Taking hold of Albert’s letter again, she kissed it before folding it into a neat square, ready to take to her room, to be stowed away – a treasure almost. She got up, her figure slight but causing the heavy chair to scrape against the dark floorboards nonetheless. Working in Venice – what a prospect! She’d certainly be ‘The Venetian’ then.
Chapter Twelve
“No! It is not right.”
“Mamma, she is a woman who knows her own mind—”
“She is a doctor’s wife! Her role is to support you.”
“I want her to be happy, Mamma.”
“I am concerned with your happiness. And a wife – a proper wife – would be too.”
“Oh, Mamma!”
Opening the door of her bedroom slightly so she could watch the exchange between her husband and her mother-in-law as well as listen to it, it was only later, when Enrico had translated for her, that Charlotte would understand what was being said. Although she knew Enrico wasn’t telling her the entire truth, she’d already concluded that the idea of getting a job – even for a short while – was abhorrent to Stefania.
“Mamma is perhaps a little old-fashioned,” Enrico had said. “She believes you should support me rather than get a job… I am not sure, in a shop or something.”
“A shop? Enrico, I was thinking about a post similar to the one I held back home, a clerk or a secretary, and just for a few hours in the week.”
“But you cannot speak the language!”
She didn’t need telling. How she wished she’d spent more time learning from him prior to travelling. But she’d been lazy in that respect. “Surely you agree a job would help me to speak more fluently and besides, like you, there must be plenty in Venice who can speak English too. This is a major city, not an outpost. There has to be something to suit me.”
Enrico had shrugged and looked away from her. His dark eyes seemed genuinely conflicted – pulled between the demands of his wife and that of his mother. Seeing him that way, she relented. He was still feeling so guilty about having denied his mother her son’s big wedding. In turn, she felt guilty too. Thankful they were in the privacy of their bedroom, she threw her arms around his neck and started to kiss the skin there.
“Darling, when can we get a place of our own?”
“When I am earning enough, tesoro.” Already he was stirring against her.
“It’s just… won’t it be wonderful when it’s the two of us again?”
In England, home for Enrico had been lodgings in a guesthouse, similar to the ones she’d occupied. Impossible to spend time at either – it would be unseemly – they’d signed into a variety of anonymous London hotels already as man and wife to spend days and nights together – the only accessories she’d taken with her sometimes a packet of Lucky Strike cigarettes and a favourite red lipstick. The sheer illicitness of it had been thrilling. She hadn’t been a virgin when she met him; she’d had a brief love affair before, and saw no need to pretend otherwise. She wanted to be ‘real’ with him, herself, a woman who enjoyed sex and wasn’t shy to admit it. So many of her friends acted coy with men, but that wasn’t her way. The first time they’d been intimate, she’d dared to take the lead, just as she’d done when she’d introduced herself. He’d been surprised again, had faltered, clearly not used to it. He’d grown used to it, however, meeting her passion with equal ardour. Their honeymoon had only served to heighten the passion between them, culminating in their first night in Venice, spent not at his parents but at Venezia Palazzo Barocci, a hotel his father managed. Despite incessant rain, it was everything she’d hoped a first night in such a romantic city would be. Behind the doors of room 201 she hadn’t held back. But now it was different. In this suite of rooms over the archway, with its thin walls, she had to stifle the cries that wanted to burst from her.
“Enrico,” she said again, her hands beginning to unbutton his shirt, pulling it open to reveal his chest. Her breath, as it always did, hitched at the sight of him – at the tautness of his tanned skin and the muscles that lay beneath. Her mouth parting, she ran her tongue down the centre of his torso, unbuttoning his trousers too, tugging at them, his hands helping her, as eager. Down she went, until her lips closed firmly around him, her tongue still working, swirling the tip of his penis in gentle circles, teasing, tantalising. She heard him gasp, his hands grab at her hair, pulling her closer until he filled her mouth entirely. Oh, this was power! In this position he was at her mercy. She could play him any way she liked. Is that what appeals about sex? The power? Maybe, but combine power with love and it was even more intoxicating. She loved him, this exotic man, who loved her too.
Before the point of release she let him go and worked at the patterned dress she wore, peeling back her stockings and discarding them. Lying back on the bed, her hands either side of her curled blonde hair, she played the role of a wanton wife, waiting.
“Enrico,” she breathed.
“ENRICO!”
Her whole body jerked. That wasn’t her voice; it was Stefania’s, close, too close. Her head snapped to the side. In the doorway – her bulk filling it – stood his mother, her eyes not on her son, but on her daughter-in-law – abject disgust in them.
“Oh God!” Her hands tearing at the thin sheet beneath her, she tried desperately to cover herself. When it refused to give, she jumped off the bed and hid behind it. “Stefania, please, you should knock before entering!”
Enrico, who was also busy trying to cover himself, glanced only briefly at his mother. Instead, his eyes were trained on her. “Charlotte, do not speak to my mother like that!”
She couldn’t believe it. He was telling her off? “She barged into our bedroom!”
Still he was furious. “In my mother’s house you will respect her.”
