Книга - The Italian’s Cinderella Bride

The Italian's Cinderella Bride
Lucy Gordon


Italian count… English waif In a flash of lightning, Count Pietro Bagnelli sees a young woman standing outside his palazzo, a battered suitcase at her feet. This solitary count has turned his back on the world, but he can't turn his back on this bedraggled waif….Ruth has returned to Venice to uncover lost memories, yet finds comfort with this proudly damaged count. As Carnivale sweeps through the city, drama and passion ignite and secrets unravel….









There came a sound that sent a pleasurable shiver down Ruth’s spine—a long wail, coming out of the darkness, echoing from wall to wall before dying away into the distance


“Do you know what that is?” Pietro asked.

“Yes, it’s a gondolier, signaling that he’s coming around a blind corner,” she said. “There he is.”

As they watched, a long shape drifted into sight, turning toward them—the gondolier plying his oar at the rear, and in front of him a young man and woman in each other’s arms.

I must tell her now, Pietro thought.

From down below the lovers looked up, then smiled and waved, as though wanting to share their happiness with the world, before vanishing under the bridge.

I will tell her, but how will she take it?


Just like having a heart to heart with your best friend, these stories

will take you from laughter to tears and back again!

Curl up and have a






with

Harlequin Romance




So heartwarming and emotional

you’ll want to have some tissues handy!

In August don’t miss

FALLING FOR MR. DARK & DANGEROUS

by Donna Alward

When hardened U.S. Marshal Nate arrives on her doorstep, bed-and-breakfast owner Maggie knows it’s her heart that will need protecting!




The Italian’s Cinderella Bride

Lucy Gordon












TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND


Lucy Gordon cut her writing teeth on magazine journalism, interviewing many of the world’s most interesting men, including Warren Beatty, Richard Chamberlain, Roger Moore, Sir Alec Guinness and Sir John Gielgud. She has also camped out with lions in Africa, and had many other unusual experiences which have often provided the background for her books. She is married to a Venetian, whom she met while on holiday in Venice. They got engaged within two days.

Two of her books have won the Romance Writers of America RITA


Award, Song of the Lorelei in 1990, and His Brother’s Child in 1998, for the Best Traditional Romance category.

You can visit her Web site at www.lucy-gordon.com.

Look out for Lucy Gordon’s next

Harlequin Romance


in December

THE ITALIAN’S MIRACLE FAMILY


Dear Reader,

I love the chance to write about Venice. It is like no other place in the world with its freedom from cars, its mysterious silences, its sudden dangers and above all its unique atmosphere of romance.

I know about that atmosphere, having myself fallen under its spell. Some years ago I took a holiday there, met a Venetian, became engaged to him in two days and am now Venetian by marriage. So the Grand Canal and the Rialto Bridge have a special meaning for me, but it is the little places that mean even more—the tiny bridges, the narrow canals with washing strung across them, the backstreets where a couple can lose themselves, hopefully forever.

This is what I have tried to celebrate in my story of Pietro and Ruth, two lost souls who found each other with the help of a magical city.

Warm wishes,

Lucy Gordon




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE




CHAPTER ONE


WHEN lightning filled the room, Pietro went to the window and looked out into the night.

He enjoyed a storm, especially when it swept over his beloved Venice, flashing down the Grand Canal, making the historic buildings tremble. To those who sighed over the beauties of Venice he would say that ‘his’ city was not the gentle, romantic site of legend, but rather a place of savage cruelty, treachery and murder.

Thunder crashed, engulfing him and the whole Palazzo Bagnelli, then dying, so that the only sound was the pounding of the rain on the water.

In the dim light he could just make out the Rialto Bridge looming up to his right, its shuttered windows glaring like blind eyes.

From beside him came a soft whine, and he reached out to scratch the head of a large, mongrel dog.

‘It’s all right, Toni,’ he said. ‘It’s only noise.’

But he kept his hand on the rough fur, knowing that his friend had an affliction that made him nervous, and Toni moved closer.

Now it was dark again and he could see his own reflection in the glass. It was like looking at a ghost, which was apt, considering how ghostly his life was.

Even the building around him seemed insubstantial, despite its three floors of heavy stone. The Palazzo Bagnelli, home of the Counts Bagnelli for six centuries, was one of the finest buildings of its kind in Venice.

For many years its great rooms had been filled with notable personages; servants by the hundred had scurried along its passages. Lords and ladies in gorgeous clothes had paraded in its stately rooms.

Now they were all gone, leaving behind one man, Count Pietro Bagnelli, with neither wife nor child, nor any other close family. Only two servants were left, and he was content with that.

These days he invited nobody to his home, living a solitary life in a few rooms in a corner of the building, with only Toni for company. Even to himself it had a sense of unreality, especially in winter. It was only nine o’clock but darkness had fallen and the storm had driven everyone inside.

He moved away from the window towards another one at the corner, through which he could see both the Grand Canal and the narrow alley that ran alongside the palazzo.

