Deep and Silent Waters (35 page)

She broached the subject of visiting Venice, expecting a short, sharp refusal, but Carlo immediately showed approval and enthusiasm.

‘Yes, of course. I will take you there myself. I would enjoy a trip to Venice. I don’t know the city and I feel I ought to. I’ll book a room at one of the best hotels and stay a couple of days.’

Vittoria was uneasy. What if Olivia felt he was trying to wangle an invitation to Ca’d’Angeli for himself? It would be so embarrassing. Why did he want to go, anyway? He had never bothered to escort her anywhere before.

‘You don’t need to take me – I went to Switzerland alone, I can get to Venice without help.’

Carlo said firmly, ‘We don’t want the d’Angeli family to think you aren’t well-brought up. Families like that still expect young ladies to be protected. If your mother was alive she would chaperone you – she’s not here to do it, so I must.’

Italy was still a country rooted in the past; many older women wore black, most had lost husbands, brothers, fathers during the war, they guarded the innocence of their daughters with fierce determination. Men wanted their brides to be virgins; where their sisters and daughters were concerned they did not trust other men any more than the mothers did.

They set off on a very hot summer day. The trip to Venice took hours; the train was overcrowded, slow and dirty.

‘At least the trains ran on time and were clean when Il Duce was running the country,’ muttered Carlo.

Several men in the compartment glanced furtively at him. One of them said, ‘Before he got mixed up with the Germans! The ‘thirties, those were the good years.’

Carlo had managed to get a corner seat for Vittoria. She ignored the men, her straw hat firmly on her dark hair, her white-gloved hands demurely in the lap of her pale pink linen suit. Mostly she stared out at the landscape running past: the Lombardy plain, fringed by mountains on their left hand, low-lying fields parched with summer heat, dry, bleached grass whispering in river beds where no water ran, tall, flame-shaped cypress burning in black silhouette against the sun haze, and everywhere the stubby silvery-leaved olive trees.

Her stomach cramped with excitement as they came closer to Venice, through the Po Valley, caught glimpses of the distant blue sea. Carlo craned to see the city for the first time; the grey domes and spires of Venice.

‘
Bellissima
,’ he murmured.

The train drew into the station and Carlo descended on his crutches, in his ungainly way, then signalled to a porter to help with the luggage. While the man got out the cases and loaded them on his trolley, Vittoria shot a look past the hurrying crowds of passengers.

Her heart turned over at the sight of Olivia waving outside the barrier, and, beside her, Domenico, sunlight gilding his sleek black hair and that golden skin.

‘Is that your friend? Who’s that with her?’ Carlo asked, heading for the barrier with Vittoria walking fast beside him to keep up.

‘Her brother.’

‘The Count?’

‘Yes.’

He looked wonderful, Vittoria thought. Everyone who walked past stared at him, especially the women, who fluttered excitedly if he smiled at them.

‘He looks like a model,’ Carlo seethed, then stopped dead, staring at another man who had just joined Olivia and Domenico.

‘I don’t believe it,’ Carlo muttered. ‘I’m not seeing things, am I, Vittoria? That
is
Canfield, isn’t it? What the hell is he doing here?’

Canfield was beginning to show his age: his floppy fair hair had thinned and receded a little from his high forehead, giving him a noble profile. It had also begun to turn grey and shone like silver filigree in the Italian sunlight. Even from a distance, it was clear that he was still as slender as ever, and those vivid blue eyes were even brighter against the tan of his face. He was no longer poor, Vittoria observed, as they came closer, no old flannel trousers for him now, or patched elbows in his jacket. The perfectly tailored summer suit he wore must have cost the earth. She had seen so many wealthy Englishmen in Lausanne wearing suits like that; linen, expensive, in that casual English style, which was somehow formal too. But the pale blue shirt and striped dark blue silk tie had probably been bought here, they were in the new Italian fashion.

The nineteen fifties were Italy’s time, a new Renaissance in life-style. Gone were the grey, bleak, poverty-stricken days of the post-war period. The young had money in their pockets. Some had gone to art college, and a new style of clothing, furniture, decor had exploded on to the scene.

The new music was sensual, sexy, light-hearted, downright dangerous, because it persuaded a girl to forget her religion, her upbringing, everything her father had warned her about, and enjoy herself. The sound of Italian popular music was coming out of radios everywhere in Europe during those years.

