The Echoes of Love (21 page)

She was mad to have come here. She should have explained the situation to Giovanna, but she had deliberately kept quiet because deep down she was curious about the man who had touched a chord at the centre of her being, making her heart beat again. The man who had drawn her with a mysterious, addictive, primitive impulse that made her body vibrate and sing with a fire that she thought had been extinguished forever.

Venetia had assumed that her experience with Judd had beaten the romance out of her, but since she had met Paolo, all the romantic dreams that had filled her imagination way back were teasing her again with growing potency, and she was behaving like some clichéd heroine in one of the romantic novels she devoured in her teens, for some inexplicable reason finding herself drawn to a stranger. She was disturbed that her heart could behave this way, when her common sense told her that everything she now knew about Paolo meant he was wrong for her.

Recently she had been re-reading Blaise Pascal, the French theologian of the seventeenth century she much admired, and a phrase that seemed conceived solely for her predicament had leapt out at her: ‘
the heart has its reasons, which reason does not know
'. How painfully true. Why could she not decipher the workings of her own heart? Was she so wrong to hope that maybe she and Paolo were soulmates who had found each other after life had dealt them each a cruel blow? Venetia sighed as she turned on the radio. She tuned into the Don Giovanni show and its Italian nostalgia songs and heard ‘
E Salutala Per Me
' by Raffaella Carrà playing. Finding herself humming along to the beautiful, haunting melody
,
she smiled ruefully as the voice sang mournfully of those who win and lose in love and questioned the mystery of men. She sighed. Would she win or lose? Despite all that she knew – of Paolo's reputation as a womaniser, of her own heart's mystery – Venetia was secretly beguiled by the notion that some small magic might befall her one day, and destiny would show its felicitous hand. She closed her eyes, reprimanding herself for her foolish, adolescent mooning and let the soft sea breeze soothe her face.

In spite of the riotous whirl of her thoughts, nothing could spoil Venetia's delight in the view before her. She sat there drinking it all in: the dreamy peace, the scent of flowers and burning brushwood floating in the air, and the tang of the sea. Her drooping shoulders rose philosophically. ‘
Quel che sarà, sarà,
'
went the Italian saying. It was a glorious morning, and moping around churning up black thoughts was doing her no good at all; she might as well take this opportunity to explore the grounds and maybe drive into town for a spot of lunch.

There are things that need to be put away in a little compartment at the back of the mind where they can be hidden and ignored until either the time comes to revisit them, or the day arrives when they are altogether forgotten. So it was with Venetia. She pushed aside all thoughts of Paolo and decided to enjoy her day.

As Venetia was about to get up, Ernestina came bustling on to the terrace again. ‘I have attended to your room,
signorina
. There was not much for me to do. You must leave everything to me in the future, as I have told you. This is my job and
Signor
Barone would be very upset if he knew that I was not attending to it properly.'

Venetia gave a crystalline laugh. ‘Well, Ernestina, if you insist – I wouldn't like you to get into trouble on my account. But you must at least let me make my bed. A bed is a very personal thing, don't you think?'

Ernestina chuckled harshly, shrugging. ‘
Dio mio, questi Inglesi! Va bene,
as you like.'

‘The weather's so lovely, I think I'll change into something more comfortable and go for a walk in the garden.'

‘Of course, you must. The grounds are beautiful and you need to visit the
signore
's rose garden. But be careful if you walk along the edge of the cliffs: the slope is slippery and the earth is all loose, especially after yesterday's storm –
molto pericoloso
,' Ernestina warned her with a wave of her hand as she left the cottage.

Venetia switched her trouser suit for a pair of tight-fitting cotton beige slacks, drawn in at the waist by a brown suede belt, and a bright-orange silk top with small round iridescent buttons. She undid the more sophisticated hairstyle she had adopted that morning and tied her hair into a loose ponytail instead. Then, armed with a pad and pencil, just in case she felt like sketching, she went out into the sunshine.