The spectre in the glass moved with him, showing a tall man with a lean, face, mobile mouth and deep set eyes. It was a wry, defensive face, the eyes seeming to look out from a trapped place. He was thirty-four but his air of cautious withdrawal made him seem older.

Beside him Toni suddenly became agitated. He was big enough for his head to reach the window, and he’d seen something outside that made him scrabble to get closer and demand his master’s attention.

‘There’s nothing out there,’ Pietro told him. ‘You’re imagining things. Dio mio!’

The exclamation had been torn from him by a flash of lightning, even more blinding than the last, that had turned everything white. By its light he thought he’d seen a figure standing below in the alley.

‘Now I’m imagining things as well,’ he muttered. ‘I must stop this.’

But he stayed there, trying to see through the darkness, and at last the lightning came again, flashing on and off, showing him the figure of a young woman, drenched, her hair plastered to her head, water streaming off her. Then the night swallowed her up again.

Frowning, he opened the window and looked out into the alley, half convinced that she was an illusion. But suddenly the moon came out from behind the clouds and he saw her again.

She was perfectly still, gazing up at the window, apparently oblivious to her surroundings.

He leaned out, calling, ‘Ciao!’

She neither moved nor spoke.

‘Ciao!’ he called again. Still in Italian he yelled, ‘Wait, I’m coming down.’

He hated being disturbed but he couldn’t leave her to freeze. In a moment he was heading down the stairs to the side entrance, wrenching open the heavy door.

Pietro had expected her to hurry inside, but she was still standing where he’d left her, so he hauled her forcibly inside, not troubling to be gentle. He would rescue her but he was damned if he was going to get soaked for her.

Holding her suitcase in one hand and her arm in the other, he hurried her up the stairs to his rooms, where she collapsed on the sofa, her eyes closing as she lost consciousness.

‘Mio dio!’ he muttered again, seeing the dilemma he was in.

He must get her into dry clothes fast, but the thought of undressing her while she was unconscious appalled him. Yet he couldn’t let her get pneumonia. His housekeeper was away for the night. What he had to do must be done alone.

Hurrying into the bathroom, he seized a clean robe and a large towel. Her coat was light and soaked right through. Taking it off was easy, but then he knew he must remove her dress. He worked fast, praying that she might not awake until he was finished. To his relief she stayed dead to the world.

When she was decently swathed in the towel robe he rubbed her hair until it was no more than damp, then got some blankets, laid her on the sofa and placed them over her.

What the devil had happened to her? How had she ended up alone at night, in a thunderstorm, naked in the hands of a stranger? He’d tried not to notice details of her body, but he’d sensed that she was too thin, like someone who’d lost a lot of weight quickly.

‘Wake up,’ he pleaded.

When she didn’t move he became desperate. Taking a glass and a decanter from the cupboard, he poured a measure of brandy, hauled her up and forced it to her lips. Some was spilt, but enough went down to make her sneeze and open her eyes.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Now finish drinking this.’

He gave her no choice, holding the glass to her lips until she’d drained it.

‘Who are you?’ Pietro asked in Italian. ‘How do you come to be here?’

‘Excuse me,’ she whispered in English.

He too switched to English to say, ‘Never mind. You need food and rest.’

But there was more here than simply malnutrition and weariness. She looked like someone on the edge of sanity, and he was sure of it when she began to murmur words that made no sense.

‘I shouldn’t have come—I knew it was a mistake, but there was nothing else to do—he’s the only one who can tell me—but maybe it doesn’t matter—only I have to know. I can’t bear it any longer, not knowing.’

‘Signorina—’

‘Do you know what that’s like? To wonder and wonder when there’s nobody who can help you—and you think you may spend all your life in the shadows?’

Without his realising, his hands tensed on her shoulders.

‘Yes,’ he breathed. ‘I know what that’s like.’

‘It doesn’t end, does it?’

‘No,’ he said gravely, ‘it doesn’t end.’

Pietro closed his eyes, feeling the waves of suffering engulf him again. He’d thought he’d learned to cope, but she brought it back because she was abandoned in the same desert. He could sense her there, her gaze fixed on him, one lost soul reaching out to another.

‘What can you do about it?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’ve never known.’

The look she turned on him was terrible, containing a despairing acceptance of something too sad for words.

‘How did you get here?’ he urged.

She looked around. ‘Here?’

‘You’re in Venice. I found you standing in the street outside, just looking up.’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘Never mind, tell me later.’

He returned from the kitchen after a few minutes to find her looking down at her strange attire with dismay.

‘I had to take your clothes off,’ he said quickly. ‘You were sodden. But I swear I didn’t—well—you know—’

To his total astonishment, she smiled.

‘I know,’ she said.

‘You do believe me?’

‘Yes, I believe you. Thank you.’

‘Come and sit down at the table.’

As she came out of the shadows into the light he had a feeling that there was something familiar about her, but he couldn’t place it. He must be mistaken. He wouldn’t have forgotten this girl.

He ushered her to a chair, drawing it out for her and saying, ‘When did you last eat?’

