Dark Venetian

by Anne Mather

  ‘We must have a lift installed,’ remarked Celeste, over her shoulder to Emma. ‘No one walks upstairs in the States!’

  The Contessa awaited them in the large lounge, and Celeste was relieved to note that in these apartments central heating had been installed and the furniture was reasonably modern and comfortable. She saw no reason to retain the inner rooms of the Palazzo in the same state as the outer walls, and Emma felt sure her first thoughts were the amount of renovation which would take place as soon as it was certain that she was to be the next Contessa.

  The maid, Anna, was waiting to serve coffee and biscuits, and after several cups and a couple of cigarettes, Celeste and Emma were shown their rooms.

  Celeste’s room was a huge barnlike salon with a massive tester bed hung with velvet drapes from a central cornice that could be let down to enclose completely the occupants of the bed. The tesselated floor was strewn liberally with soft piled rugs, and the furniture was made of dark stained wood accentuated by the bright colours of the bed covers and curtains.

  ‘Heavens!’ exclaimed Celeste, in amazement, ‘It’s like a small auditorium.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s what it was used for in the olden days,’ remarked Emma, forgetting for a moment her own problems. ‘Maybe the Contessas used to hold audience in their bedchambers like kings and queens used to in days gone by.’

  ‘Is that a fact?’ Celeste made a moue with her lips. ‘Ah, well, so long as the bed’s comfortable, I don’t suppose I shall worry. Actually, though, I imagine those drapes could prove rather stuffy on a hot evening.’

  ‘In this place?’ Emma shook her head. ‘I shouldn’t imagine these rooms ever get stuffy, as you put it. They’re built of stone, you know, these palazzi. And stone takes an awful lot to warm up.

  Celeste sighed. ‘And where is the bathroom? I wonder if the plumbing is modern. Let’s hope so.’

  The bathroom was huge, and stately, and the bath was big enough to hold half a dozen adults at one go, but the plumbing was modern, and when the taps were turned on, a refreshing stream of steaming water splayed out on to the porcelain basin.

  Anna had offered to unpack for Celeste, so leaving her stepmother to the maid’s ministrations, Emma decided to explore. Her own bedroom was far less imposing than Celeste’s, but it was still rather big although the bed was a modern divan-type four-footer, for which she felt rather disappointed. She, much more than Celeste, would have welcomed the genuine atmosphere of old things in their proper place.

  The lounge when she returned to it was deserted, but sounds penetrated from a door opening off to the left which seemed to lead to the kitchen quarters and she thought perhaps the old lady might be supervising the arrangements for lunch.

  She stepped back out on to the long gallery which ran from front to back and stood for a moment looking down on the deserted and rather dark hall below. She could picture what the Palazzo must have looked like in the days when the hall was used for receptions, when the room was filled with beautifully adorned women in silks and satins and brocades, their jewels more fabulous than any Emma had ever seen, while the men, bewigged perhaps, or simply elegantly clothed themselves in satin breeches and waistcoats joined their ladies in the minuet, the strains of violins floating up to the younger members of the family, as they watched perhaps from the secrecy of this very balcony.

  She was lost in thought, a faint smile touched her lips, and she started, shaken out of her reverie, when the outer door opened below and a shaft of sunlight momentarily dispersed the gloom, revealing a man who was entering the Palazzo, carrying a guitar case in his hand.

  Completely unaware of her scrutiny, he walked silently across the hall to an ante-room. He opened the door, and without a sound disappeared inside.

  Emma frowned, and straightened up. She had been leaning on the balcony rail, and her arm felt cold from the touch. But she was unconscious of any discomfort to herself. There had been something peculiar about the entrance of the man downstairs; she could not have said what it was exactly, but his movements had been deliberately stealthy, as though the last thing he wanted to do was draw attention to himself. And if that was the case, who could he be? And what was he doing down there?

