100. A Rose In Jeopardy (13 page)

Rosella scribbled Thomas’s name on the letter and addressed it to
New Hall, Near Winchester, England, care
of the Head Gardener
, as she was sure that he would not recognise her writing.

She gave the letter to Mimi.

“
Tua famiglia in Inghilterra
?” Mimi then asked, looking curiously at the address.

“No, not my family,” Rosella replied, for already she was beginning to understand just a little of the Italian language. “Just a friend.
Un amico
.”

“A-ah!” Mimi smiled at her. “
Un amico
.”

And she hurried off to post the letter, pressing it to her heart.

Rosella thought about her letter wending its way to England and then tears sprang into her eyes as she pictured Thomas opening it in the Rose Garden, hiding from prying eyes under the masses of scented blooms.

There was a rap at her door.

“Ja-ane!” an imperious voice called out. “Is your window closed?”

Rosella jumped up and pulled the heavy window shut, just in time, for the Contessa did not hesitate before entering the room with Pepe sitting on one shoulder and Pickle on the other, nibbling affectionately at her earring.

“
Hello, my dear
!” the parrot shouted, when he saw Rosella and then he flew right up and perched on top of the embroidered curtain that surrounded her four-poster bed.

“Come down, you naughty Pickle,” she told him, hastily wiping her eyes, so that the Contessa should not see that she had been crying.

“Oh, he is so happy to be flying free,” the Contessa said. “Leave him, but what is the matter? You are upset?”

“It’s nothing really,” Rosella sniffed.

She was still a little apprehensive of the Contessa, for the old woman could fall into a tempestuous rage at the least excuse.

And Rosella could not quite forget the way that the Contessa had attacked her with her walking stick in the lobby of
The Palace Hotel
and also, how she had not really wanted Rosella to come to Italy with her – since she was only interested in Pickle the talking parrot.

All through the voyage to Venice on the beautiful ship
La Maschera
, Rosella had made herself very useful, arranging the flowers in the Contessa’s luxurious cabin and keeping watch over Pepe.

And when they arrived, it seemed that she had gone up in the Contessa’s esteem, as she had been allocated this beautiful room, overlooking the Grand Canal and she was always invited to dine with the old woman.

Now the Contessa was staring at her intently.

“Jane,” she began. “Something is troubling you, I can see.
Un segreto
? A secret you speak of to no one?”

Rosella’s limbs grew cold with fear.

“Please,” she replied, “Really, there is nothing that troubles me. I am so happy to be here and you are so very kind to me, ma’am.”

“But who are you?” the Contessa frowned. “I think you are not what you seem.”

“I am Jane – ” Rosella began, but Pickle interrupted her by flying down and landing on her head.

“Ouch! Do be careful,” she scolded him, lifting her hand for him to step down.

He promptly flew off again and landed on the table. Pepe then jumped down from the Contessa’s shoulder and bounded over to join him.

Pickle bowed his head and Pepe sat down next to him and began combing the feathers on the back of the bird’s neck with his tiny fingers.

The Contessa laughed.

“Oh, your bird! So clever. But Jane, can you tell me why, when you left the room this morning, he said, ‘
Bye bye, Rosella
’.”

Rosella’s cheeks burned at her words.

She had not heard Pickle say this today, but then she remembered that he had done so sometimes in the past, when Aunt Beatrice was still alive.

Without meaning to, the parrot had betrayed her.

The Contessa had seen her blush.

“I thought so!
You
are this mysterious Rosella, are you not! I give thanks, for never again will I have to make that horrible English sound –
Ja-ane
.”

“No, please, you must not call me Rosella.”

“Why are you so afraid?”

“I don’t want anyone to know I am here.”

“But your family?”

“I have no family. There was only my aunt and she died.”

“Oh,
povera
!” the Contessa reached out and patted Rosella’s hair. “But why did she not leave you her fortune, this aunt? Why did she leave you to go out in the world at mercy of strangers?”

Rosella then explained that Aunt Beatrice had died suddenly and the estate had gone to her husband’s brother.

