Lady of Asolo (23 page)

I touch my gold necklace, cool against my skin. Hope flickers within me. The soldiers might not know I am here; they might not even come upstairs. I take a deep breath and let it out.
Keep calm!
Yet my heart beats with such force and I shake with such violence I’m sure they will discover me at any moment.

Oh,
Gesù bambino!
What’s this acrid smell? This sudden warmth? This roaring sound? I move the blankets to one side and peer through a crack in the wood.
Maria Santissima!

Flames are licking their way across the floor.

Fern sniffed. Something was burning; she was sure of it. Fear seethed through her. She remembered the smoke pouring through tunnels, the panic and the choking and the searing in her lungs.

Acrid fumes stung her eyes. A roaring sound filled her ears. She shook herself, willing her mind to be cleared of what had happened in the past. There was nothing she could do about it. The fire was at the Barco, not here.

Then why couldn’t she breathe? And why were her eyes stinging?
Oh my God!
Flames were leaping across the curtains. The window must have blown open, toppling the candle onto its side and setting the fabric alight. She leapt up from the sofa. She had to wake Aunt Susan and get the hell out of here.

I cross myself as a fiery wall of death dances towards me, blocking any chance of escape. Where can I go? My whole body quakes; there’s no way out.

Letting out a sob, I clutch at my belly.
Lorenza!
She must be so frightened. Lodovico doesn’t love her. He took her out of spite. What if I die here? What will become of her?
Lorenza!

Tendrils of smoke seep through the wooden slats of the chest and curl their way down my throat, making me cough. Tears furrow my cheeks. Dear Lord, how could you let this happen to me? Fire is about to take me from this world, from everyone I love.

Fern’s mind was whirling.
Focus, girl!
She ran up the spiral staircase. The landing had filled with smoke; she could hardly see. She raced to the bathroom and grabbed two hand-towels, wet them, and scurried to her aunt’s room.

Through the gloom, she could make out the shape of Aunt Susan on her bed. She shook her and shouted, ‘Wake up, Auntie! The house is on fire. We have to get out. Quick!’

Aunt Susan gave her a befuddled look, then swung her legs from the bed. Fern handed her the wet towel and said, ‘Hold this over your mouth and nose. It’ll allow you to breathe.’ She held out her hand and her aunt slipped hers into it.

They felt their way down the stairs. The wooden kitchen cabinets were alight now, but the way was clear to the front door and they staggered through it, Gucci Cat in their wake.

On the front step, Aunt Susan turned around. ‘My manuscript. I have to go back for it.’

‘No, Auntie. I’ll get it.’ The fire hadn’t travelled that far. She could race upstairs and back in no time.

She left her aunt standing on the garden path. ‘Run next door and call the firefighters!’

It was simple enough. Aunt’s manuscript was on the desk in her study, just at the top of the stairs. The lower part of her face covered in the wet towel, Fern took the steps two at a time. She pushed open the door and, peering through the smoke-filled room, spotted Aunt’s old typewriter and a box of papers. Fern grabbed the box and, within seconds, was back outside. She handed the manuscript to her aunt and said, ‘I want to save my paintings.’

‘Be careful!’

Fern headed back into the house. Her makeshift studio was in the corner of the kitchen where the flames hadn’t yet taken hold. She grabbed her watercolours and a couple of canvases, then hurried towards the front door. The wet towel was no longer wet, so she dropped it. Her mouth and nose filled with smoke. Fern’s lungs screamed in searing agony as she took in a ragged breath. She was back at King’s Cross, staggering through the smoke-filled tunnel. Only, this time, there wasn’t a train she could get on. This time, the fire had spread and was licking its way along the ceiling timbers. An enormous bang and the joist above her head came down. This time she really was going to die.

A crash resounds.
Maria Santissima!
The shouts outside fade. The blaze spits and crackles, and the searing heat forces my back against the wood. There’s nothing I can do.

Zorzo, where are you? You’re too late. Too late to save me. Too late to save anyone. I shall never see you or Lorenza again. Never feel your warm lips on mine. Never hold our child in my arms. Never have the future I’d dreamed of with the two of you. Who will look after her?
Lorenza!

