The Italian’s Cinderella Bride

by Lucy Gordon

  She blinked, wondering if she had only imagined the man standing there. But no, it was Pietro.

  Why did he go to that part of the house? What had happened to draw him to that room at night, and what made him stand there, so deadly still?

  She thought of the night when he had rescued her, and her heart went out to him, looking so much in need of rescue himself. Putting on a loose robe, she slipped out into the corridor and turned in the direction that she guessed he was.

  There were no lights here, just the reflection of the canal coming through the windows at the end of the corridor. Dimly she could make out the great marble staircase leading down, and she began to descend, her bare feet making no noise.

  When she was nearly at the bottom she saw that a large double door was open, and turned towards the room beyond, which she could just make out was a nursery, with an elaborate cradle in the corner. This was where his child would have slept, if it had lived.

  Pietro was there, standing by the window, so still that he might have turned to stone. This was the second time today that she had watched him unaware, she realised. But how different from this morning when she’d seen him at his handsome, athletic best. Now he looked like the loneliest man on earth, and she longed to go in and speak to him, but lacked the courage. When he turned she stepped back, keeping out of sight.

  He walked out, moving heavily, and she retreated farther into the darkness, knowing that she must not invade his solitude, and there was nothing that she, or anyone else, could say to him. He passed on without noticing her.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I T HAD been agreed between them that Ruth would not go to the shop next day, but remain at home studying papers. Pietro left early and she ate breakfast alone, still brooding over what she had seen the night before.

  He was the strong one, needing and wanting nothing from her, except perhaps that her company was less demanding than anyone else’s. He’d encouraged her to lean on him, because that was the kind of man he was.

  But always he kept her at a slight distance, ready to be offended if she offered him warmth or help. He preferred to give comfort rather than receive it. He felt safer that way. In many ways it was an attractive trait, making him a generous friend, but it was also a subtle way of protecting his isolation.

  It was that instinctive understanding that had made her keep back in the shadows the night before, leaving him to the solitude he preferred and from which she was excluded. It was a rejection and, mysteriously, it hurt.

  Remembering what Mario and Jessica had told her, she became curious about the great building that surrounded her. Last year Gino had shown her around, but it had been a hurried visit to the most grandiose parts, always avoiding the servants.

  ‘We don’t want prying eyes,’ he’d whispered.

  Of course not, she thought now. He didn’t want them revealing his deception.

  There was still much to be seen, and when she was sure that Minna and Celia were out she went exploring.

  What she discovered was awesome. This was a palace in fact as well as in name, a glorious edifice in the grand manner, with vast rooms and flowing staircases, the high vaulted ceilings carved with an intricacy that was surely impossible.

  Yet there was another story being told as well. Often she could see where pictures had been hung on the wall and then removed, leaving pale spaces. Presumably they were in storage.

  Down one long upstairs corridor she found salon after salon, which must once have been the waiting rooms of those waiting to see the great man. All, now, were bleak and anonymous.

  She meant not to intrude on the lord’s bedroom, even though Pietro wasn’t occupying it now. But she came upon it by accident, opening a small door in the last salon, which looked as though it led only to a cupboard. Then she stood on the threshold, dumbfounded.

  Certainly here was no hint of privacy, only a gigantic bed, hung with curtains that swept up to a coronet. It wasn’t a bed for lovers, but an arena where the count and countess would perform their duty to ensure the succession. Duty done, they could then turn away and sleep six feet apart.

  There were no bedclothes, only the bare mattress, looking hard and uncomfortable. Every surface in the room was clear. Nowhere could she see photographs or anything personal. Ruth understood that no man would choose to live here if he could escape, but the absence of all human trace suggested something more disturbing.

  Pietro wasn’t just grieving for his dead wife. He was so devastated that he’d withdrawn from the luxury he’d taken for granted all his life, to exist like a monk in a cell. He could barely be said to be living in the palazzo at all, since she was sure their little apartment actually formed part of the servants’ quarters. Her brief glimpses of the little room where he slept had revealed that it was severely functional and far less comfortable than her own.

  Wandering slowly around, she passed a long mirror and caught a glimpse of herself. Shocked, she stared at herself, forgetting everything else.

  ‘Son of a pig!’ she muttered, using one of Pietro’s favourite curses. ‘I look terrible!’

  It was a sight she must have seen before, but it had never made the impact of today. Her dress had been bought before she lost weight, and hung on her awkwardly, doing nothing to make her attractive. Her hair was nondescript, worn short because that was easiest. For a year she hadn’t bothered with make-up.

  Moving slowly, she went to stand before the mirror, facing the dismal truth head on.

  ‘Hmm!’ she thought. ‘So much for new woman.’

  Then energy returned and she was out of the door, running the length of the building until she reached her room, where she checked her purse, found her bank card and fled outside. A few minutes at the cash machine showed that the money Jack owed her for the first book was safely deposited. Since he wasn’t known for swift payment she concluded, with a little smile, that she mattered more to him than even he had admitted.