“I have nothing now,” she whispered.

The Contessa’s black eyes glowed.

“No one who has a good friend has nothing,” she exclaimed and then she sighed,

“You poor creature. You have face of angel and the kindness of one too. You are patient with my naughty Pepe. And you love beautiful things – I have watched how tenderly you touch flowers when you put them into vases for me.”

Tears sprang into Rosella’s eyes, as she thought of the daily ritual she used to perform at New Hall.

“I-I used to arrange the flowers for my aunt,” she explained.

“Of course,” the Contessa responded, her own eyes suddenly bright, “but you must not feel sad. A pretty girl like you – you must have handsome young man – a suitor – who waits for you in England?”

Rosella shook her head.

She could not bring herself to speak of the horrible Mr. Merriman, who was neither young nor handsome.

A determined look came over the Contessa’s face.

“The time of
Carnivale
is past now for this year, but I am going to hold a ball.
Un Ballo in Maschera
! And I shall ask all the Nobility of Venice and English visitors to come. And we shall see if we cannot find you a handsome suitor – Rosella!”

“Oh, surely you don’t mean that, I-I couldn’t.”

Rosella recoiled in horror at the thought of having to attend a ball.

The Contessa laughed.

“Of course you can,” she persisted. “No one will recognise you, as you will be masked. But none the less, you cannot fail to catch the eye of the young men.”

She clapped her hands imperiously.

“Come, there will be no argument.”

The Contessa called out at the top of her voice for Giovanni, the gondolier who ferried her about the City.

“Go to Signora Taglioni at once,” she told him, when he came to the door.

She snatched a piece of paper from the desk and scribbled something onto it.

“Give her this – and tell her the appointment must be as soon as possible. Tomorrow!”

*

Next morning, Rosella stood outside one of the side doors of the Palazzo, looking down into the dark water of a narrow waterway that branched off from the Grand Canal.

“Signorina?”

Giovanni, a tall, well-built man with thick black hair and a wide smile, held out his strong hand to help her down into the gondola.

He was the brother of Mimi, her maid, and she was sure that he was a good trustworthy man, but still Rosella felt a little uneasy.

“Where are we going?” she asked him.

He laughed and shook his head,

“Segreto.”

A little rush of panic surged in Rosella’s chest.

She had never been in a gondola before and here she was about to step into one all on her own to be carried away to an unknown destination.

She did not want to go and she turned to run back inside the Palazzo, but then her heart leapt with shock, for there right next to her at the side of the door was a life-size statue of a young man.

The white stone was worn and dirty, but she could see that his carved face was handsome and he wore a large turban on his head.

Rosella gasped.

“Who is that?” she asked.

Giovanni shrugged.

“
Non lo so
. I don’t know.
Antico, antico
. From a long time ago. Come, Signorina. We must not be late for your appointment.”

The statue’s curved lips seem to smile at Rosella.

“Go,” they seemed to say. “Go on – and see what awaits you.”

Her heart in her mouth, she allowed Giovanni to help her into the swaying gondola and then she lay back on the cushions, as he expertly steered the slender craft over the dark water and out onto the Grand Canal.

*

Lyndon knelt up in the prow of the rowing boat, gazing at the domes and roofs of Venice, gleaming under the morning sun.

He knew that he should sit down to steady the boat, but he was so excited by what he had just found in the Cemetery of San Michele, that he simply could not contain himself.

And the placid oarsman, pulling steadily at the oars, did not seem to mind that his passenger was acting like an over-excited child.

Since he had come to Venice, Lyndon had looked across the water many times to the mysterious island of San Michele, where the dark spires of the cypress trees towered over the cemetery walls.

Since he had arrived in Venice, Lyndon had wasted no time in seeing all the sights. He had marvelled at the glories of St. Mark’s Square with its Basilica and its tall Campanile.

He had wandered alone through the dark alleyways, crossing tiny bridges over the canals and found glory upon glory of art and architecture to astonish him.

