Daughters of the Silk Road: A beautiful and epic novel of family, love and the secrets of a Ming Vase (12 page)

‘Oi!’ he shouted. ‘What goes on here?’

Giovanni held his sword against the man’s chest. ‘You say another word and you will be joining those poor bastards you bury out there.’

Peter and Niccolò ushered Maria and Daniele outside and into the gondola. Then Peter came back for his friend.

‘Come Giovanni. We are done here.’

‘You say a word, old man, and I will come back for you – understand?’ shouted Giovanni as he and Peter ran out of the hospital, along the harbour wall, leaping aboard the gondola as Daniele expertly pushed off from the jetty and steered it out into the lagoon.

Maria sat in the prow of the boat, laughing and crying, with tears streaming down her face.

‘Papa, I cannot believe what you have just done!’

‘I couldn’t have done it without Peter here, or Giovanni.’

Giovanni and Daniele steered the boat out into the choppy waters. It would be hard work getting the boat back to the city.

Suddenly, Maria called out. ‘Oh no! What about Andrea? He was taken to the Lazaretto
Nuovo. It’s over there, I think. We cannot leave him there.’

‘No,’ said Niccolò. ‘Maria is right. We must find a way of rescuing him too.’

‘Not now,’ said Peter. ‘It is already daylight. We cannot risk it now.’

‘No, you are right,’ said Niccolò. ‘We will have to go back for him tonight.’

Peter’s heart sank. ‘Niccolò – they will have raised the alarm by then and be looking for Maria and Daniele all over the city. I need to get them out of Venice as soon as possible.’

As the impossibility of the situation began to dawn on them, Daniele called out. ‘Over there – a boat.’

Peter drew his dagger and Giovanni handed him his sword.

‘It might be someone coming after us,’ he said to his friend.

They watched as the boat drew closer.

‘It’s Andrea!’ said Maria. ‘Andrea, over here!’

Andrea turned around and stood up as his name was called. When he saw Maria surrounded by her family in the gondola, he dropped his oars in surprise and one floated off into the sea, before sinking into the depths.

Daniele and Giovanni steered the gondola towards him and Peter leant over grabbing hold of the boat.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked Andrea.

‘I was coming to rescue you,’ Andrea said to Maria.

‘Thank you Andrea, but as you see, I have already been rescued.’

With Andrea safely on board, they abandoned the small boat in the lagoon, and rowed back towards the city. To avoid suspicion, they split the party up, dropping Andrea and Giovanni at the Isola di San Giorgio Maggiore from where they would pick up a gondola back to the main island.

Meanwhile, Peter, Niccolò, Maria and Daniele rowed back to the pier at San Zaccaria. The sun was quite high in the sky as they arrived, and the Riva degli Schiavoni was filling up with stalls, merchants and customers. As they fought their way between the rough tables laid out with fish and meat, one of the stallholders recognised Niccolò. ‘Hey, Signor dei Conti! How are you? It’s been a while since we last saw you.’

Niccolò raised his hand to acknowledge the man before shepherding his family hurriedly towards the Piazza. Within minutes they arrived at Niccolò’s lodgings; desperate not to be spotted, they crept up the back stairs to his room. Word had already spread of the plague that had affected the house of dei Conti, and they could not take the risk of being found now.

‘Damn,’ said Niccolò, shutting the door. His children, exhausted and exhilarated to have been liberated, threw themselves on their father’s bed and laughed.

‘You must keep your voices down. It is unfortunate that we were seen down in the market. Word will soon be out that I am back and someone is bound to remember that I had you two with me.’

‘What are we to do?’ asked Maria anxiously.

‘Peter and I have a plan.’

There was a knock on the door.

‘Who is it?’ asked Niccolò.

‘Giovanni and Andrea.’

Niccolò opened the door and pulled the two men inside.

‘We must act fast. I have been seen at the market. First, let me say this to Andrea. Thank you, for attempting to rescue Maria.’

Andrea blushed and looked down at his feet.

‘I understand that you tried to persuade Maria to go with you to the quarantine island. You should have known her better than that. She would never have deserted her brother.’

Niccolò s dark eyes bored into Andrea, unsmiling. Andrea began to feel discomforted.

‘You are a runaway, like my children,’ Niccolò continued. ‘But you were not suspected of having the illness, or so I understand; the authorities will be content if you simply disappear. They want anyone who has been in touch with a possible case just to get out of the city.’

‘I have nowhere to go,’ said Andrea, beginning to understand the full import of Niccolò’s words.