  By now she was beginning to be familiar with the narrow streets and was able to find her way easily to a dress shop she’d noticed before. One glance at her slender figure and the assistants fell on her with delight. When she left she bore with her four dresses, two pairs of fashionable jeans, three sweaters, a variety of dainty underwear and the address of ‘the best hairdresser in town’.

  ‘It’s actually so short that I don’t think there’s much you can do with it,’ she told the hairdresser apologetically.

  She was wrong. After two hours her blunt, prosaic hair was transformed into an elegant confection with just enough curve and bounce to give it life.

  She could have walked straight back home, but some impulse made her turn her steps in the direction of St Mark’s, and then into the shop.

  ‘Just one moment, signorina,’ Mario said, scribbling something. At last he looked up. ‘Now, what can I-?’ His voice faded as he looked at her.

  At last he managed to stammer, ‘You-you-’ and left it there, his jaw dropping.

  Laughing, she reached out and raised it again with her fingers. Neither of them saw Pietro appear from the back of the shop and stand watching, his eyes fixed on Ruth.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ she teased Mario, charmed by his innocent reaction.

  ‘No, it’s just-Ruth? You’re Ruth?’

  ‘You mustn’t ask her that question, Mario,’ came a voice from the shadows. ‘It’s dangerous.’

  They both turned and saw Pietro, who came forward slowly.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Mario said.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Ruth said. ‘We just talk in riddles. I’m delighted you didn’t recognise me.’

  ‘Of course I know girls like to change their appearance,’ Mario said, trying to sound worldly-wise, ‘but this-you’re transformed.’

  ‘Maybe it’s about time,’ she said quietly, her eyes on Pietro.

  ‘You’ll certainly attract the customers,’ he agreed.

  There was something in his voice that set her at a slight distance, and she
was sure of it a moment later when he said, ‘Why don’t you go on home? Tell Minna I’ll be late. I’ve got things to catch up with here.’

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘No need,’ he said briefly. ‘You go on. I’ll see you later.’

  He finished the conversation by walking away, leaving her nothing to do but go.

  Pietro was late home, and she told herself that she was glad of it because it left her free to work on learning Italian. She’d bought a book and some tapes, and needed to practise her pronunciation in privacy.

  When she’d had enough of that she went into her room and took another look at the clothes that she’d put up on hangers. At last she selected a dress cut on deceptively simple lines, but actually something that only a woman with a perfect figure could risk.

  Regarding herself in the tall mirror, she knew she was one of those very women. But that was small comfort when she was standing here alone. Pietro had suddenly decided to stay away this evening of all evenings.

  What would Gino think if he could see her now?

  And did it matter?

  She sighed, turning to move away from the mirror. Then she saw Pietro standing there.

  ‘You left your door open,’ he said by way of apology.

  ‘I was just giving myself a conceited moment,’ she said with a little laugh that sounded oddly embarrassed to her own ears.

  ‘I’m glad. You’ve earned it. What suddenly prompted you to do this?’

  ‘Partly it came from last night. When you get sick of being a permanent invalid, buying new clothes is the right thing to do.’

  He came to stand behind her, looking at her reflection, which showed an elegant woman with a touch of sophistication, something Ruth was sure she had never been before. But she liked it.

  ‘Let me introduce you to Ruth Three,’ she said, indicating the mirror.

  ‘Three?’ he asked cautiously.

  ‘For years I was Ruth One, but now she’s gone and I’m even glad to be rid of her. She was boring and stupid, easily taken in.’

  ‘She was generous and trusting,’ Pietro corrected gently. ‘She believed the man she loved.’

  ‘Exactly. Like I said, stupid. Then she turned into Ruth Two. She’s the one who arrived here the other night.’

  ‘Don’t say anything against her,’ Pietro warned.

  ‘I’m not going to. It wasn’t her fault that she was the way she was, but, let’s face it, it didn’t make her very good company.’

  ‘I liked her company,’ he observed quietly. ‘She was easy to talk to, and she gave back more than she knew.’

  ‘You’re just being kind. I’d had enough of her. I’m ready for Ruth Three.’

  ‘And what is she like?’

  ‘I have no idea, that’s the best of it. I never met her before today, but I think she’s been waiting to appear for some time. I’ll tell you this, she’s not just going to sit there and take it like the other two.’

  ‘Just the same, they had something that mattered. Don’t change too much.’

  She put her head on one side, then the other. Then she brushed her fingers through the front hairs where they fell over her forehead. This way, then that way.

  ‘I can’t decide,’ she said.

  ‘Let me see.’

  He turned her to him and touched her forehead gently. But then he stopped, for his fingers had brushed against a scar, the last reminder of her injuries.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered.

  ‘It doesn’t hurt anymore,’ she assured him. ‘That’s all in the past.’

  But it wasn’t in the past. It was still here and now, despite the new appearance and the burst of confidence.

  ‘Does it show very much?’ she asked.

  ‘No, just a thin line. You’d never see it-unless you already knew it was there.’

  ‘That’s the way to be,’ she said softly. ‘Keep the pain to yourself, unless you find someone else who understands.’

  He nodded. ‘You’re right, although not everyone is that lucky.’

  He brushed her few hairs back and leaned down, gently laying his lips against the scar.

