Lady of Asolo (5 page)

‘Of course.’ She turned away from her aunt, pain coursing through her. Trifle had been Harry’s favourite.
Oh, Harry!

Luca stirred his coffee, replete with the fine fare served up by Susan and Fern. The dinner had been a surprise; from his experience the English tended to overcook their beef. Not that Susan was English; she’d announced proudly that she was Welsh. He’d never been to Wales, and had no experience of the food there.

Even though he had a British passport as well as an Italian one, his preferences were definitely geared towards the local cuisine. But, to give credit where it was due, Susan’s Yorkshire puddings had been as light as air, and Fern’s sherry and raspberry trifle had enticed him into having two servings. He rubbed his stomach. ‘Thank you for a delicious meal.’

‘You’re most welcome,’ Susan said. ‘It’s nice for Fern to meet someone closer to her own age than me, although perhaps you’re a little older than she is.’

A cough came from the other side of the table. ‘I’ll be thirty next birthday,’ Fern said. ‘Not that much younger than you, Luca, I’d guess.’

He grinned. ‘Three years. I suppose we’re both part of the baby-boom generation.’

Susan levered herself out of her chair. ‘Well, I’m feeling a bit tired. I’ll leave you two baby boomers to load up the dishwasher. Just make sure you lock the door and shut the lights before you come up to bed, Fern.’

Luca watched Susan shuffle over to the wrought-iron stairs. The proverbial eccentric British woman. He liked her for the fact that she didn’t seem to care what others thought about her. The way she dressed, for instance, and her unkempt hair. Not the sort of person he’d imagined would be a highly successful romance writer. Maybe she lived vicariously through her characters?

He got to his feet and reached for Fern’s coffee cup. ‘Lead me to the kitchen sink,’ he said, letting out a laugh. ‘But don’t try and give me an apron.’

It felt companionable, standing next to her as they stacked the dishwasher. Throughout the dinner, he’d tried to draw her out. She’d listened to him talk about his work, yet hadn’t said much about herself. How to find out if she had a boyfriend? Could he come right out and ask?
Don’t be a fool, Luca! She’s only here for a few weeks.
Fern didn’t strike him as being the sort of girl who’d be up for a holiday fling, or any sort of fling for that matter. Best to keep it casual. ‘My mother asked me to remember her to you,’ he said.

‘She was very kind to me in Asolo when I had another of my “funny turns”.’ Fern paused. ‘I think it was more than that, actually.’

‘Oh?’

‘Can you smell anything unusual?’

He sniffed. ‘No.’

‘Well, I can. Not all the time.’ She picked up a cup from the sink and twisted it in her hands. ‘Occasionally, the odour of burnt wood in this house is really strong.’

He thought for a moment.
What to say?
‘I’ve heard that sometimes people smell things that remind them of a particular experience.’

‘That could be it.’ Fern frowned down into the cup. ‘I was at Kings Cross Station when they had that big fire.’

‘God! How awful! Were you hurt?’

‘No, I was on the escalator, saw the fire, and ran back down again.’ She twisted the cup. ‘I suffered a bit physically from smoke inhalation. And a whole lot more mentally from the trauma.’

Her hand was shaking and he took the cup from her. ‘I’m so, so sorry. What a terrible experience.’

‘And now I think I’m losing my mind,’ she said. ‘I’ve been having the strangest visions since coming to Italy. It’s like I’m being possessed by some sort of restless spirit.’

He fought to stop himself from gaping. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You’ll think I’m crazy.’

‘I won’t think anything of the sort,’ he half-lied.

‘Remember you told me about Caterina Cornaro?’

He nodded.
Where’s this going?

‘I keep thinking I’m living life as one of her ladies in waiting.’ Her voice caught. ‘I’m afraid I must be having some sort of breakdown.’

Bloody hell!
He was an architect; he believed in hard evidence not fantasy. For the second time in a few minutes, he was lost for words. He chewed on his lip. ‘I tell you what. Come for dinner tomorrow night and we’ll talk about this with my mother. She’s a bit fey, for want of a better word, and won’t be at all shocked by what you’ve told me.’

‘Whereas you are?’

‘Not exactly shocked. Surprised, more like. It’s not the sort of thing I’ve come across much. Indeed ever, to be honest.’ He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. Her eyes had taken on a “rabbit caught in the headlights” expression. He touched her hand. She jumped back as if she’d been stung.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have said anything. You must think I’m completely bonkers.’