‘I realise that. I have friends in Chioggia where I grew up. I shall write to them and ask them to they take you in. You must be inconspicuous for a long time.’

‘But Master, I do not wish to leave you… Or Maria, or Daniele, of course.’ Andrea said.

‘I’m afraid it is the only solution,’ said Niccolò firmly.

‘And what of Maria?’ asked Andrea.

‘She is no longer your concern. Now, I suggest that you leave us straight away. Here is the address of my friends. I have written a letter for you to give to them on your arrival. I wish you luck, Andrea, and Godspeed.’ Niccolò shook the young man’s hand. ‘Just one more thing – I do this as a favour to you – do you understand?’

Andrea nodded uncertainly.

‘If any word should reach the authorities,’ continued Niccolò sternly, ‘of what happened to Maria or Daniele, of how they were rescued, I shall ensure that your part in this is known.’ And with that, he opened the door and ushered Andrea down the stairs of the
taverna
and out onto the Piazza.

‘Papa,’ said Maria, ‘there is something curious about Andrea’s part in all this.’

‘Yes,’ said Niccolò.

‘What do you know?’ asked Maria.

‘Only that someone in our house told the authorities that Daniele was ill. I cannot think of anyone who would do such a thing; certainly not Alfreda or Bella, except…’

‘But why would he do that?’

‘I think he is a very confused young man,’ said Niccolò.

‘I did feel, as we were rowed over to Poveglia, there was something he wasn’t telling me. He was very upset that I wouldn’t go with him to the Lazaretto Nuovo. It was almost as if he had decided what was going to happen and was cross with me when I didn’t go along with it…’Niccolò said nothing, but gazed out of the small window that overlooked the Piazza. He watched as Andrea walked unsteadily away, looking back just once towards the
taverna.
He held Niccolò’s letter in his hand. Tears streamed down his narrow face.

‘I don’t think we shall see him again. Now Maria, we have more important things to discuss.’

‘Yes, Papa?’

‘Yes, such as your wedding to young Peter here, and the fact that he is going to take you and Daniele out of Venice and back to his family in the north.’

The two young people looked at one another in amazement. Then Maria burst into tears. ‘But Papa, I cannot leave you. I have just got you back after all these weeks.’

‘I know, my darling, but you and Daniele are in a serious situation. I couldn’t leave you on that island and risk you catching that terrible illness. We had to rescue you; but having done so, you must now get out of Venice. You must see that?’

‘I understand,’ said Daniele. ‘But Peter, do you really want me with you? I could go off on my own,’ he said bravely.

‘No!’ said Maria. ‘If I am going, you are going with me, little brother. We cannot be parted. But what about you, Papa, and Giovanni?’ asked Maria. ‘Will you be punished? What will happen to you?’

‘To me? Nothing,’ said Niccolò. ‘The authorities will ask me if I know what happened to you both, and I shall deny all knowledge. Then I shall go back to Florence and finish my work there. It is important work, I believe.’

‘And I shall marry Polisena,’ said Giovanni cheerfully, ‘and we will go abroad.’

‘But can we marry, so quickly?’ asked Maria anxiously. ‘What of my dowry?’

‘That is all arranged,’ said Niccolò, smiling at Peter.

‘Really?’ said Maria.

‘Peter and I have drawn up the contract already. You will take the vase as your dowry. It is worth a great deal of money.’

‘But you are supposed to give it to the Doge.’

‘I do not think the Doge will miss it. I have many other pieces of porcelain that he can have. Take the vase, daughter. It will bring you luck all your life. Look! It has already rescued you from Poveglia and provided you with a husband.’

Maria and Peter were married later that evening in the garden of the convent of San Zaccaria. Their witnesses were Giovanni and Polisena, who stood with her hand resting happily on her swollen belly. Maria and Peter then stood witness for their friends, as they too were married. Peter gave his wife a gold ring, set with a diamond. It glinted in the moonlight.

‘Where did you get such a thing?’ she asked as he slipped it onto her finger.

‘I bought it from a merchant I know… The day I first saw you. I knew then, that one day we would be married.’

There was no time for a feast. No opportunity for the bride to wear her finery. Instead, Maria, Peter and Daniele rode out of Venice, their way lit only by a waxing moon, heading for Bruges and a new life in the north – three young people with a sense of adventure, and a Ming vase for company.

