The Echoes of Love (43 page)

‘We're celebrating two events, Venetia. First, the reassuring news that
Signor
Lombardi's condition is not serious, and secondly, that you have granted me the honour of agreeing to be my wife.' Paolo lifted Venetia's hand to his lips, giving a secret smile against her fingers and gazing adoringly into her eyes.

* * *

They walked to the restaurant. The evening was mild, but Venice was crowded; tourists had started to pour in for Easter. Gondolas with lanterns passed to and fro along the Canal. The dome of the Church of Santa Maria della Salute was in sharp silhouette against the evening sky, a deep blue vault above them where countless stars were shining brilliantly. Lights gleamed from the waterside and shone on the colourfully striped, gilt-topped poles that marked the landing stages outside large buildings and hotels. Their reflections bobbed up and down on the water, a poem of black and silver in the moonlight. Happy voices sounded lightly in the air. Someone was singing to the accompaniment of a guitar and behind some pinnacled historic monument the big moon rose in glorious splendour in the navy heavens.

They had almost reached the restaurant when Venetia, who was walking while gazing upwards trying to recognise some of the stars in the sky, collided with a man who was coming up the pavement in the opposite direction.

‘
Scusa
, I'm so sorry,' she said, without looking at the person she had just banged into.

‘Venetia… Venetia Aston-Montagu?'

Venetia looked up at the man addressing her. In the light of the street lamp, the face looked familiar. In his late fifties, he was tall and barrel-chested, and though wearing faded jeans and a discoloured T-shirt, he was a distinguished-looking man, with receding blond hair that was greying at the temples. She hesitated, and then remembered: Mr Riley. Robert Riley, a friend of her father's.

‘Mr Riley, am I right?' she asked with a smile.

‘Yes, that's me. How are you, Venetia?' The man shook her hand, peering at her intently. ‘It's been a long time. I see your father quite often at the club, and at our bridge nights. He told me you were living now in romantic Venice.'

‘Yes, I love it here. How is Daddy? He's not very talkative when I ring.' She felt suddenly embarrassed by her father's apparent lack of interest and added: ‘He's always had an aversion to the phone.'

‘He's very well, actually. Getting on a little, of course, like the rest of us.' Robert Riley laughed. ‘He's had to stop the wine and the good living – a few attacks of gout.'

Venetia's brows lifted. ‘I didn't know – he never told me. He always says he's fine and never talks about his health. I only get to visit him once a year, at Easter, and I always assume he's well… But how rude of me, I haven't introduced you to my godmother, Giovanna Lombardi.'

‘Yes, your godmother – we met years ago.
Signora
Lombardi, a pleasure once again,' the man said, taking the hand Giovanna had just extended to him.

‘And this is
Signor
Barone. Paolo and I have become engaged literally this morning and we're out to celebrate. I haven't yet told Daddy, but I will first thing tomorrow.'

Robert Riley turned to Paolo, but did not offer his hand. ‘Congratulations.' He nodded politely.

‘
Grazie
,' Paolo murmured, hardly looking up.

Venetia glanced at her fiancé. The light fell on his face and she noted how tired he looked, haggard and drawn and showing lines she had never discerned before. ‘I haven't seen Mr Riley since I left England,' she explained.

Paolo's smile was slightly wistful as his gaze travelled from his fiancée to Venetia's father's friend. ‘It's a small world,
cara
.'

‘Indeed, you never know who you'll bump into,' Robert Riley said. ‘Well, it was lovely to see you again, Venetia, after so long.' His large hand warmly engulfed hers. ‘I'll leave you to celebrate this happy event.'

‘I remember him,' Venetia said, turning to her godmother as the man disappeared round the corner. ‘One of Daddy's stuffy government friends! I didn't recognise him immediately. It's been more than ten years and he's certainly aged. Besides, I'd only ever seen him in a suit – he looked rather underdressed in those shabby jeans. I'd never have thought of meeting him in a romantic city like Venice.'

Giovanna watched Paolo take the lead and move ahead of them, as she leaned towards her goddaughter, lowering her voice.

