Venice

by Lynne Connolly

  Richard laughed and took it from me with a smile of thanks, but he didn’t put it on. “Now even I know that’s too fine,” he said, handing it over to Carier instead. “No, I’ll keep the lace. Perhaps Mr. Locke, keen to impress a lord, might put on his finest lace, but he wouldn’t stretch to a solitaire of this size.”

  “No indeed, my lord.” Carier left the room to take the pin away.

  “Well?” my husband demanded. He opened his arms and let me look at him.

  I was forced to laugh. I had never seen him so plainly dressed. He wore a tawny coloured cloth coat with plain buttons, his waistcoat, instead of the finely embroidered creations he usually wore, an ordinary one, trimmed with only the lightest of braids. The lace at his wrists and neck, while good, wasn’t the finest, and his neckcloth was of plain white linen.

  But what made me laugh most was the wig he wore. He usually sported a powdered, tied back wig, with a queue, or a silk bag and solitaire, the thin black ribbon that comes round to tie at the front of the neck over the stock. Instead of these fashionable items he wore a plain bob wig, a short wig that finished at the shoulders, lightly frizzed, the sort men of business and elderly gentlemen tended to prefer.

  “Why, you look almost ordinary.”

  He smiled to see my amusement, not at all put out. “Didn’t I tell you once, that fine clothes can make a difference? Do you believe me now?”

  I couldn’t allow him to be ordinary. “No. There’s still something about you that marks you out as special. The way you think must show through, too.” I regarded him thoughtfully. He was a remarkable man for sure and there was still something of intelligence and grace about him, despite the disguise. I was sure my partiality for him did not overweigh my consideration. I gave up for the time being and crossed the room to put my hand on his arm.

  “One more thing before we go,” he said. “Outside this apartment we’re sir and madam.”

  “I can remember that. Probably better than you. I’ve been ma’am all my adult life. It’s ‘my lady’ I still find difficult.”

  “I suppose so.” He laid his free hand over mine. “But that is what you are now.”

  “A small sacrifice.”

  He opened the door for me and we went out of the apartment for the first time since I had arrived in Venice.

  I hardly remembered what lay outside, such was the nature of my agitation when I arrived. A staircase went down two floors to the main entrance, where a boatman with his gondola waited outside. Richard informed me we had our own gondola, as most people here did, much as at home we would have our own carriage but since he preferred to live here privately, it wasn’t adorned with coats of arms or monograms. The boatman didn’t row the gondola, he poled it, and after Nichols and Carier climbed aboard behind us and we settled, the man poled it away from our building and set off down the Grand Canal towards the Lagoon.

  Fascinated, I watched Venice pass. The buildings that faced the Canal were mostly grand and palatial, and although made out of similar material, so different in style to each other as to be like foreigners. Modern buildings nestled next to others that were obviously hundreds of years old, all with that dark, high-water mark. Richard informed me some of the buildings, especially the ones closest to the Lagoon could be awash at certain times of the year. The owners would live upstairs or further inland. It was so different to anything I had known before. While Richard took his ease, watching me and the passing scenery, I leaned forward to see as much detail as I could.

  I turned to him eagerly. “When you met me I’d just been on the longest journey of my life, from Devonshire to Yorkshire. Now I’d like to see more of the world.”

  He took my hand. “Then we shall. But there’s nothing else remotely like Venice anywhere I know of.”

  “I’ve heard Amsterdam has the canals.”

  “It has a different feel,” he said. “Have you noticed the light here?”

  I looked about. “It’s golden, but I thought was because I was here and in love. Everything would be golden.”

  He smiled. “It probably would, but even when not in love, the light is still there. I’ve spent time here in abject despair, and the light has helped to console me.” I felt a pang for him. He’d let no one see that before me. His nature and his pride had kept him from it.