‘I’m not sure. I missed breakfast because I was late, and had to dash. I was too nervous to eat at the airport, or on the plane. The storm was just getting really bad as we landed. I got so scared that I sat in the airport for an hour.’

‘Don’t you have a hotel? I know it can be hard to find one at this time of year. A lot of them close.’

‘Oh, no, I came straight here.’

‘To the Palazzo Bagnelli? Why?’

‘I thought Gino might be here.’

‘Gino Falzi?’

She brightened. ‘You do know him?’

‘Yes, I know him well, but—’

‘Does he still live here? Is he here now?’

‘No,’ he said slowly.

Pietro was getting warning signals that filled him with apprehension.

Gino’s mother had once been the Bagnelli family’s cook, living on the premises with her son. The lads had grown up good friends despite the six years between them. Gino was light-hearted, delightful company, and Pietro, the elder and more serious-minded, had found in him a much-needed release.

‘You should laugh more,’ Gino often chided him. ‘Come on, have some fun.’

And Pietro had laughed, following his scape-grace friend into his latest mad adventure, from which he usually had to extract him. Gino had a butterfly mind, which made it hard for him to settle to steady employment, although he had finally found a niche in the tourist firm that Pietro owned, where his charm made him a knockout with the customers.

It also made him a risk-taker, walking a fine line between acceptable behaviour and going a bit too far. Pietro knew that Gino loved to impress the girls by pretending that he came from the aristocratic Bagnelli family, and although he disapproved it also made him shrug wryly. It was just Gino amusing himself.

Now he was beginning to worry that Gino had amused himself in a way that might bring tragedy.

‘Can you tell me where he is?’ she asked.

‘He’s off travelling at the moment. He works for me in a tourist firm I own, and he’s exploring new places.’

‘But he’ll be home soon?’ she asked with a hint of eagerness that both touched and worried him.

‘No, he’s on a long trip, finding places where I can mount tours.’

‘I see,’ she said with a little sigh.

Pietro asked his next question carefully.

‘Does Gino know you well?’

At first he thought she hadn’t heard, so long did she take to reply. Then she shook her head.

‘No,’ she said. ‘He won’t know me. Nobody knows me any more. I don’t know myself, or anybody else. I know who I was then—’

‘Then?’ he queried gently. ‘When was that?’

‘About a year ago—or perhaps a little more. I’ve got the date written down somewhere—’ She saw his troubled face and gave a half smile that was oddly charming. ‘I sound quite mad, don’t I?’

‘I don’t think you’re mad at all,’ he said firmly.

‘You could be wrong about that. I’ve been in a special home for—well, most of the last year. Now I’m trying to find my way back into the world, only I don’t do it very well.’

‘Then it’s lucky you found a safe place, and a friend,’ he said.

‘How can you be my friend when you don’t know who I am? Whoever I was then, I’m someone else now. I just don’t know who.’

‘You must know your name or how could you travel?’

‘My name is Ruth Denver.’

A spoon fell out of Pietro’s hand and hit the terrazzo floor with a ping. Cursing his own clumsiness, he leaned down to pick it up, glad of the chance to hide his face, lest it reveal his shock at hearing the name Ruth Denver.

When he looked up again he was in control and able to say calmly, ‘My name is Pietro Bagnelli.’

‘Gino’s cousin?’ she exclaimed, her eyes suddenly glowing. ‘He told me a lot about you, how you grew up together.’

‘We’ll talk some more in the morning,’ he interrupted her hastily. ‘You’ll be better when you’ve slept.’

He was becoming more disturbed every moment, and needed to be alone to do some thinking before he talked further. If she was who he was beginning to believe she was, he needed to tread with care.

‘I’ll get a room ready for you,’ he said. Pausing at the door, he added, ‘Don’t go away.’

She regarded him quizzically, and he realised he sounded crazy. Where could she go? But he had a strange feeling that if he took his eyes off her she might vanish into thin air.

‘I promise not to disappear,’ she said with a glimmer of humour that was evident even through her distress.

‘Just to make sure you don’t—Toni, on guard.’

The huge mutt came forward and laid his head on Ruth’s knee.

‘Stay like that, both of you, until I get back,’ Pietro said.

In the next room there was a couch that could be turned into a bed. He made it up, his mind in turmoil. What was happening was impossible. There was no way that this could be Ruth Denver.

He returned to the living room to find that both its occupants had obeyed him. Toni’s head was still on Ruth’s knee, and she was stroking it, regarding the dog with a smile of fond indulgence.

‘Your room’s ready,’ he said. ‘Try to get plenty of sleep. I won’t let anything disturb you.’

‘Thank you,’ she said softly, and slipped away.

As soon as he was alone Pietro poured himself a large brandy. He had never needed one so much.

He felt stunned.

At first he’d thought this might be one of Gino’s discarded girlfriends who hadn’t given up hope. It happened often, but there were reasons why it couldn’t be the answer this time.

As Pietro brooded on those reasons he grew more and more troubled.

Just over a year ago Gino had fallen in love with an English girl, a tourist in Venice. Pietro had been away at the time and when he returned she’d gone back to England, so he’d never met her.

