Dark Venetian

by Anne Mather

  Emma felt sickened, and ashamed. By even being here she was allying herself in the deception, and all thoughts of the pleasure she herself might gain from this free holiday were banished by embarrassment of the situation. She would tell Celeste as soon as they got back to their suite that she was going home, and Celeste could move into the Palazzo tomorrow and do whatever she liked without any assistance from her.

  The Contessa suddenly turned her attention to Emma. She studied her for a moment, and then said:

  ‘How are you liking your visit to Venice, my dear?’ She smiled. ‘Are you interested in old buildings and museums and art galleries? Or are you more enamoured of the Lido, and the calm blue waters of the Adriatic?’

  Emma gathered her thoughts. ‘I think it’s a beautiful place,’ she replied politely, none of her earlier enthusiasm now evident, and Celeste looked curiously at her. ‘Of course I’ve already visited the Doge’s Palace, and this morning I had coffee in one of those outdoor cafés in St. Mark’s Square.’

  ‘Ah, yes, the Piazza San Marco. And did you go into the Basilica?’

  ‘Unfortunately, no. I didn’t have the time to explore it properly, and I didn’t want to have to rush it.’

  The Contessa clasped her hands. ‘I can see you do find pleasure in beautiful things. That pleases me. My family used to have a great collection of paintings and sculptures, but alas, many of these have had to be sold, but that does not prevent me visiting the art galleries, and the churches where there is a veritable fortune in famous art treasures to be seen and gloated over.’ She laughed, and turned to Celeste. ‘Your mother and I used to spend hours in the Louvre when we were young students. Did she tell you?’

  Celeste hesitated. ‘Of course, dear Aunt Francesca,’ she said smoothly, but Emma felt sure that this was just more of Celeste’s lies. She herself had been unable to prevent the surge of excitement that talking about such world-famous masterpieces could arouse, and the Contessa’s knowledge, strengthened by years of exploration and interest, would have enthralled her for hours. It was a pity that tomorrow she must return to London, and try and forget this almost unforgettable interlude.

  When dinner was over, Emma excused herself thankfully. Now at least she could leave without arousing Celeste’s annoyance, for she felt sure her stepmother wanted to be alone with the Contessa to pursue whatever reason had brought her to Venice in the first place.

  Emma went up to her room, collected a light wrap, and went downstairs again. If she was leaving in the morning, she intended enjoying as much of her final evening as was possible. She didn’t particularly care that it was not the thing for an unescorted young girl to venture out alone on the streets of Venice, particularly as Italian men were noted for their amorous advances.

  But Emma felt perfectly capable of handling any would-be suitor and she ignored the admiring glances cast in her direction, and the casual greetings sometimes flung across at her.

  The Riva degli Schiavoni was crowded even so early in the season, and gondolas were departing at intervals from the landing stage taking couples for an unforgettable trip along the canal, the gondolas with their lights glinting in the dusk.

  The shops were closed now, but the numerable cafés were still open, and Emma was tempted to go in and ask for coffee, but in this her courage defeated her. She had not brought her purse with her or she might have hired a gondola herself, despite the extravagance, for there at least she would be free of the necessity of continually looking away from bold dark eyes.

  She returned to the hotel at last, depression beginning to invade her consciousness. She still had Celeste to face, and it was not going to be pleasant. She could remember in the past the viciousness of Celeste’s temper when she was crossed.

  She reached the Danieli, and was crossing the foyer unseeingly, when she was brought up unexpectedly against the chest of a man coming just as self-absorbedly from the bar. She stepped back awkwardly, her cheeks flushed, and a ready apology on her lips. But the man forestalled her, his inbred courtesy always in evidence.

  ‘Scusi, signorina. Si lo un mio sbaglio.’

  ‘Non importa, signore,’ Emma murmured, swiftly, a smile lifting the corners of her mouth as her eyes encountered the light blue gaze of the man confronting her, and as his experienced appraisal of herself was taking place she found herself studying him just as intently.