Their clothes were cheap but classy; pastel-coloured blouses for the girls, laid-back lapels giving glimpses of their breasts, full skirts with tight waists, and underneath frothy, bouncy petticoats that rustled as they walked, sounding sexy and intriguing to the boys in their lightweight, pale trousers and pastel sweaters over open-necked shirts.

After the war Dior’s New Look had been popular with the rich, and was already going out of fashion as the decade changed; this new Italian look was for anyone. The young of other countries couldn’t wait to get to Italy on holiday. Thousands of foreign tourists from colder countries – Sweden, Britain, Holland – came to experience the delights of dancing at night under the summer stars, sitting at street cafés where lovers ate pasta with tomato sauce and drank cheap, rough red wine.

It was a life-style the young craved, and crowds of them, chattering in English, Finnish, German, Spanish, had climbed out of the train from Milan on which Vittoria and Carlo had arrived, and were rushing off to discover Venice. Vittoria felt a pang. Would the city have changed much since she last saw it? Oh, not physically – the Venetians wouldn’t allow anyone to alter so much as a church spire – but now there would be tourists everywhere. Would Venice still be a city of empty, sunny streets and squares, full of the soft sound of water? Of dark alleys, whose small shops smelt of garlic, wine, oranges?

‘Are you coming, then?’ Carlo demanded impatiently, leaning on his crutches and swinging between them with those over-developed arms.

‘Sorry, yes,’ she said, flushed and nervous.

Before Vittoria and Carlo could reach the barrier, Olivia ran forward to hug her. ‘Oh, I’m so glad to see you! Is it a whole year since we left school? I feel old, don’t you? So much has happened.’

Hugging her back, Vittoria laughed shyly. ‘Hallo, Livia.’

Olivia stood back to look at her clothes, making a rueful face. ‘Oh, what a good little girl you still are! You look just the way you did at school! Where
did
you get that hat? Never mind, while you’re here I’ll take you shopping for new clothes. My friends will laugh if they see you dressed like that!’

Vittoria reddened, all too aware of the three men listening.

‘She looks charming, that colour suits her. I wish you would stop wearing pants, Olivia, not to mention all that makeup!’ Domenico said quickly, taking Vittoria’s hand and kissing the back of it. ‘I remember meeting you, at my house one day during the war – but, like my wicked sister, you’ve grown up since then. I don’t think I would have recognised you if I hadn’t known who you were.’

‘Thank you for inviting me to Ca’ d’Angeli,’ she managed to say, her throat dry with excitement. He was even better-looking close to. The last time they had met he had been a boy – now he was a man, so much taller than she was. She loved his clothes, the way he smiled, that wonderful golden skin. ‘How does it feel to be back in Italy?’

‘
Stupendo
! It’s great.’

‘Did you like America?’

‘America?’ he repeated. ‘
Molto simpdtico
! I loved it! It has such energy, such terrific music – and the art! Amazing! You must go there too. You’ll love it, everyone does.’

‘Not quite everyone,’ a cool, smooth voice murmured, and she reluctantly moved her eyes to Canfield.

‘
Ciao
, Toria,’ he said, taking one of the hands she was deliberately holding down at her sides.

He lifted it to his mouth and she felt the brush of his flesh with distaste.

She was not pleased to see
him
again, but she couldn’t say so in front of the others so she didn’t answer, just forced a polite smile and inclined her head. His shrewd, cynical eyes read her expression but he went on smiling, unsurprised, faintly amused, as if he had expected that reaction from her. She had never hidden her dislike and resentment.

‘You’ve become a young woman,’ he said. ‘And there’s a faint look of your mother … the eyes, perhaps? The cheekbones?’

‘My mother always said I took after my father,’ she told him coldly. ‘Maybe, if it had lived, the baby she died giving birth to might have looked like her.’

She saw him flinch. Ah! So he wasn’t as impervious as he wanted to seem. ‘It was buried with her,’ she added, watching him remorselessly, hoping to see more evidence of her blows landing, but Carlo, his eyes bulging, interrupted.

‘I didn’t expect to see you here, Canfield! What are you doing in Venice?’

Vittoria could see the relief with which the Englishman turned to face him. ‘Writing a book on Venetian art. Hallo, Carlo. You’re looking fit and well, I’m happy to see.’ He held out his hand, and Carlo took it, the habit of good manners too engrained for him to refuse.