T
he mountains are blessed
with streams that flow from the summits down onto the plains below. The water is of particular clarity and it is this which helps to create the pure white porcelain that is the feature of this region. At the base of the mountain, large wooden water wheels are erected to take advantage of the fast flowing stream. The kaolin stones are tipped into bowls and pounded into a fine powder by a simple mechanical crusher, powered by the water wheels. This powder is then washed clean and reshaped into clay bricks called pai-tun. The job is overseen by a high official, who observes the activity of the workers from horseback. The horse’s harness is of great beauty. His stirrups are made of silver, and the saddle of a beautiful silken fabric. He is accompanied by coolies; one holds an umbrella over the overseer’s head to protect him from the sun, while the other carries his luggage.

M
iranda loved Christmas
. She knew that it was a tawdry, commercial waste of time, but nevertheless she began to get excited at the prospect as soon as Georgie broke up for half-term in October.

Of course, Christmas involved a huge amount of work and potentially a lot of expense, but Miranda took huge delight in making cards and creating gifts – some food-related, but also knitted or sewn. Her necessary frugality was the mother of invention as far as Christmas was concerned, and as soon as her daughter broke up from school she would sit with Georgie at the kitchen table and make a list of all the people who needed gifts. She would then create a second list of all the items they could produce between them.

It was a far cry from her time with Guy. He had always been so keen to appear extravagant at Christmas, a characteristic at odds with his parsimony towards his ex-wife and daughter since the divorce. It was all about ‘show’ for him, she supposed. His parents and sisters were all quite wealthy, and she always had the impression that he struggled to keep up with them all financially. But although most of the presents were for his family, he’d made it clear from the start that the responsibility for buying them was hers. ‘I’m far too busy with work to flog round the shops. You do it. Girls love shopping.’

And so, in the weeks leading up to Christmas, Miranda rushed out each lunchtime, from the art gallery in Mayfair, to do battle with the crowds in Selfridges or Liberty to buy a cashmere scarf or an expensive pair of leather gloves for his mother. It had been a source of friction, even in the early days of their marriage.

‘Couldn’t we just give them a nice bottle of wine?’ she’d argued one year. ‘I could pick something up at Fortnum’s – so it would look smart. Or I could make them something?’

‘Make something? What are you thinking of? My mother doesn’t want some god-awful knitted scarf. Your friends might think your homemade accessories are in some way chic or right-on, but my mother has slightly better taste. God, Miranda,’ he’d said with irritation. ‘What on earth will they think if we turn up with a cheap bottle of plonk or pair of knitted mittens? You know how generous they are with us.’

‘Yes, and I’m sure we’re very grateful, but they aren’t behind on the mortgage payments, are they?’

He had glared at her and left the room.

The mortgage payments had become something of a running sore in their relationship. When they first married, Guy had a small flat off the Fulham Road. It was charming, if a little cramped. But Guy was determined that they should move to something more substantial. The chosen house was a villa nearby with five bedrooms. It was far too large, and certainly more than they could afford. But Guy convinced Miranda that a promotion was just around the corner.

Two years later, with Miranda now six months pregnant, the promotion had failed to materialise, whilst the mortgage payments had increased with the interest rates.

Any hopes Miranda might have entertained of taking a few years off to look after her first child had to be shelved. It had been a double blow, because Miranda had hoped to take advantage of the time caring for her new baby to explore other work opportunities. Working in the art gallery had been a temporary job that had become permanent. It was not something she loved. It had not even been particularly well paid. She had fantasised that while her new baby lay sleeping peacefully in her cot in the pretty Fulham house she might develop a plan for a business or kick-start some kind of creative career. She was in the habit of knitting Fair Isle scarves and hats as presents for friends, and had built up quite a following. Guy had hated it; he would scowl when he came in from work and found her sitting at the kitchen table in the large house, surrounded by the builders’ detritus and 'clattering those needles.'

'God! Have they still not finished the kitchen? How long is this going to take? Do you have any idea Miranda what these pirates are costing us? Knitting again, I see; is there nothing for supper?' He had looked around the dust-covered kitchen despairingly.

'Yes, Guy, I do know what it's costing, although I hate to point out that it was you who wanted a new ‘top of the range’ kitchen. I'd have been quite happy with something from IKEA. And yes, there is supper – it's in the oven.'

In fact, her food was one of the few things that Guy had not complained about. But he had refused to contemplate her starting up a ‘knitting’ business.

‘Miranda, you don’t seem to understand. We are on the edge financially – until my promotion, of course. In the meantime, I would appreciate it if you forgot these ridiculous fantasies of starting up a business. Your job at the gallery may not be brilliantly well paid, but it covers quite a lot of our expenditure, and we need it. We’ll have to get a nanny and you’ll have to go back to work as soon as you can.’