She stared at him with wide eyes, lost for words. She could see he was embarrassed too, acutely so – his cheeks were suffused with colour – but she was unyielding in her view. Stefania should have knocked! Besides which, they weren’t doing anything wrong, they were married and therefore entitled to have sex.
“Enrico, vieni con me!”
Hearing Stefania’s voice again, Charlotte managed to tear her gaze from him and back to the doorway. The older woman wasn’t looking at her now; she was refusing to. His head bowed, Enrico started forward, responding immediately to his mother’s summons. He looked much younger suddenly, like a little boy scolded; what self-assuredness he possessed gone. We have done nothing wrong! She wanted to scream it, but refrained – fearing it would make him angrier still. As the door closed behind them, she felt imprisoned, despite the fact there was no lock on it. Feelings of shame rose in her for the first time ever. She looked down at her own nakedness, at the creamy flesh of her thighs and the dark patch that nestled between her legs. The female form was something to be celebrated; she’d never been led to believe anything less. But right now, in this bedroom with its heavy furniture and rug-covered floorboards – her pride had been trampled.
She could hear Stefania and Enrico talking in the living room. A fortnight had passed since Stefania had caught them in flagrante, and ever since then the older woman had ignored her, uttering sentences only when absolutely necessary. His father too, although kindlier than Stefania, hardly conversed either, but then his English was very poor. Things had been strained between her and Enrico too, she could barely forgive him for siding with his mother and he knew it, withdrawing from her rather than giving her his reasons why. As for sex, there hadn’t been any. Only once, in the dead of night, had his hand reached out in an attempt to caress her. She’d refused to reciprocate. Not until he apologised, which he hadn’t. Although in the past day or two he’d looked more sheepish than normal.
Enrico and Stefania’s conversations, always in Italian, angered her too. His mother was able to speak some English, and had done so when she’d first arrived, making a semblance of effort. But she was making an effort no longer. It was mid-September and, in England, the leaves would be changing fr
om verdant green to tan and gold. There were so many trees where she came from, the land with its undulating hills and pastures, lush. Here there was nothing but stone, and water where there should be roads. It wasn’t exotic, as she first thought, or romantic. Rather, it seemed harsh. Attitudes were different too. In England, women were beginning to work outside of the home, even married women, at least before having children. In Italy, married women dominated in one area and one area only – the home. Enrico would never say it but clearly his choice to spend time studying in England was a chance to escape such tyranny. Whether consciously or sub-consciously, he’d been seeking a respite.
As she continued to listen to the exchange between mother and son she blinked back tears. Sitting on their bed, she lifted her head to look at the room’s only decoration – a painting of the alley they lived in, of the suite of rooms that sat over the archway.
It upset her further, that painting. It reminded her of how lonely she was, sitting behind the window depicted, day after day, looking at such emptiness below, waiting for someone to pass by, to look up, to notice her. She needed solace and so reread her brother’s letters. She had a total of three now and she longed for his enthusiasm and lightness of being. Here it seemed as if the darkness encroached too readily. Like the maze of lanes that surrounded them, there were too many secrets. A maze she hadn’t fully explored yet and certainly not with Enrico, not since their first night. He’d been too busy at the local hospital, learning his profession in a more hands-on fashion, under the tutelage of his uncle, Fabrizio Gritti, a brilliant surgeon or so she was led to believe by the way his sister, Stefania, talked of him – no, not talked, she gushed. Charlotte wondered how acceptable it would be for a woman to explore alone and guessed it wouldn’t be. No matter, the thought didn’t really appeal. Venice was a city for lovers to lose themselves in, not for solitary meanderings. Finding work was the only way to break the monotony of her days and she was determined to do that, despite Stefania.
Distracting herself from the conversation she was not included in, she started to read, only half smiling at the envelope addressed not to Charlotte Sanuto but to ‘The Venetian’.
September 1938
So, Enrico has no cousins that you know of? I am surprised. I imagined scores of them! Ah, well, you know best but how you dash my hopes, Charlotte. And he’s beloved of his mother is he? Do I detect a hint of jealousy in your writing? Does his mother not like to share? From all you’ve said I imagine her to be big and blousy, forever dressed in black and hovering like some dark angel over her son. Bad luck if that is the kind of mother-in-law you’ve landed yourself with.
Her reading was interrupted by the voices from the living room again. Enrico’s voice had raised slightly, enough to let her know he was agitated. Was he actually arguing with his mother, daring to? As for the kind of mother-in-law she’d landed herself with, she was the kind who came barging in on you during intimate moments; that seemed to abhor the fact you even had intimate moments.
To my news now, I have applied to join the army! I can just imagine you frowning, but I will be fine, I promise. Besides, if there is a war coming I want to stand up for my king and country, to do the right thing just as you and I have always been taught. Father is all for it, surprisingly Mother is reticent, but I am bored, Charlotte. The life of an accountant is suffocating, labouring in an office all day, trapped within four walls. I want something different. You did too, and so you find yourself in Venice.
She was surprised to note a tear landing on the letter. She hadn’t realised she was crying. Wiping at it, she smudged the ink slightly and so let it dry naturally. Yes, she’d wanted something different, she’d had expectations, but they weren’t being met. She hadn’t even made love in two weeks. It’s not all about the sex! Yes, yes, she knew that, she wasn’t obsessed, but she missed the closeness that came with intimacy. She missed Enrico. Never mind a life abroad, it was him she wanted, still wanted, despite everything.