For once Gino had seemed genuinely smitten, to the point of marriage. Pietro’s wedding gift was going to be a grand reception in the palazzo.

‘But I want to meet this paragon,’ he told his young friend. ‘She must be really special to persuade you to settle down.’

‘Yes, she really is special,’ Gino enthused. ‘You’ll love her.’

‘I hope not,’ Pietro teased. ‘I’m a respectable married man.’

‘And you don’t want Lisetta throwing pots and pans at you.’

‘She never would,’ Pietro said quietly. ‘She thinks of nothing but pleasing me.’

‘So I should hope. And imagine how pleased you’re going to be when she gives birth to that son. When is it due now?’

‘One month.’

‘We’ll have the wedding just after that.’

It was arranged that Gino would go to England for the firm, and bring his fiancée back with him for a pre-wedding visit. His work in England had been expected to last two weeks, but he was home in five days, mysteriously pale and quiet, which was so unlike Gino as to be alarming. In response to Pietro’s concerned questions he would only say that the marriage was off. He and his lover would never meet again.

As far as Pietro could tell Gino never called her, and if his cell phone rang he jumped. But it was never her.

‘Did you quarrel?’ Pietro asked cautiously. ‘Did she catch you flirting?’

‘Not at all. She just changed her mind.’

‘She dumped you?’ Pietro asked, incredulous. Such a thing had never happened before.

‘That’s right, she dumped me, and asked me to leave her alone.’

Before Pietro could explore further, his wife went into premature labour, and died giving birth to a son, who also died. In the aftermath of that tragedy all thoughts of Gino’s problems were driven from his mind.

When he was able to function again he saw that his friend hadn’t recovered his spirits. Pietro’s kind heart prompted him to send Gino away on a number of trips, seeking out new destinations for the firm.

Now and then Gino returned to Venice, seeming more cheerful. But always his first question was whether there had been any news from England, and Pietro realised that this young woman had callously broken his heart.

Her name had been Ruth Denver.

‘But it can’t be her,’ he growled to himself. ‘She doesn’t look anything like her. I’ve seen her picture—’

In a cupboard he found a book full of photographs and went through them until he found the one he wanted. It showed Gino just over a year ago, handsome, laughing, his arm around a young girl. She too was laughing, her face full of joy as she gazed at him. Peering closer, Pietro managed to recognise her as Ruth Denver. But only just.

This was a big, buxom girl, generously made, with a broad, confident smile. Her hair was thick and long, flowing over her shoulders, somehow hinting at an equally expansive nature.

The ethereal creature who had invaded his home tonight was a ghost of her former self. Her hair was short, almost boyish, her smile had died, her eyes were sad and cautious. Small wonder he hadn’t recognised her at first.

What had happened to change her from one person into the other?



When she was exhausted the impressions swirled about her head and ran together. She was asleep, yet not asleep, her dreams haunted by a man who came out of nowhere, seized her and took her to safety. In the darkness and rain she couldn’t make out his face. Only his strength and determination were real.

Then the rain vanished and she was lying on a sofa while he pressed a brandy on her, forceful yet gentle, both together. She didn’t know who he was yet every detail was mysteriously clear. She could see his face now, handsome but for a tautness about the mouth, giving him a withered look that shouldn’t have been there for several years.

When he rose and moved about the room there was grace in his movements, except that he seemed always ready against an attack. Or perhaps the attack would come from him, for she sensed something below the surface that might explode at any moment, all the more dangerous for the quietness of his voice.

Then the impressions shifted, whirled away into the darkness, replaced by another time, another place. Now she was smiling as she was swept back to the time of happiness.

There was Gino, gazing at her, giving her the fond smile she adored, reaching for her hand across the restaurant table, caressing her fingers with his lips.

‘They’re staring at us,’ she whispered, looking around at the other diners.

‘So let them,’ he said merrily. ‘Oh you English, you’re so cold.’

‘Me? Cold?’

‘No, never, carissima. You’re a dream of perfection, and I love you madly.’

‘Say it in Venetian,’ she begged. ‘You know I love that.’

‘Te voja ben—te voja ben—’

How could there be such joy in the world? Her handsome Gino had come to England to take her back to Venice where his family were waiting to welcome her. Soon they would be married, living together in that lovely city.

‘I love you too,’ she said. ‘Oh, Gino, we’re going to be so happy.’

But without warning the darkness came down, obscuring first his face, then everything. Suddenly the world was full of pain. He was gone.

There were flickers—more pictures, but they came from much earlier. There was Gino as he’d been on the day they met in Venice, winning her heart with his cheeky humour and glowing admiration. She’d been struggling with the language, and he’d come to her aid. Somehow they had ended up spending the evening together, and he’d made her talk about herself.

‘You know so many languages,’ he’d said, ‘French, German, Spanish, but no Italian. That’s very bad. You should learn Italian without delay.’

‘But do I really need another language?’ she’d asked, not because she really objected, but to provoke an answer.

