Lady of Asolo Page 4

  ‘Hmm,’ my lady says, ever gracious. She is a daughter of the Venetian Republic; I know all talk of a unified Italy is an anathema to her. ‘When do you print Gli Asolani?’ she asks Bembo, changing the subject.

  ‘Soon, domina.’

  ‘Then I shall reserve judgement on the lingua franca until I have read it.’

  And I too.

  My attention is distracted by Zantos, the Queen’s dwarf, who prances in front of us, juggling five golden balls. Far be it for him to crack vulgar jokes. My lady grants us such liberty that, with the exception of Bembo (who holds her affection in spite of his argumentative nature), we all consider that the most pleasurable thing possible is to please her, and the most displeasing thing in the world is to earn her displeasure.

  The food comes, and I try to behave in a ladylike fashion and nibble. Yet, I’m hungry (I have a greedy streak), and want to eat until I am stuffed fit to bursting. For the antipasto there’s a caper, truffle and raisin salad in pastry, as well as a second salad of greens with citron juice and anchovy. There are also radishes carved into animal shapes, little cream pies, prosciutto of pork tongue, boar pies, smoked mullet, and gilt-head bream. I help myself to everything.

  The first hot course arrives. I can’t resist the capon fritters sprinkled with sugar, the roasted quails and pheasants, the pigeons in puff pastry, the meatballs, veal, carp, turbot and shrimp. I chew my food slowly, remembering how the beef was always tough and overcooked in Asolo, not like the fine fare we eat at the Barco, where my lady employs the best chefs. The castle in Asolo was rough and rudimentary; my home for so many years, it now seems like a lifetime ago.

  I’m fairly groaning by the time the third course arrives: partridge, rabbit, turtledoves, sausages and more fish. The fourth course consists of a rice pie and I barely take a mouthful. I wish I’d copied my lady; she eats so daintily and merely picks at the morsels she cuts with her trencher knife. Suckling pig follows then peacock, only now I feel sick. I allow myself a few vegetables for the sixth course then almonds in syrup to finish.

  The meal seems to go on forever, but my attention has been caught by the young man who sits quietly at the end of the table. ’Tis the artist, Zorzo from Castelfranco. He has been absent from court this past year, engaged with commissions in Venice. It was the greatest disappointment of my early months here that the painter had departed, for he fascinates me.

  Signor Zorzo says little to those on either side of him, and simply observes us all. Maria Santissima! He’s so handsome. I’m struck by his attractiveness, for there is no other word to describe his countenance - his regular features, sun-darkened skin, and eyes fringed with long, dark lashes.

  After dinner, the Emperor and his wife retire, for they have a long journey tomorrow. The court parades to my lady’s rooms. There we sit in a circle arranged one man, one woman, one man. The Queen says, ‘’Tis my wish that you should begin the games this evening, Cecilia.’

  ‘Surely not I.’ Shocked, I am, for this is the first time she has made such a request of me. I catch the artist looking at me. Could I be mistaken or did he give me a wink?

  ‘’Tis a year since your debut, my dear,’ the Queen says. ‘I believe you have grown in maturity and wisdom. Please commence!’

  I rack my brains for some witty proposition and all I can think of is, ‘Why not have each of us suggest some game he likes that has not been played before; and then the choice will be made of the one that seems worthiest of us?’ I turn to Bembo and ask him to state what his proposal will be.

  He replies, ‘’Tis for you to tell yours first.’

  ‘But I’ve already done so.’ I smile at my lady, ‘Domina, I beg your help in ordering him to do what he is told.’

  The Queen laughs. ‘So that everyone will obey you, I give you my authority in this game.’

  Bembo bows his head to me. ‘I would like our game to be that each of us should say whether, if the one he loves has need to be angry with him, he would want the reason for her anger to be found within her or in himself. This way, we shall establish whether it is more painful to give displeasure to the person one loves or to receive it from them.’

  Probably something he has written in Gli Asolani, I think, but I do not voice my thoughts.

  I make a sign to Dorotea that it is her turn, but the Queen interjects. ‘Since Signorina Cecilia is unwilling to give herself the trouble of suggesting a game, ’tis only right for the other ladies to enjoy the same privilege and also be exempt from making any effort this evening, especially as we have so many men with us that there is no danger of running out of games.’