If I do join the army, then of course I shan’t be able to visit, not for a long while. I’m sorry, old girl, I know that isn’t what you want to hear but time off might be a problem – even with good behaviour! I’m worried about Father still; his chest infection is proving stubborn. Mother has been trying to persuade him to see a doctor and, can you believe it, finally he agrees! That is a relief at least. Father is made of stern stuff and I’m sure he will be his old self soon. Look, I will keep on writing and you must write back. Let’s try and write as often as we can. And stay safe, Charlotte. The world is so unstable right now. But all will be well. We will be well. You and I are made of stern stuff too.
More tears fell, one after the other. Quickly, she folded the letter and put it back in the envelope; afraid she’d ruin it completely if she didn’t. Like the books she’d brought with her, they were all she had of home – souvenirs of a life left behind. She thought of her brother’s words: ‘The world is so unstable right now’, and yet a few short weeks ago it had been full of promise. Now her brother was joining the army and her father was seeing a doctor – the latter significant news given the type of man he was. As for her, her heart was wrenched in two. She folded her arms across her stomach. She couldn’t stop her brother, and besides, she’d half suspected he’d join the army. He had talked before about ‘wanting to do his bit’. Regarding her father, it was, as Albert said, a good thing he was seeing a doctor, with medication he’d be well again in no time. Which only left her situation.
She heard movement and swung round half expecting to see the looming figure of Stefania framed in the doorway, her eyes wide and glaring – disapproval oozing from every pore. It wasn’t her – it was Enrico, a cigarette in his mouth but which he stubbed out in an ashtray on their bedside table as he came hurrying forward.
“Amore, my love, you are crying.”
She was stiff at first as his arms encircled her, but as he pulled her closer, she relaxed, the smell of him stirring familiar desire.
“Enrico,” the word came out as a sob.
“Amore,” he repeated. “I know you have been sad lately but do not cry, I hate to see you sad.” He hesitated, but only briefly. “I have been talking to Mamma. We have an idea.”
“We?”
“Si,” he replied. “I think together we have found the solution to your unhappiness.”
Chapter Thirteen
She needed a cigarette. Taking one from her silver cigarette case – one of the many presents Enrico had showered her with during their honeymoon and monogrammed with the word ‘amore’ – she lit it and took a deep drag. Closing her eyes for a moment to savour the hit, she opened them again to fix her gaze on him.
“That is your solution, your answer to my unhappiness?”
She’d thought he was going to suggest they move at last. That would have been the answer! She should have known better – they’d concocted this idea between them, he and his mother. Not just an idea, she suspected it was set in stone. She could rail as much as she liked but it would do no good. They were to accompany his uncle, Fabrizio Gritti, to the island of Poveglia, where he and Enrico would tend to those that were mentally ill and she’d be an auxiliary. They’d live on the island. Immersed in the madness.
“I refuse to go!” she declared, slamming the door shut with her free hand.
“Charlotte, I have agreed we will.”
“Without asking me?”
“Yes, without asking you. This is my career!”
She placed the cigarette to her lips, inhaled again before deciding it was a hindrance and also stubbed it out. “What about my career? It’s over thanks to you!”
Enrico’s eyes flitted nervously to the door, but then returned to her – a steely glint in them she hadn’t seen before.
“Charlotte, you are humiliating me as well as my family. The decision has been made.”
She grew more stubborn. “No, I won’t go. You can’t make me.”
“Then tell me, what will you do? Where will you go?”
“I will go home!” How she regretted having left. This strange land and the people in it, they were not for her. The ache that was constant in her intensified, for her friends, her brother and her parents as well as a landscape that she was used to. She wanted it as much as she used to want Enrico. Used to? The words – the sentiment – startled her. Was this it, her marriage was crumbling? Before she’d even had a chance to build it? Perhaps Albert was wrong: she wasn’t made of stern stuff, not if she caved so easily.
Confused, she turned away but he grabbed her arm.
“Let go of me—”
“Charlotte, please, keep you voice down!”
“Why, because of mamma?” She spat the word at him, knew that Stefania would hear all too well, her ear pressed against the door, a satisfied smile on her face. Knew what she’d be thinking too, that her ‘rival’ was getting what she deserved.
“Not because of Mamma, because of us. This is a very good opportunity for me. It is not always that someone of my age can experience such a thing. My uncle is held in high regard, he is offering to be my…” He faltered, struggled for the right word. “Mentore.”
“Mentor, you mean a mentor? I understand that, but what about me?” She tried so hard to keep the pleading note from her voice but it was obvious.
His grip relaxed slightly. The steeliness had gone from his eyes and he looked hurt instead. “I thought when you married me you understood the role you would take.”
“That of an equal.”
“Charlotte,” if anyone was pleading it was him. “I am a doctor. I want… I need you to support me. Why… what are you so scared of?”
This Haunted World Book One: The Venetian: A Chilling New Supernatural Thriller Page 8