  There was something about him which she felt set him apart from the other Italian men she had encountered this evening. That he was Italian she was left in no doubt despite the fact that he was easily six feet in height, which is tall for an Italian. He was lean, but his shoulders were broad and belied the casual elegance of his dinner jacket. She felt sure he was not simply a sybarite, although he looked completely at ease in these luxurious surroundings. His skin was darkly tanned for a European, as though he spent much time outdoors, and his lashes were the longest she had ever seen on a man and were the only effeminate thing about an otherwise completely masculine face. She supposed some women would call him handsome, but his attraction did not rely on good looks, but rather on a magnetic kind of charm which surrounded him leaving a woman completely aware of her own femininity. He was much older than Emma, anywhere between thirty-five and forty-five, with a kind of agelessness that utterly disarmed Emma. She had never been attracted to older men; boys of her own age had always seemed much more fun than the older doctors at the hospital but suddenly all her earlier opinions seemed to go through a swift revision, and she realized she really had had very little experience of life.

  The man smiled now, and said: ‘Parla lei Italiano?’

  Emma sighed. ‘No.’ She shrugged. ‘Only phrase-book Italian, anyway.’

  ‘So.’ He spoke English now with only a slight accent. ‘You are English. Tell me, did I hurt you?’

  Emma shook her head, ignoring the fact that when she had stepped back so precipitately someone had kicked her ankle and it was really quite painful now.

  ‘Good, good. You are holidaying here, signorina?’

  ‘Yes, signore.’ Emma nodded, and then realizing she was allowing herself to be ‘picked up’ as they say in England, she began to move away, but the man stopped her, a light hand on her arm, his fingers hard and cool.

  ‘Don’t go, signorina. Allow me to buy you a Campari, if only to show that you accepted my apology.’

  Emma shook her head. ‘Thank you, but no, signore. My … my friends are waiting for me. I must go. And of course I accept your apology. It was as much my fault as yours.’

  The man’s eyes were amused. ‘Very well, but at least tell me your name.’

  Emma smiled. ‘All right. Emma Maxwell.’

  ‘Bene. Arrivederci, signorina.’

  ‘Good-bye.’ Emma walked resolutely across to the elevator, but she felt supremely conscious that his eyes followed her, and felt a leap of something like excitement inside her at the possible prospect of seeing him again.

  It was not until she gained the sanctity of her own room that she remembered her earlier decision to tell Celeste that evening that she was leaving in the morning. Emma faltered, and walked across to her dressing table mirror, drawn by a desire to see her reflection, to study it appraisingly, and just how stupidly she was behaving. What would a man like that want with an idiot teenager like herself? If she had been madly beautiful like Celeste, there might have been some reason for her to feel this mad surge of happiness, but she had nothing in particular to commend her. Her hair was blonde, it was true, but it was disappointingly straight and at the moment hung over her shoulders in silky strands; her complexion was fair, but would soon tan in the hot sun; and her eyes which she had always considered her best feature, large and wide-spaced and most definitely green, had lashes which were nowhere near as long as that man’s. And finally she came to the pink gown; it really did do nothing for her whatsoever, and she decided that whatever happened, first thing in the morning she would visit one of those small markets, that abounded in the tiny alleyways among the canal
s, and buy some material and cottons and run herself up a couple of dresses in colours which she knew suited her. A vivid red, perhaps, and that gorgeous shade of kingfisher blue.

  But first of all there was Celeste, and somehow now the desire to escape from Venice at the first opportunity seemed to have lost its appeal.

  CHAPTER THREE

  CELESTE did not come up to the suite until well into the early hours of the morning, and when she did she was humming softly and smugly to herself as though well pleased with the evening’s happenings. Emma had sat up reading until midnight, and then she had gone to bed to lie awake wondering what on earth Celeste was doing. Surely the Contessa did not keep these hours at her age.

  Emma slid out of bed, and wrapped a quilted dressing-gown about her slim body. Then she quietly opened the door of her bedroom and entered the lounge of the suite. Celeste had just lit a cigarette, and was standing smoking, a lazy smile on her face.

