'Sophie and I are in love,' he said. 'But I'm not sure if she will be able to accept me as I am. To live with me, she will have to follow my way of life.'
'You can't change, of course,' Erica said with faint sarcasm.
'I've spent the last three years changing. It isn't easy for a Westerner to adopt the philosophy of the East, particularly if he intends to return and live in a western culture.'
'Why are you returning, then?'
'Good things don't need to remain in the East,' he replied. 'Anyway, because I like their philosophy doesn't mean I like their total way of life. I was born overlooking the Manchester Canal and my roots are still there!'
'Do you see Sophie's roots growing there too?'
'It depends. I had no intention of falling in love with her, Erica. She isn't the sort of girl I had in mind when I thought in terms of my future. But I did fall in love with her, and I believe it was meant to happen.'
'Fate?'
'Karma,' he agreed.
'What do you have in mind?' Erica asked. 'She's under age, you know, and her uncle is very strict.'
'I don't intend us to live in sin! Nor do I intend to marry her yet. I must be sure she knows exactly what she's doing. That's why I would like us to be close together for the next year. But unfortunately I can't stay in Venice. I have a job to get back to.'
'I thought you were a perpetual mediator?'
'You mean the Count thinks so!' He chuckled. 'It's easy to be a holy man if you live like a hermit on top of a mountain! The crunch comes when you bring your ideas down with you into your everyday life. But that's what I'm going to do. As I've said, I'm not cut out to sit in the sun with my feet in the Ganges! I'm trying for the best of both worlds: Western technology allied to Eastern philosophy.'
'I wish you luck.'
'I'll need it.' He stroked his beard. His hands were strong and blunt-fingered. 'Sophie would like to live in London and be near me; that's why she tried to sell the brooch.'
'Was that at your suggestion?'
The blue eyes looked at her for so long that Erica felt her cheeks redden and wished she had left the question unsaid. 'That was an uncalled-for remark,' she apologized.
'It shows you have doubts about me,' he said matter-of-factly. 'I can understand that.' He folded his hands on the table and then began to rub the third finger of his right one. 'I'm getting a bump on the end. I suppose I should learn to use a typewriter?'
'I thought you were an engineer?'
'I write too.'
'You seem to do many things.'
'We are all capable of doing many things. It's a matter of learning to use one's energy. Most people fritter too much away in jealousy and fruitless ambition.'
'That sounds like a good tract. You should write it down!'
'I have. One day I'll send you a copy.' He stood up and with a soft good-bye, walked away.
It was easy to see why the Conte did not like him. In outlook they appeared to be diametrically opposed. The trappings of wealth and possessions meant nothing to David Gould and she was not at all sure how much meditation and philosophy meant to Filippo Rosetti. He seemed too confident to need any philosophy other than a belief in his own invincibility. It was a pity he had allowed himself to be put off by David Gould's unusual appearance. The young Englishman was far nicer than she had expected and was possessed of a sincerity she could not doubt The Conte might see his easy manner as indolent, but she saw it as something much stronger and richer.
Sighing, she too left the table and wandered into the square. Alone in Venice on a Sunday afternoon. It was not the most pleasurable of happenings, and she vowed that next Sunday she would accept Johnny's invitation to spend it with him.
CHAPTER SIX
On Monday morning it rained. The cobbled streets were treacherously slippery underfoot and the grey clouds lowered ominously over the gilded dome of St. Mark's. But it was oppressively warm and even in her light raincoat Erica was uncomfortably hot by the time she reached the shop.
As usual she opened it and as usual busied herself returning the more valuable pieces to the window. What was not usual was her mood of depression: it was as heavy and gloomy as the atmosphere and seemed far less likely to lift than the bad day. It would take more than a stiff breeze to blow away her black clouds!
In the event it only took a telephone call. Picking up the receiver in answer to its ring, she heard Filippo Rosetti's voice and nearly dropped it back on its cradle.
'Buon giorno, Erica,' he said calmly. 'I hope you enjoyed your evening?'
'I watched television and went to bed early.'
'Then you should be all set for a late night tonight.'
Disembodied, his voice sounded deep and more foreign. It also had a strange huskiness which, had she not known better, would have made her think he was nervous. Filippo Rosetti nervous because he was talking to an English shop assistant? The thought was too ludicrous to consider.
'You refused to come out with me last night because you believed my invitation only arose from our chance meeting,' he went on. 'But even you cannot say that my call this morning is an accidental one.'
'That remark of mine seems to have upset you,' she said.
'It has. I do not like to have my word or my intentions doubted; and you made it very clear that you doubted mine. Now then,' he said crisply, 'about tonight. If you are genuinely not free, I can make myself available tomorrow night instead. After that I will be in Rome for a week. Well, Erica, will you have dinner with me?'
'You make it impossible for me to refuse,' she said breathlessly.
'I will collect you at eight. Give me your address.'
She did so, and he repeated it to make sure he had it correctly, then said a quick good-bye and hung up. For a moment she continued to hold the receiver, not sure if she had dreamed the whole episode.