  Emma swallowed hard. It was difficult for her to gauge the situation. From what Celeste had told her, and the Contessa’s conversation the previous evening, she had gathered that only the apartments on the first floor were used by the Contessa and her grandson, and if this were so, what possible reason could anyone have for entering the ante-room downstairs, and with a guitar, too? It sounded ridiculous when she thought about it, and shrugging her shoulders, she turned resolutely away. Whatever was going on it was no concern of hers, and she hardly knew the Contessa well enough to go and ask whether she knew that someone was using one of her downstairs rooms.

  Walking back along the gallery, she passed several heavily carved doors, and she knew an almost overwhelming desire to open these doors to see what mysteries lurked behind them. The little incident she had just witnessed, which might prove to be perfectly innocent, had given her the strangest feeling of nervousness, and she decided she had better return to the lounger forthwith before she let her imagination run away with her.

  She nearly jumped out of her skin, therefore, when a voice said:

  ‘And just where do you think you are going?’

  Emma swung round, a hand to her lips suppressing the gasp of pure unawareness of anyone’s approach. Then she stared: ‘You!’ It was the man from the foyer of the Danieli.

  He looked taken aback, and his eyes narrowed. ‘Why are you here?’ His tone was clipped, as though he was angry about something, and she couldn’t understand it.

  ‘I … well … the Contessa Cesare has invited my stepmother and myself to spend a visit with her. But … but who are you?’

  His face relaxed. ‘You are Celeste Vaughan’s stepdaughter?’

  ‘Yes. But you haven’t answered my question.’ She have an exclamation suddenly. ‘You’re not the Count?’ Her voice was very faint now.

  ‘At your service,’ he agreed smoothly.

  ‘Then …’ Emma faltered. ‘But where have you come from …? I mean … I didn’t hear you come in. That is … was that you down there in the hall?’

  His face darkened momentarily. ‘You have been standing long on the gallery? Or did you hear something and come to investigate?

  ‘I’m afraid I was day-dreaming …’ Emma remembered to whom she was addressing herself. ‘I beg your pardon. I should say Signor – or – Signor Conte, should I not?’ She flushed. ‘I’m afraid I’m a little bemused. You startled me so.’

  ‘That is of no importance. You were saying–you were day-dreaming?’

  ‘Yes. I … I saw someone come in, with a guitar case, and go into one of the ante-rooms, that’s all. I just thought it was a bit odd, when the Contessa had said the downstairs rooms were never used. Of course, if I had known it was you …!’

  The Count frowned, and ran a restless hand over his dark hair. He studied her for a moment, and then said:

  ‘I sometimes use the ante-rooms for storing things. That is all.’

  Emma nodded.

  They stood in silence for a moment, a silence that seemed somehow tangible to Emma in this somehow perceptive mood she was experiencing. And with the moment came thoughts into her brain like wings of steel beating against gossamer; this was the Count whom Celeste intended to marry; this man, who the previous evening, had filled her with such a glorious feeling of self-confidence; whose eyes had told her that he found her almost attractive, and who had invited her to have a drink with him. It was incredible, and unacceptable and horrible. How could he allow himself to be sold, even for the restoration of the Cesare family fortunes? It was nauseating.

  She was aware that he was looking at her, and she looked down at her slim-fitting dark blue jeans and pale blue tee-shirt in disgust, remembering suddenly that she had promised herself some new materials for new dresses, but the argument
with Celeste had thrown everything else out of her mind.

  He was smiling strangely, however, and he said: ‘I understood Celeste’s stepdaughter to be a child, little more than a schoolgirl.’

  Emma’s cheeks burned. ‘I’m nineteen,’ she said defensively. ‘I shall be twenty in a few months.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Emma shrugged her shoulders. ‘Well … shall we go in?’

  ‘If you want to.’ There was about him that certain air of assurance, the assurance of a man who knows his power over women, and Emma felt a sudden surge of annoyance that even for a moment she had felt herself weakening towards him when he was an inveterate gambler and womanizer, and showed not the slightest qualms about marrying a woman simply for her fortune.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  To Emma’s relief Celeste was not in the lounge when they entered, but the Contessa was there, and she smiled as they came in, and said:

  ‘Ah, I see you two have become acquainted. Cesare, isn’t it time you changed for lunch?’