Smoke fills my nostrils and I breathe it in, willing the fumes to take me before the flames do.
Heavenly Father, let this be quick!

The heat is a shock, burning my nose, my throat and my lungs. I gasp and inhale scorching air, choking and retching as my vision blackens.

My breath is sucked from me. The bitter stench of my singed eyebrows, hair and skin fills my nostrils. The gold at my neck is too hot to bear, and a deafening sound echoes in my ears.

‘
Lorenza
,’ I whisper through cracked lips. How can I speak when I can’t breathe? The pain consumes me. I writhe and then my head is filled with a buzzing, and then a shimmering and then . . .

***

Lightning zigzagged across the sky as Luca arrived at the villa. A police car was parked out front. He pulled up next to it and yanked the door of his Alfa open. Through the sheeting rain, he raced up the front steps and into the sitting room, all the while the voice in his head repeating,
Too late, too late, too late.

Chiara was perched on the grand piano stool, her leg in plaster stretched out in front of her. There was an angry-looking bruise on her left cheek. A portly, balding police inspector with a pencil-thin moustache sat on one side, Ma on the other, and Antonio stood next to them.

‘I went to check on my horse,’ Chiara stuttered. ‘Then I heard a rustling of the straw in the empty stall next to his.’ She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘Federico was there, demanding to know why I hadn’t returned his phone-call. I told him to fuck off.

‘He said the girl was just a fling and that he really wanted to be with me. I laughed in his face. That’s when Federico grabbed me and knocked me to the ground. He started swearing at me and calling me a spoilt bitch. Then he punched the side of my face. At that moment I realised how much I hated him. He tried to pull off my shorts. I think he wanted to rape me. I managed to bite his hand. He was rolling around in agony, making such a fuss, what a
mammone!
I grabbed my crutches and got the hell out of there, slamming the door to the stable shut and locking him in.’

‘That was so brave of you, Chiara,’ Luca said, rushing up to her and embracing her. ‘Thank God you’re all right.’

‘Yes, thank God,’ Ma repeated.

Antonio huffed. ‘Commissario, I hope you will arrest that
stronzo
for assault.’

‘
Si, signore.
’

A sudden clap of thunder.

Luca spun around, the voice back in his head,
Too late, too late, too late.
‘Oh my God, Fern!’

***

He could see black smoke rising from the end of the road leading out of Susan’s village.
Bloody hell!
He put his foot down on the accelerator, his head filled with the recurring nightmare, the dream that had stalked his sleep ever since he’d met Fern.
Too late! Too late! Too late!
This was what it had all been about. His pulse rate thudded.

Luca pulled up behind the fire engine, its lights strobing through the mist that had come down in the wake of the storm. An ambulance was parked in front of it. Firefighters were standing, hoses in their hands, spraying the blackened house.
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

Luca jumped out of his car and rushed forwards. A police officer barred his way. ‘
Troppo pericoloso
.’ Too dangerous, of course, but where the hell were Fern and her aunt?

The man pointed towards the ambulance and Luca’s heart sank.

Fern opened her eyes. Sunlight slanted through a gap in the curtains. She lifted her hands. Bandages. Luca was sitting on a chair next to her bed, lines of worry on his face. ‘Wh . . . wh . . . what happened?’

‘You’re in Castelfranco Hospital, sweetheart. Your aunt’s house caught fire. Thank God you’re all right.’ He got up from the chair and perched himself on the bed. ‘The paramedics had to resuscitate you and give you oxygen.’ Luca stroked her cheek. ‘They’re keeping you under observation to make sure there are no after effects from smoke inhalation. The second degree burns to your hands should heal completely in a couple of weeks.’

‘And Aunt Susan?’ she asked, coughing. Her lungs felt as if they’d been branded with a hot iron.

‘She’s fine. Checked into the Hotel Duse in Asolo. Oh, and she’s got your paintings with her. Whatever were you thinking of going back into that inferno?’ He frowned. ‘I thought you were afraid of fire.’

