The Echoes of Love (46 page)

‘It's for his own protection, and Paolo is quite aware of that.'

‘How did you know we were coming back to Venice? We had intended to spend a week in Sardinia. It's only because my godmother's husband was taken ill that we returned.' She shuddered at the thought of how much she and Paolo must have been watched over the last few days, when she had been so lost in her happiness and thoughts of their future together.

‘We knew you were both coming back to Pisa because your names were on the passenger list. Whenever his name comes up at any port or airport in Italy, and a few other countries, we're alerted. And then from there it was easy – our agent followed you to Venice.'

‘So, meeting you yesterday was not a coincidence.'

‘Well, yes and no. We were alerted when you and Paolo first met by accident and I can assure you, that set the cat among the pigeons. But we watched and waited, not knowing for sure what would happen between you. Then it became clear that we would have to intervene soon. I flew into Venice that afternoon when I knew that was where you were headed. I was going to contact you at your home to speak to you, but then we bumped into each other on your way to the restaurant – that was a coincidence. When you introduced Paolo Barone as your fiancé, I knew that I had to act quickly. I rang your father and we decided to tell you the truth immediately, hence my note to you and this meeting.'

‘Still meddling… Does Paolo know you?'

‘Yes, of course – I was involved with him from the very beginning and we meet twice a year to touch base.'

Venetia thought about Paolo's behaviour since they had met, all the ways in which her own sixth sense had tried to tell her something about him, and how finally, it all made sense. She swallowed again, the enormity of the truth dawning on her afresh.

‘Have you told him the facts now about this whole mess?'

‘Yes, we spoke yesterday evening.'

‘So you've interfered again and ruined my life for the second time,' she threw out vehemently. She got up from the bench and walked away a few steps, hugging herself. If he'd told her all this before speaking to Paolo, despite her own shock she could at least have broken it to him gently in her own way, with all the love she felt for him, now more than ever. She stared across the canal. ‘No wonder Paolo disappeared and couldn't face me – I can't believe it!'

‘I don't think I've ruined your life, Venetia,' the agent told her in a calm voice. ‘It's clear that Paolo loves you very deeply.'

She remained silent, not wanting to discuss her feelings for Paolo with this man who, along with her father, was responsible for so much loss, so many years of misery and confusion. She looked back at him coldly.

‘I was unable to get in touch with him today. He's checked out of his hotel and he's not at home. Nor is he answering his mobile. He's obviously disgusted with this whole business and I don't blame him if he never wants to set eyes on me again.'

‘He's at a monastery in Sardinia. He went there once before, after he left the hospital, when he first started his new life in Italy. As we had never mentioned his love affair with you, these revelations must have come as a great shock to him, of course.'

Robert Riley tapped another cigarette on his packet and glanced up at Venetia, his features appearing strained. ‘He's hurt and he needs to deal with it. I'm not surprised he's unreachable there, but he knows you were a victim as much as he was. Still, this adds a heavy load to his already difficult situation, and as I've said, he needs to learn how to deal with it.'

‘You're really a Machiavellian lot, playing God, meddling in other people's lives. No wonder the world is in such a mess… How can you live with yourselves?' Venetia was fuming as she paced up and down in front of him. ‘So what was the exact plot?'

‘I'm afraid I can't tell you more – you'll have to ask your father. I just wanted you to know that Gareth never dropped you as you'd thought, and that William has been haunted by what he did for the past decade.'

‘But…'

‘Talk to your father, Venetia. He's waiting for you in England.'

* * *

Venetia was suddenly jolted from her bitter thoughts by the creaking of brakes, as the train slowed to a halt, and the nasal voice of the stationmaster announced Chichester station. She got up and pulled her duffle bag down from the shelf above her seat. She had brought the bare minimum with her as she didn't intend staying long in England. Forty-eight hours at most – just as long as it took to have it out with her father. This would be a confrontation long past the expiry date.