But at half past seven she was dressed and waiting for him, having already changed twice. Even now she was un- happy with her choice, but knew that no matter what she wore, she would never be wholly satisfied with anything she had in her wardrobe. Always she would see it through his critical eyes.
Nervously she wandered round the sitting room, her long skirts moving sinuously against her. The supple folds of green silk jersey were draped intricately around her breasts but fell in simple, flowing lines from the waist to her ankles. The bodice was cut lower than any she had yet worn, but the boutique owner from whom she had bought it had refused to alter it by a single inch.
'You have wonderful shoulders and skin, signorim, it would be a crime to cover them up.'
Looking at herself in the mirror, Erica conceded that the woman had been right, though she felt that the bareness called for a baroque necklace rather than the single strand of small pearls that she was wearing. Muttering, she took them off and put them away; it was better to leave her throat bare.
The dampness of the day had played such havoc with her hair that by the time she had arrived home it was hanging limply round her face. Thankful that shops in Italian tourist towns were always open late, she had rushed down to the hairdresser at the end of the alleyway and put herself into Albertina's capable hands, emerging an hour later with her hair gleaming silver-blonde from a herbal shampoo and sculpted round her face in a long, shining bob. Excitement had inexplicably made her paler, and she had applied rouge and lipstick with an unusually heavy hand. But now her own colour had returned, and she rubbed off the pink powder and applied a beige one.
She was trembling and sick from nerves, and hoped she had not made a fool of herself by accepting Conte Rosetti's invitation. For the hundredth time she tried to guess why he had asked her out, and for the hundredth time she came to no definite conclusion. If he wanted a girl to conquer, surely he would look for someone more amenable? Or did he harbour the illusion that she would be an easy conquest?
She peered through the window, but there was no sign of him and she drummed her fingers on the glass, her nervousness growing. Seeing her reflection
in the window-pane, tall and slender as a votive candle, she wondered if he perhaps wanted a change from Claudia Medina's dark voluptuousness. Again she felt an upsurge of fear for what she might be letting herself in for, but before it could envelop her she saw his tall figure coming down the cobbled lane. Her heart pounded in her throat and she hurriedly looked round for handbag and mohair cape. She wanted to run downstairs and prevent him from coming up, but pride kept her where she was: she was not going to let him think she was ashamed of where she lived.
The bell chimed and she went to the door, forcing herself to walk slowly. She opened it and saw him on the threshold. All composure vanished and she shook as though with fever. What was there about this man that made her act like a schoolgirl with a crush instead of a moderately sophisticated young woman? It was more than his looks - though these were devastating enough to turn any woman's head - nor was it his sharp mind and astringent personality; rather it was an amalgam of all three plus a dash of some unknown magnetism. She searched for the right word, but the only one that came to mind was sex appeal. She inwardly smiled as she imagined his annoyance at being compared with a Hollywood film star. The Conte Filippo Rosetti considered himself far above that.
'You are ready?' he asked.
She nodded and, clutching her stole, followed him down the stone staircase, their steps echoing around them, and thence to the street where the night air was cooler but still damp.
'It is evenings like this that make me regret living in Venice,' he murmured. Seeing her puzzlement, he added: 'I would have liked to collect you in a covered car and deposit you in a restaurant instead of having to walk you through wet streets and protect you from dripping eaves.'
As he spoke he gave a flourish and produced a long black umbrella. Unable to stop herself, she giggled and he flashed her a smile in return.
'It is comical, is it not, to be Collected by a man with an umbrella?'
'Not any man with an umbrella,' she laughed. 'But you are so definitely not the type to have one!'
'I agree with you.' He propelled her along the streets. 'Normally I leave my home by launch and make sure I only go to a restaurant that is a few paces from the Canal.'
'Don't you find this rather limiting?'
'I would if I lived here all the year round,'
'I thought you did.'
'I spend half the year in Rome.'
'In another palace?'
'Yes.' He saw no sarcasm in her question. 'But unlike my palazzo here, I do not occupy all of it: only the top floor which I have turned into a penthouse.'
'What's happened to the other part?'
'It is occupied by our insurance company and bank.'
'You seem to have everything worked out very well.'
'It was not always the case. My grandfather was like me - ninety per cent worker and ten per cent dilettante. But my father was the other way round, and when I came into my inheritance there were many things I had to make good.'
'How long has he been dead?' she asked curiously.
'Fifteen years.'
'You were very young to take on so much responsibility.'
'I was twenty.' His glance was sharp. 'Am I older than you thought?'
'I haven't given it any thought,' she lied.
He walked beside her in silence and she flung him a surreptitious glance. His profile was haughty and his mouth, seen from this angle, looked uncompromising and hard. They were walking under one of the arcades that bordered San Marco Square and he had closed his umbrella and was holding it disdainfully away from his side, looking for all the world as though he were going to drop it behind him at any moment. She bit back an impulse to tease him about it, not sure if he would appreciate being laughed at.
'What is amusing you, Erica? A dimple keeps coming and going in your cheek. Is it on account of me?'