There had been a special significance in his look as he’d said, ‘Well, I’m glad you couldn’t speak it today, or we wouldn’t have met. But now I really think you should learn.’

After that he had set himself to teach her his language, and done it very thoroughly.

More pictures—the airport where he’d seen her off, almost in tears from the strength of his feelings. Then the call to say he was coming to England, the ecstatic meeting, and that last evening together—

‘You’re a dream of perfection, and I love you madly—te voja ben—te voja ben—’

‘Te voja ben,’ she whispered longingly.

There was his face as he said it, but it was fading, fading—

‘Gino!’

She screamed again and again, stretching out her arms in a frantic attempt to hold on to him.

‘Come back,’ she cried. ‘Come back. Don’t leave me.’

But then she touched him. She couldn’t see him but she could feel that he’d turned back to her, was taking her in his arms, drawing her against his body.

‘Where did you go?’ she sobbed. ‘I was so scared—I longed for you—where were you?’

Strong arms tightened about her, and she heard the soothing words murmured in her ear.

‘It’s all right, don’t panic. I’m here.’

‘Don’t leave me again.’

‘I won’t leave you as long as you need me.’

‘Where have you been?’ she whispered. ‘I’ve missed you so much.’

She reached for his face and kissed it again and again in her passionate relief, his forehead, his cheeks, his mouth. To her surprise he didn’t kiss her back, but at least he was there.

‘Te voja ben,’ she whispered. ‘Te voja ben.’

‘Lie back,’ he said, gently pushing her down against the pillow. ‘You’re safe now.’

She could still feel his hands clasping hers, and their strength calmed her. Her terror began to fade. After so long among nightmares and mystery, Gino had finally returned, his arms open to her.

‘Sleep now,’ he whispered. ‘And in the morning everything will be all right.’

But something perverse in her, something awkward that months of misfortune hadn’t managed to stifle, made her open her eyes.

A man was sitting on her bed, holding her hands. Even in the semi-darkness she could tell that it wasn’t Gino.




CHAPTER TWO


PIETRO was in pyjamas and his hair was tousled. He switched on the small bedside light and watched as the joy died out of her eyes.

‘I heard you calling,’ he said. ‘You sounded desperate.’

‘I had such dreams,’ she whispered. ‘Gino—’

He wondered if she knew that she’d kissed him, thinking he was Gino, and cried out; ‘Te voja ben,’ the Venetian for ‘I love you.’ With all his soul he hoped not.

‘Talk to me about Gino,’ he said.

‘Our last evening together—I have that dream so often, but then it fades—he vanishes, but I don’t know where—and it’s too late to find out because it was so long ago. I’m sorry if I awoke you. I promise to be quiet now.’

‘You can’t help a dream.’

She suddenly put her hands together over her chest, but there was nothing seductive about her appearance. Like him, she was in pyjamas. They were sedate and functional, buttoning high in the front.

‘I didn’t mean to stare at you,’ he assured her.

‘Don’t worry,’ she said simply. ‘I’m used to it.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I warned you last night that I was a bit mad.’

‘Don’t talk like that,’ he said quickly.

‘Why not? It’s true—well, a little bit. For the last year I’ve been officially diagnosed as “disturbed”. I’m a lot better than I was, but I’m not all the way there yet.’

‘But what happened? Can you tell me?’

‘Gino came to England. We went out to dinner and—’ She stopped, smiling. ‘We talked about how I was going back to Venice with him, to meet his family, and discuss the wedding. It was the most marvellous night of my life, until—until—’

‘Don’t force yourself if it’s too painful.’

‘I have to, or I’ll never escape.’

‘All right,’ he said quietly. ‘Tell me what happened.’

At last Ruth began to speak.

‘When we’d finished eating we went out to the car park, and found some lads there, trying to break into the car. They attacked us. I was knocked out, and woke up in the hospital. My mind was a blank. I didn’t know what had happened, or who I was. I didn’t even recognise Gino. I only knew there was a young man sitting beside the bed, but to me he was a stranger. Everything in my mind was blank, including myself.

‘But seeing him again afterwards, didn’t that help you to remember?’

‘I don’t remembering him coming back—but he may have done. I kept blacking out. When I awoke properly it was some time later and he wasn’t there. I never saw him again. Perhaps he couldn’t bear my not recognising him any longer. I can’t blame him for leaving.’

Pietro was getting a very bad feeling about this. Gino’s story that he’d been jilted had always sounded unlikely. In truth, he seemed to have deserted her when she most needed him.

‘And you had nobody to help you? No family? Nothing?’

‘After my parents died I was raised by my mother’s sister, who didn’t really want me. She died while I was away at college. Then I discovered that she’d known for months that she was dying, but never told me. It was like the final slamming of a door.

‘So there was nobody who’d known me in the past. I had blinding headaches. There was a lot of pressure on my brain because I’d been beaten so badly about the head. They had to operate to relieve it. I was better after that.’

‘But—alone,’ he murmured, stunned by the horror of it.

She gave a little wry smile.