‘Of course I don’t. Trauma does strange things to people. For example, someone who survived a fire may smell smoke when they feel anxious.’

‘You’re probably right. But it’s more the visions than the odour of burnt wood that I find disconcerting. They seem so real.’

‘Please tell me about them,’ he said. Maybe by talking, she’d lose that “scared rabbit” look.

They returned to the kitchen table and he listened while she told him about what she’d experienced in Asolo and at the Barco, trying all the while to stop himself from staring open-mouthed. It didn’t sound like anything she could have read about or seen in a film. There hadn’t been any movies made about Caterina Cornaro, as far as he was aware, and the books wouldn’t have described such detail. He needed to go to the library and find out more about this kind of psychosis. If that’s what it was. Had to be. The alternative was unthinkable.

‘So, you see,’ she said. ‘I’m a bit fragile at the moment. But I’d love to come to dinner. I’m sure Aunt Susan will be happy for me to take the car, and she’ll be glad of an evening on her own to devote to her reading or writing.’

‘I’ll pick you up.’
God forbid she should have one of those visions while driving.
‘Would seven o’clock suit you?’

‘Thanks, and apologies again for laying all this on you. Talking about it has helped, actually. And it will be good to get away from here tomorrow. Your mother might be able to offer some suggestions about how to block Cecilia from my mind.’

‘I’ll prep Ma beforehand.’ He rose from the chair and held out his hand. ‘Good night, Fern, and thank you for an interesting evening.’

The villa stood in solitary splendour in a sea of green fields. Aunt Susan had said it had been designed by the 16th century architect, Andrea Palladio. Fern did a double take at the sight of such beauty. And wealth. Remembering Vanessa Goredan’s understated elegance, she’d made an effort to wear something smart: one of her work outfits, a pair of white linen trousers and a navy blue cotton blouse. She’d battled with her hair after washing it, and had tamed it by getting Aunt Susan to help her with a loose plait. Hopefully, she wouldn’t stand out like a sore thumb.

All the way to the villa, she debated with herself whether to tell Luca not to say anything to his mother. Then she remembered he was going to prepare the contessa beforehand. How embarrassing to have blurted everything out to him last night. Whatever had she been thinking of? She hardly knew him, yet she’d shared something that would categorise her as a loony by anyone’s standards.

Gravel crunched under the tyres of Luca’s red Alfa Romeo convertible as he parked up. Two chocolate brown Labradors bounded towards him, wagging their tails. He introduced them as Jason and Sam. After stroking their silky ears, Fern walked with him up a wide ramp with a gentle slope. A flight of steps led up to the loggia in the centre of the villa, which took the form of a portico crowned by a gable that made her think of a temple front. It was awe-inspiring.
No other word for it.

‘See those,’ Luca said, pointing out the two colonnaded wings at each side of the main building. ‘They originally housed the grain stores, which needed to be under cover.’

‘What sort of grain?’

‘My family introduced the cultivation of corn here. Now it’s grown all over the Veneto and has become a staple in the form of polenta.’

‘Do you still grow it?’

‘Yes. And we also have vineyards and our own wine label. My brother, Antonio, has taken over running the estate since our father died. We no longer store the corn here, by the way, but have built barns over there.’ He pointed to the left. ‘The offices and family accommodation are now in the wings. The original living area is open to the public three days a week, and far too grand for us. I’ll give you a quick tour of the
piano nobile
then we’ll go out to the garden.’

He led her into a large, square room, richly decorated with frescos. ‘You can see why we don’t live here. It would be like living in a museum.’

‘So beautiful,’ Fern said, her feet sliding on the smooth marble floor. The walls were adorned with frescoes of gods and goddesses indulging in rural frolics. It was unlike any house she’d been in before, and discomfort spread through her.

Outside the window, a private garden opened up with manicured lawns and flower-beds. An umbrella shaded a table on the patio in the corner. Trailing geraniums tumbled from urns, and red roses crowded a bed hugging the honeysuckle-smothered wall. About ten times bigger than Aunt Susan’s garden, and, indeed, Mum and Dad’s country garden near Chepstow. It was more the sort of place Cecilia was used to, living a life of luxury in Caterina Cornaro’s Barco, than what she, Fern, had experienced up to now. The lump of discomfort had lodged in her throat. She swallowed, hard.

‘My mother’s waiting for us.’ Luca took her hand. At his touch, the tension within her relaxed. A friendly gesture, not a come-on, and reassuring for its naturalness. He really was a lovely man.