‘But by the time we’ve paid a nanny, I might as well have stayed at home,’ argued Miranda.

‘Nonsense. I’ve done the sums and you really have to go back. I’m sorry, but it’s the way it is.’

The end of their marriage had come almost as a relief. The expensive house was sold and she and Georgie had moved to a much smaller house in Sheen, with a deposit provided by her parents and a lump sum from Guy – a final payment on their marriage together. He had agreed to pay some child maintenance, but nothing else. She accepted the ‘deal’ with alacrity, so grateful was she to be finished with the relationship and to have a roof, however tiny, over her head. A chance meeting with her old friend Jeremy as she wheeled Georgie in her pushchair down Barnes High Street had resulted in her job at the bookshop. And she was slowly building up her network of customers for the knitting business. The problem was, Guy had been right. It didn’t really bring in a huge amount of income. She covered her costs, but barely made a profit.

Miranda and Georgie sat at the kitchen table making their Christmas lists.

‘Blackberry jam I think, for my godmother,’ said Miranda, ‘or maybe some marmalade? She loves marmalade. As long as the Seville oranges get into the shops in time. Or do I have some left from the last batch; can you look for me, G?’

Georgie rummaged in her mother’s ‘larder’; in reality it was just a big pine cupboard that had been built in with the Victorian house. The glazed top cupboards held Miranda’s hotchpotch of china. The solid cupboards beneath were filled to bursting with jam jars of all shapes and sizes.

‘There’s no marmalade, Ma, but there’s heaps of that Damson chutney.’

‘Really?’ said Miranda, looking up from her notes. ‘No marmalade. That’s a shame. Never mind, the chutney will do. I’ve been thinking, G, I’ve talked to Jeremy about it and I’ve decided to take on some extra work.’

‘Oh? What sort of work?’

‘Well, you know my friend Suzanne, Jenny’s mum at school?’ Georgie nodded. ‘You know she’s the editor of a local magazine, rather glossy, aimed at the yummy mummy brigade round here. It’s full of fashion and make-up tips and house interiors. Lots of adverts from estate agents, you know? They give it away in cafés, and restaurants, and at the station; in fact, we stock it at the shop. They make their money through advertising really. Anyway, she bought a couple of scarves from me last Christmas for her kids, and really liked them. And we got chatting, and she’s asked me to come up with a couple of column ideas for her magazine. I don’t know if she’s just being kind, but she suggested that I could mention the knitting company, so it would be a bit of promotion for that.’

‘What sort of column does she want – knitting patterns?’

‘No, not that, although she is thinking of doing an article herself on ‘great knitted accessories’ and she’ll give me a mention. No, she seems to think I might be quite good at a recycling, make-do-and-mend sort of column.’

Georgie laughed. ‘Well she’s right there. You’re brilliant at that!’

‘Oh, so you think I could do it then?’

‘Mum, you’d be great. Just tell them what we have for supper each evening.’

‘Cheeky! OK, I’ll give it a go. I love going round boot fairs, and I could find some bits and pieces and do them up, take pictures and so on. Or I could do homemade preserves, homemade presents, that sort of thing. And who knows, maybe something will come from it. She wants me to blog about it as well, to sort of drive interest. The problem is I’m not sure I know how to set up a blog, if I’m honest.’

‘I can show you. We set up a blog at school a couple of years ago. It’s really easy.’

‘She’ll pay, of course – Suzanne. Not heaps, but enough to make it worth doing. It will mean a bit less time for the knitting, but will make a nice change. I should be able to fit it all in. And who knows, it might lead to other work.’

Georgie banged a couple of jars of damson chutney on the table.

‘That could be your first blog,’ said Georgie. ‘Christmas on a shoestring…’

‘That’s a jolly good idea,’ said Miranda. ‘So, damson chutney, OK. We might need to make up some new labels for it. And I could get some pretty fabric from the little shop in the High Street to make nice tops; what do you think?

‘Yes, sure. And you could take lots of photos and put them on your blog.’

Georgie felt a little frisson of pride for her mother. They had been together and reliant on one another for so many years. She knew it hadn’t been easy for Miranda after the divorce, but her mother was always cheerful and, apart from the odd anxiety about bills, was relentlessly optimistic. As the child of divorced parents, she was not alone; nearly a third of her classmates were in the same position. Over the years, as she had listened to her friends swapping stories of arguments and unpleasantness between their parents, she felt lucky that her mother always managed to maintain a positive view of the world. She saw her father occasionally; not as often as she’d like, but that was no fault of her mother. She had never stood in his way. It was just one of those things. And she had Jeremy of course. He wasn’t a father, but had long ago appointed himself as her ‘honorary godfather’, a role that pleased them both.

