Deep and Silent Waters

by Charlotte Lamb

  ‘Soup?’ queried Laura.

  Sebastian laughed shortly. ‘Trifle – they call it English soup here, their idea of a joke!’ Why was he so sombre, so brusque? She wished she knew more about his early life here, the reality of his relationship with this aristocratic Venetian family – the way the Contessa talked it was hard to be certain how she felt about Sebastian.

  ‘Lucia soaks the sponge cakes in amaretto,’ the Contessa said. ‘Do you know amaretto, Miss Erskine? It is almond liqueur, delicious. She makes her own custard, and on top of that puts whipped cream, sprinkled with pieces of almond. Sebastian, you remember how you and Nico used to fight over who got the last spoonful from the dish?’

  ‘I remember,’ Sebastian said, his eyes distant, fixed on the past, perhaps.

  He would have seen far more of the cook than of the Contessa, thought Laura. Had the reminder been deliberate? Or was the Contessa genuinely unaware that she was treading on delicate ground when she spoke of his childhood, his father’s position in this house? Vittoria d’Angeli smiled a good deal: whenever you looked at her that bland smile was on her face, but what was behind it?

  ‘You must go down to the kitchen and talk to her later, after dinner, about old times,’ she said, and again Laura wondered if that was a subtle reminder that the kitchen was where he belonged, in spite of his fame, his success, his money. She could see nothing in Sebastian’s face to betray what was going on inside him but Laura picked up an echo of pain, anger, and felt an instinctive urge to protect him from the soft, smiling murmurs of the Contessa.

  Her mother had often said she loved drama too much, put more of it into daily life than was really there. She hoped she was overreacting: she would hate to see Sebastian – or anyone else – get hurt.

  ‘I’m afraid I have to get back to the hotel, Contessa,’ she said, politely. ‘I would have loved to stay for dinner but it is impossible. Someone is waiting for me.’

  The dark brows made a half-moon of amused query. ‘Ring him and ask him to join us.’

  Laura knew she had flushed and was angry with herself. ‘She’s my agent, and we are having dinner with some important people this evening. I have to be there.’

  The Contessa pouted like a child. ‘Oh, but you could change the time. Meet them later. You know, we eat very late, in Venice – you could eat a little pasta with us, then have dessert with your important people.’

  Sebastian drawled, ‘I’m afraid I have to get back, too. My whole team are waiting for me. We are planning a celebration meal after finishing our last film, I can’t back out.’

  ‘Nico will be very disappointed,’ the Contessa said reproachfully.

  ‘I’m sorry, some other time, perhaps. But I know Laura would love to see something of the palazzo before we have to go.’

  ‘Of course, please, come in – ah, here is Antonio.’

  The man had appeared silently in the doorway: very thin, slight, in a black waistcoat and white shirt, black trousers, giving the impression of a uniform. He had grey hair, olive skin and dark eyes.

  ‘You remember Antonio, Lucia’s husband, Sebastian? He, too, has been working for us all his life. He remembers you, don’t you, Antonio?’

  The man smiled faintly, bowing. ‘Si, si, già, Contessa.’

  Sebastian shook hands with him, spoke in rapid Italian. Laura picked up a touch of frost in him, sensed that he did not much like this man, and she could understand why: Antonio had secretive, cold eyes behind those heavy lids and black lashes. He kept them veiled most of the time but when you did catch sight of them they betrayed a chilly subtlety, which made you shiver.

  ‘Some wine, Antonio, per favore.’

  ‘Si, Contessa, subito.’ He vanished and the Contessa waved Sebastian and Laura after him, into the house.

  ‘My husband’s family is one of the most ancient in Venice, Miss Erskine. Ca’ d’Angeli was built in fourteen thirty-five, during the reign of the great Doge, Francesco Foscari, who was a cousin of the man who built this house, Simeone d’Angeli.’

  Laura explained apologetically, ‘I’m afraid I know almost nothing about Venetian history.’

  ‘No, of course, how should you? It means nothing to anyone but a Venetian.’

  ‘And your own family?’ Laura asked. ‘Are they Venetian too?’

  The question fell into a silence, cold as marble, frosty as winter. ‘No, we are Milanese,’ the Contessa answered at last, and walked quickly towards the open front door to close it.