‘I looked awful. I was rather glad there was nobody to see me.’

Pietro was speechless. Perhaps, he thought, it was a good thing Gino wasn’t present right now. He might have said or done something he would later regret.

‘All my hair was shaved off,’ she recalled. ‘I looked like a malignant elf.’

Something in her self-mocking tone inspired him to say absurdly, ‘Why malignant? I always thought elves were nice.’

‘Not this one. I even scared myself. My memory started to return in bits. It was odd, I’m a language teacher and I found I still knew the languages, but not my own identity.

‘I was able to get some official records, and the people I knew at work could tell me a few things that I’d told them about myself. But effectively my life started when I awoke in the hospital.’

‘How long were you there?’ he asked.

‘Three or four months. Then I was moved into sheltered accommodation. I was too full of nerves to go back to teaching in a school, but I managed to get some translation work to do at home. That made me feel better, and my mind seemed to open up a little more every day.

‘At last I remembered who I was, and Gino—how much we loved each other—it all came back in a rush, while I was asleep. I went back to the hospital to see if anyone there could remember seeing him, but of course it was in the past, and most of the staff had changed.

‘So in the end I decided to come back to Venice. I hoped to find him but if—if not, I can go back to the places where we were together, and see if anything more comes back to me.’

‘What are you hoping for?’ he asked. ‘That you’ll rediscover your love?’

‘I’m not really sure. But there are so many gaps that only he can fill in. I can’t even remember much of the attack. The lads were never caught. It was a year ago, but to me it was yesterday.’

Which means that it was yesterday she’d sat in the restaurant with Gino, exchanging words of love. Part of her, at least, was still in love with him. Pietro was sick at heart.

‘I suppose he might be married by now,’ she said softly. ‘I can’t hope that he still loves me just because I—’ She broke off.

‘No, he isn’t married,’ Pietro said heavily.

‘But for him it’s been a long time. I know.’ She suddenly gave him a delightful smile. ‘Don’t worry. I haven’t come to make trouble. I just want him to help me move forward.’

Ruth seemed to become self-conscious. ‘Perhaps you should go away now. I don’t want to make trouble for you either—I mean your wife. Gino told me about her, and the baby you were expecting. I hope I haven’t disturbed either of them.’

‘No, you haven’t disturbed them,’ Pietro said abruptly. ‘They’re both dead. Goodnight.’

He left quickly.

Back in his own room he tried to sleep, but now it was impossible. The trouble with letting a ghost into his home was that she had brought other ghosts with her. He spent his life trying to avoid those gentle phantoms, and now they were here, making him feel their sadness.

Not that Lisetta had ever reproached him. She’d loved him too well for that. More than life, she’d often said. And proved it. And the baby, dead after only a few hours, now sleeping peacefully in his mother’s arms, a reminder of what might have been.

‘Go away,’ he cried desperately. ‘Haven’t I been punished enough?’

It was an hour before he fell into an exhausted sleep, and when he awoke it was broad daylight, and he could hear Minna, his housekeeper, moving about outside. He wondered if the two women had met. But when he went out there was only Minna, large, middle-aged, the epitome of solid reassurance.

‘About that lady,’ he said when they had greeted each other.

‘What lady, signore?’

‘Haven’t you seen her? She stayed the night here because of the storm. Perhaps she’s still in her room.’

But the room was empty. The bed had been stripped and the bedclothes folded neatly. Ruth’s suitcase was gone.

‘There’s a letter for you on the table,’ Minna said.

With a sense of foreboding he snatched it up and found his worst fears realised.

‘I’m really sorry to have bothered you,’ it said. ‘I had no idea about your wife. Please forgive me. Thank you for all you did. Ruth.’

‘Stupid woman!’ he growled, crushing the letter.

‘Signore?’

‘Not you, Minna. Her. What does she think she’s playing at? You didn’t catch a glimpse of her leaving?’

‘No, signore. There was nobody here when I came in. Just the letter on the table. What has this woman done?’

What had she done? he wondered. Only invaded his life, destroyed his peace, turned everything upside down, made him feel responsible for her welfare and then vanished into thin air. Nothing, really.

‘I’m sorry, signore.’

‘What for? It’s not your fault. It’s just that when I find her I’m going to strangle her.’

‘Have some breakfast first.’

‘No time. I don’t know how long she’s been gone.’

He vanished out of the door as he spoke, hurrying down the narrow calle that ran alongside the palazzo. It ended in a small square where there were a few shops, at one of which a man was arranging groceries outside.

‘Enrico, have you seen a young woman come out of here?’ Pietro described her.

‘Yes, about an hour ago. She went down that turning.’

‘Thank you,’ he called over his shoulder.

Luck was with him. It was January and Venice was almost free of tourists, plus, in that tiny city, he knew almost every other resident, so he was able to consult many kindly friends, and managed to build up a picture of Ruth’s movements, even down to half an hour she spent drinking coffee in a small café.