‘Wonderful to see you again,’ Vanessa Goredan said, glancing up from her seat. The Labradors had flopped down at her feet, and now rolled over for Fern to tickle their tummies. ‘Do sit down. Luca will fetch us a bottle of Prosecco and we can toast your first visit to the villa.’

Fern pulled out a chair and sat on the soft cushion. The air was filled with the jasmine scent of honeysuckle.
No odour of burnt wood here.
‘Thank you for having me, Contessa Goredan.’

‘Please, call me Vanessa. Now, tell me. Luca mentioned that you’ve been having strange visions. I thought something was going on when I saw you swaying in the church the other day.’

‘Didn’t want you to think I’m nuts. If someone had told me a couple of days ago they’d experienced what I’ve been experiencing, I would have thought they were bonkers.’

‘I can assure you I won’t. Remember our lute-player?’

‘All right then. Here goes.’ She told Vanessa everything – from the ghostly whispers in Aunt Susan’s kitchen to her strange experiences in Asolo and at the Barco; it didn’t sound as peculiar as it had done when she’d told Luca last night. ‘What do you think?’ she asked when she’d finished.

Vanessa eyed her with a thoughtful expression. ‘Well, in my opinion you’re lucky.’

‘Lucky?’

‘I mean to have been given the chance to re-experience the past so vividly.’

‘I don’t feel lucky. I feel . . . I feel as if I’ve become some sort of conduit.’

‘Possibly,’ Vanessa said calmly. ‘Cecilia seems to be using you to tell her story.’

‘But why? And why me?’

‘Is there something you might have in common with the girl?’

‘Dad was stationed in Cyprus when he was in the army, and I spent the first five years of my life there. Cecilia asked her sister if she missed the island and remembered living there until she was five too. I can hear her thoughts in Greek, although it’s an older form of the language than the one I spoke when I was a child. Oh, and I think she’s a bit of an artist. She likes to draw.’

‘That could well be why she’s selected you. What about this odour of burnt wood? Luca said you were at King’s Cross when they had that awful fire. Perhaps the fire is another thing you share?’

Fern clasped her hands to hide their trembling. ‘Cecilia might have been in a fire, you think?’

‘She could well have been. Most of the Barco was destroyed by fire in 1509. Perhaps she was caught up in it.’

A dagger of fear. ‘I don’t want to relive a fire.’ Fern’s heart pounded. ‘There must be some way I can block Cecilia from my mind.’

‘If she’s a restless spirit, it might be a good idea to call on the local priest and ask him to bless your aunt’s house. Perhaps if you wear a cross around your neck, it will afford you some protection.’

‘Do you think Cecilia wants to harm me?’

‘Quite honestly, I don’t know what to think, my dear.’ Vanessa’s eyes followed a bumblebee dipping and darting over the flower bed. ‘Have you talked to your aunt about what’s been happening to you?’

‘Not yet. I’m planning to tell her. Just haven’t got round to it yet.’ No point in explaining her reluctance. Aunt Susan couldn’t hear or smell what she’d heard and smelt in the house; she probably wouldn’t believe her. ‘How’s your family tree research coming along?’ she asked. She didn’t want to talk about Cecilia anymore; she felt too frightened.

‘Oh, it’s terribly complicated. I’ve managed to go back to the 1800s, which is as far as the records here at the villa go. I’ll need to visit Venice and search there next.’

‘A bit like looking for a needle in a haystack.’

‘Rather,’ Vanessa said, standing. ‘Luca must have gone to the stables to see his sister. She’s always messing about down there. I’ll be back in a minute with the Prosecco.’

A horse whinnied in the distance and Fern closed her eyes. The sun had moved round so that she was no longer shaded by the umbrella. She rubbed her arms. Why were they suddenly cold? The crow in the tree to her left gave a mournful caw. Then the chair beneath her started moving, her legs astride in voluminous skirts instead of stretched out in front of her. Bloody hell, she was riding; she’d ridden a lot when she was a teenager, but this was incredible.

Pegaso is fighting the bit; he wants to gallop, except we’re at the back of the hunt. My lady and her knights are giving chase to a deer and we’ve left the confines of the Barco. Turf flies up around us. The hounds are baying and the horns sound as we cross a wide field; we’ve come far. Pegaso prances from side to side and I give up trying to hold him back.

A surge and we’re going like the wind.
Patatatum, patatatum, patatatum.
Soon we are neck and neck with Signor Lodovico. I’ve heard he’s a cavalryman for the Duke of Ferrara; he certainly rides like one. Signor Lodovico glances at me and beams, revealing his uneven white teeth. Something in me recoils and longs for another man’s smile, the turning up of a mouth at the corners.