  She started, almost guiltily Emma thought, at her stepdaughter’s appearance, and said:

  ‘Emma! What in heaven’s name are you doing, creeping around at this hour of the morning?’

  Emma shrugged her shoulders, and advanced into the room. ‘I … I couldn’t sleep,’ she said casually. ‘Celeste, I’m thinking of going home tomorrow … or I mean today, actually.’

  Celeste’s expression altered considerably. ‘Home? You mean to England?’

  ‘Yes.’ Emma hugged herself nervously. ‘I … I don’t know what lies you’ve been telling about our relationship, but I’m certainly not prepared to deceive that sweet old lady by any more of it …’

  Celeste stared incredulously at her, and then she laughed scornfully. ‘That sweet old lady, as you called her, happens to care more about money than my deficiencies,’ she snapped. ‘Has it dawned on your naïve intelligence that the reason I’m here is to grab myself a title, and in the subsequent process restore the Cesare family fortunes?’

  Emma flushed. ‘I’ve been working it out,’ she admitted slowly. ‘But it can’t be as simple as that, Celeste, or you wouldn’t have bothered to bring me along, would you?’

  Celeste smiled, but it was not a pleasant smile. ‘To a degree you have a point. The Contessa is money-conscious, I admit, but like all Italians, the family means a lot to her, and if I had arrived here without my dear stepdaughter, I venture to suppose she would be curious as to the reasons.’

  ‘You could have told the truth: that I have a job in London.’

  ‘Oh, no, darling. Perhaps with your small-minded approach to life it hasn’t occurred to you to wonder exactly how much Clifford left me, but I can assure you the Contessa knows my bank balance down to the last farthing, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘What has that to do with it?’ asked Emma wearily. ‘Lots of girls whose parents have money work for a living, why shouldn’t I!’

  Celeste shrugged. ‘You just might,’ she murmured reflectively, ‘but with several million dollars in cash and securities, I think it’s unlikely, to say the least.’

  ‘Several million dollars!’ Emma was incredulous.

  ‘Of course. You didn’t imagine I married Clifford and put up with his pawing for peanuts, did you?’

  Emma was nauseated. ‘Celeste,’ she said, almost inaudibly.

  ‘So? Emma, be sensible! What possible harm can there be in allowing an old lady to imagine that you and I are on the best of terms, just to satisfy her … how shall I put it … proprieties?’

  Hearing it put like that Emma was temporarily bereft of reasons. If it was true that the Contessa was only interested in Celeste for her money, wasn’t it reasonable that Celeste should have the chance to acquire her title, if that was what was so important to her? After all, Celeste was the type of person to get what she wanted despite any opposition.

  Emma shook her head. ‘The whole situation is disgusting. If this is what money brings you, I’m glad I don’t have any.’

  ‘Why, darling? Wouldn’t you like to be a Contessa?’

  ‘Not particularly. I’d rather marry a man I loved than some middle-aged playboy who has gambled away all his own fortune and now wants to start on someone else’s.’

  Celeste laughed. ‘Oh, Emma, you couldn’t be more wrong as far as the Count Vidal Cesare is concerned. He’s far from middle-aged, and he’s very attractive. Not that that mattered, as you will have gathered, but it’s nice to know the father of my children won’t need aphrodisiacs to stimulate his natural desires.’

  Emma turned away. ‘Celeste!’ she exclaimed, ‘that’s a horrible thing to say.’

  ‘You’re far too sensitive, darling,’ retorted Celeste carelessly. ‘If you stay long with me you’ll soon shed that sensitive skin of yours and toughen up a bit. Grow up, darling, surely you’re well aware that the reason the Contessa wants me and not some older and possibly richer woman is because I can produce the heir that she so ardently desires for her grandson. See?’

  Emma shrugged. ‘Well, that settles it. I’d rather stay on the outside, if you don’t mind. I’ll go back home, and you get on with your life without me. You’ve managed very well so far; don’t think you’ll need to feel any further responsibility for me. Like you, I can survive in my own sphere.’