‘I am, but I couldn’t bear it if my paintings had been destroyed. They’re like my children.’ She paused and marshalled her thoughts. ‘I know what happened to Lorenza.’

‘She died in the fire?’

‘No. Lodovico took her.’ Slowly, between sobs, Fern told him what happened to Cecilia.

‘I thought I was too late,’ Luca said. ‘But it wasn’t me, it was Zorzo.’ He pulled a tissue from the box on Fern’s bedside table and dabbed at her eyes. ‘I must have been dreaming I was him. The remorse he felt for not getting to the Barco in time must have come down to me through the centuries.’

‘We can’t change the past, can we?’ Fern took a deep breath. The pain in her lungs was easing. ‘The course of our lives can change on the tiniest decision. Cecilia resisted Lodovico. If she’d left with him, she would have saved herself. Zorzo went to fetch the army from Treviso. If he’d stayed with Cecilia, things would almost certainly have turned out differently.’

‘And if you hadn’t gone into the house to rescue your paintings, you probably wouldn’t be in hospital tonight. I nearly lost you, Fern.’ He kissed her forehead. ‘History could have repeated itself in the same way that Zorzo lost Cecilia.’

‘I don’t suppose we’ll ever find out what happened to Lorenza. Poor little girl, being brought up by an uncaring father. He only took her out of spite.’

‘At least she didn’t have to suffer the malice of the soldiers. Cecilia probably wouldn’t have been able to save herself and her child. So in a way he rescued her.’

‘I suppose. Such a tragedy! Shame the Queen couldn’t have bent her rules and allowed Cecilia to take Lorenza to Venice.’

‘I doubt it even entered her head there was any danger. The Republic thought itself infallible, and it became so again. I’ve been reading the book Ma found. Apparently, Pope Julius soon realised that the eventual destruction of Venice would be too dangerous.’

‘Oh?’

‘He needed Venetian support to face up to the Kingdom of France and the Ottoman Empire.’

‘The Pope’s alliance with Louis ended?’

‘Yep. And Pope Julius also fell out with Lodovico’s duke.’

‘Don’t tell me he excommunicated him!’

‘Got it in one. That didn’t stop the Duke of Ferrara from fighting back. Then Maximilian switched sides and allied himself with the Pope. He wouldn’t give up the territory he’d taken from Venice, though. So the Republic jumped horses and joined up with the French to combat Julius and Maximilian. Venice and France ended up dividing the whole of Northern Italy between them.’

‘And the Republic endured.’

‘You could say that. But the events of 1509 marked the end of Venetian expansion.’

Fern lay back on the pillows and closed her eyes. ‘How long are they keeping me in hospital?’

‘Until tomorrow, all being well. A precaution. They advise against returning to London for at least a fortnight.’

‘Right. More sick leave. The bank will really be fed up with me.’

‘Concentrate on getting better. Your room at the villa is waiting for you. Ma and Chiara send their love and will pop in to visit this evening.’

‘You didn’t tell me about the intruder.’

‘It was Federico. He tried to force himself on Chiara, but she managed to get away from him, thank God.’ Luca went on to recount the events of last night.

‘Federico behaved just like Lodovico,’ Fern said, shocked. ‘I didn’t mention to you how much he reminded me of Cecilia’s husband in case you thought it too far-fetched. But everything that has happened, has been an echo of what happened in the past, and has changed our lives forever.’ She paused. ‘Oh my God! I’ve just thought of something. Lodovico locked Cecilia in her room, but Chiara did the opposite and locked Federico in the stable.’ To Fern’s consternation, she found herself bursting into tears again. ‘I’m sorry. Not normally such a crybaby.’

‘Traumatic stress, my darling,’ Luca said, pulling another tissue from the box. He wiped her eyes, held her close again, and kissed her tenderly on the lips.

The door to Fern’s room swung open and Aunt Susan arrived, a bouquet of pink roses in one hand, and a box of
Baci Perugina
in the other.