But the most extraordinary experience of all had been today at the cemetery of Venice.

As he strolled among all the tombs and monuments, admiring the carved angels and the exquisite inscriptions commemorating the famous families of Venice, he thought he might hunt among some of the smaller gravestones and see if he could find some English names.

And there he had found, clearly carved on a marble headstone, the words,

“In memory of Lord Osborne Brockley, 1786.”

Lyndon’s heart was in his mouth as he read this, for Lord Osborne had been brother to his great-grandfather.

He had never taken much interest in the history of his family, but he did recall some story of Lord Osborne leaving England to embark on a Grand Tour of Europe – and never returning.

The rumour was that he had had an unhappy love affair and had then drowned.

Lyndon knelt down and laid his hand on the warm marble. Perhaps his great-uncle had lost his life here in the silvery waters of the Lagoon.

‘Rest in peace,’ he whispered to Lord Osborne’s grave and then closed his eyes for a moment in the warm sunshine.

As he stepped back into the rowing boat and began the short journey back to the City, his heart pounded with excitement.

What an extraordinary coincidence it was, that he should be following in the footsteps of his ancestor!

But there was no way that he, Lyndon, would fall victim to an unhappy love affair.

He had done his sightseeing now. San Michele was the last place on the list.

Now he should mingle a little in Society and meet some of the beautiful women of Venice – not to fall in love with, oh no! – but to flirt with and enjoy some liaisons that would not in any way touch his heart.

A rowing boat had come out from the mouth of one of the canals and was coming towards him.

Lyndon looked over and almost laughed out loud, as it was as if his wish to meet a lovely woman had just become a reality.

Sitting in the front of the rowing boat was a slender young girl. She was not dark like all the Italian girls, but gloriously fair with a cloud of gold hair around her head that shone under the morning sun like a bright halo.

Where was the boat taking her, all on her own on this beautiful morning?

As they drew closer, he saw that she was looking at him and she was even lovelier that he had first thought, for her skin was pale and her face exquisitely shaped.

She was staring at him so intently that, as they drew closer, he decided to stand up and call a greeting across to her.

She really was very lovely indeed.

And then his heart stopped still with shock, as he had seen her somewhere before.

But where? He could not quite remember, although he was sure it was not here, in Venice, that they had met.

*

“Don’t be afraid,
Signorina
,” Giovanni said in his thick Italian accent.

They had come to the edge of the tall buildings and were looking out over a wide expanse of shining water.

At the edge of the water a small blue rowing boat was tied and Giovanni now walked towards it, beckoning for her to follow him.

“Come, come!” he urged.

Reluctantly Rosella followed, asking, for the tenth time, where he was taking her, but he would only smile and nod mysteriously.

Now she was in the rowing boat and it was pushing through the water. Ahead lay a walled island with tall trees growing straight upwards.

It looked like a great house or Palace of some kind, but when Rosella asked Giovanni who lived there, he just frowned and shook his head as he pulled on the oars.

Another small rowing boat, coming the other way, had just left the island and Rosella could now see that a tall figure in a wide hat and long cloak was on board.

She could not see the face of this person, as the sun was in her eyes, but surely – it had to be – the same young man she had met by the banks of the River Thames!

As the boats drew level, he stood up and grinned at her, his dark eyes flashing, a bold expression on his face.

It
was
him!

And yet – he seemed so very different – not at all the same charming man she remembered from Limehouse.

“Hey!” he called out. “
Buon giorno, bellissima
!”

Giovanni gave a disapproving grunt and tugged at the oars, so that their boat shot past, leaving the young man behind.

He must have forgotten that he had met her before in England and Rosella’s heart felt touched with ice.

She had mused about him every day, but clearly he had not been thinking of her.

She must put his face, which had stayed so vividly in her thoughts, right out of her mind.

There was no use at all in thinking of him anymore.

Ahead of the walled island there was another bigger island and that was where they were heading.

Soon Giovanni was tying up the boat and offering his arm to Rosella to help her ashore.