  Laura gave Sebastian a look of enquiry, raising her brows. He shook his head, but she saw cold amusement in his eyes. Maybe he would explain later.

  As they passed through the ground floor, the Contessa leading the way, Laura asked, ‘Why is this floor completely empty?’ then hoped she had not touched on another delicate subject. Maybe the family couldn’t afford to furnish the whole house.

  But the Contessa answered casually, and without resentment this time, ‘So that when the tide floods in over the door-sill, as it does with every really high tide, nothing will be ruined. If you look at the wall you’ll see tide-marks from years back. Here, in Venice, we’re used to flooding. We clean the marble once the water level falls again but you never quite get rid of the stain. The mixture of salt and grime sinks in – it is very destructive to this marble. But that’s why most houses in Venice have an empty ground floor. We all live on the upper storeys of our homes.’

  The stairs were steep and Laura clutched at the banisters, afraid of slipping on the marble. At the top they emerged into a wide, dark room running from the front of the house to the back, hung with tapestries over marble walls. The floor was marble too; the ceiling decorated with cartouches containing paintings, each framed in gilded plaster. Laura stared up at plump ladies floating on pink clouds, looking sensually inviting, surrounded with more cherubs like those on the palazzo’s façade, but painted this time, each carrying a cornucopia from which flowers and fruit cascaded into the laps of the smiling women.

  ‘Do you remember the ceilings, Sebastian? Or have you forgotten everything about Ca’ d’Angeli?’ The Contessa’s dark eyes watched him intently.

  ‘I remember very little. I was so young when we left.’

  ‘So you were.’ The Contessa walked on. ‘This is the main floor of the house, the bedrooms are above, but the salon is down here.’

  The long, dark room was sparsely furnished: here and there gilded chairs with bow legs had been arranged against the walls between elegant bureaux and several tables on which stood delicate little objects, of ivory, silver or glass. A high window at each end gave some light but the hall was still shadowy and the air had a mustiness that told you the windows were never opened, even at the height of the summer.

  From an open door on the left came the sound of Mozart, clear, precise drops of music. They walked towards it into a large, high-ceilinged salon where two comfortable yellow silk brocade sofas faced each other in the middle of the room, placed on faded but clearly old and probably valuable Turkish carpets; nearby stood a table piled with leatherbound books, and around the room smaller tables supported lamps with Venetian glass shades in deep, dramatic colours, rich burgundy or dark blue, leaded like Tiffany glass to form the shapes of flowers and leaves. Next to them were silver-framed photographs, a gold clock and delicate porcelain figures, which looked like Meissen.

  The panelled walls were hung with paintings and tapestries and a massive white marble fireplace, carved with figures, men’s faces, animals, birds, flowers, reached almost to the ceiling. Laura felt suddenly out of place, a clumsy creature in this exquisite world.

  As they entered, the man playing the piano looked across the room at them, his fingers stilling on the keys. Laura felt a bewildered recognition as if she had met him before, but knew that it must be merely the Italian colouring, the black hair, olive skin, dark eyes. He had an aquiline nose, a long jawline, high cheekbones and a mouth with a firm upper lip but a full lower one, suggesting passion and sensuality.

&n
bsp; His mother bustled towards him, gesturing with her plump little hands. ‘Nico, look who’s here! While I was ringing his hotel he was on his way to see us.’

  The pianist rose. He was taller than Sebastian, more than six foot, slim-hipped, narrow-waisted, yet with broad shoulders and a deep, muscled chest, the figure of an athlete. It seemed strange that he was wearing jeans, thought Laura. He should be in the dress of some other century, another culture. He did not have a modern face. Her eyes wandered from him to the shabby, ancient tapestries on the wall behind him, filled with men in doublet and hose, riding big horses, with dogs milling around them, confronting a stag at bay, or in a timeless Italianate landscape of cypress and olive trees with red-brick houses and churches in the distance. The faces were all Italianate – any of them could have been the living man at the piano – but there was a far more striking resemblance in a portrait hanging on another wall. of a man, full-length, in sombre red satin. It could have been a painting of Niccolo d’Angeli, and had to be one of his ancestors: the family face was unmistakable, that curved, predatory nose, the same sensual mouth, smouldering dark eyes and angular jaw.

