her breasts. She was leaking again, and the ache to hold Lorenza felt unbearable. She prodded the piece of burnt wood on the bedside table. No point in throwing it away; it would vanish of its own ghostly accord. She shuddered, stuf
fed her bra with more tissues, and then phoned Luca’s mother. ‘Is it all right if I come and see you?’
19
‘Spontaneous lactation is unusual,’ Vanessa said, pouring a glass of Prosecco and handing it to Fern. ‘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.’
Fern sipped her drink. ‘My breasts are very sore. Isn’t there some sort of medication I can take?’
‘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 fondled the ears of the Labrador at her feet. ‘What a thing to happen!’
An urge to unburden herself took hold of Fern. Slowly, haltingly, and then more firmly, she told Vanessa about her pregnancy two years ago. How she’d tried to ignore it, and how she’d lost her baby. ‘And now I feel as if I’ve lost her again,’ she said, unable to stop the hot tears trickling down her cheeks.
Vanessa got up from her chair and held her. ‘You poor girl.’
‘When I thought Cecilia had miscarried, I didn’t want to go back into the past anymore.’
‘That’s why you asked for the priest?’
Fern nodded. ‘And now I can’t wait to return to Cecilia and see Lorenza again. It feels as if she’s my baby too.’
‘Only natural, I suppose. You went through the birth.’
‘I’m scared, though. Cecilia had a premonition of fire. I’m more and more convinced that’s how she died, and I couldn’t bear it if Lorenza died with her. It would be like losing my own baby all over again.’
‘I can understand your concern.’ Vanessa took Fern’s hand. ‘It’s a case of damned if you do and damned if you don’t.’
Lady of Asolo Page 15
