Lady of Asolo (2 page)

Luca saw the English girl sitting on the ruined rampart of the castle. Dressed in a voluminous skirt and a gypsy blouse, her long hair a riot of curls, she reminded him of a hippy. What was her name? Something botanical, wasn’t it? Could it be Heather? The girl seemed miles away.
Oh, shit!
She was swaying and looked as if she were about to fall. He ran up the steps and managed to grab hold of her before she toppled from the wall. The girl slid to the foot of the parapet. He shook her gently.

‘Put your head between your knees,’ he said as she came to. He patted her shoulder. That sense of recognition again.
Pazzesco!
He eyed her white face and the sheen of perspiration on her high forehead. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I think so.’

‘You shouldn’t be sitting here. It’s dangerous. ‘Especially if you’re not feeling well.’

‘I’m fine. Really, I am. Last night I didn’t sleep properly and I suppose I must’ve dropped off just now.’

‘You were literally dropping off this wall and it’s quite a way down on the other side. I think you were on the point of fainting. You were totally out of it, you know. Where’s your aunt?’

‘Gone to fetch something from the car. Please don’t worry. I’m perfectly all right.’

‘Are you sure we haven’t met?’ The girl had an unforgettable face. A prominent nose did spoil the symmetry of her features - not that it made her ugly - and her dusky blond hair could only be described as wild, but there was definitely something about her.

The girl’s gaze rested on his chest, then travelled up to his face. Green eyes. Quite lovely. She smiled at him, her lips curving in such a delightful bow-shaped way that he wanted to reach out and brush his fingers across them.

‘I’m sure.’

He nodded, but wasn’t convinced. Could he have seen her at some party in London? It didn’t seem appropriate to ask.

The girl pointed towards the castle buildings. ‘I was wondering about the structure at the time of the Queen.’ She tucked a curl behind her ear.

‘There’s a drawing in the Civic Museum showing what it was like before demolition in the early 1820s.’ He led her towards the terrace.
Best get her sitting down before she passes out again.

‘Such a pity. I mean, that we can’t see the original today.’

He glanced at her, trying to detect a note of irony in her voice. His friends often accused him of going on and on about the castle, but she appeared to have a genuine interest in what he had to say. The pallor had returned to her face. ‘Have you got time for a drink?’

Without waiting for an answer he led her to one of the tables at the café on the patio, and signalled the waiter.
‘Un Fernet Branca per la signorina ed un caffè corretto con grappa per me.’

‘You’re very kind ,’ the girl said. ‘What did you order for me?’

‘Something to pick you up. A mixture of alcohol, cordial, and herbs.’

Their drinks arrived. The girl took a sip and her brow wrinkled. ‘It tastes terrible. So bitter.’

‘Knock it back! You’ll feel better afterwards. It’s an old remedy for fainting.’

‘Anyone would feel better after they’d stopped drinking this. But I’m not sure I did faint, actually.’

‘What do you think happened, then?’

The girl put her glass down, picked it up, and placed it back on the table. ‘I’m not certain, to be honest. When I was sitting on the rampart, I had this incredible… oh, I don’t know, exactly.’ She shifted about in her seat. ‘I felt as if I’d been here before, even though I know I’ve never set foot in this place.’

‘Maybe it looks familiar because you’ve seen some photos?’

‘Could be.’ The girl appeared to be struggling to find the right words. She lifted her shoulders and eyed the clock tower. Shaking her head, she turned back to him. ‘Do you work in Asolo?’

‘My office is in Treviso, but I have an apartment here.’ He shot a glance at the sketchpad poking out of her bag. An artist, he guessed.

‘Lucky you! I’ve got a flat in Islington and work in the City.’ The girl frowned again, momentarily, then relaxed her expression.

‘I prefer small town living. Not that Treviso is a big city. I have an affinity with Asolo. Always have done.’ He thrummed his fingers on the armrests of his chair. ‘If you’re in Asolo until the end of the month, then you’ll be here for the re-enactment. To celebrate Queen Caterina Cornaro’s court.’ He paused. ‘A group of us dress up in Renaissance costumes and there are dances and street parties. The whole town joins in.’

‘Sounds like fun. Will you perform the
saltarello
?’

‘I'm surprised you know about a dance from the 15th century. It’s a tricky one, so we tend to leave it out of the performance.’

The girl tossed her hair back from her face. ‘Ah. Must’ve seen a TV programme or read about it somewhere. I’m not a dumb blonde, you know.’