  ‘It’s going to be all right,’ he whispered.

  They settled into a comfortable routine. Pietro gave Ruth a key to the side door, making her independent. Most days she went to the shop with him. At other times she stayed at home studying papers, brushing up on her Italian, sometimes going for walks, learning about Venice as she’d never done before. In Gino’s company she’d thought only of Gino, but now she began to love the little city for its own sake.

  Stripped of tourists, it contained barely seventy thousand people, ‘true Venetians’ who thought their unique home the most perfect place on earth, no matter how difficult and impractical life might become.

  There were no cars, so that people either went by boat or walked. Even an elevator could be a luxury.

  ‘We can’t install elevators,’ Mario told her. ‘The buildings are so old and frail that the vibration would make everything fall down. My grandparents have to climb seventy steps to get from the ground to their apartment at the top of the building.’

  ‘Wouldn’t they be better off somewhere else?’

  He stared at her in amazement.

  ‘They’re Venetian,’ he said, as though that explained everything. And Ruth guessed that it did.

  Sometimes she helped Mario with his English, sometimes he helped her with her Italian.

  ‘But you’ll also need to know Venetian dialect,’ he told her once. ‘Have you noticed the sign outside the shop? “Qua se parla anca in Veneto.” It means “Here we also speak Venetian”. Not everyone does, and we’re very proud of it.’

  ‘I guess I can manage,’ Ruth said cheerfully. ‘We have dialects in my country too. Remember that man?’

  ‘The one you helped me with? Yes, but he only pronounced English words in his own way. Venetian is a completely different language.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said slowly as something cropped up in her mind. ‘Venetian has the letter “j”, which you never find in Italian.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Mario said. ‘So you already know about our dialect?’

  ‘A little,’ she murmured. ‘I remember about the “j”.’

  How Gino had chuckled the day he said, ‘Ti voglio bene.’ It means “I wish you well”,’ he’d explained. ‘But it’s how Italians say “I love you.”’

  ‘I don’t believe it. It’s so sedate.’

  ‘But we are sedate,’ he’d said in mock indignation. ‘A very sedate, proper people. We say “Ti voglio bene.” Unless we are Venetian, and then we say, “Te voja ben.”’

  Gino’s words whispered through her head. Te voja ben-te voja ben.

  But suddenly there was another memory fluttering at the edge of her mind, refusing to let her seize it but also refusing to go away. It was more recent-he had said these words to her and she had said them back to him again and again, holding him close in an ecstasy of love. Just a few days ago-but that was impossible-if only she could remember-

  ‘Ruth, are you all right?’ Mario asked anxiously.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine,’ she said hastily.

  The memory vanished. She sighed and let it go. It had escaped anyway.

  A few days later she was working in the back with Pietro when Mario put his head around the door.

  ‘Ruth, there’s a man out here who’s looking for you.’

  She drew a sharp breath. Gino must have returned. Who else would be looking for her? But then she remembered that Mario knew Gino and would have said it was him. Conscious of Pietro’s eyes upon her, she asked, ‘Did he give his name?’

  ‘Señor Salvatore Ramirez.’

  ‘What? But he’s the man whose books I’m translating. Let me see.’

  She darted past him into the front of the shop. Pietro, following more slowly, was just in time to see an extravagantly handsome man approach her with a theatrical gesture.

  ‘I have brought the books myself
because I had to meet the lady who understands my writing better than anyone in the world,’ he declared expansively, speaking in Spanish. ‘I called first at your address but they told me to come here.’

  ‘You’re very kind,’ she murmured.

  ‘And now tell me that I can take you away. We will spend the evening together, talking about many things you need to know to help you with the other books. I will open my heart to you, you will open your heart to me, and in the joy of mutual understanding we will create a work of art.’

  ‘Well, there are some questions I’d like to discuss with you,’ she mused. ‘Pietro, is it all right if I go? Señor Ramirez says-’

  ‘Yes, I understood quite as much as I wanted,’ Pietro said in disgust. ‘Get him out of here.’

  ‘I don’t suppose I’ll be very late-’

  ‘Be as late as you please, but go before I throw up.’

  Ruth returned to the palazzo in the early hours, having enjoyed one of the best evenings of her life. She slipped in quietly, prepared to creep up to her room, but Pietro was lying on the sofa with his feet up and a baleful expression on his face.

  ‘Is this what you call not being very late?’

  ‘Is it late? I hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘Too busy creating a work of art?’ he asked ironically.

  ‘Something like that.’

  Her eyes were bright with champagne, but also with an evening’s pleasure. She threw herself into a chair, stretching luxuriously.

  ‘Oh, what an evening! I learned so much.’

  ‘Good,’ he said briefly.

  ‘I hope you didn’t wait up for me.’

  ‘I was a little concerned for you. I shouldn’t have let you go off with him like that. He might have been any kind of a bad character.’

  ‘No, he’s charming. It was a wonderful night.’

  ‘I didn’t think restaurants stayed open this late.’

  ‘It didn’t. They threw us out, so we went back to his hotel.’

  ‘And stayed there for several hours,’ he said grimly.