Lady of Asolo (10 page)

‘The Island of Murano used to be a succession of vegetable fields, vineyards and gardens,’ Aunt Susan read from her guidebook.

Fern was only half-focused, distracted by the sight of Venice across the lagoon. Hundreds of church spires. The domes of St Mark’s gleaming in the sunshine. She took her camera from her bag and framed a couple of shots.

The ferry started to make its way down Murano’s main waterway. Pale pink, cream and terracotta-coloured buildings lined the canal banks, where tourists thronged like ants at a picnic table. Fern took in the sights, but she didn’t recognise anything.

Aunt Susan, sitting next to her on the top deck, tucked a strand of her frizzy grey hair under an enormous sunhat and continued reading, ‘Murano’s reputation as a centre for glassmaking was born when the Venetian Republic, fearing fire and destruction to the city’s mostly wood buildings, ordered the demolition of all the foundries within the city in 1291.’ She nudged Fern. ‘Are you listening?’

Fern’s heart had thudded at the words “fire and destruction”. She nodded.

‘Though the Republic ordered the flattening of the foundries, it authorised and encouraged construction outside the city, and by the late 13th century, the glassmaking industry was centred in Murano.’

Fern nodded again, a distant memory of the goblets used at the Barco.

‘The glassmakers were soon the island’s most important citizens,’ Aunt Susan continued. ‘By the 14th century, glassmakers were allowed to wear swords, enjoyed immunity from prosecution by the Venetian state, and found their daughters married into Venice’s most affluent families.’

‘Immunity from prosecution? How odd!’

‘Of course there was a catch: glassmakers were not allowed to leave. Many craftsmen took this risk, however, and set up glass furnaces in surrounding cities and even as far afield as England and the Netherlands, in spite of the danger of retaliation from the Council of Ten, who wanted Venice to have exclusivity.’

Fern’s ears pricked. ‘The Council of Ten?’ She’d heard of them before. Was it something she’d read?
No.
‘Who were they exactly?’

‘The Doge and other members of the
Signoria
, the ruling patricians. Highly secretive,’ Aunt Susan said, grimacing.

The ferry’s engines grumbled into reverse as it drew level with the pier and then shuddered to a halt. Fern stepped ashore with her aunt.

‘Are you certain you don’t want to come with me and visit the glassworks?’ Aunt Susan asked, pulling down her baggy t-shirt over her ample stomach. ‘It won’t take long. We can have some lunch nearby.’

‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to sketch something to turn into a painting when we get home. I’ll stroll around and find a good spot. And I’ll take some photos.’

‘How will I know where to find you?’

‘Let me have a look at your map.’ Fern felt her eyes being drawn to the wording, “Palazzo da Mula”.
This is the spot.
‘We can meet there,’ she said, pointing. ‘What does your guidebook say about it?’

Aunt Susan flipped the pages, and then read, ‘The summer residence of the nobility. The frontage features large Gothic windows and Veneto-Byzantine panels from the 12th and 13th centuries. One of the few
palazzi
which escaped the restructuration of the island in the 1800s.’ She peered at her watch. ‘It’s eleven now. Say one o’clock? I’m sure we’ll find a restaurant nearby.’

‘I’ll park myself on the opposite side of the canal, so I can get a good view.’

Fern pecked Aunt Susan on the cheek, hefted her bag onto her shoulder, and set off. It was good to stretch her legs; they’d left home over three hours ago, driving to the station at Treviso and catching the train to Venice. She lengthened her stride.

At a newsvendor’s, she bought her own guidebook and map. After crossing the Longo bridge she followed the Fondamenta Venier, trusting her sense of recognition would tell her when she’d arrived.

No such luck, yet the palazzo was obvious for its evident age, and stood out next to the smaller more modern buildings around it. She snapped a couple of photos, then sat on the edge of the canal, took out her sketchpad, and drew a few perspective lines, getting the basic structure right before starting on the detail.

The Gothic windows with their pointed arches would be tricky, but not impossible. A light shone in one of them.
Good, that will engage the viewer’s eye
. Her 2B pencil flew across the page, her focus intent. Using her graphite stick, she started on the shading of the high water mark before adding tone to the stonework.