‘I didn’t think you were,’ he said with a laugh. Should he ask about her sketches? But footsteps crunched on the gravel and Susan Finch came marching up to the table, her short chubby legs enveloped in baggy track-suit bottoms, and her mouth covered with tell-tale crumbs showing she’d indulged in a pastry or two on her way past the Caffè Centrale.

‘Fern! You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’

‘I’m fine. Just a funny turn. Thank God Luca was here. He managed to grab hold of me as I was about to fall off the ramparts.’

‘Goodness! What a stroke of luck you saw her.’ Susan patted his hand. ‘Would you like to come to dinner the day after tomorrow? Fern and I would love it. It’s the least we can do.’

‘I’d be delighted.’
Fern, the girl’s name at last.
‘But I really didn’t do much. Fern should see a doctor, though.’

‘We’ll stop off at the hospital on our way home, Fern. To get you checked over. Better to be safe than sorry.’

Susan turned to him. ‘We’ll expect you at around eight o’clock on Friday evening, then?’

‘
Mille grazie.
’

Watching the two women amble arm in arm down the path, he clapped a hand to his forehead. He’d forgotten he was supposed to spend Friday evening with Ma.

Fern was sitting in the kitchen, sipping from a glass of mineral water while her aunt prepared supper. At the hospital, after an interminable wait and several tests, the doctors had said her fainting hadn’t meant she lurked at death’s door, but suffered from high blood pressure and needed to make sure she avoided caffeine. Probably all that coffee she drank while waiting for the flight at Heathrow.
Thank you so much, four hour delay!
Not to mention her breakfast tea and the cappuccino at the Caffè Centrale. She’d been a caffeine-addict for years, and now she’d have to limit her intake to one coffee and one tea a day.

She’d braced herself to hear the ghostly whisper when she’d got back to her aunt’s, yet the only sound was the echo of church bells from the village, and the noise of a moped revving past on the road. She must have imagined the whisper, and that drop in temperature probably had something to do with her blood-pressure and feeling faint. There could be no other explanation. Her strange experience in Asolo had been her caffeine-loaded brain playing tricks on her. Nothing more.

Fern breathed in and there it was again: the faint smell of burnt wood. Farmers burning stubble in the fields, perhaps? What else?

Aunt Susan opened a jar of sauce. ‘Spag bol okay?’

‘Great.’ Fern’s mouth watered. She hadn’t eaten a proper meal since the day before yesterday. Could be another reason why she’d felt light-headed . . .

Steam rose from a pot of boiling water, and her aunt tipped a handful of pasta into it while the cat purred loudly at her feet. ‘I’d offer you a glass of wine,’ Aunt Susan said, picking up a bottle of Bardolino. ‘Except, you need to line your stomach first.’ She pulled the cork then wagged a finger at the cat. ‘Shoo, Gucci. You’ve been fed already. Now where are my glasses?’

‘They’re on top of your head, Auntie.’ Fern laughed. Her aunt was certainly a one-off, and she loved her to bits. She thought about the man she’d met this morning. ‘Luca seems a nice guy. Can you tell me how he ended up going to school in the UK?’

‘His family’s very wealthy and can afford private education. He was at Eton, you know. One of the oldest families in the Veneto. In fact, I think they number a couple of Doges, rulers of ancient Venice, in their ancestry. Italy’s a republic now, of course, so no one can call themselves a count or countess with any legitimacy. Otherwise, Luca would be Conte Goredan.’

‘He said his mother’s English, didn’t he?’

Aunt Susan nodded. ‘She’s a widow.
La contessa
, as the locals still like to call her, is a lovely lady. I met her when Luca gave his talk at the Asolo Museum.’

‘Interesting. But why did you invite him for dinner? I mean, it was kind of you. Only you didn’t have to . . .’

‘I just wanted you to have a friend nearer to your own age.’

Hope Aunt Susan isn’t match-making. If she is, she has no chance.

They ate in companionable silence and with the last forkful of pasta, Fern’s eyelids drooped.

‘An early night for you, my lovely,’ Aunt Susan said, picking up the plates and taking them to the dishwasher. ‘I’ll go to bed soon myself.’

‘Good night, Auntie.’ Fern stood. She was so tired she could barely haul herself up the stairs.

***

The following morning Aunt Susan said, her mouth full of toast, ‘Why don’t you take the car and go exploring?’ She chewed and swallowed. ‘Just remember to keep on the right side of the road.’