  We began to pull in now, threading our way through other gondolas towards a large building on the other side of the Canal to our own. Our gondolier exchanged words with others on the Canal, but although they sounded interesting, my schoolroom Italian wasn’t up to a translation. Still, I listened, and tried to differentiate some of the words and commit them to memory, because they might come in useful sometime. I glanced at my husband and saw him watching me, a lazy smile on his face. I could feel myself blushing, and as we came in to the mooring, he murmured, “Hoyden,” so only I could hear.

  We sent our cards up, or rather the Locke’s cards, and waited in the gondola. Very soon, a liveried manservant came down to us. Richard’s mouth set in a hard line when he recognised the blue and white livery his family used. Although the masquerade had amused him in theory, the practice might infuriate him.

  He said nothing when the man indicated we should follow him. We climbed out of our gondola and Nichols followed us up the stairs. Carier stayed behind, presumably to find out what he could from below stairs.

  The man led us through a very fine hall, and up a flight of stairs. The walls were painted all over with mythological figures, almost life-size. Then we passed into a grand salon, where my acquaintances of the road were waiting for us, alone.

  We bowed, making our courtesies suitably obsequious, and they bowed back. I introduced Richard, but it was only during the introductions I realised we hadn’t thought up a suitable first name for him, and I tried hard to remember the name on the false papers we had, but failed. My name, I recalled, was supposed to be Ruth.

  “My husband, Mr. er—Roderick Locke,” I said. Richard shot me a darkling glance from beneath his brows, but bowed and took Mrs. Ravens’ hand, deliberately clumsy. It was then I knew I was going to enjoy this.

  Richard straightened and took a good look at his namesake. Seen together, there was no possibility anyone who knew my husband would recognise him in this man, even at a considerable distance. The impostor was shorter and thicker in build than my husband. Older, too. His smile reached no further than his mouth, and his eyes were more grey than blue, his complexion unhealthily pale rather than naturally so.

  His wife was a composite of what a fashionable lady should be. I thought I could probably give her five years, but she had remembered to leave her brown hair unpowdered, the way I preferred. If Richard caught me with such a haughty expression he would have teased me mercilessly, especially if it had been in the presence of people such as we were supposed to be.

  They indicated we might sit. “I have much to thank you for,” Richard said. “I understand you came to my wife’s rescue recently?”

  They smiled graciously. “Please think nothing of it,” Mr. Ravens said. “We had met a day or two before and been charmed by your wife.”

  “I think I mentioned, I found a clavichord,” I explained, but of course he remembered. I had snatched a few moments’ practice and the Ravens caught me leaving the room.

  Richard’s eyes danced with mischief. “My wife’s family is a very musical one. Some of them have even played professionally.”

  “Oh, really?” Mrs. Ravens exclaimed. “Have they played at court?”

  Richard smiled wickedly. “Oh yes. In fact her uncle has served in the court at Prussia.” I gasped at the huge lie.

  “Indeed? I understand the king insists on the finest, so that must mean he is indeed distinguished,” said Mr. Ravens. I listened in astonishment to my beloved’s embellishments to my family life, but I said nothing. “Would I have heard of him?”

  I thought fast. “I don’t know. Frederick Barber?”

  “No, I’m sorry, I can’t say I’ve come across him.”
I wasn’t surprised, since I had just made him up.

  Richard leaned back in the elaborately gilded chair. “Have you been to the court in Prussia?”

  “Oh yes,” said Mr. Raven airily.

  “Is it very grand?” I asked, deliberately naïve.

  “Did you never visit your uncle there?” Mr. Ravens asked in surprise.

  “Oh no.” I decided Mrs. Locke would be confiding and gossipy. I loved gossip, along with most other people, even those who never admit it, but I preferred to listen in the usual course of events. “My father would never allow it. I was brought up very respectably and quietly. Mr. Locke always says he will take me there, but he never has, have you, my dear?”

  I met his eyes with a look of roguishness which I am sure would have driven him away at sight had I ever tried it on him for real. As it was, I could see the amusement gain hold over the outrage he had at first felt, and his smile became far more natural, to me at least. “We are not at fashion’s disposal.”

