Love and Lucia

by Barbara Cartland

  The Marquis, however, did not go to the front of the Palazzo, where his private gondola was waiting.

  Instead he let himself out at the back on to a narrow passage between high houses, most of them still shuttered and barred.

  The passage itself was empty, and only when he had walked a little way and come to a bridge did he look over the small canal beneath him, and see a man propelling in a leisurely fashion a gondola heaped with vegetables and fruit.

  He knew he was on his way to the morning market, where most of the food consumed by the City was brought in from the countryside.

  He walked on, and now the sun was sweeping away the last mists from the water, creating as it did so the translucent light which Turner had found so irresistible that he had tried to immortalise it on canvas.

  The Marquis was, however, at the moment not thinking of the exquisite architecture or the fusion of man-made and natural beauty, but of himself.

  He had been in Venice for ten days, and was already wondering, although it seemed absurd, how soon he should leave.

  Francesca was certainly an inducement to stay, but although she attracted and excited him, he was already beginning to think it would be a mistake to let her become anything but dispensable.

  It was almost as if he wanted to regret leaving her, to need her, and yet to go while he would still wish to stay. ‘Alastair was wrong,’ he told himself as he walked on. ‘I have learnt nothing on this trip except that I prefer riding to walking, and the English to foreigners!’

  Then he told himself he was being reprehensibly insular, and that he should rather try to have a child-like appreciation of everything that was new and different.

  And yet was it so different?

  What of the conversations he had listened to at the dinner-parties that had been given in his honour?

  Were they not very much the same as those he had heard round his own table in Berkeley Square, or at White’s Club?

  And was not Francesca, when it came down to facts, very much the same as the Incomparables who threw themselves into his arms in London, or the social Beauties who enticed him with an invitation in their eyes, and a provocative pout of their lips?

  “What do I want? What the hell am I looking for?” the Marquis asked and found to his surprise that he was already in the Piazza San Marco.

  He had walked quickly along the narrow calletes behind the Palaces, over the bridges which spanned the small canals, up the steps on one side of them, and down the steps on the other automatically.

  He had been so deep in his thoughts that he had reached the end of his walk almost before he was aware he had started it.

  Now in the Piazza San Marco there were people, women and men, hurrying to work or to the markets, and a few well-dressed gentlemen coming either from a casino, or from a warm bed on their way back to their own houses.

  Others, like the Marquis himself, were walking across the great Square for exercise or in search of coffee at one of the cafés which were to be found under the arches on either side of it.

  The Marquis hardly looked at them, any more than for the moment he was interested in the noble proportions of the buildings forming the sides of the Piazza.

  The heels of his Hessian boots seemed to echo as he walked in between the pillars and down two steps on to the pavement.

  Facing the San Marco with its blaze of gold mosaics, its four superb bronze horses set above the central door, and its bubbling cupolas, he walked into the centre of the Piazza.

  The pigeons strutted ahead of him and then when he seemed to move quicker than they did, took to their wings and flew with a flutter a few feet further on.

  It was then that the Marquis saw waiters putting the tables and chairs into place outside a café and decided to have a cup of coffee.

  Now he thought about it, his mouth felt dry, either from the wines he had consumed the night before, or what was more likely, the airlessness of his bedchamber.

  Unhurriedly, he sat down at a table, having a wide choice at such an early hour of the morning, and instantly a waiter came for his order.

  He gave it in Italian, knowing enough of the language to make himself understood, even though he could not converse at any length.

  Then he surveyed the beauty of the Piazza, without really taking it in.

  He was still thinking about himself, of what he should do, and whether it would be wisest in his own interests to return to London, if not next week, then certainly the week after that.

  He could, of course, visit Naples or Rome, but he had no particular desire to do so and felt it might prove even more boring than returning to what Alastair had called the ‘monotony of England’.

  The waiter brought his coffee, and the Marquis poured it out, realising as he did so that he had chosen Florian’s, the oldest café in Venice, having been opened as long ago as 1702.

  Now he thought of it, he remembered that Venice’s hostility to her enemies and new overlords was exemplified on the Piazza.

  The Venetians frequented Florian’s and boycotted Quadri’s, which was patronised by the Austrians.

  Where an Austrian Band played, no Venetian ever applauded, and they never looked in the direction of the flagpole in front of the San Marco which carried the Austrian flag bearing the double-headed eagle.

  It was this attitude, the Marquis thought, which made Venice so endearing, like a petulant child who continued to rebel however severely it was punished.

  Then, as the sunshine increased, and the San Marco seemed to dazzle almost blindingly behind the flag which to the Venetians was a continual reminder of their humiliation, he became aware that somebody was standing at his side.

  Without even turning his head he assumed it was a beggar and merely made a gesture of dismissal with his hand.

  It was impossible to sit for any length of time at Florian’s or any other café without being pestered for money, or having something offered for sale.

