100. A Rose In Jeopardy (14 page)

“Murano,” he said proudly, gesturing at the quiet streets and squares that stretched ahead in the sunshine.

Rosella followed him along the quayside, passing shop windows filled with displays of the same beautiful striped and swirled glass the Contessa’s vases and wine glasses were made from.

And in one building where the door stood open to reveal the dark interior, she saw a man blowing into a long tube and on the end of the tube a great blob of glass was forming, as if he was blowing a bubble.

Giovanni would not let her linger. He urged her on until they reached a large house on one of the squares.

Outside two old women sat on wooden chairs, their nimble fingers flicking over cushions on which they were creating intricate patterns of delicate lace.

Giovanni knocked on the door and, as it opened, she saw that inside there was rack upon rack of silks in every colour of the rainbow.

She had come to a dressmaker’s shop!

A tall woman in a black gown with straight dark hair pulled back into bun approached.

“Rosella!” she began in a deep voice. “
La Rosa d’Inghilterra
– the English Rose! I am Signora Taglioni, the Contessa’s dressmaker, we have been waiting for you.”

She selected a bolt of silk and Rosella shivered, for it was exactly the same colour as the dress in her vision.

For a moment she thought she might faint again. But Signora Taglioni smiled kindly at her as the sun shone through the windows onto the rose-pink silk.

There was nothing to be afraid of, Rosella thought.

Maybe her vision had been just a little glimpse into the future and it was only herself that she had seen in that shadowy ballroom –

She stepped forward to allow Signora Taglioni to drape the silk around her.

*

A few days later, Lyndon sat in one of the
cafés
in St. Mark’s Square, sipping a cup of the strong bitter Italian coffee he had grown to love so much.

He kept his hat pulled down over his eyes, for this was a place much frequented by travellers, many of them English.

He had thought often of the lovely girl he had seen on his way back from San Michele – and had come to the conclusion that, with her fair colouring, she was probably an English girl.

Maybe she was visiting Venice with her family and had been on her way to the world famous glass factories of Murano to buy gifts and trinkets to take home.

If he sat here long enough, she was bound to walk by and, if he was lucky, she might be with her brothers and sisters and not with her Mama and Papa and he might have a chance to speak to her.

Lyndon shook himself.

He really was being very silly. There were so many other girls. So why could he not stop thinking about this particular one?

For example there was now a most comely girl with pink cheeks and shining brown hair sitting at the table next to him.

With her was an older woman in a large velvet hat with a bunch of wax cherries pinned to the side.

“Oh, can we not go, Mama?” the girl was saying in a beguiling voice. “A masked ball sounds so exciting.”

Lyndon remembered how he had dreamed of going to a masked ball back in London long before he had come to Venice, as he listened to the older woman’s response.

She was shaking her head now, so that the cherries bobbed up and down.

“I don’t think so, my darling.”

The girl pouted.

“But Mama – it’s so kind of the Contessa Allegrini to invite us. She is one of the most important people in Venice.”

“A masked ball is not a suitable event, Isabel, for a young girl like yourself to attend. And that is the end of it.”

She looked at Lyndon in his disreputable cloak and hat and realised that he was listening to their conversation. She then stood up and gave him a disapproving look from under the wobbling cherries.

“Now – where is that waiter? I think it is time we returned to our hotel, Isabel!” she asserted.

Lyndon’s heart was pounding with excitement as he watched the two of them leave the
café
.

Contessa Allegrini! The old woman from the yacht
La Maschera
, whose monkey he had rescued.

And now at last he remembered where he had met the lovely girl with the angelic fair hair.

She had been standing by the river Thames with her parrot in its cage and he had given her the Contessa’s card.

In the excitement of being in Venice and exploring the City, he had forgotten all about her.

Now he must waste no time in finding himself a suitable outfit and, of course, a mask.

And then there was the rather small matter of an invitation. But Lyndon had made many contacts now in the City and he had no doubt that one of them would be able to help him gain entry to the exclusive ball.

