The Echoes of Love (7 page)

At that moment, Venetia caught sight of her godmother, Giovanna, across the room and gestured politely that she was moving on. Giovanna swept up to her and drew her into a warm hug, kissing her cheek. ‘Well done, my dear. Everything looks wonderful!'

Giovanna Lombardi was a slender, upright woman of fifty-five or so, with fine features and blonde hair severely parted and drawn back into a neat roll. There were pearls at her throat and larger pearls in her small, close-set ears. She had delicate hands and feet, and there was an exquisite order in everything about her. Her clothes were trim and tailored, Venetian style, and perfectly cut, with that apparent simplicity which in reality is not simple at all and can only be achieved by spending a great deal of money.

Giovanna had been a beauty in her youth, and was still a very attractive woman, coveted by many men, even though it was known that she was happily married to Ugo. Energetic and known to be a workaholic, she spent as little of her time at home as possible. Sometimes erratic, she nevertheless had start-ling powers of organisation. No opposition deterred her when she set her mind upon a course; she had complete faith in her powers, and seldom failed to get exactly what she wanted. It was no surprise then that her staff respected, admired and feared her. Venetia, who understood Giovanna instinctively, even though she was not her child, loved her godmother very much and had always enjoyed a close relationship with her.

Venetia beamed at her. ‘I'm so glad you think so,
Zia
. Every-one has put in so much work and it does seem to have paid off, judging by the reaction of the guests so far.' Her eyes scanned the room as she spoke, smiling and nodding at a couple of people she recognised.

‘But you are the one who has made this happen,
cara
. It's important to the firm to have such an impressive evening to showcase our work, particularly at the dawn of the new millennium. It's a new economic era now we're in the EMU, a chance even for international commissions if we can establish our reputation in Venice. Still, we could really do with a big project for this year nearer to home, and I think I might already have some potential interest.'

‘Really? Who from?'

‘Well, one in particular – a very interesting character.' She looked up and caught the eye of a client. ‘I'll tell you later. I don't want to monopolise you and I need to mingle too.' Giovanna squeezed her arm affectionately. ‘Now go and enjoy yourself tonight. I'm very proud of you,' she whispered in Venetia's ear before sweeping off among their guests.

Venetia joined a younger group who were discussing the model of Palazzo Palermi. Fabrizio, who had been describing the works that had been carried out there, turned to his colleague and smiled.

‘Ah,
cara
, we're looking at your work on Palazzo Palermi. I've explained that your drawings are your dream of what might be. These photographs are where we were, and those on the other side,' he pointed at more images, ‘show where we've arrived.' Fabrizio turned to the group and grinned broadly. ‘You'll agree that it's an exquisite job that
la Signorina
Aston-Montagu has achieved here,
una magnifica opera d'arte.
' He then assumed a mock-serious expression and held a hand to his chest.
‘Alas, my poetry is failing me. I am only a model maker, not a wordsmith. Now I'll cede the floor to the specialist so she can tell you more about this project.'

Venetia was about to take her place among the group when, momentarily turning round, her heart lurched as she caught sight of Paolo's elegant towering figure, looking his suave best in black and white, standing among the very people who had clustered around her. His cobalt eyes compelled hers to meet them. He raised a glass to her, a deep alluring smile lighting up his face, and she blushed furiously.

Suddenly she was beset by nerves again, almost losing the capacity to think. Glad to be able to turn to the screen of images behind her, she pointed to the photos of rotted beams and wet plaster in the ballroom of Palazzo Palermi. Her temporarily paralysed brain cells started to function again. ‘The core problem for all of these palaces is salt attack that seeps into the walls of the building, and rising damp that rots their exterior cover, as well as subsidence and erosion. As you know, our beautiful city is built on a swamp. Our edifices are constructed on top of oak piles sunk into the mud centuries ago. Sea levels are rising, and Venice
will eventually drown. In other words, all these problems are underground.'