The cottage garden was a riot of colour, shimmering in the sun. Although on first sight it seemed unkempt, Venetia had guessed at its luxuriance the night before in the dark and she had been right. The enclosure, rimmed by a stone parapet, was smothered in bougainvillea that fell in purple and yellow cascades to the cliffs below. The walls of the cottage were framed in jasmine and brilliant clusters of begonia. Polyanthus and tulips looked like sparkling gems in the beds scattered on the grass, and the apple tree in front of Venetia's window was thick with white and rosy buds. Trickling splashes from the small brook running through the garden added a sort of tranquillity to the surroundings. The hovering breath and scent of spring was everywhere.

Curious to see what
the main house looked like in daylight, Venetia walked out of the sunken garden and retraced her steps along the narrow path, back to the courtyard where she had left her car the evening before… and there it stood in splendour.

Constructed in an unusual pale, golden stone, Miraggio, with its Gothic turret at one end, was an imposing old building that commanded sweeping views of the surrounding countryside. Like a Goliath, solidly rooted on a rocky outcrop jutting into the Tyrrhenian Sea, it was framed on one side by stretches of well-tended vineyards, olive groves and fragrant orchards, and on the other by a great expanse of glittering deep-blue and turquoise water. The awe-inspiring residence was erected on four floors with a subterranean level built right into the rock. Its great masonry walls were smothered in climbing roses that poked at the elegant, tall windows and rambled over its beautiful, arched wooden front door, softening the building's austere appearance. A colonnaded veranda encircled three-quarters of the crenulated turret and the remaining open space included a south-facing terrace. The columns were festooned with flowering vines, and huge earthenware pots of climbing geraniums stood between them.

The architect's vision was clear to Venetia now. The great structure was dramatically positioned, and the itinerary to reach it unfolded in a sequence: it showed a procession, from the first distant view of Miraggio
hovering over the ocean as visitors approached the estate, to the moment one penetrated the great walls and drove up a long avenue of lime trees to arrive in the gravelled courtyard, where the imposing house provided exquisite views and a sensual awareness of the countryside that surrounded it. Paolo's home, Venetia thought,
had both beauty and grandeur, as well as a veil of melancholy laid on it from times long past. She loved it.

Venetia went over to the parapet, built along the top of the cliff. Quite near the rocky edge, leaning out into the void, grew a mimosa tree. Its fernlike silver-grey leaves with bright yellow flowers grew from its limbs in tight clusters. In the burning silence they shone like little golden globes offering adoration to the sun. Mimosa trees planted too close to an open area of land usually become a weed and spread. Strange how this one had just sprouted there, she thought, a lonely sentry slanting out from the rock in which its roots were embedded. It hung poised over the drop in perfect stillness, yellow against deep blue, with no other vegetation around it.

Not far from the tree, Venetia noticed broad steps that had been cut in the face of the rock. The craggy staircase snaked down to what looked like a private sheltered bay, lying in the dazzling morning light far beneath.
There must be more than a hundred steps,
she thought, and wondered whether Paolo ever went down there to bathe in privacy. An unexpected feeling raced down her spine and pooled deep inside her at the thought of his tanned, muscled body glistening as he waded out of the water; and for a few moments she stood there, dreamy-eyed, imagining what it would be like to swim naked with Paolo in the moonlit sea.

It was a perfect day for sketching and painting. There was so much to see and admire. Venetia settled herself on one of the steps in the shade of the mimosa tree and took out her sketchbook. She looked at the clefts in the rocks at the bottom where the tide surged in and out and at the seagulls perched in sedate companies on the ledges at the top of the cliffs. They were such a curious sight, like newly-painted wooden toys, with their glistening white feathers and heavy orange beaks, their feet close together, alert eyes very bright as they stood there motionless, an air of blank solemnity on their vacant faces.

She loved the solitude, the vastness of sea and sky, the movement of the shadows, and the way that areas previously in the shade now appeared, shining with brilliance under the sun. Timeless, and devoid of any evidence of modern life, it could be the background to a calm mediaeval picture, and the young woman wondered if perhaps Charles Lamb was not right when he wrote that, ‘
as men when they die are not really dead, so perhaps their habitations still persist in the unseen world'.