  Count Cesare was wearing dark slacks, and a white silk shirt, open at the throat to reveal the mat of dark hairs on his chest, and to Emma’s eyes looked just as attractive as he had done the night before. She chided herself for her naïveté, so far as he was concerned, for after all, he was no callow youth to attract by feminine giggles, but a mature man of the world, a man moreover who was actually old enough to be her father.

  ‘As you say, Contessa,’ murmured Count Cesare, his eyes flickering thoughtfully over Emma once again, and she flushed, and said: ‘I suppose I ought to change, too. I’m afraid I’ve been wasting time.’

  ‘What have you been doing, child?’ The Contessa moved towards her warmly.

  ‘I was exploring,’ said Emma eagerly, anything to shake this depression that was threatening to overwhelm her. ‘I think this must have been a marvellous place years ago.’ She looked awkward, realizing the implication of her words. ‘That is … in the days when luxurious living was taken for granted.’

  ‘I understand you, child,’ replied the Contessa easily. ‘Do not be afraid to tell me that the Palazzo is falling about our ears from neglect. My grandson cares little for the past; he lives for the present.’

  Emma looked nervously at the Count. He was standing perfectly still, listening to their conversation, and did not appear at all concerned at his grandmother’s lack of tact. On the contrary, she seemed to amuse him.

  ‘You will have gathered that my grandmother is very anxious that the Palazzo should be restored,’ he remarked to Emma. ‘To her, things are more important than people. Me, I consider a human being needs only somewhere to live, food to eat and the bright sun to warm him.’ He laughed, a low attractive laugh, which infuriated his grandmother.

  ‘And money?’ she said. ‘What about money, Cesare? You are the last person to live without money!’

  Cesare shrugged. ‘Contessa, you really know very little about me. Men change, you know, mature, grow more adult; gain from experience.’

  ‘Hah!’ The Contessa burst into a stream of Italian which Emma thought sounded very uncomplimentary, and with jerky movements, she slipped unobtrusively out of the room and into her bedroom.

  Lunch was served on the terrace overlooking the canal, and with a warm sun beating down, and the delicious aromas of good food emanating from the kitchen, Emma felt a little more relaxed.

  She had changed into a dark blue light woollen dress which she had owned long before Celeste came back into the picture and which she knew suited her fair colouring, and she had brushed her straight hair until it shone.

  Not that she could be anything other than insignificant beside the glorious technicolor beauty of her stepmother, who was seated at the Contessa’s left hand at the head of the table.

  Celeste was wearing a brilliant yellow poplin sheath, with a huge, stand-up collar that added tawny tints to her red-gold hair. Pendant diamond ear-rings glistened from her ears, which matched the diamond pendant which rested seductively in the hollow between her breasts.

  Count Cesare seated opposite her could not fail to find his eyes drawn irresistibly to that glinting bauble in its alabaster setting, Emma thought, and toyed restlessly with the delicious risotto on her plate. She had never before had to contend with the kind of emotions that Count Cesare roused in her, and she could only assume that the rather unreal quality of the setting, added to the fact that he was the first Italian count she had encountered, or any count, she mentally added, had temporarily anaesthetized her into this state of lethargy. After all, she told herself, she was not as completely innocent of men as all that. She had had plenty of boy-friends during the last three years, and had indulged, with them, in the usual light-hearted necking accepted by all concerned. She thought that probably the romantic history of Venice encouraged one to think continually of love, and lovers, and it was, naturally, rather a thrill for someone from such an ordinary little rut as hers to suddenly be transported into this kind of atmosphere.

  But no matter how she tried, or argued within herself, her eyes were still inescapably drawn to Count Cesare, studying him with an intensity that must have conveyed itself to him, for he suddenly turned and looked in her direction and she bent her head hastily and gathered up the remainder of the mushrooms and rice on her plate.

  When lunch was over, Celeste announced that she was going to indulge in her acquired habit of siesta, and as the Contessa was going to do likewise, Emma thought she might have time to go to shopping, completely forgetting that in Italy the shops are closed between one and four in the afternoons.