Listening to her own speech, Venetia felt like a non-swimmer who had dived into the deep-end of a pool and was floundering around in a sea of words. All the while, Paolo's eyes never left her face, a glint of turbulence trapped in their depths, and she had difficulty avoiding them. She could only hope that he remained unaware of the effect his insistent gaze had on her.

She couldn't afford to pause or she would lose the thread of her thoughts, and so determinedly she soldiered on. ‘In our revival of these magnificent
palazzi
we use ventilation, air drains, and blocks cast from smelted waste metal slag which make good impermeable barriers. And though Venice is slowly sinking, we can only tackle the projects clients bring to us,' she said, looking around her audience but studiously avoiding Paolo's gaze. ‘The complex engineering and re-engineering of the foundations of our city is the work of other specialists. Here at Bianchi e Lombardi, we do what we can and we cooperate with engineers who bring ideas from all over the world.'

Venetia smiled again, ignoring her uneasiness. ‘However, I would like to end this on a note of hope. There are new technologies being developed all the time that will play an essential role in the future of architectural practice. They will open up new links between artifice and environment, between built environment and nature, and will lead to creating positive environmental changes. There is still hope for
La Serenissima
and all the wonderful endangered historic monuments of the world.'

Venetia's words met with thunderous applause. Count Umberto, who had arrived late and had joined their group in the midst of her extensive explanations, raised a glass, first to Giovanna Lombardi and then to Venetia.

‘The overwhelming impression of this exhibition is of the enormous impact your work is having on our beautiful city,' he said. ‘I have experienced it first hand and am grateful for the impressive work you undertook at Palazzo Palermi and the stunning results you achieved.' The Count smiled pointedly at Venetia, his intent granite-grey eyes conferring all sorts of hidden messages that she preferred to ignore. ‘Restoration has always been piecemeal, building by building, room by room, reactive rather than proactive to rising tides. Bianchi e Lombardi, and more specifically
Marmi Storici e Pietra, with whom I have worked closely,
clearly deliver longer-term plans. I toast your achievements so far and wish you continued success in your endeavours.' He raised a glass again, as did the entire group around him.

As people dispersed, Umberto moved towards Venetia and taking her hand in his, he touched it to his lips. ‘You look magnificent and your presentation was brilliant,' he murmured, holding on to her hand. His eyes, raking her from top to toe, made her feel uncomfortable. She looked up and saw Paolo. His back was turned to her, and he was helping himself to some pamphlets.

‘You are very kind and very indulgent,' Venetia smiled politely and looked back to the Count, subtly trying to disentangle herself from him, but he was having nothing of it.

‘Why do you fight me,
tesoro mio
? Two years I pine over you and still you resist.'

‘Umberto, I have been candid with you from the very beginning. I don't deny that you're an attractive man and many women would be flattered by your attentions but I am not someone to indulge in a casual affair.'

‘You have misunderstood me,
cara
, and so we must talk.' Without more ado, he put a hand to her waist and propelled her to a far corner of the reception room.

His eyes travelled slowly and appraisingly to her delicate neck and shoulders. ‘
Cara
, I have proposed to you.
Voglio essere l'uomo che si prenderà cura di te per sempre,
I want to be the man who will take care of you forever. I will give you everything you want: my
palazzi
, my villas by the sea, my estates in the country, jewellery worthy of a queen. We will travel the world together and you will be the envy of every woman. I am not asking you to be my mistress, but my wife.'

Venetia looked back to where Paolo had been, but he wasn't there any more. She donned a fixed smile and said: ‘I am very honoured by your proposal, but at this stage in my life I have no desire to get married. There are still many things I want to do before I settle down. My freedom's far too precious to me.'

‘But I love you,
tesoro mio
. I have never been interested in a woman the way I have been interested in you.' The Count's voice held the slightest hint of petulance.

This was neither the time nor the place to have such a conversation, and maybe the only way to discourage Umberto was to be blunt. Venetia raised her chin and looked at him directly. ‘But I don't love you, and that makes all the difference.'