'The umbrella,' she said impulsively. 'You're holding it as if it's going to catch fire!'
'I would like to consign it to one!'
She giggled. 'It's such a small price to pay for living in this beautiful city.'
His teeth flashed and he waggled the umbrella in her face. 'Perhaps I should learn to wear the English mackintosh!'
Before she could reply he caught her elbow and guided her into a dark courtyard. It belonged to a house, and he knocked on the green-painted door set into the heavy stone wall.
'You have not been here before.'
It was a statement, not a question, and she followed him inside, not knowing what to expect. Her first reaction was one of disappointment, for the room in which she found herself was plainly furnished, almost utilitarian. The walls were white, as were the cloths on the tables; the chairs were wooden and though they had arms they could not have been described as comfortable. Nearly every one was occupied: not with the e1ite, well-dressed people she had anticipated but with the soberly garbed customers all intent on eating. It was so unlike her idea of a smart restaurant that she was horrified to find tears in her eyes. Why had the Conte brought her to a place like this? Was he ashamed of his friends seeing her? There was no likelihood of their meeting anyone he knew here.
Unaware of her reaction, her escort signalled her to follow the waiter who was leading them to a table in a corner of the room. No sooner had they sat down than a bottle of champagne was placed beside them and foaming glasses set in front of them.
'To the loveliest woman in the room,' he said, raising his own.
She gave a quick glance round and he smiled.
'You do not think it much of a compliment, I see. I will have to say it later on, then it will hold more significance for you.'
Before she could ask him what he meant, a second waiter presented them with a menu: a deckle-edged card covered with copper-plate writing.
'Written daily by the patrone,' the Conte explained. 'You will permit me to order for you?'
She nodded and watched as he glanced at the card, pursed his lips and then rattled off his order.
'Si, si, Excellence.' With a flourish the waiter took the cards and disappeared.
'You were expecting something more elaborate, were you not?' Filippo Rosetti said suddenly, trapping her with his eyes.
'It isn't frightfully Venetian,' she admitted carefully.
'It is, however, frightfully good.'
She saw he was teasing and knew he had guessed her disappointment. If he could read her mind so easily, she must be careful what she thought.
'Tell me how you feel about the restaurant after the meal,' he continued. 'If you are still disappointed, then next time I will take you to Harry's Bar.'
She was suddenly happy at his use of the words 'next time', and even happier when he added: 'I thought you might have already been taken to Harry's Bar, and for our first evening together I wanted to take you somewhere different.'
He had certainly done that, she mused as she looked at the stolid citizens tucking into their plates of food. The French might be gourmets, but the Italians were undoubtedly gourmands.
Their first course was set in front of them and she saw the cream and coral of poached scallops floating on a bed of white wine. This was followed by a puff pastry pie filled with a combination of pasta and finely diced liver and chicken in a thick, aromatic sauce of mushrooms, basil, tomatoes and cream. It was the most delicious combination she had tasted: the puff pastry melted into tender flakes in her mouth, the pasta was rich with egg yolks and the minced meats proclaimed their farm freshness. Erica had two portions and though she felt too full to follow it with anything else, found it impossible to refuse the wild strawberries set before her as the final offering.
'Do you take back all your hard thoughts?' the Conte asked as, coffee cups in front of them, he leaned back and lit a small black cigar.
'It was the most superb meal I've ever had.'
'We will come here again and sample their lobster. Emilio has it flown direct from Ireland.'
'Irish lobster in Venice?'
'They are the best lobsters,' he
said seriously. 'Even the French get them from there.'
'You are interested in so many different things,' she commented. 'Food, clothes, jewellery, your work.'
'Art too,' he added. 'My paintings were not all inherited. Quite a lot of them I bought.'
'Do you like possessing things.'
'I did when I was young. Now it seems fruitless. My main pleasure in owning beautiful things is to be able to share them with someone I love.'
'That shouldn't be difficult.'
'I said someone I love,' he replied. 'Not someone to whom I make love.'
She flushed and stared down at her coffee cup. 'Is there any difference?'
'Do not be foolish,' he said softly. 'You must surely know there is all the difference in the world. I never knew quite how much myself, until recently.'
It would have been easy for Erica to read anything she wanted into his remark. She could see it as a declaration of love or a declaration of something more venal. Obviously it was the latter. But how skilfully he had made it. Knowing he was waiting for her to speak, she said the first thing that came into her head.
'I'm surprised you aren't married already. I am sure many women have been willing to oblige.'
'Many,' he agreed. 'But I have never met one whom I loved sufficiently to give up my freedom.'
'Not even for the sake of an heir?'
'I wish my son to have a mother whom I love with all my heart.' His eyes were dark and brooding, and despite the fact that they were sitting in a well-lit restaurant with people close by, he created the impression of being alone with her, as if his emotions were cloaking them from everyone else.
'You make love sound very significant,' she murmured.
'Do you not find it so?'
'I don't know. I've never been in love.'
That answers my next question. I was going to ask why a beautiful girl like you is still single.'
Affair in Venice Page 8