‘I’d like to visit Asolo again. I’m dying to paint it.’ Fern’s fingers twitched. She couldn’t wait to take out her colours and lose herself in creativity. Art therapy. It had started as a way of “facing her demons”, but now it had become almost as essential to her as breathing. A surprise to both herself and her therapist.

The drive from Aunt Susan’s village, Altivole, took about twenty minutes. Fern found a park, then reached for her rucksack. She took in the sight of the Rocca, its fortifications etched against the azure sky, and decided she wouldn’t go there today; she didn’t feel up to the climb just yet. She’d have a leisurely stroll and find a quiet place where she’d paint.

Within minutes, she was sauntering down the Via Canova, the sun warming her bare arms, guidebook in her hand. Reading that she should “glance up Vicolo Belvedere, at the corner of the bakery”, she did so. The book said there’d once been a Jewish Ghetto there. Not any more, though.
Wonder what happened to it?

A mansion painted the colour of terracotta rose up on her left. Apparently, it used to belong to a famous Italian actress. Fern strolled under an archway, and caught sight of an elegant palazzo with gold lettering on a wooden sign saying
Hotel Villa Cipriani
. She peered through the wrought-iron gate into a lush garden, planted with an array of salmon-pink geraniums.

Next door stood an old house with a balcony, mullioned windows, a portal, and a massive doorway with a shutter and bolts. Recognition rang like a bell.
Why?
Fern gave a frown and told herself to keep focused.

Nothing familiar about the small church on her left. Putting the guidebook into her rucksack, she stepped into the building and sat on a pew at the back.
This isn’t quite right, I do know this place, but something about it is different.

An image swam into her mind, of another church, of mourners in black and a coffin at the altar, the wooden box containing the charred remains of her fiancé, Harry. Fern’s chest tightened so much she could barely breathe. Warm tears ran down her cheeks; she brushed them away and stared at the altar. The faded frescoes were brightening as the roof began to squeeze down on her. The colours became even more vivid. She closed her eyes and grabbed hold of the pew in front. Only it was no longer the wood of a pew, but the stone of a castle parapet, rough against her fingers.
How the hell did I get here?

Music lifted from the park below . . . and the sound of singing.

I swivel around, feeling lost, but ’tis my own singing that I hear and I’m delirious with it. Who am I? Where am I?

For a moment I’m confused, as if floating in a daydream. Then I’m back where I belong. I’m Cecilia and ’tis the year of our Lord 1504. My world is as it should be, and I sing along with my sister Fiammetta while she plucks her lute in the shade of the cherry tree. The rhythm never falters as the tune rises and falls. When Fiammetta sings, Orpheus could not fail to be astounded at her skill; she can keep perfect harmony on her instrument, bringing melody to the inflections of the song. No wonder she’s my lady’s darling.

We sing of the bitter sweetness of love and I take hold of my sister’s hand. ‘I’ll miss you when you are wed.’

‘My dear. At court you’ll be too much in demand to think of me.’

Think of me.
These three words soar in the breeze with an echo.
Think of me. Think of me.
Something makes the skin on my arms prickle and I spin around. A shadowy figure floats at the top of the castle wall. I look again, but all I see are the usual caper plants; the parapet is empty. The moment passes and I’m caught up in singing once more. Fiammetta plays a different tune; I screw up my eyes to remember the words and the melody.

‘Shall we dance?’ I ask, tired of singing. ‘I need more practice.’ I love to dance. To twirl until I fall over with the dizziness of it. I can’t wait for the time when I shall step out with a handsome suitor, whom I don’t yet know, but who will adore me as I’ll adore him. Even more than dancing, however, I like to draw – covering paper with black chalk representations of the people and landscape of Asolo. So much more enjoyable than endless embroidery.

‘Have you learnt the
saltarello
?’ My sister inclines her head towards me.

’Tis the most difficult of dances and I’ve yet to master it. Fiammetta puts down her lute, holds my hand high, and counts the five beats. We move our feet gracefully, right, left, right, left, then a short jump before repeating the movement by starting the sequence on the opposite foot. We go over the steps again and again until Fiammetta, playing the man, bows, and I drop into a deep curtsey, perspiration dampening my armpits.

The rough lawn is springy beneath the soft soles of my shoes and I sit down, my skirts billowing around me. I run my hands through the grass, plucking at the pink valerian flowers and lifting them to inhale the vanilla fragrance. The delicate scent reminds me of something, but the memory eludes me.