  I could see Mr. Locke develop before my eyes. If his wife were garrulous, he would be pompous and deeply aware of his station in life. They would make a fine pair. He sat up, pulled his waistcoat straight and fixed the impostors with an expression of deep sincerity. “I have a business to take care of and much as I would like to gallivant about the courts of Europe, I am afraid our commitments do not allow it.”

  “Indeed, duties are paramount.” Mr. Ravens nodded gravely. “Tell me, sir, are your commitments so very onerous? Never having engaged in trade myself, I’m completely ignorant of such things.”

  That could be a test, to see if we really knew about the business. I prayed Richard did. “I prefer to oversee most aspects of it for myself,” Richard said now. “It could be easier, it is true, but then the business would not be as profitable as it is now and my wife would have fewer luxuries to console her.”

  He was setting them up, turning their enquiry into a hook of his own. After all, they were card sharpers looking for likely subjects. As we watched, Ravens withdrew a silver snuffbox from his pocket, flipped it open and offered it to Richard.

  Richard accepted a pinch, but without his usual display of elegance, although he took his normal infinitesimal amount. We watched, fascinated, as our host dipped his finger and thumb in, shook it, got his lace entangled in his littlest finger, tried to make the gesture elegant anyway, and failed. It was as good as a pantomime, but I did feel guilty taking such pleasure from his discomfiture. This particular gesture was one my husband was famous for, the elegant taking of snuff. It was considered akin to the graceful use of a fan by a woman. Youths studied his attitude, the angle at which he held his thumb and forefinger.

  The man took his snuff and we tried to look on admiringly without laughing, while a footman brought in some refreshments. He took one look at us, and the tray on which was set a decanter and glasses wavered before he regained control. I guessed he might be one of the Thompson’s men Carier had been busy putting in place.

  Richard didn’t look at him, but Mrs. Ravens looked up and tutted in irritation. She apologised for the man’s clumsiness as he bowed and left the room, and then returned almost immediately with another tray on which was set tea and cups. Then they brought another tray with little biscuits and the like. They were taking good care of us.

  I wondered that they should bring wine so early in the day, but Mr. Ravens made this clear when he asked Richard for his opinion of it.

  Richard took a glass of the wine and sniffed it appreciatively. I didn’t know how much he knew about wine. He made a great play of looking at the wine in the glass, “for clarity,” and then he tasted a tiny amount and rolled it about his mouth. “Very pleasant. A local wine, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Indeed, sir.” Mr. Ravens knocked back his own glassful with much less ceremony, and poured himself another. Richard refused a refill, and I was content with tea. “Do you deal in much Italian wine, Mr. Locke?”

  “There’s a market for such things but in general, my main business is in French wine.”

  “You deal with the superior part of society then?” asked our host.

  “They do drink the most fine wine,” Richard admitted. “It is the more profitable side of the business.”

  Mr. Ravens smiled and lifted his finger. “Do you not find the duty on wines to England an impediment? I have heard as much as two-thirds of the tea and wine drunk in England could be smuggled goods.”

  Richard looked serious, perhaps remembering something he would rather forget. “I don’t just trade in England. I distribute French wine all over Europe.”

  Mr. Ravens nodded sagely. “Sometimes I wish I wasn’t prohibited by birth from engaging in trade.”

  That was utter nonsense. If the English aristocracy didn’t have members engaged in trade there would be far more titled beggars in the streets. Richard seized on the statement with delight. “But I had heard your brother, Mr. Gervase Kerre, had made his fortune in India.”

  “You are well informed, sir,” Mr. Ravens admitted, not forthcoming, perhaps to give himself time to think.

  “It’s good for business, my lord.” Richard leant back and waited for the reply about Gervase.

  “India is one thing,” Mr. Ravens said. “But I cannot think my parents would approve of my engaging in trade.”