The chase is long, yet I do not tire. Finally, up ahead, the deer doubles back on its own tracks and runs through a stream as it tries to hide its scent. We come upon it and the dogs surround it. ’Tis a magnificent hart, with beautiful antlers; the animal heaves in exhaustion. I wish that it could be saved, yet I know ’tis impossible.

Signor Lodovico dismounts and approaches the beast, raising his sword. I can’t look. The horns blow the
morte
in celebration. My lady directs one of the huntsmen to cut the deer apart and divide the meat. The crows in the trees by the stream start cawing for the carrion.

I’m surprised to find that I am crying. Why is this? I’ve never cried before at the death of a hart. Hunting is a part of my life at the court. I love galloping across a field, Pegaso and I together.

The scene around me takes on a strange aspect. ’Tis as if I’m gazing at a painting and not part of this reality anymore. I have felt this before and don’t like it. I blink as if it might dispel my unease, except it makes things worse and now my vision is blurred as sorrow for the deer fills my eyes.

Fern wiped her tears and stared at the field beyond the garden. There was a stream shaded by willows. Could it be the same stream where that magnificent animal had been hacked apart? She could still smell the blood. Footsteps echoed on the flagstones. Luca arrived, carrying a tray with a bottle and three glasses.

‘Has it happened again?’ he asked, concern in his voice. ‘You’ve gone as white as a sheet.’

She hugged her arms. ‘I’m not mad, you know, although some of what I’m experiencing could be attributed to trauma, I suppose. There’s usually a smell, or a sound that triggers it. Your mother thinks Cecilia might have been in the fire that destroyed the Barco. But I’m not re-experiencing that, thank God. I’m re-living Cecilia’s life. I really don’t think I’m making her up – she’s too real.’

‘And you’re scared by her?’

‘Well, wouldn’t you be?’

He held up his hands. ‘Absolutely.’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you. I do find her fascinating,’ she said more calmly. ‘I’m torn between wanting to know what happens to her and not liking the way she takes over my mind.’

‘So it’s not the girl who scares you. It’s the fact that you can’t control when you’re having these flash-backs.’

‘Sounds as if you believe me.’

‘Fern, I never doubted
you
for one minute.’ He reached for the wine. ‘However, whether Cecilia is a figment of your imagination or not is something I still need to get my head around.’

‘Oh.’ Fern felt her eyes drawn to the area across the field where she was sure she’d seen the deer killed.
Where Cecilia had seen the deer killed
. She had to find a way of separating herself from the other woman. So difficult, though, when her thoughts had meshed with Cecilia’s. ‘Maybe I should leave Italy.’

Luca gave her a searching look, then pulled the cork from the bottle. ‘Wouldn’t that be running away?’ He filled the three glasses.

‘You’re right, of course. Besides, I love it here and I’m not due back at work until the end of the month. It’s just that I can’t keep on like this, you know. It’s dangerous. I mean, I could be driving along a road then suddenly find myself back in the past.’

‘Funnily enough, I had the same thought myself. You need to find a way to control these visions. As far as I can gather, they seem to happen when you’re alone.’

‘That’s true. So far. Are you suggesting I should never be by myself? That would be hard, particularly as I enjoy my own company and, in fact, thrive on it usually. Especially when I’m painting.’ She lifted her glass and took a sip of Prosecco, savouring the sparkling fruitiness.

Vanessa came down the steps to the garden with a tall dark-haired girl, dressed in jodhpurs and a white shirt. Luca stood and pulled out two chairs. ‘This is my sister, Chiara. She’s been looking forward to meeting you.’

‘Hello.’ Chiara took a seat, and turned to her brother. ‘You’re right. Fern
is
like the girl in
The Tempest
.’

‘
The Tempest
? What’s that?’ Fern asked.

‘I was going to tell you, but smarty pants here jumped in before me,’ Luca said. ‘It’s a painting by Giorgione. I’ll take you to see it in the Accademia Gallery in Venice, if you like. The resemblance is uncanny.’

‘Don’t we have a picture in one of our art books?’ Vanessa interjected.

‘We do. I’ll go and fetch it.’

Fern watched Luca stride across the patio then said to Chiara, ‘I used to ride when I was younger.’

‘Oh, then you must come out with me sometime.’

Fern laughed. ‘Not sure I’m still up to it.’