In no other city but Venice could he have done this. The word began to spread ahead of him. People telephoned each other to ask if Ruth had passed that way, then they began waiting for him in the squares and alleyways, and one was even able to describe the new coat she’d just bought. It was dark red wool, very stylish, he assured Pietro, and a great improvement on the light coat she’d been wearing, which was damp.

It was a help. Now he was able to look for the coat, and finally he spotted her in the Garibaldi Gardens, at the extreme end of Venice, where the land tailed off into the lagoon.

He almost didn’t see her at first. By now, it was late afternoon, the light was fading fast and she was sitting quite still on a stone bench. Her elbows were resting on her knees and her arms were crossed as if to protect herself, but she didn’t, as he’d feared, have the look of despair he’d seen last night. She merely seemed calm and collected.

After the frazzled day he’d had, the sight had an unfortunate effect on his temper. He planted himself in front of her.

‘I’ve spent all day looking for you,’ were his first cross words.

‘But didn’t you get my letter?’

‘Yes, I got it, for what good you thought it did. The state you were in—Just running off—Of all the daft—’ He exploded into a stream of Venetian curses while she waited for him to be finished.

‘But can’t you see that I had to do it?’ Ruth asked when she could get a word in.

‘No, I can’t,’ he snapped.

‘I just felt so embarrassed about dumping myself on you like that.’

‘You didn’t. I hauled you in. That was my first mistake.’

‘You wish you’d left me there?’

‘I wish I’d chucked you in the Grand Canal. But I didn’t. I invited you into my home, where you collapsed.’

‘But if I’d known about your wife—’

‘Why should you? Leave that.’

There was a silence, then she said awkwardly, ‘And now you’re angry with me.’

Remembering her frail condition, he knew he should utter comforting words, designed to make her feel better. But something had got hold of him and the words poured out in a stream of ill temper.

‘Why should you think that? I only dashed out without any breakfast and spent the day wandering the streets looking for the most awkward, difficult woman I’ve ever met. I’m tired, I’m hungry, I’m cold, and it was all completely unnecessary. Why the devil should I be angry with you?’

Instead of bursting into tears she regarded him thoughtfully before saying, ‘I expect you feel a lot better now you’ve lost your temper.’

‘Yes!’

It was true. All his life he’d been even-tempered. That had changed in the last year, when rage would sometimes overcome him without warning, but he’d put his mind to controlling these outbursts, and succeeded up to a point. But these days self-control had a heavy price, and now the relief of allowing himself an explosion was considerable.

‘Can I buy you a drink?’ she asked.

‘You can buy me two,’ he growled. ‘Come on, let’s go, it’s getting dark.’

Pietro grasped her hand firmly, so as not to lose her again, and reached for her suitcase. But she tried to hold on to it, protesting, ‘I’m quite capable of—’

‘Quit arguing and let go!’

He took her to a small café overlooking the lagoon, and they sat at the window, watching lights on the water. She bought him a large brandy, which he drained in one gulp, at which she ordered another.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

‘So you ought to be. Of all the stupid, stupid—’

‘OK, I get the point. I’m stupid.’

‘Yes, no! I didn’t mean it like that.’ With horror he realised how his careless words might sound after what she’d been through. ‘I don’t want you to think—just because your head was injured—’

Then he saw that she was giving him a quizzical half-smile.

‘It’s all right,’ she said kindly. ‘You don’t have to tread on eggshells. Let’s leave it that I’m crazy but I’m not stupid.’

‘Stop that talk! You’re not crazy.’

‘How do you know?’ she demanded indignantly.

‘Why are you suddenly different? Last night you were half out of it, and today you’re ready to fight the world.’

‘Isn’t fighting better than giving in?’

‘Sure, if you fight the right person. But why me?’ he demanded, exasperated. ‘Why am I getting all your aggro dumped on me?’

‘You’re handy.’

‘That’s what I thought.’

‘I’d had a bad time yesterday, what with the flight and getting soaking wet. There’s nothing like half drowning for making you depressed. But I’ve sorted myself out a bit now. Why are you glaring at me? What have I done wrong now?’

‘All day I’ve had nightmares about you wandering Venice alone, confused, miserable. I was sorry for you, worried about you—and now you’re fine.’

‘Well, I’m sorry about that. Last night the pressure made me slip back to my bad time, but I’ve pulled myself together.’

He wasn’t totally convinced. Her smile was too bright, not quite covering an air of strain, and he guessed that part of this was presented for his benefit. But certainly she was mentally stronger than he had feared.

‘I’m glad you’re better,’ he said, ‘but you’re still not ready to go wandering off among strangers. Whatever you may have thought, I didn’t want you to go.’

‘Of course you did—’

‘Woman, what will it take to stop you arguing every time I open my mouth?’

‘I don’t know. If I think of something I’ll make sure you never find out.’

‘I’ll bet you will.’

‘I was just so embarrassed when I found out about your wife and child.’

‘You needn’t be,’ he said, pale but speaking normally. ‘They died nearly a year ago. I’ve come to terms with it by now.’ Abruptly he changed the subject. ‘I’m ready for something to eat, on me this time.’