Umberto arched his eyebrows; it was plain that this sort of treatment was unfamiliar to him. His mouth twitched. ‘Once you are mine I will teach you to love me.'

‘I find you presumptuous,' Venetia said quietly, ‘and also far too confident in yourself.'

Il Conte's
features hardened perceptibly, a muscle beating erratically at his jaw. He laughed; it was an angry laugh, which Venetia didn't much care for. ‘You disappoint me,
cara
. May I remind you that I'm an influential man and your wounding words have hurt me deeply. I'm sure that
la
Signora
Lombardi would not be pleased if, just at the time she's hoping to expand the company, I took away the contracts I have assigned to Bianchi e Lombardi
,
and advised my friends and acquaintances to do likewise.'

Venetia's heart rose on a wave of passionate resentment. What right had he? Who did he think he was, this egregious, self-satisfied Italian, standing there like a tin god stamping his foot if she didn't fall into line? Her impulse was to fly at this outrageous man, tell him exactly what she thought of him, but Fabrizio appeared next to her just in time to stop the stinging reply that quivered on the edge of her tongue. He first excused himself to the Count and then turned to Venetia, who wasn't sure whether she was relieved or disappointed not to have had it out with Umberto.

‘
Signora
Lombardi would like to introduce you to the UNESCO team. They're very keen to meet you – they were very impressed by your presentation.'

Umberto's eyes gleamed almost black as he stared at her and moved aside. ‘We'll continue this conversation some other time.' His nostrils flared. ‘Yes,
cara
, we will discuss this again, I promise,' Venetia heard him whisper between his teeth as she moved swiftly away, following Fabrizio towards the little group that was awaiting her.

The Count must have left immediately after his skirmish with Venetia because she didn't see him for the rest of the evening. She didn't see Paolo either. The last time she had caught sight of him, Umberto was kissing her hand. After that, her attention had been taken up by the Count and his unwelcome proposal and when she next looked up, hoping for a glimpse of him, he was no longer there.

The evening was long and Venetia, who should have been excited and proud of her success, felt slightly depressed. She had only one wish and that was to get into her bed and sleep for days.

‘It's the anti-climax,' Francesca told her when she said she was too tired to join her friend and the other members of the practice who were going to dance the night away. ‘A night on the town will do you the world of good.'

Francesca was probably right, the previous week had been so hectic that she'd had no time to think or rest. This hollow in her heart, this feeling of emptiness, was most likely caused by a sudden comedown now that the exhibition was over. Or maybe it was the unpleasant argument with Umberto that had marred her evening. There were plenty of wolves a-prowl in the streets of Venice, and Venetia had had her fair share of fighting them off, but usually they tired and let her alone. This wolf was more tenacious, and by the looks of it a nasty piece of work. Still, she hadn't gone dancing in a long time and it might be just what the doctor ordered, she thought, trying to coax herself out of her gloomy mood.

They went to La Scala, a smallish nightclub set on the island of Giudecca, south of Venice. The interior was lovely: wood floors, soft lighting, earth-tone walls offset by brightly coloured artworks by painters from Venice and the surrounding areas. The scene, cast in flickering light and shadow, was an animated one without being noisy. The music was not too loud – at least you could hear yourself speak – and they played international as well as Italian old favourites, a touch which Venetia loved. The popular Italian hits of Lucio Battisti, Mina, and Adriano Celentano, still mingled with the latest dance music from the US and UK that was all the rage throughout the clubs of Europe.

La Scala catered to an older, more decadently elegant and sophisticated clientele, all local and regulars. Everybody dressed up, good Venetian style – Italians, and more specifically Venetians, were a handsome lot – and the main thing was to be seen. One could dine at the large tables and high-backed wooden banquettes around the edge of the room, where people clustered together over intimate late-night dinners and Prosecco. However, most people sat at one of the smaller tables that surrounded the dance floor, savouring small plates of
antipasti
and the delicious house wine, chatting and getting up from time to time for a dance.