  Sebastian went towards him. They stared at each other, then began talking in rapid Italian, shook hands, smiled.

  It was a shock to Laura to see how alike they were, at least in their colouring and build, both of them tall, dark men of much the same age with similar faces. They could be brothers.

  Her breath caught. Brothers. She slid a furtive look at the Contessa, who was intent on watching them and did not catch Laura’s stare. Sebastian couldn’t be this woman’s son, too? Could he? He had never spoken about his mother to her, except to say that she had died before he left Venice at the age of six. It would explain so much.

  Then her common sense reasserted itself. No, it couldn’t be. She had only just met the Contessa, but there was no mistaking the pride and arrogance in that face under the bland smiles. This was not a woman likely to have had a love affair with one of her own servants. She mustn’t let her imagination run away with her.

  She was so busy staring at his mother that she missed the moment when Niccolo d’Angeli turned in her direction and suddenly found him standing in front of her, looking intently at her with those liquid dark eyes so like Sebastian’s.

  He was saying something, but his Italian accent was so strong that for a moment she didn’t realise he was speaking English and gazed at him without understanding, only thinking that he was much taller than herself – which she always noticed because she was often conscious of being taller than some of the men she met. They always hated that: you saw it in their eyes, in their reluctant, sulky smiles. Men liked women who were smaller than they were, little women they could feel protective about, pet, patronise.

  ‘Delighted to meet you,’ she heard, and then he reached out, took her limp hand and lifted it to his mouth, the kiss so soft and brief she could hardly believe it had happened until he had released her hand. Then she felt herself blushing.

  ‘How do you do?’ she mumbled, looking down, in the old child-like belief that if you didn’t meet someone’s eyes they couldn’t see you.

  He smelt of a strange mixture of fragrances: turpentine and paint, woodsmoke and a fresh, astringent pine aftershave.

  ‘I recognised you at once from your films, and you were a model, weren’t you? The camera loves you – it’s those high cheekbones and that wonderful mouth.’ He lifted one long index finger and brushed it along her lips, making her shiver. Sebastian had done that once; the gesture had been identical, her own sensation too.

  ‘Please,’ Nico said, in his deep, foreign voice, waving a hand towards the yellow sofas. ‘Shall we sit down? Will you have a drink? Some wine?’ He walked to a tray standing on a table near the piano, pulled a bottle out of a bucket of ice and held it up to the dying light from the window. ‘This is a very good Soave, from Verona, not far from here. I know the vineyard it comes from, it is last autumn’s vintage, and you know, they say with white wine drink the youngest wine you can – I can promise it is good.’ It was pale yellow with a green tinge to it. He poured glasses, handed them to his mother and Laura, who had both sat down, then to Sebastian, who still stood as if he couldn’t wait to get away, his brows creased in a faint frown.

  Raising his glass in a toast, Niccolo said, ‘Cin cin … salute!’

  Laura took a sip. It tasted faintly almondy, quite pleasant. She took another mouthful, self-conscious under the two pairs of eyes, wishing that Niccolo and his mother would stop staring at her.

  ‘How long are you staying in Venice, Miss Erskine?’ Nico asked.

  ‘Please, call me Laura.’ The formality of the house was unnerving enough; having him use her surname made it worse. ‘Just two days, we leave the morning after the award ceremony.’

  ‘Do you have to? Couldn’t you stay a little longer?’

  ‘I’d love to, but our flight is booked.’

  ‘Have you been to Venice before?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Then you must change your flight and stay a few more days – it would be a crime for you to leave so soon. There is so much to see here that a month wouldn’t be long enough, let alone two days. I would love to show you my city, a guided tour of some private houses as well as the usual tourist places.’

  ‘That’s very kind but I have to get back.’ Laura jumped as something moved behind her on the sofa. She twisted her head to look and broke out into laughter as she saw a tiny black kitten curled up on one of the cushions. ‘Oh, how sweet!’ She put her wine glass on the floor, then turned to pick up the kitten and put it on her lap, stroking the small head with one finger; a slender crimson leather collar encircled its throat. ‘I didn’t see it there. How lucky that I didn’t sit on it. I might have injured it, as it’s so small. How old is it?’