A motor-boat chugged past, making the green water slap the edges of the canal, rippling the greyish reflections of the palazzo’s windows. The cinnamon-coloured building ached with history, and was definitely familiar, except she couldn’t feel Cecilia tugging at her mind. Perhaps she’d been wrong about the girl’s story continuing here? Dorotea had definitely said this was where they were going with Caterina Cornaro. A
pranzo
, luncheon, at her Murano villa for the Marques of Mantova. Disappointment spiked Fern’s chest. She gazed around. Perhaps not such a good idea, anyway. If she’d gone into one of her trances, she might have fallen into the canal. She carried on with her sketching.

The sound of flip-flops flapping on the stone and Aunt Susan waddled up, her face red and perspiring. ‘I’ve bought a set of wineglasses,’ she puffed. ‘Can’t wait to show them to you. But let’s have some lunch first. I’m starving.’

Fern shoved her pad into her rucksack and got to her feet. At least she’d have a painting she could use for a commission, so the day hadn’t been a complete dead loss. And she was looking forward to the opera this evening.

***

Aunt Susan had splurged some of the advance for her last novel, and had booked them into a hotel in the San Cassiano district right on the Grand Canal, opposite the Ca’ d’Oro. After picking up their overnight bags from the left-luggage counter at the station, they took a water-taxi. ‘It’s not far,’ Aunt Susan said. ‘So won’t cost an arm and a leg.’

They checked into a sumptuous room on the third floor, furnished with antiques, a glass chandelier and velvet curtains. The hair on the back of Fern’s neck prickled when her aunt mentioned the palazzo dated from the 14th century, but she told herself that most of the buildings in this fabulous city were as old, if not older.

A light supper of mozzarella and tomatoes,
insalata caprese,
ordered from room service, then they showered and changed into what Aunt Susan called their “posh frocks”. (Aunt Susan’s a flowery ankle-length polyester tent-like garment, and Fern’s a simple short white linen dress nipped in with a belt, another of her work outfits, which she’d packed in case she’d needed it.) They sat at the front of the vaporetto from Rialto, the setting sun gilding the sky, washing the palaces along the canal in a honey glow.

‘Do you know why it’s called the Fenice?’ Aunt Susan said as they disembarked at Santa Maria del Giglio. Clearly expecting no reply, she continued, ‘It means the phoenix, and the theatre was renamed after it had burnt down and was rebuilt.’

Fern gave a shudder. ‘Hope it’s fireproof now.’

‘Sorry! I didn’t think. I’m sure it’s perfectly safe.’

Fern followed her aunt into the theatre, and her jaw dropped: it was so over-the-top. Gold-leaf dripped from the walls, ceilings, lights and mirrors. Pure kitsch, but she loved it. Their seats were in the centre stalls, and they squeezed their way past the disapproving knees of their fellow-occupants of row 17. The curtain rose, and Fern was transported to medieval Verona. The Bellini opera (funny how that name kept cropping up) touched her to the core. Juliet being forced into an unwanted marriage. The interval arrived, and Aunt Susan nudged her. ‘Do you need the loo?’

Shaking her head, Fern stood to let her aunt get past. As she waited, she thought about Cecilia. The story of Romeo and Juliet was based on an ancient legend and possibly known to her. How disappointing not to have connected with her nemesis this afternoon. It seemed the onus was on Cecilia to connect with her. That put paid to Luca’s theory. She couldn’t be possessing Cecilia; the boot was definitely on the other foot.

Maybe there wouldn’t be any more episodes? Could what had happened up to now really have been her imagination running away with her?

When the performance was over, they took the vaporetto back to Rialto and walked to their hotel. ‘I’m exhausted,’ her aunt said. ‘Let’s go straight to bed.’ Aunt Susan went to clean her teeth and change. She emerged from the bathroom in a voluminous white cotton nightdress, her face slathered in cold cream. ‘Your turn, my lovely.’