“
Bellissima!
” the Contessa cried, as Rosella spun around, the ruffles of her pink silk skirts swirling across the stone tiles of the entrance hall.

All day long the Ca’ degli Angeli had seen comings and goings – of workmen with ladders come to nail up the garlands of roses that the Contessa had decreed must hang from the high ceiling of the ballroom and caterers – stout women bearing trays of pastries and cakes.

The first arrival at the Palazzo, early that morning, had been Signora Taglioni bearing Rosella’s gown.

It was nearly two weeks since the visit to Murano for her fitting and Rosella’s hand shook as she unfolded the tissue paper and lifted the gown to look at it.

“It’s so heavy!” she had cried, as the many folds of pale-pink silk, trimmed with extra fine silver cobwebs of Venetian lace, tumbled out of the wrappings.

“Now you are not a girl anymore,” the Contessa laughed. “You are a woman, a
bella donna
and you must bear the weight if you wear a gown that befits a woman.”

Later, as the hot afternoon drew to a close and the shadows began to lengthen, Rosella made herself ready for the ball.

She had to ask Mimi to lace her corset very tightly, as the waist of the gown was tiny and she had to walk up and down her bedroom to get used to the way the glorious cascades of silk and lace swung around her legs.

And now the Contessa had sent for her to come down to the hall and show her the gown.

“Hold up your head! Walk slowly!
Lente, lente
!” she ordered, watching Rosella parade up and down until she was satisfied that her protégée had mastered the art of wearing the gown to perfection.

“
Bene
,” she exclaimed at last. “Good, you have the walk. Now all you must do is learn to dance like a woman. But I shall leave that lesson to the gentlemen who will be queuing up for the honour of partnering you. Now wait. There is one more thing.”

The Contessa then left the hall and Rosella’s heart fluttered as the vast front door of the Palazzo creaked open and a troupe of men in blue coats, carrying violin and flute cases, were ushered in.

The musicians had arrived. It would not be long now before the ball would begin.

“Here! The finishing touch.”

The Contessa now returned, holding in her hand an object made of black velvet and winking with diamonds and rubies.

“La maschera!”

Rosella put the mask on, so that the upper half of her face was covered.

At the same time she could still see quite clearly though the eye slits, but somehow the Palazzo looked a little different, rather more shadowy and mysterious.

Now the Contessa was beckoning her to follow.

It was time to go to the ballroom, the great mirrored chamber with painted walls, tall mirrors and chandeliers made of Murano glass.

Rosella had seen it in the daytime, but never before at night when all the candles were lit.

As she walked through the high double doors, she felt as if she was stepping straight into a dream – into that vision she had seen so many weeks before in Winchester.

There were the deep shadows clinging to the walls and the soft glow of the vast chandeliers and there, flitting about at the edge of her vision, were the ghostly figures of the servants preparing for the guests who would soon be here.

Everything seemed very familiar, although she had only seen it in a dream.

*

Lyndon chuckled to himself as the gondola drifted through the twilight. In what other City in the world could one roam about in such an outlandish costume as he was wearing this evening and attract almost no attention?

His friend, Fabio, who owned several coffee shops in the vicinity and who had found Lyndon his lodgings in the Canareggio district, had loaned him a Turkish outfit in pale blue silk with baggy trousers and a turban made from a long ribbon of cloth.

“I shall look ridiculous,” he had argued, as Fabio wound the cloth around his head.

“On the contrary,
Signore Jones
,” Fabio grinned. “It’s a proud tradition for the milords – the gentlemen of England – to come to Venice and to wear disguise for
Il Ballo in Maschera
.”

“But – Fabio – how will the beautiful girls take me seriously in this turban?”

“Ah,
Signore
. They will adore you, as you make a very handsome and most – how do you say it? –
dashing
Turk. They will be totally intrigued and delighted by your mysterious presence.”

Lyndon had glanced at himself in the mirror and seen that it was true, he did not look as silly as he felt, but actually made quite a reasonably convincing impression of an Oriental with his tall lean figure and dark eyes.