  ‘Very well then,’ I say, taking in Dorotea’s smirk. I glance at the pale-skinned man with the scar on his cheek, whom I now know is Signor Lodovico Gaspare, a visitor from the court of the Duke of Ferrara. He inclines his head towards me and grins, his teeth white but uneven.

  ‘The game I would like played this evening is that each of us should say what quality he would most like the person he loves to possess. Then, since everyone must have some defect, what fault he would choose as well.’

  My lady claps her hands. ‘An excellent game,’ she says, in her low soft voice. ‘The best. Cecilia, you must tell us what you think.’

  I stare at the Queen, tongue-tied. Then I blush and stutter, desperate to come up with something. The Queen nods her head. ‘Dear girl, I should not have asked you. What knowledge do you have of love?’

  ’Tis the way my lady speaks to people that I most admire; it is always with such charm. How could anyone not wish to delight her? I’ve let her down, I feel, and sit in silence as the rest of the court carries on the game.

  Finally, the Queen stands, and ’tis as if a thread passes from the ceiling to her head so erect does she hold herself. ‘Come, child,’ she says to me, ‘Take me to my chamber.’

  Her words ring in my head. Child. So true, for that is what I am until a man lays with me. Oh, that it could be my future husband . . .

  ‘Did you see the way he was staring at you?’ Dorotea asks as we undress in our room above the stables. ‘If only Bembo would look at me that way!’

  ‘What do you mean?’ My mouth gapes, like one of the fish in the pond at the centre of my lady’s garden when I crumble bread across the surface. Surely the artist’s glance at me was not that obvious?

  ‘If his eyes had been tongues they would have licked you,’ she giggles.

  My cheeks burn, but at the same time pleasure thrills through me.

  The next day I can hardly contain my excitement. When the time comes to dress my lady’s hair, my fingers tremble so much that I drop her comb again.

  ‘Goodness me, sweet girl,’ she says. ‘You’re even more clumsy than usual. Whatever is the matter?’

  I apologise before going to my room and attending to my own toilet. I change my over-gown to one of deep pink and steal a glance at myself in the mirror. No strange woman there, so I stick my tongue out at my reflection. Then I remember I’m supposed to act like a lady. Sometimes ’tis hard to put aside my childish nature.

  ‘There! See him eating you with his eyes!’

  Dorotea points towards Signor Lodovico and disappointment wells up in me. She hadn’t meant the artist at all. I glance around for him, but he isn’t here. ‘They say Signor Lodovico is extremely wealthy,’ Dorotea adds. ‘He could set you up in a fine house with your own servants. Think about it, Cecilia. Do not turn your nose up at such a man.’ If she knew my secret desire for a husband, she would laugh in my face.

  Tonight we dance the pavana. Simple and slow. Signor Lodovico takes my hand and leads me onto the floor in procession with the other dancers. We step forwards then move apart, again and again.

  ‘Tell me about Ferrara,’ I say to him when the dance brings us together.

  ‘What do you wish to know?’

  ‘Is it like Asolo?’

  He laughs. ‘Not at all. ’Tis much bigger and far noisier. There are many walls and gates encircling the moated city, whic
h is crossed by long, wide roads. Every day there seems to be another new building. At the centre rises the Duke’s castle, a miracle of construction.’

  The dance moves us apart and I wait until we meet again before saying, ‘I think I would like Ferrara, but my favourite city of all is Venice.’

  A scowl passes across his face, then he composes himself; I must have imagined the frown. Something about him makes me nervous, but I put it down to his ferrarese accent and his stern countenance. When he suggests a breath of fresh air outside, I ignore the tickle of disquiet that strokes my chest and agree. We step into the loggia and sit on the balustrade.

  Signor Lodovico intrigues me; he’s not like the other courtiers. Reckless, I know, but I tell myself he will do me no harm. ’Tis exciting to have an admirer, even if that person does not make my heart flutter in the same way as does the artist.

  The cool night air is a soft caress against my throat. Crickets chirp from the garden shrubs and the new moon cuts a thin sliver of silver in a sky that swells with stars. I know I should not be alone with a man who is not my betrothed. He will think me wanton. Yet Dorotea’s words ring in my head, and I cannot help feeling flattered that a man should look at me in the way she described. Surely he is a gentleman and will treat me like a lady?