By the time Fern had finished getting ready, her aunt was already snoring.
How am I going to sleep through that?
She rummaged in her overnight case, and pulled out Aunt Susan’s book on Caterina Cornaro. She’d already read the first part of the history, up until when the Queen had been “coerced” into abdicating her throne. Now she read on, absorbing the description of Caterina’s arrival in Venice, where she was met by the Doge in his magnificent state barge, the
Bucintoro
. ‘As compensation for renouncing the Cyprus throne in favour of Venice,’ Fern read, ‘the Doge granted her a full and absolute control over the lands of Asolo, where she arrived on October 11, 1489, followed by over 4000 people who flocked there from the surrounding region to greet her.

‘Soon Caterina felt the need to own a palace worthy of her reputation: the perfect chosen location to build a “villa di delizie” (a villa of delights) was Altivole, at the foot of Asolo.’
Nothing new there.

Aunt Susan’s snores settled into a soft rumble and Fern felt her eyelids drooping. Tiredness seeped through her, and she found herself thinking about Luca. The attraction was there; no doubt about it. But only on her side. He treated her in the same way he treated Chiara. Like a brother. Why did it bother her? She didn’t want to betray Harry. He’d died because of her, and she owed it to him to stay true.

Her eyes brimmed. She and Harry were planning on visiting Aunt Susan when she’d moved to Italy shortly after becoming a published author, but they hadn’t got round to it. Such a lucky lady to have been signed to a major publisher. And how wonderful that a large advance had enabled her to take early retirement from teaching. Aunt Susan’s bodice-ripping romances had a huge following on both sides of the Atlantic, and well deserved too. Her own love-life had been cut short when her husband had run off with his secretary five years ago. She’d sworn off men at that point, saying she preferred the ones she created in her stories to those in real life.
Ha!

Am I doing the same thing? Fantasising about a man who died nearly five hundred years ago because reality is too painful?
Is that what all this is about?

Fern was drifting, her mind floating, and she could feel a tugging sensation and a longing like she’d never felt before.

I lie in my bed, too excited to sleep, moving my hands over my body, imagining they are the painter’s. I touch my breasts and my nipples harden against my palms. I trace a line down to my cleft, that secret part of me I’ve never explored before. Why did it throb so much when Zorzo kissed me? I suck in a breath, then cup myself, spreading my fingers so that the one in the middle can slip inside. The tip rubs against a small button of flesh, sending a raw shiver through me. I exhale sharply and touch the spot again.

Heat spreads through my body. What have I uncovered? Is there some deformity down there? I take my hand away, and feel bereft of the sensation. Tenderly I caress the downy hair that grows between my legs. I can’t help myself, I want to discover more.

Slipping two fingers inside, I search for what I know is called my maidenhead. Could it be that fleshy protuberance? It doesn’t take me long to find the button again, and I hook my fingers around it, applying gentle pressure to see what will happen. It swells under my touch like a tiny man’s prick. I didn’t know that women hid such wonder in their folds.

Feeling a rush of intense pleasure, I let out a breath. Again I stroke the button. Again the joy, rippling under my fingers again and again and again. I give a soft sigh, but it’s over too quickly and I feel bereft once more, my legs weak and my soul empty. Shame rolls through me; pleasuring myself is a sin, I’m sure.

A shout, and Zorzo calls from below my window. ‘Cecilia, come, we mustn’t tarry. You’ll be missed before too long.’

I lift my fingers to my nose, and inhale the citrus scent. There’s a washstand in the corner of my room; I pour water from the jug next to it and rinse my hand.

Zorzo has placed a curtained canopy over the centre of his boat, and I sit inside, mask in place, hidden from the world. My hair is loose under my cape; I didn’t have time to dress it. I keep my head down as he hands me ashore, not fully understanding why I’m here.

In his studio, I see it; and then I do know. This is what I want: the skill to work such magic on canvas. He has painted a picture of himself, holding a lute and leaning his red-coated back against an oak tree, the dark green transcribed into blackish blue in the thickening darkness of approaching night. Zorzo has placed me on the other side of the scene, propped up on my right elbow, my face turned towards him. My hair is caught in the beam of the half-moon, which is only just visible between two dark-grey clouds. There’s a white space opposite the oak tree, and I point to it. ‘What will go there?’