The Echoes of Love (5 page)

Sir William Aston-Montagu, Venetia's father, had violently opposed the marriage, forbidding his daughter to carry on the relationship. Despite the fact that he was ex-army himself, he was an overbearing, old-fashioned kind of man, the type who expected his daughter to marry someone from her own background: ‘one of us', as he used to infuriate Venetia by saying. Lorna, her mother, though sweet-natured and kind, was subdued by her husband's overwhelming personality and would never have dreamt of contradicting him. Nonetheless, the young couple had carried on seeing each other discreetly, which wasn't often, as most of the time Judd was called away on duty in Northern Ireland, but they wrote to each other regularly.

And then one day, while Judd was away on manoeuvres in Ireland, Venetia had discovered she was pregnant. She had gone to her parents and told them that whether they accepted it or not she would be marrying Judd Carter, as he was the father of the child she was carrying. Despite his wife's pleading, Sir William had stood his ground, threatening to disinherit his daughter if she did not end the pregnancy immediately. Even now, Venetia could hear her father's harsh voice ringing in anger:

‘This young man is a social climber and a gold-digger. He might have wormed his way into Sandhurst, and into your bed, but he's certainly not going to become a member of this family! I will not let you dishonour the Aston-Montagu name, young lady. You get rid of that thing you're carrying, or you are no more my daughter and you'll not see a penny when I'm dead.'

Venetia had then written to Judd with the news, but he had never replied. The string of letters she had sent after that, imploring him to get in touch, had all remained unanswered. If he'd been killed in action, she would have found out very quickly, so even having that morbid reason for his silence was denied her. She was devastated. To her parents' horror, she had moved out of the house and stayed with her best friend, Emma. She was not yet twenty but, despite everything, she had decided to keep the child, too full of her own blind emotions to listen to reason. Three months later, she had fallen headlong down the stairs in a shopping arcade and the injuries to her back had resulted in her losing the baby. Sir William and Lorna had gone to visit her in hospital, where they made their peace, and Venetia had returned home.

She had spent a few months after that in a sort of suspended state, too tired to think coherently, stunned by what she had gone through. But Venetia was not one to be beaten by circumstance and so, with the support of her mother and her friends, she gathered her forces, faced life again, and taken up her studies where she had left them. She had never heard from Judd again.

By now, after a decade, the wound had healed; Venetia had forgiven her father and Judd, but the emotional scars remained, leaving her disenchanted with the whole idea of love and romance. Ever since Judd, she had been wary of relationships, and had never again taken a man to her bed, earning the reputation of being ice-cold among the men in her circle.

Tonight, Venetia allowed her thoughts to turn to Paolo. Her conscience pricked her. Had she been unnecessarily harsh? ‘
No, not today, not tomorrow, nor the day after…'
Contrarily now, she wished she had not said those words, with their finality, aware that what had prompted such an extreme reaction was her unwillingness to get involved with this man.

Up until now, Venetia brooded, she had always felt in command of the situation when in the company of the opposite sex, despite the fact that some of the young men she had met over the years had been handsome and successful – dream husband material for any other girl but herself. She had built a fortress around her heart, taking a kind of grim satisfaction in not letting anyone past her defences, content to wield her independence and professional dedication like a weapon against her own loneliness.

Suddenly faced with this stranger, Venetia was disconcerted and she was not sure of herself any more; the conflicting emotions he aroused made her feel keyed-up and restless. The courtesy he extended towards her was all part of the Italian tradition. Nevertheless, his repeated invitations to dinner seemed genuine – in fact she had detected a certain sadness in his eyes and in his voice at her desire not to extend their acquaintance. Still, this was not about Paolo, this was about her, and that odd tingling sensation that had come over her suddenly when she had landed unwittingly in his arms on the boat. At this recollection Venetia felt the same sort of delicious tremor run through her, her heartbeat quickened and she found herself secretly hoping that their paths would cross again – a feeling so different to the loathing and dread she usually experienced at the idea of a man's touch. Something she couldn't put a name to, a glimmer of a feeling out of focus, was taking shape inside her, and she was unsure what it meant.