There was a nip in the air as she stepped down onto the platform, and a thin, dispirited drizzle had just started, something the English somewhat romantically call ‘April showers'. Bracing herself against the cold and sudden desolation, Venetia walked through a small open gateway and out into a lane. A silver-grey Rolls-Royce was drawn up outside the station building, and an elderly chauffeur in a smart grey uniform came to meet her.

‘Welcome home, Miss Venetia,' he said, a broad smile lighting up his face as he rid her of her bag. ‘Is that all?'

‘Yes, Giles, thank you. Just a short trip this time, I'm afraid.'

Giles had been with her family as far back as Venetia could remember. He had started off as a groom when Sir William was a young man and had been promoted to driver when Venetia was still at prep school. He opened the door of the car and placed her bag in the boot. British summer time had started, so although it was almost seven o'clock, it was still light; that hour between daylight and darkness when it was still too light for the happy glow of lamps, but with the outside world already misting itself into the furry outlines of dusk.

The car turned in at the wrought-iron gates with the familiar coat-of-arms engraved on them, and purred almost noiselessly along the well-kept driveway of fir trees that stretched for almost half a mile. Venetia shivered despite the heating in the vehicle. Inwardly, she was seething with mixed emotions, her temper simmering away in a grimly held silence, while she tried to prepare herself for perhaps the most important challenge that she would ever have to face.

William Aston-Montagu was someone who was used to getting his own way; no doubt life as an army man had made him so intransigent, she thought. Still, his overbearing ways had alienated Venetia ever since she was a child, and her rebellious, independent streak only served to infuriate him on many an occasion. She didn't relish this meeting with her father, but she knew that for her own peace of mind she needed to know all the facts behind this gritty episode of her life. She must have it out with him so that she could put it behind her but, however much she tried to feel relaxed, she was feeling the opposite – so much had happened in the last forty-eight hours that it was hard not to feel shell-shocked.

Ping Lü's wise advice came back to her. She touched her talisman and reiterated it to herself as they approached the house.
To be wronged is nothing unless you continue to remember it… Crush the rose of anger so it may only leave its delicate fragrance on your hands… Learn to forgive an evil deed so you do not remain the victim of its consequences forever.
She resolved instantly that whatever it cost her, she would not use hurtful words.

Aston Hall was a Grade I-listed Jacobean property that had been built to last. It stood in a spectacular setting, dominating the surrounding countryside, its imposing red-brick façade pierced by mullion windows with diamond-shaped panes of glass, and a central portico sheltering stately, iron-studded oak double doors. The austere rambling house was three storeys high, with elaborate multi-curved Flemish gables, Tudor arches, and barley-sugar twist chimneys typical of the Jacobean age. It was framed on both sides by mature pink rhododendron bushes, which helped to assuage its gloomy aspect. The place was grand rather than handsome, stilted as opposed to comfortable, and Venetia had always hated it.

There were trees everywhere: poplars and willows and deep evergreens, flowering shrubs and fountains. In the far-off distance, beneath the house and overlooking the lake, a giant magnolia on the lawn was in bloom, in the shade of which Venetia had spent most of her summers reading.

In her mind's eye, Venetia could see the terraced garden at the back of the house, which at this time of year was bright with spring flowers: tulips, daffodils, zinnias and marigolds, seemingly grown with careless grace between the winding paths; aubrietias cascaded over the rocky walls in brilliantly hued profusion. She much preferred those parts of the grounds which, because out of the way, were less formal and so much more colourful.

The car came to a halt at the front of the house. Venetia instinctively lifted her chin and braced her shoulders as Giles opened the car door for her. The iron-studded oak doors opened as if by some automatic signal and Soames the butler appeared.

‘Good evening, Miss Venetia. Welcome home, I hope you had a pleasant journey?'

‘Good evening, Soames. Very pleasant, thank you.'

‘Sir William is in his study. He said to let him know when you would be ready to join him for a glass of sherry in the drawing room. Dinner will be at eight o'clock, as usual.'