  I shiver as I feel again that sense of dislocation, as if I am regarding myself from afar. There’s a shadow on the other side of the terrace. Signor Lodovico takes my hand and lifts it to his lips. The shadow moves forwards and bows. Zorzo from Castelfranco! Heat rushes to my face.

  ‘Fern, are you all right?’ Aunt Susan said. ‘I thought you were behind me, but when I looked back I couldn’t see you anywhere.’

  The feeling was ten times worse than waking in the middle of a dream, and being unable to distinguish between reality and that dream. Fern’s stomach heaved. She’d been whooshed through hundreds of years of history, and now she felt sick. ‘I’m sorry.’ She glanced down for her sketchpad. It must have fallen out of my hands. ‘I was miles away.’

  ‘That you were. I was going to suggest we go home. Look at the sky!’

  Fern peered at the dark thunder clouds and folded her arms around her body, suddenly cold. Fat drops of rain splattered the dusty path. She hurried with her aunt as quickly as Aunt Susan’s chubby legs would allow. By the time they arrived at the house, a squall was sheeting across the cornfields, the vineyards, and the olive trees, plastering Fern’s hair to her face.

  ‘Run upstairs and get dressed into something dry,’ Aunt puffed as she closed the front door. ‘I’ll put some soup on before I do the same.’

  In the bathroom, Fern stared at her reflection. Her reflection, not Cecilia’s.

  What’s happening to me?

  Something beyond a daydream had taken place in the Barco. She still felt nauseated and faint from the jolt back to the present. Pull yourself together! You are not Cecilia, you’re Fern. The girl was in her head, though, her annoyance festering that she’d left her behind, her neediness. Need for what? Fern glanced down, half-expecting to see her legs swathed in a long gown, still remembering the weight of it, the feel of the heavy brocade and the tightness of the bodice over her breasts. She shook her head. Am I going mad?

  A grumble of thunder. Lightning streaked the darkened sky outside the window. A frisson of fear twisted Fern’s stomach. Don’t be silly, you’re perfectly safe. She reached for a towel and dried her hair. Shivering, she stepped out of her sodden skirt and pulled on a pair of jeans and a jumper.

  Down in the kitchen, Aunt handed her a wooden spoon. ‘Stir the soup for me, my lovely, while I go and change.’

  The aroma of simmering vegetables was mixed with something else. Burnt wood. Fern’s heart thudded. Another rumble of thunder, much closer than before, followed by a loud crack like a gunshot. Darkness.

  The damn lights have gone.

  In the glow from the gas flame under the saucepan, she could make out a faint outline moving towards her. The hairs on her arms stood on end. Then the flash of a torch. Aunt Susan!

  ‘The electricity company always shuts down the grid during a storm like this. I’ve no idea why.’ Aunt Susan lifted a candle holder down from the shelf. She fumbled in a drawer for a box of matches, and lit the taper. ‘Put this on the table, and I’ll serve up the soup.’

  Fern sliced a chunk of bread and helped herself to some cheese. ‘This is delicious,’ she said, the rich taste coating her tongue. A memory. I’ve eaten this before.

  ‘It’s called Asiago, and comes from the mountains behind us. We could go up there one day, maybe.’

  ‘That would be nice.’ A chance to get away from here. From the smell of burnt wood. From associations with fire.

  Another peal of thunder, followed by a zigzag of lightning. Then a sudden cacophony, like thousands of pebbles crunching down. ‘What on earth’s that?’

  ‘Hailstones,’ Aunt Susan said. ‘Can you help me close the shutters? If you shut the ones upstairs, I’ll fasten those down here. We don’t want any broken glass. Here, take the torch!’

  Fern ran up to her aunt’s room first. The bathroom was next, and then she scurried into her own bedroom. The wind had blown the window open; through it, fireworks launched into the darkness. Fireworks!

  Grasping the latch, she tugged at the frame. A hailstone, big as a golf ball, caught her on the finger. She yelped.

  Back in the kitchen, she asked, ‘What’s with the fireworks?’