The lists written and pinned to the notice board in the kitchen, Miranda took some potatoes from the vegetable basket.

‘So what are we going to do this half term, sweetheart?’ she said, as she began to peel them at the kitchen sink. ‘Just think, a whole week off school! I’ve asked Jeremy for an extra day off so we can do things together if you like. I will have to go to work on Thursday and Saturday. You could come with me if you want to, or you could stay here if you think you’ll be OK.’

‘Mum, I’m fifteen, of course I’ll be OK!’

‘Yes, of course you will. I just wondered if there was something you’d like to do.’

‘No, I’ve got work anyway. We’ve got a project I’ve got to get on with.’

‘Ooh,’ said Miranda, in her most annoying helpful-mother voice. ‘Anything I can help with? You know how much I love glueing and sticking.’ She put the peeled potatoes on to boil.

‘No, but thanks. We’ve gone a bit beyond glueing and sticking these days. Besides, sounds like you’ll have enough to do with your own project. Do you mind if I go and watch telly for a bit before supper?’

‘No darling, off you go. It won’t be long.’

Miranda took some mince out of the fridge to make a shepherd’s pie. If she added lots of vegetables she could probably make it last for two nights. She peeled two onions, a couple of carrots and a sweet potato and chopped them all in the ancient blender her mother had given her years before. She fried them all off before adding the mince and browning it a little. She added a bit of Lea & Perrins followed by a tin of tomatoes and salt and pepper. She considered taking a picture of it for the blog. Surely everyone knew how to make shepherd’s pie – didn’t they? She took a picture anyway. Then she pushed the saucepan onto the cooler side of the cooker before sitting back at the table. She opened her laptop and wrote:
Austerity Blog: how to live for virtually nothing by Miranda Sharp.

The phone rang. It was Charles. ‘Hi Miranda, how are you?’

‘I’m good. How are you?’

‘I’m very well. Darling, I’m sorry it’s been a while. I’ve been away on business as you know. But I’m back now, and would love to take you out for dinner. What are you up to this coming week?’

‘Well it’s G’s half term, so not a huge amount. We’re just here, you know..’

‘How about tomorrow?’

‘Yes, OK, that would be lovely. I’d ask you here but…’

‘No, I’d like to take you out.’

It had been two weeks since she had last seen Charles. They had been out together four times in all – twice to the Curzon cinema in Richmond, an art house cinema that showed not just the latest movies but also filmed theatrical performances. He’d managed to get two tickets for them to see the latest production of
Hamlet
, which had impressed her. They’d also been out for dinner. Once to a chic restaurant on the edge of Kew Green, which Charles had declared ‘rather a find.’ And the second time to Bocca di Lupo – a bustling Italian restaurant in the heart of Soho. The food on both occasions had been delicious and Miranda enjoyed their evenings out enormously. Charles was handsome and charming and Miranda felt herself melt a little each time he called her ‘darling’. It made her feel special; as if he really cared for her. It had been so long since anyone apart from Jeremy or her mother had called her by any sort of endearment. She had been surprised at how disappointed she had felt when Charles announced an urgent business trip that would take him away for a couple of weeks.

‘I’ve got to go away, darling,’ he’d said during their supper in Soho. Miranda had been spooning chocolate mousse into her mouth, luxuriating in its sheer indulgence. Charles had watched her with a combination of amusement and affection. Charles didn’t eat puddings.

‘Some interesting things are on sale in Hong Kong, and I really need to get there. Normally I’d do my buying on over the Internet, you know? But I ought to see the stuff for myself.’

On the way home, he had held her hand in the car as he drove – a romantic but tricky manoeuvre that involved them changing gear together, his hand over hers on the gear stick. Until that evening, their kissing had been a relatively innocent affair: a kiss on either cheek when they parted, just once a kiss on the mouth. But that night, as they sat in his expensive, leather-lined car outside her house in Sheen, he had kissed her properly, his tongue exploring her mouth, his hands slipping beneath her coat and caressing her breasts through the silk of her blouse. The windows had steamed up and she found herself hoping he would let his hand drop down between her thighs, as boys had been wont to do in her youth, their hands sliding up and up until… But he stopped at her waist and pulled away slightly.