Dawn was breaking and, as Venetia hovered on the edge of sleep, her hazy mind kept interchanging Judd's and Paolo's faces behind her heavy eyelids. A vague sense of guilt pricked at her, almost as if she was somehow being unfaithful to Judd. But Judd had abandoned her and she was alone, haunted by his love. Why could she not forget him? She had the singular impression something was escaping her, something important that she could not immediately pinpoint… it was there, on the tip of her tongue. And then finally fatigue took over and she drifted off into a deep, troubled sleep. Dreams came to her of a dark figure pursuing her through the streets of Venice, cloaked and masked, whispering her name. But each time she turned round, he had gone.

Chapter 2

T
he early morning sun, streaming across the marble balcony through the French windows, settled in a bright bar on the bed. Venetia lay sleeping on her back, one bare arm flung out above her head on the pillow and the other resting on the brocade eiderdown. The golden rays crept upward, touched her breast, her alabaster throat and her fine features in repose. Waves of chestnut hair were scattered on the pillow and tumbled in a cascade down her shoulders, framing her diamond-shaped face with its delicate jawline and dramatically prominent cheekbones. It was an unusual face, with an open and alert expression that made artists want to sculpt and paint it; and the young Englishwoman had experienced no shortage of offers since her time in Italy's most artistic and beauty-obsessed city.

Venetia stirred; the dark heavy lashes lying in two feathery arcs below her closed lids fluttered up as the gold-flecked eyes opened wide. With a languid movement she lifted her head and glanced at the little bedside clock on the night table just as the great bells of the Campanile started to swing and the whole of Venice vibrated with overwhelming, melodious noise. It was nine o'clock; the day had officially begun.

Venetia had barely slept two hours – but she had no work today, apart from meeting with Francesca in the afternoon; she could afford a lie-in. She knew that she would not get much sleep during the coming week as she prepared for the grand exhibition at the much celebrated palace, Ca'Dario. Getting a little extra sleep now would be sensible, but the airy room was filled with light. Her bedroom windows stood wide open all night no matter what the weather, a habit acquired since her boarding-school days in England. Leaning back into the pillows, she pulled the heavy bedspread closer about her shoulders and curled down again.

Snuggled under the quilt, Venetia lay still a few minutes, listening to the familiar sounds of Venice floating on the air: the lap of water against the quayside, the light swish of a gondola racing by, the strident whistling of the
vaporetti
, the distant raucous hoot of a ferry carrying tourists to and from other parts of the world, the cooing of pigeons that came to rest outside her windows on the balcony, and the fluttering gentle thunderstorm of their wings as they flew back into the sky. She loved this district, Dorsoduro. Quiet, and more like an island than the touristy areas of the rest of central Venice, it was full of artists and students, hanging out in bohemian
caffetterias
and bars, talking, reading, discussing life and art over coffee or a glass of wine. She allowed herself to drift off again, enjoying this moment of tranquillity.

Finally she slipped out of bed and ran to the window that overlooked the lagoon. As her apartment was on the third floor, the stretch of shoreline was visible for miles. The waters were very blue under the cloudless sky, sparkling in the sunshine; everything was clear in the crystal air, but it was still very cold. A heavenly morning, too beautiful to stay inside!

Venetia went into the adjoining bathroom and ran herself a bath. She loved its pink mosaic walls and the way the tub had been enthroned beneath the window on a cream-coloured stone platform, reached by a couple of shallow polished steps, so she was able to enjoy the view over Venice as she lay in the warm soapy water. A grand Baroque gilt-framed mirror hung over the sink, and scalloped Murano glass sconces, shaped like shells, were placed on either side of it, diffusing upwards their mellow light. A delicate pink chandelier hung from the domed ceiling, complementing perfectly the warm brass fittings of the elegant room, all of which gave an air of comfortable opulence.

As Venetia lingered in a mass of scented bubbles, thoughts of Paolo fought for supremacy in her mind. She pushed them away determinedly. True, she hoped their paths would cross again, but she was not going to go looking for him. After all, she still didn't feel ready to launch into a relationship, and in her experience men seldom looked for friendship – they usually wanted much more. So what was the point? Better to think of the morning ahead. Perhaps she should use it to go over to Torcello. She never tired of visiting this almost deserted little island, at the northern end of Venice's lagoon, which was so famous for its mosaics; but maybe that would be too ambitious. At this time of year the cathedral might be closed, and the waterbuses going to the island were not that frequent. She stepped out of the bath and, towelling herself, went back into her bedroom.