  This was traditional, and it was at Florian’s that Guardi had attempted to sell his paintings before he became famous.

  As whoever was importuning him did not go away, the Marquis turned his head slowly, wondering if he had a small coin in his pocket to ensure his peace.

  He then saw it was a woman who was standing by his table.

  She was very slight, and he supposed she was in fact a beggar, until she said, to his surprise, in English,

  “May I speak to you, my Lord?”

  Her voice was quiet and well educated and the Marquis saw that although she wore a shawl of some black material over her head, she was not in fact the sort of beggar he had expected.

  As he looked a little more carefully at her he saw that her face was dominated by her eyes, which were very large and not, as he had somehow expected from her English voice, blue, but the grey of the pigeons strutting about on the Piazza.

  “You are English!” he exclaimed.

  “I am English – my Lord, and as an English woman – I need your help – desperately!”

  There was no doubt that her clothes were poor and, the Marquis suspected, threadbare, but her voice was too cultured to belong to anyone but a Lady.

  With somewhat of an effort, he rose a little from his seat to say,

  “Will you sit down, and tell me how I can be of assistance?”

  He thought even as he did so, that he was making a mistake. He would doubtless be regaled with a hard luck story, and it would have been far easier to have given her money, and told her to go away.

  Then as she seated herself he saw that her features were perfect, and her small straight nose could not have belonged to anybody who was not of gentle birth.

  Her hands too, while they were ungloved, which was unconventional, had long, slim, pointed fingers, and were, the Marquis noted with his critical faculty for detail, spotlessly clean.

  She was not looking at him, but away from him, and he had the idea she was feeling for words, and at the same time was shy.

  It was not the attit
ude he would have expected of a beggar, and he said in a rather more gentle voice than he would otherwise have used,

  “I am waiting for you to tell me what you wish me to hear.”

  Quite unexpectedly there was a smile on her lips as she said,

  “The truth is, my Lord, I was so – certain you would not listen to me, that now that you are doing so – I feel – overwhelmed.”

  “Why were you certain that I would do anything else?” the Marquis enquired curiously.

  “Because none of the gentlemen I have approached here so far have done anything but tell me to – go away.”

  She gave a little sigh that seemed to come from the very depths of her being as she said,

  “I am sure it is my fault, and I am not a good saleswoman. Nor is my father – which is the whole – trouble.”

  She paused and the Marquis said,

  “Suppose you start at the beginning? I am finding what you are saying somewhat hard to follow. Why are you in Venice when you are English? Are you a tourist, or do you live here?”

  “We are living here, my Lord, and my father is a painter.”

  The Marquis smiled.

  “Now I understand. It is his paintings which you have been trying to sell.”

  It was the old story, he thought.

  Painters who had to live by what they produced invariably found it hard to find a customer.

  As Venice was stuffed with paintings by the greatest artists in the world, he could not imagine there were many casual purchasers to be found sitting in the cafes of the Piazza San Marco.

  As if she followed what he was thinking, the woman beside him said,

  “We managed until Papa became ill, but now he can no longer paint I have to sell one of his pictures – if we are not to die of – starvation.”

  The Marquis looked at her sharply to see if she was exaggerating and making a good story in order to extract money from him.

  But as he looked into her eyes he thought it would be impossible for anybody to lie and for what had been called ‘the windows of the soul’ not to reflect it.

  Her eyes were certainly different from any woman’s he had ever seen before, in that they were as transparent as a stream.

  He felt that he could see in them her anxiety that he would not listen to her, and her fear that he might send her away.

  Because he somehow wished to reassure her, he said, “Is your father English, and is he perhaps better known in England than he is here?”

  “I doubt if you will have heard of Papa,” the girl answered, “but if you would, my Lord, just come and see his paintings, you would understand that while he paints in a very different manner from what is the traditional style in this City, he is, although I say it, a real artist.”

  The Marquis thought a little cynically that was the sort of story he had often heard before, and he was wondering what he should reply when the waiter stood at their table.

  “Coffee for the Signorina?” he questioned.

  “Yes, of course,” the Marquis replied in Italian, and to the girl beside him, “I am sure you would like a cup of coffee?”

  He thought there was a sudden light in her eyes as she replied,

  “I would – not wish to – impose on you, my Lord.”

  “I can afford it,” the Marquis said with a faint smile.

  “I know – that.”

  It suddenly struck him that she had addressed him as ‘my Lord’ and he thought it had not been the ordinary flattery of a beggar to whom every English gentleman was a Lord, as a term of ingratiation.

  As if she was aware what he was thinking, she explained,

  “When I heard you had – come to Venice, I wondered if there would be any – chance of Papa approaching you to – look at his pictures. I have heard of your – collection in England, and Papa has often – talked of the Van Dycks you have at – Wynch in Buckinghamshire.”

