Love and Lucia

by Barbara Cartland

  “I think the Grand Canal looks more beautiful from here than from any other place.”

  What she said was indeed true, because from there the long curving line of high Palazzos led to the Rialto Bridge which hundreds of artists painted.

  The Marquis was just about to complain that she was evading his question when he thought it would be a mistake to upset her today, when she had already passed through such an emotional experience as her father’s funeral.

  Instead he agreed with what she had said and a few minutes later they arrived at his Palazzo.

  They went up the stairs and Lucia went at once to her bedroom to take off her bonnet.

  It was some time before she joined the Marquis in the attractive library where he had hung her father’s pictures.

  He was standing looking at one of them, finding once again that the light which Beaumont had depicted on the water and sky seemed almost to vibrate towards him when Lucia came into the room.

  She walked to his side to say very quietly,

  “That is my favourite of all Papa’s pictures. I thought when he had finished it that it was speaking to me.”

  “That is what I was thinking myself,” the Marquis replied.

  She flashed him a little glance that told him once again that she thought him wonderful because he understood, and he saw that she had been crying.

  However, he made no comment, but sitting down on the sofa he said,

  “I have ordered an English tea which I am sure you will appreciate, unless of course you would prefer a glass of champagne?”

  “I would much rather have tea,” Lucia answered. Although the Palazzo could not supply the sort of silver to which the Marquis was accustomed, he appreciated the way the chef had made sandwiches and cakes in what was considered the ‘English’ style.

  Lucia poured out the tea, and he noticed that she did so with the same grace and ease as he would have expected of any Lady of Quality.

  Tea-making had become almost a sacred rite in England since the reign of Queen Anne, and the Marquis had often found himself irritated by women he had under his protection who bungled the task.

  Lucia’s performance was, however, faultless, and as she sipped the China tea which the Marquis knew had been brought with them in his yacht, as a precaution, she very delicately ate first a small sandwich, then a piece of cake.

  He looked at the number of dishes which were filled with delicacies and said,

  “Unless you wish to appear too thin to be fashionable, you will have to make a greater effort at eating than you are at this moment!”

  Lucia gave a little laugh.

  “I have never eaten so much in my life, not even when I was at home.”

  “You must tell me about your home,” the Marquis said. “You have already said your father before he left England sold everything you possessed, but I presume you have some relatives who will be only too pleased to welcome you when you return.”

  There was a silence. Then Lucia replied,

  “You – said we would not – talk about it now.”

  “There is of course, no hurry,” the Marquis agreed, “but at the same time I think you would be wise to write to an aunt, or cousin, or grandparent and tell them your circumstances, so that they may be prepared for your arrival.”

  Lucia looked down at her plate and the Marquis, watching her, thought that against the walls of the library she looked very young and frail.

  Perhaps it was just the impression she made with the fairness of her hair and the translucent whiteness of her skin, but he felt as if she were far too insubstantial to cope with anything, including her own future.

  Then he told himself that he was being ridiculous.

  She was thin from lack of food and from nursing her father, but otherwise she was doubtless a healthy young woman, and it was his duty to make her face up to what lay ahead of her.

  Then, as if she realised he was waiting for an answer to his question, she said,

  “You will – think it very strange – but I – have no relatives!”

  “What do you mean you have no relatives? Everybody has relatives, whether they like them or not!”

  “Unfortunately, I have – none!”

  Now she spoke firmly and in a manner as if the subject was closed, and the Marquis stared at her almost in consternation.

  “I cannot believe that is true.”

  There was silence. Then Lucia said,

  “I have already said that I do not wish to – be an encumbrance to your Lordship. You were kind enough to say you would – take me to England, and when I – get there I will find – somewhere to – go.”

  “Now you are being ridiculous and secretive,” the Marquis said angrily. “You know perfectly well that I cannot accept such a statement.”

  “I will – manage.”

  The Marquis frowned.

  “I know you are counting on the money I am paying you for your father’s pictures,” he said, “but you must be aware that it will not last for ever. What is more, a girl of your age and with your looks cannot wander about alone. It is quite impossible!”

  “I shall be safe enough,” Lucia said, “because I will go back to – Little Morden.”

  “Even though the house is sold?”

  “There is somebody with whom I can stay.”

  “Who?”

  He thought she had no wish to tell him, but after a moment, as if he compelled her to do so, she replied reluctantly,

  “My old nanny whom I had when I was a child has a cottage in the village.”

  The Marquis looked at Lucia as if he thought she could not be telling him the truth, or else was putting on an act for his benefit.

  Then as he looked into her eyes, he knew she could not lie without his being aware of it, and said,

  “That is hardly a feasible plan for more than a few weeks. You cannot expect to spend the rest of your life in Little Morden.”

  “I shall be – safe there.”

  He knew the word meant a great deal to her.

  As if there was no more to be said on the subject, she asked,

  “May I pour you out another cup of tea, my Lord?”

  When he refused she poured some more tea into her own cup.