‘Oh, don't be fooled, my dear. These undercover MI5 and MI6 types pop up unexpectedly all over the globe. I remember him well. Your mother didn't like him much – she said he was a bad influence on your father. They'd been friends at Eton and then at Oxford. He read Political Science, like your father, who only briefly worked in intelligence. William abandoned all that to look after the family business when your uncle John died but your father kept in touch with all his friends from his secret agent days, I'm sure of that. Your mother suspected that he actually donated large chunks of money to the organisation. He's very nationalistic and I think always resented having to leave his career in intelligence.'

Venetia gave a sigh and shook her head sadly. This was one of the few times she had discussed her father with Giovanna, not wishing to remind herself of her unhappy family life before she'd come to live in Venice.

‘I never knew that, but then again, I always avoided thinking about what he did, and he never talked about his work. I doubt Mother was aware of what he was up to half the time. Besides, as you know, Daddy and I didn't get on. He took no interest in what I wanted to do with my life, always dictating, always making me feel that I didn't live up to his expectations, so I gradually moved away from him. I think that secretly he wished he'd had a son.'

Giovanna nodded, signalling towards Paolo who was still walking ahead of the two women. ‘Well, let's not rehash all that now,' she told Venetia in a hushed tone. ‘Tonight we're celebrating a happy event and you mustn't let any dark thoughts mar the occasion.'

Arriving at the grand Baroque entrance of Rigoletto, the
maître d'hôtel
gave them a choice of two tables. They could either sit inside in the formal Italian marble dining room, dimly lit with its raspberry raw-silk curtains, leather dining chairs and walls decorated with paintings by Amedeo Modigliani, who had been a close friend of the owners; or more informally, outside in the garden where the tables were set among flowers. The riotous blooms were everywhere; not only in the ground, but growing in baskets hanging from the branches of trees, or arranged in large Etruscan vases in odd corners of the lawn, which though small and compact, like the few green spaces within the city, would have seemed bare without those colourful floral arrangements.

They chose the second option and sat in candlelight beneath a silver birch tree next to a warbling fountain. Venetia was drunk with her own intoxicating emotions, which were amplified by the beauty of the surroundings. Music vibrated in the scented atmosphere, and the rhythmic beat of its drums found an answering throb in the young woman's heart.

Still, she was aware that Paolo was not his usual voluble self. From time to time when he turned to look at her, she saw that his dark face was taut and strained – and at once she was filled with guilt. Now and again he paused to sip his whisky and leaned back in his chair, looking out at the gardens, and the happiness that had been shining out since Venetia had agreed to be his wife left his face. His expression became momentarily preoccupied, even troubled.

Venetia noticed that he'd ordered another whisky. It was so unlike him to take a second strong drink in one evening. She wondered what was perplexing him. The visit to the hospital must have affected him more deeply than she had realised.
He must be exhausted. I shouldn't have let him take us out tonight.
She and
Zia
could have stayed at home and Celestina would have made them something simple like
crema di pomodoro
, a plate of gnocchi and some salad, she told herself. At this stage in her reflections Paolo, as if impelled by her gaze, looked straight across at her and smiled. Her insides fluttered as they always did when he looked at her that way and she relaxed.

A simple meal was literally not on the menu. Venetia had a copious dinner made up of
risotto Milanese
and crispy veal sweetbreads filled with
Tartufi Neri
, which the
maître d'hôtel
insisted was an early harvest that had just arrived that morning from Umbria. She ended her meal with a dessert made of golden, fresh
nespoli
with honeycomb ice-cream and a cup of black coffee.

After dinner they accompanied Giovanna back to her apartment.

‘I'll join you at the hospital tomorrow morning,
Zia
. Have a good night.'

At the door to Bella Vista, Giovanna kissed her goddaughter and then Paolo. ‘Goodnight,
cara
, and thank you for the lovely evening, Paolo.'

He gave a courteous nod. ‘It's my pleasure,
signora,
and I hope the first of many.'

As Venetia and Paolo were walking back to the launch, Venetia shivered for no apparent reason. ‘Someone walked over my grave,' she said laughingly.