  She collected her leather shoulder bag, shed her court shoes for more comfortable sandals, and leaving word with Anna that she was going out for a while, she descended the staircase to the lower hall.

  She was surprised when a figure stepped out of the shadows below the staircase, and said: ‘Well, now. And where are you going?’

  Emma shivered. ‘I’m going shopping, Signor Count. And I wish you wouldn’t startle me like that all the time.’

  He smiled, and took her arm lightly. ‘The shops are closed, and it is too warm to walk in the heat of the day, so I suggest you come with me, and I will show you a little of the delights of the lagoon.’

  Emma’s eyes widened. ‘You! But I mean … why?’

  ‘Because I want to, and I always do what I want to do.’

  ‘Really.’ Emma stared half-annoyedly at him. It was all very well to admire him from a distance, but she couldn’t deny being near him like this was a little over-powering. She was also rather afraid of the magnetism he exuded. She wasn’t at all sure of herself with him, and on top of everything else she was certain Celeste would not approve.

  Count Cesare fingered a strand of the pale hair, and said: ‘You want to come, so why not? If you are worried about your stepmother, I shan’t tell her.’

  Emma felt affronted. ‘In other words you want a clandestine outing with me in between passionate rendezvous with Celeste!’

  He smiled, and ignoring her, he propelled her to the door. Emma let herself be drawn along; it was difficult to resist anyway, when you badly wanted to give in.

  Once outside, in the sunlight, he said: ‘What a … how do you say it … old-fashioned creature you are; with your clandestine meetings and rendezvous. Of what possible interest can this be to us, mia cara, on this most delightful of afternoons? Come, you are not going to refuse me, are you? After all, Miss Emma Maxwell, we met last evening, did we not, and today I called at your hotel to again express my apologies, and to offer myself as your escort should you desire to explore my city.’

  Emma was flabbergasted. ‘I don’t believe you,’ she exclaimed impulsively. ‘Why should you do that?’

  He shrugged, and they crossed the outer courtyard, and reached the landing stage. ‘I am beginning to wonder,’ he murmured softly, and she looked up at him and smiled, unable to resist the tone of his lazy voice. He was tall, and Emma, used to men who were little more than her own height, thought
how nice it was to have to look up to him.

  A motor boat was moored at the landing stage, and he said:

  ‘This is mine. Do you mind if we use this instead of a gondola? I prefer to do my own propulsion, without fear of someone listening into my conversations.’

  Emma was tempted to make some comment, but she didn’t. She merely allowed him to assist her into the small launch, and waited while he jumped in beside her.

  To begin with she stood beside him in the small cockpit, absorbed in the ever-changing variety of their surroundings, realizing as he pointed out places of interest to her that he was well versed in the history of the place, whatever his grandmother might say about him. She saw the church of Santa Maria della Salute, and the Ca’ d’Oro, the house of gold; the Gritti Palace Hotel which used to be a Gothic palace, and was now one of the most luxurious hotels in Venice; Count Cesare knew the names of almost all the palaces they passed, and Emma, who had never dreamed that there were so many, just stared and stared, and clasped her hands together at the splendour of it all.

  They passed under the Rialto bridge, and Emma saw all the shops that lined it, their exclusive wares stocking the windows.

  ‘It is best to see the bridge on foot,’ said Cesare, ‘the shops sell every kind of tourist attraction; Murano glass, Venetian lace and jewellery and toys and souvenirs of all kinds.’

  Emma nodded. ‘I’m sure it is. But I must admit, the familiar tourist establishments don’t particularly appeal to me. I would rather go somewhere less … commercial.’

  ‘All right,’ Cesare smiled. ‘If you care to trust me, I will do as I first suggested, and show you the lagoon.’

  ‘Trust you?’ She frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

  Cesare swung the launch off the main Canal into a darker, closer-housed waterway, that ran between the dark stone walls of houses that opened directly on to the canal itself. Here were creeper-hung archways leading into inner courtyards, wrought iron grilles, like gateways into watery gardens. There seemed a profusion of trellises and openings, and small craft moored to sidings flanked sometimes by poles and fluted columns.