  She had just picked it up when the door of the library was flung open and a vision in silks and feathers and jewels appeared.

  It was Francesca, and as the Marquis rose slowly to his feet he realised from the manner of her entrance and the expression in her eyes that she was in one of her more dramatic moods.

  He had had so much to think about since bringing Lucia back to the Palazzo after her father’s death, and arranging Beaumont’s funeral, that he had almost forgotten Francesca.

  It flashed through his mind now that she must have been extremely annoyed that he had not attended the Opera last night, nor had he taken her out to supper as she would have expected.

  He had, however, before dining alone with Lucia in the Palazzo, sent a note to the Theatre apologising to Francesca for being unable to entertain her as he had hoped to do.

  He had told Mr. Johnson to see that the messenger took with the note a large basket of orchids.

  He had then more or less forgotten Francesca as he talked to Lucia over dinner, and found himself intrigued and in fact enthralled by how much she knew about painting and pictures and artists.

  She had not exaggerated when she had said she was well read. He quoted Jaachin du Blellay, the most magical of the poets of the French Renaissance, in French,

  Their superb arsenal, their ships, their landings, Their Saint Mark, their Palace, their Rialto, their poetry.

  and she capped with Wordsworth’s sonnet,

  Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade of that which once was great is passed away.

  He was aware that her knowledge came from her father, but the Marquis, who was fascinated by detail, found what she could tell him so absorbing that they had talked until he realised he was being almost cruel in k
eeping her awake so late.

  He had therefore sent her to bed.

  But because his mind felt stimulated and he was therefore not tired, he had ordered a gondola and told the gondolier to take him out on to the canal.

  It had been a night of stars and magic and, as the Venetians would undoubtedly have thought, one of romance.

  The Marquis did not mind being alone.

  He had a great deal to think about, and it had been a relief not to have to listen to the chatter of voices or the artificial laughter which he knew would have been very much part of the supper party to which he should have taken Francesca.

  He had not given a thought all the evening to the Teatro la Fenice with its gilt and pink plush auditorium under a ceiling rioting with cherubs.

  He should have sat in a box with a bunch of scarlet carnations on its balcony, and in the boxes on either side of him beautiful women would have been a blaze of diamonds.

  Symbolic red, white and green bouquets would have been thrown on the stage at the end of Francesca’s performance and occasionally there would have been one tied with the Austrian colours, for the pleasure of watching her kick it scornfully aside.

  Instead, content and at ease, the Marquis had stayed on the Lagoon so late that when he returned to the Palazzo he learned from a servant that Francesca had returned several hours earlier and would now be asleep.

  He had no wish to awaken her and was only relieved to think that she would make no demands on him.

  Instead he had gone to bed alone and slept peacefully, to awaken early as usual, and once again, as he had done the day before, to go for a walk because he needed the exercise.

  This time there was no Lucia to come to his side when he had finished his walk with a cup of coffee at Florian’s.

  When he returned home Mr. Johnson was waiting to inform him about the arrangements for the funeral and leave him to tell Lucia when it would take place.

  He was relieved to find on his return that Francesca had left for another rehearsal, and he had therefore not seen her today until this moment.

  After her dramatic pause in the doorway, as if making an entrance on the stage and making sure of the audience’s attention, she walked towards him. But as she did so, her eyes were not on him, but on Lucia.

  “I heard you had another guest!”

  It was not a statement, but an accusation.

  “Good-day, Francesca!” the Marquis said. “May I introduce to you Miss Beaumont, an Englishwoman whose father, as I expect you have heard, was a very talented artist, but who has most sadly died.”

  “How convenient that you, my Lord, were here to comfort her!” Francesca remarked sarcastically.

  The Marquis was aware that she was about to be difficult.

  Quickly, because he wanted to avoid a scene, he said,

  “You must have had a very tiring rehearsal. Will you have some tea? Or may I offer you a glass of champagne?”

  “I do not want anything but an explanation!” Francesca retorted. “How could you have neglected me last night by omitting to give me supper as you had promised? Then when I returned you were not here.”

  She almost spat the last words at him, and the Marquis realised that, when he was not in the Palazzo, she would be quite certain in her mind that wherever he was, he was not alone.

  Beginning to feel annoyed at the way in which she was confronting him he replied,

  “I suggest we discuss this, Francesca, when we are alone.”

  Because she felt embarrassed, Lucia rose to her feet and said,

  “I will – go to my – room, my Lord.”

  “Your room?” Francesca questioned shrilly, “and I suppose it is now your Palazzo, and the Marquis being your lover has no further use for me!”

  Her voice rose hysterically and Lucia looked at her wide-eyed as if she was mesmerised.

  She was so bemused by the singer’s appearance and the way she spoke that, when she had risen to her feet to leave, she was still holding in her hand the cup from which she had been drinking.

  Now the Marquis said sharply,

  “There is no need for you to leave, Lucia. Signorina Rosso and I will talk elsewhere.”

  He spoke so firmly that Lucia remained staring at Francesca.