  I couldn’t imagine what had given him that idea. In France, the aristocracy was indeed prohibited from taking part in trade, but in England, one of the ways it kept its power was to spread its interests, akin to the way they did business here in Italy. Thompson’s probably amounted to trade in Mr. Ravens’ eyes, although its effective influence spread much further than commerce.

  I saw the gleam in Richard’s eye, indicative of his growing enjoyment of the situation. “The duties of the heir to the Earldom of Southwood must be particularly onerous?”

  “Indeed, sir,” said Mr. Ravens in a very stately manner. “This sojourn in Venice is, as I am sure you are aware, in the nature of a bride-trip.”

  “I had heard,” said my husband gravely. “You must allow us to give you every felicitation.”

  Mr. Ravens inclined his head graciously, as did his wife. Then, as though she had just thought of it, she clapped her hands in an expression of delight. “We are going to the Opera tomorrow night. Do you go?”

  “We had not planned it,” I said cautiously.

  “You must allow us to persuade you to join us!” she cried. “Should that not be delightful, my dear?” Girlish glee did not sit well on her ample shoulders. She must in her late twenties at least, probably more. I was twenty-five and I’d left girlish glee behind years ago.

  Her husband looked at her as though he had not thought of the idea before, although I had no doubt this was a previously worked-out ploy, designed to catch us or any other victim further in their nets. Richard had given them enough information to show them we were worth catching, and now they would proceed to do it.

  Richard looked doubtful. “I’m not sure we can impose on you to that extent, my lord. It was very kind of you to see us this morning but we are not accustomed to moving in such exalted circles.”

  I glanced at him. Toadying of the worst kind, but Mr. Ravens lapped it up. He waved a gracious hand. “Please think nothing of it. It would give my wife great pleasure to see you again.”

  She smiled encouragingly. “We would enjoy the pleasure of your company. Just go to the Opera, give your names, ask for Lord Strang’s box and you will be shown there.”

  “You’re very gracious, my lord.” I spread my fan to hide my blushes—and my smiles.

  The footman returned with a card on a tray. We watched as Ravens read the card and blenched, but retained it, and said to the footman, “You must inform Freddy we are otherwise engaged, but we would be delighted to receive him another day.”

  Richard immediately stood, so I did the same. “I cannot allow you to turn away such a distinguished visitor on our account. We must take our leave of you, my lord, my lady.”


  Ignoring their protests he bowed, and waited only until I had risen from my own curtsey, before he swept me away, promising to attend the Opera the next night. We went out of the room so quickly that the footman nearly missed his cue to open the door for us.

  The footman followed us out to show us to the door. “Are you from Thompson’s?” Richard asked him tersely, when we were out of earshot of the main salon.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “And you know me?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Three things,” Richard snapped. “We’re letting this affair run its course for now. Remember I am Mr. Locke and address me accordingly, if you please. And don’t let Freddy in here for the time being. Refer him to Carier.” The man concurred, bowing, and we went down to the hall.

  Chapter Nine

  AS WE CROSSED THE MARBLE vastness, a door opened and we almost collided with the figure that erupted out of one of the rooms. “Richard! I thought you were busy.” He stepped back. “And what are you doing in that fright of a wig?”

  Richard didn’t laugh, although if we weren’t still in disguise I thought he might have done so. “Come with us, please, Freddy. I promise we’ll explain when we’re in a place of safety.”

  Freddy looked somewhat surprised but followed us. We climbed into the same gondola we had arrived in, and travelled back up the Grand Canal in near silence, once Richard had put his finger to his lips and gestured to the gondolier. I took my husband’s hand, and watched the passing scenery, now bathed in bright sunshine. I should have to consider my complexion and find a broader hat next time we ventured out.

  When we reached the palazzo we went upstairs with a somewhat bemused Freddy and let ourselves in to the apartment, where a footman lingered in the hall. Richard ordered some refreshment and we went into the drawing rooms.

  Freddy looked about. “This is more your style, Richard. Elegance without pretension. I thought that palazzo was somewhat grandiose for your taste.”