Venetia took out her pencils and peered at the horizon, then began to sketch a distant white liner sailing into Porto Santo Stefano. She could understand why Paolo had settled here after his accident and the loss of his wife – it was a good place to heal.

‘This is not a playground for the public or a recreation park for tourists. You're trespassing!'

Engrossed in her sketching, Venetia nearly jumped out of her skin at the sudden aggressive reprimand. Shielding her eyes from the glaring sun, she lifted her head and was met with the termagant expression of a young woman gazing down at her from the top of a bright bay mare, eyes as wild as those of her mount.

‘How did you get in, anyway?' went on the unfriendly rider.

A cold anger ran along Venetia's spine when she saw that it was Allegra, the young girl who had been with Paolo at the restaurant, but she gritted her teeth and contrived an air of insouciance, allowing a smile to touch her lips.

‘I came in through the front gates, of course.'

Raw little flames seemed to smoulder in the dark eyes of her interrogator as they scanned Venetia from head to toe.

‘Well, you can get out the same way before I call the police.'

Venetia, unmoving, coolly looked up into the hostile pupils of the Italian girl. ‘I'm afraid that you'll have to put up with my company for a little longer.'

Her standoffish answer seemed to take the wind out of Allegra's sails, and the girl stiffened imperceptibly, before recovering her composure in a flash. ‘And why is that? Who are you? Or, more appropriately, who do you
think
you are?' she taunted, keeping her impatient horse still with a tug of the reins.

‘I'm Venetia Aston-Montagu. I'm the architect
Signor
Barone has appointed to carry out some work here.'

The rider arched an eyebrow. ‘What works?
Signor
Barone is away, and he left no instructions about this.'

‘Perhaps you should check with
Signor
Barone in that case. I can assure you that he's aware of my presence.'

A malicious smile hovered on Allegra's full, rosebud lips. ‘Paolo and I speak every day. He would have told me if we were expecting anyone. During his absence we're not allowed to let anybody on the premises for security reasons. I must insist that you leave.'

Liar!
Venetia was on the point of remonstrating, but kept silent, counting to ten instead. She had made herself known, and there was no point in locking horns with Paolo's mistress, who had taken great satisfaction in establishing their intimacy.

Her chin came up a fraction. ‘Unfortunately, I must contradict you on this point. I was let in yesterday night by Antonio, the caretaker, and I spent a very comfortable night in one of the estate's cottages,' she replied calmly.

The Italian beauty contemplated her opponent with undisguised venom. Venetia felt as if the girl was summing her up, stripping her naked as she contemptuously dismissed her in one burning look from under silky, black lashes. Allegra flung up her head, small hands clenching and unclenching on the reins, and then gave the mare a cup on the neck that sent the creature bounding forward, and they disappeared in a cloud of dust.

Shaking uncontrollably now with fury and humiliation, Venetia watched Allegra gallop away. For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, her first impulse was to go back to the cottage, pack up her bags and leave for Venice – or even as far as England! But she had never run away from a job or a person in her life, and she wasn't about to start now, all because of some arrogant, spoilt girl's devious machinations.

Still, Venetia knew that Allegra was not just any young girl; she was as luscious and beautiful as a flower in its early bloom, with silk-smooth, jet-black hair covering her shoulders like a cape, satin warm-coloured skin, and the most expressive, dark, velvety bedroom eyes she had ever seen. The girl possessed an impertinent tilt to her small nose, which gave her a kind of haughtiness that Venetia sensed few members of the opposite sex could resist the need to break down – she was the dream
inamorata
par excellence of a million men. Venetia had no doubt how easy it must have been for Allegra to bamboozle a rich, widowed amnesic man, and she momentarily pitied Paolo.

Yet it was with a burst of frustrated anger against herself, and a rush of antagonism towards the Italian girl, that she recognised the jealousy that swept over her like lava at the thought of Paolo in the arms of the dark-eyed virago, a feeling that left her suddenly cold and implacable. Gathering her sketchbook and pencils, she walked back to the cottage, her heart a little heavier than it had been when she had started out that morning.