  “I have no intention of talking to you anywhere, my Lord, but here!” Francesca declared. “I want an explanation. What have I done? What could I have said? And why have you changed?”

  She threw out her arms dramatically as she said,

  “I am forgotten – neglected. I have not even the consolation of wearing the necklace you promised me. I thought an Englishman never broke his word!”

  She was being over-dramatic and acting as she might have done on a stage.

  The Marquis knew as she spoke that the whole crux of the situation rested on two things, that he had not come to her room to make love to her last night as she had expected, and that the emerald necklace had not yet materialised.

  He replied coldly and with an icy note in his voice which Alastair would have known showed that his temper was rising,

  “I do not break my word, Francesca. The necklace I promised you shall be yours, but as I do not like being browbeaten in my own house, I suggest you would be very much more comfortable in your own apartment.”

  Francesca gave a scream that seemed to echo round the walls.

  “Are you daring to turn me out?”

  “I am only thinking of your comfort,” the Marquis replied, “which I have obviously failed to provide.”

  Francesca gave another scream and came closer to him so that they faced each other across the small tea-table. “If you dare to do this to me – Francesca Rosso – you will be sorry!” she said. “I have never been so insulted by any man.”

  “I am sorry if you feel like that, Francesca,” the Marquis replied, “but I must beg of you to end this very uncomfortable tirade. If you will not come and talk to me sensibly in another room, then it would be best for me to leave you alone to recover from your quite unnecessary anger.”

  He made a movement as if he would walk away, having however no intention of leaving Francesca and Lucia alone.

  Francesca made a gesture to stop him.

  “You will not leave me!” she said. “I will not be made the laughing-stock of Venice because you have no further use for me! You shall pay – yes, my Lord – you shall pay for what you have done to a woman who gave you her heart!”

  As she spoke, her voice rising almost to a scream of anger, she put her hand down the front of her low bodice and swiftly drew out a long, thin stiletto.

  As it gleamed in the light coming from the window there was something very evil about it.

  She raised it with the flamboyant gesture that she had used a hundred times upon the stage, aiming it with all her strength at the Marquis’s heart.

  Because it was something he had never anticipated in his wildest dreams, he was for the moment frozen into immobility.

  But as Lucia, watching, realised what the Venetian was about to do, instantly and without thinking she threw the contents of the cup she held into Francesca’s face.

  The hot tea blinded her eyes, diverting the blow she intended to inflict on the Marquis – and which might easily have killed him – to pierce the cloth of his coat just below the shoulder.

  At the same time, as the Marquis came to his senses, he reached out to catch Francesca’s wrist in his right hand and force her to drop the stiletto on the ground.

  She gave first a scream of pain from the vice-like grip of his fingers, then went into hysterics as she sank down on a chair, screaming, laughing and crying all at the same time.

  Lucia stood with the empty cup in her hand, unable to breathe. It was then that the Marquis said, in a quiet voice,

  “Go to your room, Lucia!”

  She put down the cup.

  “You are – wounded!”

  “It is nothing. Only a scratch. Do as I tell you.”

  He could hardly make himse
lf heard above the noise Francesca was making, but Lucia understood.

  As if she was too frightened to stay, and at the same time was escaping from something ugly and unpleasant, she ran from the room with the swiftness of a small animal seeking shelter.

  The Marquis waited until she was out of sight. Then he said sharply,

  “Behave yourself, Francesca! I am appalled at your behaviour, and if you had killed me you would have caused an international incident which would certainly have ruined your career.”

  Francesca pressed her lips together, then said in a different tone,

  “How can you be so cruel to me? You have broken my heart!”

  “I dare say the present I will give you, if you behave yourself, will more than adequately repair it.”

  The Marquis spoke coldly, and in a firm voice that proclaimed more clearly than words his distaste of what had occurred.

  Then, as if Francesca regretted she had lost control of her feelings, she said with an exaggerated humility,

  “Forgive me! It is because I love you and cannot bear to lose you to any other woman that I could not conceal my unhappiness.”

  “I hardly think that justifies what might have been murder,” the Marquis answered.

  He picked up the stiletto from the floor as he spoke, and walking to the open window, flung it out into the Canal.

  Then he walked to the fireplace to ring for a servant. Francesca sat still, her eyes watching him.

  Then slowly she took off her feather-trimmed bonnet and smoothed her dark hair into place.

  The door opened and the Marquis said,

  “Signorina Rosso has to leave immediately! Have her belongings packed and they can follow her in another gondola.”

  The Marquis spoke in Italian and the servant bowed his head to show he understood and shut the door.

  Francesca waited a moment. Then she sprang to her feet and ran to the Marquis to fling her arms around his neck.

  “Pardon me,” she begged. “I love you with all my heart. You cannot send me away! I swear I will die if you do!”

  The Marquis unlocked her hands from behind his neck.

  “It is no use, Francesca,” he said. “You are shrewd enough to realise that when the curtain falls there is nothing you can do about it. I will give you some money now.”