  Niccolo knelt down beside her and caressed the kitten too. ‘Just six weeks, his mamma is our kitchen cat, a stray who wandered in here one day.’ She was beginning to understand his English now that her ear had grown accustomed to his strong accent, or perhaps she was so interested in the kitten that she was listening more intently.

  ‘Lucia adores cats, and she has a soft heart, but my mother was not pleased when these kittens arrived. One died and we’ve managed to find homes for two, but not for this one yet.’ He smiled into her eyes. ‘If you would like him we’d be very happy to let you have him.’

  Her face fell with regret. ‘Oh, I wish I could take him back with me, but we have such strict laws about animals coming into Britain. They would insist on him staying in quarantine for six months and that would be cruel to such a very young cat.’

  ‘Yes, too cruel, I agree. Well, while you’re here you can visit him whenever you like, then,’ Nico said softly, and his long, sensitive fingers brushed against Laura’s as they both fondled the kitten. A prickle ran up her arm, awareness, attraction, a rare sensation for her.

  She looked round involuntarily and found Sebastian watching them, a smouldering anger in his eyes, a darkness she had seen before.

  Glancing back hurriedly at Nico she said, ‘Your mother told us you are a sculptor. I would love to see some of your work.’

  ‘Nothing easier. Come along to my studio now.’ He got to his feet and Laura did so, too, still holding the kitten.

  ‘I’m sorry. We don’t have time. We have to get back to the hotel for dinner,’ Sebastian said, abruptly.

  Laura looked at her watch, sighed, put the kitten down on the sofa and said regretfully, ‘I’m afraid he’s right, I can’t be late.’ She smiled at the Contessa. ‘Thank you for letting me see your lovely home, and for the wine, it was delicious.’ Risking a little Italian she added shyly, ‘Grazie, tante grazie, lei e molto gentile.’

  The Contessa smiled. Her son said, ‘Benissimo! So you do speak some Italian?’

  ‘A few words, that’s all,’ she said ruefully.

  She began to walk towards the door and Nico caught up with her while Sebastian was saying good
bye to the Contessa.

  He said quickly, ‘What about tomorrow? Could you come for lunch and see my studio? Would you pose for me? I have an idea – I won’t tell you about it now, we can talk tomorrow.’

  She would have loved to, but she had to say, ‘I’m afraid I’m busy all day.’

  ‘Try. Come for lunch – we’ll eat out in the garden. You know Sebastian’s father was our gardener? His pride and joy were the lemon trees. We still have their descendants – the ones Giovanni planted all died during a very bad flood. They drowned in their pots, or withered with salt-burn, but luckily we had taken cuttings, which were inside, on the upper balcony, and they survived.’

  ‘Did you know Sebastian’s mother?’

  They had reached the end of the long, shadowy hall and started down the marble stairs. Laura heard the Contessa’s dress rustling and looked back in time to see her coming out of the salon alone, walking across the hall into another room and vanishing. Sebastian came out of the salon, too, hurried after Laura and Nico. He looked angry. What had the Contessa said to him?

  She suddenly caught what Nico was saying, and her eyes opened wide. ‘Didn’t Sebastian tell you? Gina was my wet-nurse when I was a baby. Sebastian is a few months older than me. My mother had a bad time in labour, she was ill for a while afterwards and her milk dried up. She couldn’t breastfeed me, but Sebastian’s mother had enough for both of us so she took care of me along with her own baby. She and Giovanni had rooms on the upper floor at the back, a private little apartment. One room was a nursery for me and Sebastian. I saw more of Gina for the first few years of my life than I did of my own mother. Mamma was always so busy running the house, visiting people.’

  Standing at the door of the palazzo Laura looked out into the soft dusk at the gleaming waters of the canal. The gondola that had brought them was no longer tied up at the painted poles of the landing-stage. Sebastian was running down the stairs and Laura swung round to look at him, her head whirling with what she had just discovered. She had realised at last why Sebastian had always thought of Ca’ d’Angeli as home. He had spent his first six years upstairs in it, in his parents’ apartment.