‘Don't say things like that,' Paolo snapped. ‘It's morbid.' He took off his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders as though she were a rare piece of china. Then his voice softened. ‘Here, wear this. You must be tired,
carissima,
you need a good night's sleep.' Venetia pulled his jacket around her and glanced at him, realising that she had never seen him so tired-looking, but she smiled and said nothing.

The tranquil night was not without its effect on Paolo and Venetia. They stood side by side a while in silence on the deserted quay, gazing over the Grand Canal's mirror of water with its quivering reflections of many-coloured lights – red, green, yellow and blue. Gondolas full of sightseers, each with their lanterns fore and aft, glided past them like blossoms moving to and fro, backed by great façades of medieval architecture lit up in grand and gracious beauty by clever lighting. The moon shed a beam as soft as mother-of-pearl across the water. Lovers, honeymoon couples in boats, and would-be honeymooners moved in dreamy wanderings on the liquid table.

‘Will you come over to my place instead of going to the hotel?'

Paolo looked down at Venetia. In the moonlight, she saw the quick curve of a smile move across his face. ‘If I stay with you tonight we will not sleep,
amore mio
, believe me.'

‘We could try.' She smiled shyly, still staring out at the water.

‘Although I admit that I'm tired, I wouldn't be able to resist you. Either a fool or a saint would turn their back on a night in your arms,
cara
, and I am neither.'

At his words, a slow wave of heat curled through Venetia's body.

Suddenly Paolo's hand went out and caught hers, squeezing her fingers convulsively. Slowly, Venetia turned her head towards him to find that he was looking at her. There was an urgency in his gaze, a pleading that caused her heart to leap in her breast. His blue eyes were glittering, and his face, lean and dark, almost terrifyingly stern with a new intensity. Then, suddenly, he removed his hand from hers, though it was only to clasp Venetia in his arms and gather her close to him. He tried to speak, but the words did not seem to come.

‘What's wrong, Paolo? You look so pale and agitated suddenly.'

‘Just remember this,
amore mio
: I love you, Venetia. I've known this all along, ever since the day I met you. I want to take care of you for the rest of our lives. I simply cannot live without you…'

‘I know all that, my love, and I feel the same about you.'

‘Are you quite sure? What if...'

‘Shush, you're exhausted and it's all my fault, dragging you back down here and spoiling your holiday – there's nothing to worry about.'

Paolo shook his head in a way Venetia didn't understand and searched her eyes. Then his mouth was on her forehead and he whispered her name again and again,
‘la mia piccola strega,
my little enchantress,'
he breathed. He leant his cheek against hers and appeared to find comfort in doing so, but there was a kind of sadness about him, Venetia thought; she had the impression that his shoulders were suddenly bending under the weight of some predicament. Maybe he was realising now that asking her to marry him would be an added complication to his life and he was having second thoughts. Maybe it was all her imagination… Silence stretched between them, broken only by the soft lap of the water against the quay.

‘Come, let's go, Paolo. Take me home and get yourself a goodnight's sleep – you'll feel better tomorrow.'

They stepped down into Paolo's launch and motored away towards the Dorsoduro district.

* * *

An aura of wispy dream clouds surrounded Venetia. She seemed to be a prisoner in a bubble, floating between sky and earth. Through a hazy veil, the indistinct features of her lover appeared to her like an inaccessible mirage she knew would vanish at any moment if she didn't capture it immediately.

She sighed softly, lifting herself a little, her arms stretched, reaching out for him. ‘My love,' she breathed. ‘My dearest love, my only love, don't go. I love you. I've never stopped loving you. I'll always love you… you… only you.'

She kept seeing the man at a distance, but the nebulous image went on fading, then coming back… she could almost see him clearly now, but then again his face melted away in the swirling brume of the unreal.

She called after him, running now, overwhelmed by a frantic need to catch up with him. And then suddenly his arms were around her. Paolo… holding her… Paolo… stroking her… kissing her. She tried to press against him… feel him, throbbing with emotion, hungry for his touch… his warmth, but she met with nothingness… emptiness… air… cold air. Why couldn't she feel him?