  Celeste’s voice was suddenly hard. ‘You’re staying.’

  ‘I think not.’ Emma was firm.

  ‘Then think again, Emma. The Contessa has taken a liking to you and I have no intention of allowing you to return to England leaving me with a host of unexplainable details to contend with. No, darling, you’re staying, and if you intend making any speeches, don’t! You may not believe this right now, but I could make life pretty unpleasant for you, if I was forced to do so, and if you walk out on me I will consider myself forced to do so.’

  Emma’s cheeks burned. ‘Don’t threaten me, Celeste. I support myself, you know. I don’t need any assistance from you.’

  ‘No, perhaps not. But this hospital you are training at in London could no doubt use some funds, and if you cross me I’ll find someone on their staff who is corruptible enough to do anything for money, understand?’

  Emma stared at her. ‘You must be joking!’

  ‘I was never more serious in my life.’

  ‘There are other hospitals.’

  ‘I would always be able to find you. I have the money, darling, and believe me, I know, money can buy anything, but anything!’

  ‘I believe you would hound me,’ said Emma wonderingly. ‘Why? Celeste, why? What have I ever done to you?’

  ‘Nothing. And that has nothing to do with it, Emma. I want you here, and if you walk out on me, your life will become so unpleasant you will surely wish you’d never crossed me.’ She sighed, and her tone changed again. ‘Darling, what am I asking, after all? Six weeks of your time, six weeks during which time you can explore one of the most exciting cities in the world; surely that’s not so much to ask?’

  Emma shook her head, too choked to speak, then without a word she turned and walked back into her bedroom. She was nineteen, which was not a very great age, inexperienced and a little frightened by her stepmother’s threats, and there was no one in the world to whom she could turn, apart from a couple of distant relatives back there in England, who couldn’t care less really what happened to her. It seemed she would go with Celeste, because just at present she didn’t feel up to standing up to her.

  At breakfast the next morning the scene the previous evening might never have happened. Celeste had resumed her earlier indulgent attitude, and if she thought Emma was a little silent, and perhaps rather subdued, her own inconsequential chatter amply covered any evidence of that.

  She told Emma lightly that she had met Count Vidal Cesare the previous evening.

  ‘He joined us after dinner,’ she recounted, a smile on her lips, a little self-satisfied smile like the look of the cat when she has just been at the cream. ‘He couldn’t join us for dinner, because he had commitments which couldn’t be broken, but he stayed long after the Contessa had
returned home, and we went for a trip on a gondola. Emma, darling, it was marvellous! We must see what we can do about arranging an escort for you while you are here, because one cannot enjoy any of the delights of Venice by night without a suitable male in tow.’

  ‘Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,’ said Emma quietly, and Celeste looked at her sharply.

  ‘You are not leaving.’ It was a statement rather than a question.

  ‘No, Celeste, I’m not leaving. But nor do I intend to be manoeuvred by you into accepting the company of some hangabout relation of this Count’s.’

  ‘Don’t be so vehement, darling. No one is going to force you to do anything you don’t want to do … now.’ She rose elegantly to her feet. ‘And now I’ll go and get dressed, and you can finish the packing, if you’d be so kind. A gondola is coming for us at eleven. Some fellow who works for the Contessa, Giulio, I believe his name is, will arrive to escort us to the Palazzo. Imagine it, Emma, me, Celeste Bernard, staying at a Venetian palazzo!’

  To Emma, the Palazzo represented many things. It was certainly old, and she supposed it might be called beautiful, but the thoughts uppermost in her mind were those concerning Celeste, and she did not find the excitement in the visit she might have done in different circumstances.

  Celeste shivered as they crossed the chill dankness of the lower hall and ascended the staircase in the wake of Giulio, who was laden down with two of Celeste’s larger cases. Emma was carrying a small case and a hold-all which accommodated most of her belongings, while in the hall below stood the huge trunk which Celeste had filled with her evening gowns and shoes and jewels.