‘I’m sorry for setting fire to your house, Auntie.’

‘You did nothing of the sort. It was a freak accident. And it’s you I have to thank for saving my life, and Gucci’s. Not to mention my manuscript.’

‘Where
is
Gucci?’

‘At the local cattery. I’ll rent somewhere as soon as I can and he can move back in with me. It will take a while to sort out the insurance and rebuild.’

Aunt Susan perched on the opposite side of the bed to Luca, opened the box of chocolates, and offered them. Luca took one, but Fern declined. Luca handed her the small piece of paper that had been wrapped around his chocolate. She read to herself,
in dreams, as in love, all is possible.

***

Fern’s hands were still a vibrant shade of pink, but they were healing, and her lungs were back to normal. Her greatest worry had been that she wouldn’t be able to draw and paint as a result of the accident. She sat in the sitting room at the villa and sighed to herself; she was dreading going back to London next week. She’d used up all her holiday entitlement, but she and Luca had agreed he would visit her regularly by adding a day’s leave to one weekend a month. It would have to do. For now.

Fern looked up as Chiara hobbled into the room. Luca’s sister had been helping to sort through the old boxes in the cellar; she was constantly bringing Fern rolled-up maps and documents to scrutinise before documenting them. This time she held a small oval painting in her hand. She showed it to Fern. ‘I think it’s of one of our ancestors.’

Fern slipped on the cotton gloves she wore to protect her hands, and reached for the cloth she’d been using to wipe the dust from the parchments. She could see a signature in the bottom right-hand corner of the picture, covered in mildew. Wiping gently, she revealed the letter L. Then an O, followed by an R.
Lorenza.
Oh my God! Could it be?
Her heart pounding, she carefully uncovered the rest of the signature.
Lorenza Gaspare.

Gaspare had been Lodovico’s surname. How had the girl managed to become an artist? And who was the Goredan ancestor in the portrait? ‘This is fascinating,’ she said to Chiara. ‘Is your mother around? We must show it to her.’

‘I’ll go and get her.’

Fern held the portrait up to the light, marvelling at the fine brushwork. Within minutes Chiara returned with Vanessa, and Fern said, ‘Look at this!’

Vanessa let out a gasp. ‘Incredible! Who’d have thought? I’ve no idea who the chap in the portrait is. Where did you find it, Chiara?’

‘At the bottom of the last trunk. It was under another stack of those boring letters. I’ll go and get them.’

Fern smiled as she watched mother and daughter search through the correspondence. They’d become much closer. Chiara, no longer under Federico’s sway, had even agreed to go back to university. As for her ex-boyfriend, he was in jail awaiting trial. Fern hoped he would get an appropriate sentence.

‘These letters don’t tell us much,’ Vanessa said. ‘They’re mostly about buying and selling spices. Like many Venetians, our family was in the spice trade in the 15th and 16th centuries.’

Disappointment bowled though Fern. She told herself not to be silly. Just because a painting signed by Lorenza had miraculously appeared, didn’t mean the mystery of her life would be solved all at once. Fern would have to content herself with holding the miniature in her hand; she would use her imagination to fill in the gaps. Lodovico had gone some way towards redeeming himself by allowing Lorenza to pursue her artistic talents. Fern had been haunted by the fear he had repressed the girl like he’d tried to repress her mother. Lorenza had probably twisted him around her little finger, she was that sort of child . . .

‘The connection between me and Giorgione,’ Luca said when he’d got back from the office and had seen the portrait. ‘That’s why I dreamed about him.’ After dinner, he put his arm around Fern and led her onto the terrace. They sat sipping Prosecco in the warmth of the late June night. Fireflies flitted across the garden, their lights like tiny lanterns, and the air was redolent with the scent of honeysuckle.

Fern’s eyes met Luca’s and she knew, she suddenly knew, what she would say next. ‘When I get back to London, I’ll hand in my notice at the bank and put the flat on the market.’

Luca kissed her. A long, lingering kiss. ‘I love you, Fern.’

‘And I love you too. With all my heart,
amore mio
.’