  ‘Oh, the farmers think the explosions will break up the hail so it doesn’t damage the grapes. Talking of which, let’s have a glass of wine to cheer ourselves up.’

  Aunt Susan fetched the already open bottle from the counter and poured. Fern took a sip. That’s better. No need to fret. ‘I think I’ll stay at home tomorrow. And do some painting.’

  ‘Good idea, my lovely. I’ll get on with my writing. Don’t forget that Luca is coming for supper.’

  ‘Need any help with that?’

  Aunt Susan patted her hand. ‘Thought I’d do roast beef and Yorkshire puds to remind him of England. Perhaps you can make a nice English trifle?’

  ‘Of course.’ She turned away from her aunt, pain coursing through her. Trifle had been Harry’s favourite. Oh, Harry!

  5

  Luca stirred his coffee, replete with the fine fare served up by Susan and Fern. The dinner had been a surprise; from his experience the English tended to overcook their beef. Not that Susan was English; she’d announced proudly that she was Welsh. He’d never been to Wales, and had no experience of the food there.

  Even though he had a British passport as well as an Italian one, his preferences were definitely geared towards the local cuisine. But, to give credit where it was due, Susan’s Yorkshire puddings had been as light as air, and Fern’s sherry and raspberry trifle had enticed him into having two servings. He rubbed his stomach. ‘Thank you for a delicious meal.’

  ‘You’re most welcome,’ Susan said. ‘It’s nice for Fern to meet someone closer to her own age than me, although perhaps you’re a little older than she is.’

  A cough came from the other side of the table. ‘I’ll be thirty next birthday,’ Fern said. ‘Not that much younger than you, Luca, I’d guess.’

  He grinned. ‘Three years. I suppose we’re both part of the baby-boom generation.’

  Susan levered herself out of her chair. ‘Well, I’m feeling a bit tired. I’ll leave you two baby boomers to load up the dishwasher. Just make sure you lock the door and shut the lights before you come up to bed, Fern.’

  Luca watched Susan shuffle over to the wrought-iron stairs. The proverbial eccentric British woman. He liked her for the fact that she didn’t seem to care what others thought about her. The way she dressed, for instance, and her unkempt hair. Not the sort of person he’d imagined would be a highly successful romance writer. Maybe she lived vicariously through her characters?

  He got to his feet and reached for Fern’s coffee cup. ‘Lead me to the kitchen sink,’ he said, letting o
ut a laugh. ‘But don’t try and give me an apron.’

  It felt companionable, standing next to her as they stacked the dishwasher. Throughout the dinner, he’d tried to draw her out. She’d listened to him talk about his work, yet hadn’t said much about herself. How to find out if she had a boyfriend? Could he come right out and ask? Don’t be a fool, Luca! She’s only here for a few weeks. Fern didn’t strike him as being the sort of girl who’d be up for a holiday fling, or any sort of fling for that matter. Best to keep it casual. ‘My mother asked me to remember her to you,’ he said.

  ‘She was very kind to me in Asolo when I had another of my “funny turns”.’ Fern paused. ‘I think it was more than that, actually.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Can you smell anything unusual?’

  He sniffed. ‘No.’

  ‘Well, I can. Not all the time.’ She picked up a cup from the sink and twisted it in her hands. ‘Occasionally, the odour of burnt wood in this house is really strong.’

  He thought for a moment. What to say? ‘I’ve heard that sometimes people smell things that remind them of a particular experience.’

  ‘That could be it.’ Fern frowned down into the cup. ‘I was at Kings Cross Station when they had that big fire.’

  ‘God! How awful! Were you hurt?’

  ‘No, I was on the escalator, saw the fire, and ran back down again.’ She twisted the cup. ‘I suffered a bit physically from smoke inhalation. And a whole lot more mentally from the trauma.’

  Her hand was shaking and he took the cup from her. ‘I’m so, so sorry. What a terrible experience.’

  ‘And now I think I’m losing my mind,’ she said. ‘I’ve been having the strangest visions since coming to Italy. It’s like I’m being possessed by some sort of restless spirit.’

  He fought to stop himself from gaping. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’ll think I’m crazy.’

  ‘I won’t think anything of the sort,’ he half-lied.