Venetia loved clothes. She had taken like a duck to water to the traditional Italian way of living,
la bella figura,
which prevailed in Venice more than anywhere else in Italy, and she followed the prevailing fashion that happened to suit her so-called ‘stick' figure. Her godmother had told her many times that if one day she tired of being an architect, she could always become a model. Much of her wardrobe was made up of mini-skirts, skinny jeans, jumpers and silk blouses, with a few smart suits for work, some easy morning frocks, and short and long evening dresses.

Casual but smart in tight black jeans, a white cashmere jumper and a short, glossy sable jacket, Venetia went into town to buy a newspaper and stroll the narrow streets of the city. She had been very busy at the office since Christmas, preparing for the photography exhibition of all the restored
palazzi
that her department, Marmi Storici e Pietra,
had been involved in during the past twelve years. Gathering and putting together a collection of the drawings, designs, the plans and snapshots, material samples, building fragments and models of the
palazzi
end products had been a huge job; and she had worked on the project almost single-handedly, helped from time to time by Francesca, the only other specialist in the restoration of historic buildings that worked for the firm.

The models were done by Fabrizio, a brilliant young Venetian who had been with the practice for six years. After studying architecture for over seven years, he had decided that all he liked to do was build models, a passion nurtured since the age of five. But building models was not Fabrizio's only passion. The flamboyant Italian was in love with Venetia and had courted her since the first day she had joined the firm; but, as with other men, her heart had remained tightly closed to his advances. ‘
Cara
, you break my heart every day, but I forgive you because you are so lovely,' he would gently scold her in his inimitably Italian way.

Venetia spent the morning window shopping, sauntering aimlessly amidst the tourists, just one of the crowd. The city, being so compact, was ideal for strolling down side-streets and picking up an array of strange and wonderful curiosities in Venice's old shops, from exotic fabrics,
objets d'art
and antiques to speciality foods, collectors' books and convex ‘witches' mirrors' so particular to the city. She hadn't had any breakfast, so just before one o'clock she ended up at a pretty
trattoria
in Piazza San Marco that had just opened its doors a few weeks ago in honour of the Carnival. Pleasantly exhausted, she sat outside in the winter sun, under its red awning and next to its hedge of potted ferns, sipping her glass of white wine. As Napoleon was reputed to have said of the city's most famous public square, it was ‘the drawing room of Europe', and Venetia watched the antics of the people in the
piazza
as though she were in an outdoor parlour. Absorbed in the silence of centuries, she feasted her eyes on the relics of Venice's architecture and art history.

She looked up at the Torre dell' Orologio, representing the three pillars of
La Serenissima'
s power: scientific progress, civic enlightenment and Christian faith; a splendid specimen of Venetian artwork and engineering. Its mystical, pagan influences were no less beautifully depicted in the exquisite representation of the blue and gold zodiac on the clock face. Still, she could never look at the clock without shivering at the thought of the gruesome myth attached to it. According to local legend, the engineers who built the mechanism of the gold and blue
chef d'oeuvre
had their eyes gouged out so as to prevent them from building a similar piece, and ensure that no other city could have such a magnificent clock as Venice.

Stretching alongside the Torre dell' Orologio in front of her were the fifteenth-century Procuratie Vecchie buildings housing an arcade which extended the length of the north side of the
piazza
with its shops and restaurants, round to the west wing of San Marco, constructed by Napoleon. To her right, at the eastern end of the square, St Mark's Basilica stood majestically, a symbol of Venice's history of wealth and power and a famous example of Byzantine architecture with its opulent mosaics, marble decor and huge arches. The four colossal bronze horses set into the façade of the magnificent cathedral looked out over the square like triumphant guardians. Venetia never tired of looking at the five glorious golden domes sitting on top of it, exotically eastern, and in front of it, the freestanding belltower of the Campanile, towering above her. As the waiter glided outside with her lunch on a tray and people began filling up the tables, she decided that she liked this pretty new
trattoria
and would come again.