Fiammetta’s dark hair cascades in a long braid down her back and curls escape to frame her face. My breath catches and I try to hold the picture in my mind. When she’s married she’ll live with her husband, of course; she will have no time for me. I almost wish I could be sent back to Cyprus.

‘Do you ever long to return to Nicosia?’ I vaguely remember the parched island where we were born. I was only a child of five when we were dispatched here after our parents died in the plague.

‘Why would I wish to be there? I’m promised to Rambaldo, who loves me.’

Rambaldo Azzoni Avogadro, that nobleman from Treviso, is too ugly for her, but he’s wealthy and doesn’t need a bride with a dowry. Even so, my lady has been generous with her wedding gift to Fiammetta: a small villa on the road to Venice.

My dreams of a handsome suitor are mere fantasies, however. I push the thought from my mind; I will not dwell on it. Who knows what the future will bring? Lying back on the grass, the warmth of the sun caresses me and dispels my disquiet. Horse hooves clatter on the cobbles and the bell in the clock tower strikes the hour.

Fiammetta tugs at my sleeve. ‘You have grass stains on your kirtle, Cecilia. Remember, we go with my lady to sing the Te Deum. You need to dress appropriately.’

Standing, I brush down my dress before I sprint up the steps towards the building where I’ve lived for the past ten years. My lady is there and I drop into a deep curtsey. ‘Are you ready for your debut, child?’ she says.

‘Yes, domina.’ I run to change my attire. Today, after luncheon, I shall join the court at her country villa at last. The castle in Asolo is too cramped and crude for my lady’s tastes and she only visits when necessary. Excitement sparks in my chest, and I feel I’m about to explode with happiness.

‘Sit still,’ Fiammetta gives my arm a shake. ‘You’re supposed to be praying, not fidgeting.’

My eyes jerk open and I peer at the frescoes, confused by their brightness. I clutch my psalter to my chest. What am I doing here? Then, I remember. The church of Santa Caterina. We arrived here a few moments ago. From my left comes the most melodic voice, deep and true.

A young man, with dark brown hair that flows to his shoulders. Bowing my head, I pretend to ignore him, while taking surreptitious peeks. He stands next to my lady in the opposite pew. My gaze travels to his mouth and my heart flutters. What am I thinking, staring at a man so wantonly?

I can’t help it. For once I feel as beautiful as the other ladies. Over my shift, I’m wearing my kirtle, with the sleeves of my shift pulled through the slashes in puffs along the arm. The latest fashion. My over-gown of pale blue satin is sleeveless and laced at the front. I stroke the material and blush with pleasure. ’Tis a gift from the Queen for my debut. How kind she is!

After the service, we progress up the hill to the castle, where a meal has been prepared. The heady perfume of roses in vases on the long wooden tables mingles with the aroma of roasting beef. My mouth waters when I take my seat beside Fiammetta; I ate little at breakfast and hunger twists my belly.

Fiammetta nudges me, ‘That man is staring at you,’ she says, breaking off a piece of bread and stuffing it into her mouth. ‘Looks like you’ve made a conquest. Except, I wouldn’t be too pleased. An artist, he’s a womaniser and he likes to drink.’ Fiammetta’s eyes take on a dreamy expression, even though she’s to be married soon. ‘So handsome. I do believe he’s known as Zorzo from Castelfranco.’

‘I don’t like him,’ I say. Best not reveal what I really think. His smile fascinates me, as do his full lips that turn up at the corners.
Wish I could feel that mouth on mine.
I give a start, shocked at my thoughts, and cut a slice of meat with my knife. A stab of jealousy that he, a man, can be an artist, whereas I, a woman, have no such hope.

The strumming of a lute. That deep, melodic voice again, singing, ‘Subtle beauty of the golden tresses, can you see that I am dying for you?’ I flick a look at the musician and his eyes meet mine. I huff and glance away.

If you think I will succumb and become one of your women, Signor Zorzo, you’d better think again!

I do not let myself observe the artist further, although every word coming from him seems to be directed at me. ‘Breeze, blowing that blond curling hair, stirring it, and being softly stirred in turn, scattering that sweet gold about, then gathering it, in a lovely knot of curls,’ he sings. I’ve worn my so-called tresses loose today, not encased in a hair-net. I hate to dress my hair, there’s far too much of it and ’tis my worst feature.
Oh, foolish Cecilia!
I realise that the artist is singing a sonnet of Petrarch’s set to music, not his own words. He could be addressing them to any of the ladies assembled here, although I’m the only blonde besides the Queen.
My lady! Of course, he’s serenading her.
I’m such an ingénue . . .