  The Marquis looked at her in surprise, but he did not speak, and she went on,

  “I thought therefore you would – understand – as other people do not, what Papa is trying to – convey by his – painting.”

  She made a little gesture with her hands which was somehow very pathetic as she said,

  “To me they are very beautiful – but they are not saleable.”

  “And so you have no money,” the Marquis said and felt it was a somewhat brutal statement of fact.

  “Papa is ill,” the girl replied, “and unless I can find some money he will – die from lack of food more than – anything else.”

  She spoke quite simply in the quiet voice that the Marquis knew came from an iron self-control.

  At the same time, because he was watching her eyes, he knew that she was longing to throw herself at his feet and plead with him to save them.

  He was not certain how he knew this, and yet it was palpably clear to him that she knew it would be the wrong way to approach him and that only if she stated her case calmly and quietly would he listen.

  “What is your name?” he asked.

  “Lucia Beaumont,” she replied, “and my father paints under his own name, which is Bernard Beaumont.”

  The Marquis thought the name was too English for it to appeal to the type of collector who would think an artist from a foreign country must have a fancy name to be authentic.

  As if she read his thoughts, Lucia said,

  “Mama used to say sometimes that Papa would get more attention as a painter if he signed his pictures as a Venetian or an Italian, but he is too proud to be – anything but – himself.”

  The waiter brought the coffee and put it down on the table.

  Lucia looked at it, and the Marquis had the impression that because she was very eager to drink it she deliberately paused, keeping her hands in her lap, before she poured it slowly and very gracefully from the jug into the cup.

  Then, still as if she was playing a part, she turned to give him a little smile before she said,

  “Thank you for giving me – coffee. It is the first time anybody has offered me – coffee when I have – come here.”

  Now her smile faded and the little shudder she gave told the Marquis that what she had in fact been offered was an unpleasant experience she did not want to remember.

  Then, as he watched her sip the coffee, he said,

  “Supposing you sell one of your father’s pictures? What will you do then?”

  “I will try to make him stronger,” Lucia answered, “and if we can make enough money – return to England.”

  There was a little pause before the last three words and the Marquis asked,

  “Is that something you wish to do?”

  “I think it is something we must do – even though it will be difficult.”

  “Why difficult?”

  There was silence and he knew she was wondering whether she could tell him the truth.

  “I asked you,” he said at length, “why it would be difficult for you to go back to England.”

  “There are reasons why it would perhaps be a mistake,” Lucia said, “and yet, if anything happens to Papa I would be very – frightened to be here – alone in this strange country.”

  The way she spoke told the Marquis that it was a very real fear and he tried to form a question which would not seem too inquisitive, but would at the same time tell him what he wished to know.

  Then as she finished her coffee Lucia said,

  “It seems a great deal to ask your Lordship – but could you come and look at Papa’s pictures? It is not far from here and although you may think it an – imposition to ask you, they are too big for me to bring for – your inspection without causing a – great deal of comment.”

  Now the anxiety and fear were back in her eyes, and it flashed through the Marquis’s mind that it would be far easier to give her some money to go away.

  He was quite certain that £5 or even less in Venetian currency would keep her and her father at least from starvation for a week or so.

  Then he to
ld himself that it would be infuriating not to know the end of the story.

  Perhaps she was just a trickster, a beggar who had thought up a tale that would prove irresistible when it came to extorting coins from a man’s pocket.

  Perhaps like other beggars she was just the enticer, the actor for those who were the brains behind the scheme of a pathetic young girl trying to save her father’s life.

  Then the Marquis told himself he was not so easily deceived.

  He had dealt with men in the Army and had always known when they were lying to him.

  He employed a great number of people on his estates and relied invariably on his instinct where they were concerned rather than on what he was told about them.

  In this case he was sure that Lucia was not putting on an act just to impress him, but was telling him the truth, and even while she did so praying that he would believe her.

  He glanced down and saw that her hands in her lap were clenched so tightly together that her fingers were white with the pressure she was exerting on them.

  He knew that having got so far, she was terrified he would now turn her away and have nothing more to do with her.

  The Marquis drew some money from his pocket and put it down on the table, then rose slowly to his feet.

  “Can we walk to where you are living?” he asked. “Or would it be better to take a gondola?”

  He thought as the light came into her eyes that it seemed to eclipse the sunshine.

  “You will – come? You – really will?”

  “It is what you have asked me to do.”

  She gave a sigh that seemed to come from the very depths of her being.

  “How can you be so kind and so very different from what I expected?”

  The Marquis raised his eyebrows.

  “What did you expect?”

  “That you would be far too grand and important to bother with – beggars or impecunious – painters.”

  “And yet you were aware that I am interested in pictures.”

  She was silent for a moment. Then, as she knew he was waiting for her reply, she said in a tremulous little voice, “Pictures mean – different things to – different people.”