Venetia tucked in to her grilled
soaso
– a tiny Adriatic turbot taken from the lagoons near Venice – and was just starting on her
gelato al cioccolato all'azteca
, a hot pepper and cinnamon-infused dark chocolate ice-cream, when her heart lurched and her breath caught in her throat. A man and a stunning-looking young woman, who looked scarcely out of her teens, had just arrived at the
trattoria
and were being shown to a table with a reserved card on it, two tables away from hers.

Paolo's tall, imposing frame was clad in close-fitting black cords, a grey jumper and silk scarf under a dark-grey blazer. Sunglasses protected his eyes from the glare, or maybe like most Italian men and women he wore them as an affectation. It was a cultural artifice that still made Venetia smile. There was an impression of nonchalant ease as he stood, broad-shouldered and loose-limbed, waiting for his companion to shed her coat.

The girl was of medium height with a sexy, curvaceous figure that moved provocatively without losing its grace. Enormous, dark, bedroom eyes under thick lashes took up most of her oval face. She wore her loose, luscious curls of raven-black hair pinned half up, half down in a casual tangle, Bardot style. In her snugly tight fuchsia trouser suit, which on some might have seemed too loud, she was dazzling. As she handed her coat to the waiter she gratified him with a languorous come-hither smile that Venetia was sure must have made his day. Paolo helped his date to her seat before sitting himself down opposite her, facing Venetia.

The girl was now talking to him animatedly and laughing, her bejewelled hands gesticulating gracefully in that typical Italian way. Was Paolo listening? Was he amused? Venetia couldn't tell; and although his eyes were hidden by the dark shades, she was sure that he had seen her. There was a stillness about him, a half-smile tugging at that full mouth, which if she didn't know any better seemed just for her. She found it difficult to eat knowing that he might be watching her, but she forced herself to finish her ice-cream, paid the bill and left the restaurant.

Despite feeling a little miffed at Paolo's apparent indifference, Venetia did not let the incident mar her afternoon. She had had no desire to engage in conversation with him, especially as he was accompanied, but she rather expected him to have at least acknowledged her presence, if only with a nod. Still, she was intrigued by the couple. Somehow, she wouldn't have imagined Paolo with that type of woman; they appeared so ill-suited. He was reserved and sophisticated, while his exotic companion seemed earthy, from a different background, and so much younger than him.

Venetia was not in the habit of looking down on others, she had neither racial nor social prejudices, far from it; she had suffered too much from the arrogant snobbery of her dictatorial father. But her sensitive nature made her delve instinctively into the dark underbelly of human relationships to expose the sometimes discordant elements between couples. Perhaps it was the torment of her own abandonment by Judd that made her curious as to what made people tick.

So what was the story behind Paolo and this young woman so at odds with himself? Venetia flinched inwardly as another darker, more destructive emotion pierced her awareness; she didn't want to think about Paolo alone with this girl and what they might be to each other. She was not going to let him get under her skin any more. Shrugging away thoughts of him, she walked quickly from the square, east towards the Castello district.

She was meeting Francesca at four o'clock. That left an hour and a half to kill, and so she went rummaging in one of the old Venetian palaces that had been turned into a vast antique-market-cum-workshop, where she often found ideas for the refurbishment projects in hand, and where she sometimes picked up
objects de charme
that had delighted her clients. Though she was totally against buying fake art, Venetia was unable to remain unmoved by the spectacle and scale of reproduction antiques taking place in what had become a warehouse of beautiful things. Twice she'd had the opportunity to work there when restoring larger pieces of mosaics, and she had been delighted by the rather mad-happy atmosphere at the factory, where furniture was made and pictures painted to the accompaniment of snatches from opera and cheerful old Venetian songs. Venetia loved the character of this city's people. Their history of struggle for survival, incredibly building the greatest city in Europe from a mire of inhospitable mudflats, had bred a strong sense of community that bound them together in a charismatic mixture of warmth, fierce pride and joviality.

After sifting through various pieces in the workshop, she was not disappointed on this occasion either, and was pleased to find a beautiful glass-relief vase to send back to the office as inspiration for the Palermi project.