‘Would you please tell Father that I'll join him at seven-thirty, thank you, Soames.'

The hall was grand, with a black and white marble floor. Its walls were painted the colour of old gold, the wide staircase that led off it to the upper floors thickly carpeted in leaf-green. Concealed electric lights flooded the interior with a soft glow; the hangings across the big landing window were dark green, slashed with gold. The only decoration was a round ebony table standing in the middle of the room with a great jar of arum lilies spilling out – cold, austere and beautiful.

More than ever, Venetia hated the place. Instinctively she compared it to Miraggio. Even though Aston Hall was far grander and more spectacular, with a museum-like quality about it, she couldn't wait to get back to the warmth of Italy. The grandfather clock in the hall boomed seven strokes as she made her way up to her bedroom.

The room was exactly as she had left it a year ago. Venetia took off her chic Parisian mackintosh and went to look out of the window. A milk-white mist lay across the lake and covered the lower part of the garden and grounds. Far beyond, on the opposite bank, the forest stretched like a black reef washed by silver foam. The sheer ethereal beauty of the scene made her catch her breath, yet there was an added poignancy in the very illusion of peace it created. For there was no peace in her heart, only an ongoing passion which burned like a flame. She was dismayed and almost frightened by the intensity of it.

She missed Paolo, she ached for him; she couldn't bear the pain of being without him, especially knowing that he was hurting after what he'd been told. It was as if she had been caught in a great tidal wave. Could he ever forgive? Would he ever forget? If she was irredeemably tainted by her family in his eyes, how could they possibly take up again where they had left off? A hand seemed to close upon her heart, squeezing and twisting it.

Judd and Paolo were one. Ping Lü had been right – the wise Chineseman had known all along.
All becoming is circular
, he'd said, with that enigmatic little smile so characteristic of him. Venetia found it hard to say what her feelings for Judd had been all these years. She would probably have denied that she loved him. Besides, how could she love him? She was hurt, broken. Yet all through those years her thoughts had almost always included recollections of some walk or talk with him. Though Paolo and Judd were one and the same, now she knew that it was Paolo she loved, the man who had suffered, and through this suffering he had acquired a sort of compassion, generosity and wisdom that, now she came to think of it, Judd had always lacked.

Venetia washed her face and combed her hair; she was not going to change. She was not there to entertain or to be entertained, but to find out the last gruesome details of her wretched love story.

A brooding silence hung over the house when she went down to meet her father. The only sounds she could hear were the beating of her own heart and the tick-tock of the grand-father clock.

The living room at Aston Hall was one of six reception rooms. It was a large room, almost square. Three of the walls were lined with mirrors, and between each of them, concealed lamps gave out a rosy, flattering glow. The fourth wall was occupied by paintings by Turner and Andrew Wyeth. The paintwork was all ivory, with polished oak floors, covered here and there with a few soft-toned rugs. There were heavy oak beams across the ceiling, and the doors and casement windows were also in dark wood. The Jacobean tapestry on the window seats, curtains and cushions made a perfect foil for the ancient carved furniture and the faint gleam of pewter. Two or three occasional tables and several French gilt chairs were grouped at one end of the room, while at the other end were two brown leather sofas set opposite each other with a Chinese red lacquer coffee table between them. A large stone fireplace housed crackling flames, and above the mantelpiece hung a huge nineteenth-century oil painting of Aston Hall, surrounded by its landscaped gardens.

When Venetia walked in, she didn't see her father immediately. He was sitting in the only armchair at the far end of the room, next to one of the windows, under the light of a standard lamp. Next to him was a small round table, and he was smoking his pipe.

‘Hello, Father.'

He got up to greet her as she came towards him. A tall and once muscular man, with a hard but handsome face, Sir William Aston-Montagu was now more portly and balding, with thick, wispy eyebrows that were still quick to express his every mood.

‘Ah, Venetia, my dear… You look tired.'

When she showed no intention of giving him an affectionate greeting, moving instead to stand casually by the old casement window, her father sat down again.