‘Is that how you earn your living, Canfield? I remember you wrote before the war. Do you earn enough to live on or do you still teach?’

‘I no longer need to teach. My books on Italy are doing very well and I can live on the money they bring in. How’s the factory doing? I’ve seen your products everywhere so I know you’re still in business.’

As Carlo answered, his manner warming a little because Canfield had touched on the subject closest to his heart, Olivia slipped an arm round Vittoria’s waist.

‘Come on, let’s walk down to the landing-stage – our boat is waiting. The porter has taken your luggage down there already. We’re going to have such fun, Toria. There’s a beach party over at the Lido tonight, and tomorrow an American friend of ours is having a dance for his birthday. His family are meat-packers from Chicago.’

‘Are what?’ Vittoria queried, bemused by the phrase.

Olivia giggled. ‘That’s what he calls it. They put beef in cans and sell it all over America. They’re rolling in money, Toria, and Greg is gorgeous, blond and blue-eyed. Wait till you see him! He’s spoilt but, then, he’s an only son and he’ll inherit the business. He gets everything he wants – his sister is always complaining about it, and I don’t blame her, but he’s such a charmer. His parents adore him. They just gave him his own motor-boat for his birthday and he zips up and down the canal, waving to me. The Murphys live in a palazzo round the bend from us, in the Grand Canal. They rent it, of course. It belongs to the Lazaro family, but they can’t afford to live in it.’

‘Who runs the business in America while the Murphys are over here?’

‘Oh, they put in a manager and Mr Murphy goes home every so often to check on things, but Mrs Murphy and Greg and Bernadette stay here.’

‘Bernadette is the sister?’

Olivia nodded. ‘They’re Catholics, of course – Irish descent.’

‘Catholics? That’s nice.’ Vittoria had been wondering how the d’Angeli family would react to Olivia marrying outside the Church.

Olivia grinned knowingly. ‘Isn’t it? No need to worry about that!’

They both chuckled. Domenico caught up with them. ‘What are you two whispering about?’

‘You,’ his sister told him.

‘What else?’ His dark eyes wandered over the crowded steps where students in jeans and T-shirts, tourists in shorts, sat nursing their rucksacks and consulting creased maps of Venice. ‘Venice is full of Americans again,’ he told Vittoria, keeping step with her, riveting the eyes of some of the students with his long-legged, lithe body. He had a physical grace that was mesmerising, especially combined with the unintended arrogance of his self-assurance, the birthright of centuries of d’Angeli ancestors who had been lords and rulers in this city.

‘How long have you known Signor Canfield?’ asked Vittoria, aware of the man behind her, talking to Carlo. The sound of his voice made her head beat with rage. He had killed her mother. She wanted to scream it at him. Murderer.

‘I met him in the States while I was over there. He was lecturing at the same university. When he said he was writing a book on Venetian art I invited him to stay with us.’ Domenico smiled down at her.

Vittoria’s heart turned over sickeningly. He was so beautiful.

‘Charming, isn’t he?’ Domenico murmured. ‘He told me he had known your family well. Wasn’t he your brothers’ tutor before the war?’

Vittoria swallowed, her throat clenched. He would be sleeping under the same roof. ‘Yes.’

‘He said there were about half a dozen boys.’

‘He exaggerates, as usual. There were four. Carlo is the only one who survived the war.’

He was watching her intently, and saw that she was trembling. Putting his arm round her shoulders to steady her, Domenico said gently, ‘I’m sorry, three brothers gone … That’s hard to bear, you must miss them badly.’

She let herself lean on him, feeling his warmth seep into her. He smelt of lemons and musk and cigarette smoke; she loved the fragrance of his skin. He was kind … or maybe he really liked her? It felt as if he did. She loved the way he smiled at her, those dark eyes full of light and warmth. She was so happy she was quite light-headed.

This was going to be a wonderful holiday.

Except for having Canfield under the same roof.

Domenico insisted that Carlo must stay, too, for the two days he meant to be in Venice, and they seemed to become instant friends. Domenico took him around the city, showed him the Accademia, San Marco, Santa Maria della Salute. They did a boat trip around the canals, went out to the lagoon islands, to Murano to buy dark red glass, to Torcello to see the Byzantine cathedral. Carlo bought lace and linen to take back to Rachele before they went on to San Michele, the cypress-enclosed cemetery island with the white walls.