Fabio grinned at him.

“And they say the Contessa is giving this ball for a very particular young Signorina, a mysterious girl who has been living at the Palazzo and is very beautiful, they say. Perhaps you will even get to dance with her.”

Now lying back on the comfortable velvet cushions of the gondola, Lyndon knew, deep in his heart, that this mysterious creature must be the golden-haired girl from the Thames.

Of course she would dance with him!

He pulled his mask out of the pocket of the baggy trousers. It was time to put it on.

When he had done so, he lent over the edge of the slender craft to see if he could catch a glimpse of his reflection in the smooth water.

It took him a moment to realise that the pale figure that caught his eye in the dark water, its head wreathed in the dusky turban and its eyes hidden behind black velvet, was indeed himself.

Uneasy, he tried to see the figure more clearly, but the gondolier plied his oar, pushing the craft forward and the image broke and dispersed in the waves.

Lyndon looked up at the darkening sky. Surely the ball must have begun by now.

Fabio had suggested that he enter the Palazzo with a group of other guests, if possible, so that the servants at the door would not look too closely at his invitation, which was intended for a
Dottore di Monte
, an elderly man who no longer had the wish to attend balls and parties and who was happy to allow Fabio’s friend to take his place.

The top floors of the Ca’ degli Angeli were ablaze with lights as the gondola drew near and Lyndon’s heart beat fast as he heard the faint sounds of laughter and music floating down to him on the warm evening air.

He had no trouble entering the Palazzo, for a noisy and somewhat overweight English gentleman, dressed in the diamond-patterned costume of Harlequin and wearing a comic white mask with a long nose, had just disembarked, almost overturning the gondola he arrived in.

Lyndon flinched instinctively as he heard the man’s voice, remonstrating with the gondolier and calling him ‘a clumsy oaf,’ when it was he who had very nearly sunk the gondola.

But the disturbance meant that Lyndon was able to pass though the great wooden doors into the Palazzo with no more than a quick glance from the footmen on duty.

He was inside at last and about to join the throng of guests at his first
Ballo in Maschera
.

*

Rosella’s whole body was fizzing with excitement, as if the tiny bubbles that flew upwards through the glasses of champagne she had just drunk were racing through her veins.

She had danced with at least ten masked gentlemen and she had not the faintest idea who they were.

She could not even make out if they were English or Italian, as none had spoken to her, although they smiled and their eyes flashed through the slits in their masks.

She was just thinking that she should sit out the next waltz and rest, when someone caught her eye in the shadows at the side of the ballroom.

A man dressed in a striking pale-blue costume was watching her, his dark gaze glinting through a black mask that sat just beneath the edge of his silken turban.

It was the young man from the portrait.

Rosella clutched her throat, as her heart was beating so fast that she thought it might choke her.

He smiled and his teeth flashed white as he walked towards her, holding out his hand.

“You are utterly beautiful!” he began. “Please will you dance with me?”

She stood, frozen to the spot, for now the vision she had had of the vast ballroom, the dream of the woman in the pink dress, standing beneath a chandelier, was coming true.

Her skin turned cold with shock and then, as he stood rigid in front of her, still smiling, she was suddenly burning hot and she felt trapped and imprisoned behind the tight velvet mask that hid her face.

She put up her hand to pull it away from her face and he reached out and caught her wrist.

“Please, don’t! Not yet. Dance with me – ”

“I – can’t – I – ”

“What is it?” he frowned at her and then released her arm and gently touched her hair where it fell over her shoulder. “Is it because we have met before? I think we have, as I would know these angel’s tresses anywhere.”

“Please, stop – !”

“This is a
Ballo in Maschera
. All are strangers. None are known to each other. Forget that we may have spoken once. You must dance with me!”

He took her hand in one of his and with the other he clasped her slender silken waist.

And then they were flying across the wide floor of the ballroom, spinning and twisting like the wild strands of bright glass in the beautiful Venetian vases all round them.