She knew he wasn’t telling the truth. He was far from coming to terms with his tragedy. His eyes spoke of a hundred sleepless night, and days that were even worse. He looked like a man who could be destroyed by his feelings, and, strangely, it made her feel calmer, as though in some mysterious way they were alike; equals in suffering, in need.

‘As long as you know that I’m sorry,’ she said slowly.

‘You’ve nothing to feel bad about. You’ve even done me a favour, giving me something to think about apart from myself.’

‘Oh, yes!’ she said fervently.

He gave a faint smile. ‘You too?’

‘I’ll say. After a while you get so bored with yourself.’

He ordered a meal, and while they waited he took out his cell phone and called Minna.

‘It’s all right, I’ve found her,’ he said. ‘If you’d just make up her bed—oh, you have. Thank you. Then I shan’t need you again today. Have an early night.’

‘That was my housekeeper,’ he explained, shutting off the phone.

‘And she’s already made my bed up?’

‘She never doubted that I’d bring you back.’

‘Now I remember. Gino once said that none of your servants ever doubted that you could do everything you said you would. It’s an article of faith, and practically heresy to doubt il conte.’

He made a wry face.

‘It sounds devoted but actually it’s just a way of controlling me.’

‘I suppose people’s expectations can be like handcuffs.’

‘Exactly. It’s one of the reasons I’ve always tried to keep my head down and not be il conte any more than I have to. But it doesn’t work. I’ve got the name hanging around my neck, and that great palace. How can any man live a normal life in a place like that?’

‘It must be grim if you’re there alone.’

‘I’m not exactly alone. Minna lives there, and Celia, a maid. And Toni.’

‘I love Toni,’ she said at once. ‘He’s so big and shambling. I’m not sure why but he looks terribly vulnerable.’

‘I got him from a rescue centre. Nobody else wanted him because he’s epileptic, and I suppose they thought it might make him aggressive. It doesn’t. Quite the reverse. When he has a fit he just lies there and shakes.’

‘Poor soul,’ she said, shocked. ‘So you gave him a home because he had nowhere else to go.’

‘Well, if I did he’s repaid me a thousand times. He’s the best friend a man ever had.’

But still, Ruth thought, shivering as she recalled that great empty building, it must make for a lonely life, with only his memories for company. She wondered about his wife, and how much he must have loved her to have been reduced to such bleakness by her loss. And she shivered again.

‘Where did you go when you slipped out this morning?’ Pietro asked.

‘Looking for places I’d been before, but I didn’t do so well. It’s all so different in winter. I went to a little café where we’d been together. We sat outside, and I remember the sun shining on his hair, but today I stayed inside because it was drizzling. I can’t do it on my own. I’ll have to wait until he returns. Or maybe I could go to see him.’

‘No,’ he said quickly. ‘It has to be here, where you were together.’

Pietro knew he must keep her with him at least until he’d spoken to Gino. Earlier that day he’d sat by the lagoon and put through a call on his cell phone. A female voice had answered. Pietro had left a message for Gino to call him, but nothing had happened.

He’d sent a text, stressing the urgency but not mentioning Ruth’s name. Now, hours later, while Ruth was drinking her wine he did a hasty check under the table, but found nothing.

‘How did you find me?’ she asked.

‘With the help of a few hundred friends. Venice counts as a great city because it’s unique, but in size it’s little more than a village. We all know each other. Sooner or later I found someone who’d seen you, and could point me in the right direction. I even knew what your new coat looked like.’

‘So I’ve been under surveillance?’

‘In a nice way. You can’t hide anything from your neighbours in Venice, but it can be comforting to have so many people look out for you.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Most of them said something about how I shouldn’t be out so early in the cold, and I should be careful not to get lost.’ She gave a sigh of pleasure. ‘It was like being protected by a huge family.’

‘We do that,’ he agreed. ‘Venetians are so different from the rest of the world. We try to look after the others.’

Except Gino, who had simply deserted her, he thought. He wondered if she were thinking the same, but she gave no sign.

‘Go on telling me about your day,’ he urged.

‘Oh, you’d have laughed if you could have seen me. I had all sorts of impractical ideas, take a gondola ride, feed the pigeons in St Mark’s Square, go to look at the Bridge of Sighs. Something really did come back to me there—the first time I got cross with him and we ended up bickering.’

‘About the Bridge of Sighs?’

‘Yes. Gino spun me the whole romantic story, how it had been named after the sighs of lovers. I thought that was lovely until I bought a guide book and discovered that the bridge connects the prison to the Doge’s Palace, where trials were held. So the sighs came from prisoners taking their last look at the sky before going to the dungeons.’

Pietro began to laugh. ‘You quarrelled about that?’

‘Not quarrelled, squabbled. I like to have the truth.’

‘Rather than a romantic fantasy? Shame on you.’

‘I don’t trust fantasies. They lay traps.’

‘But so does the truth sometimes,’ he pointed out quietly.

She didn’t answer in words, but she nodded.

‘I got very lofty and humourless,’ she said after a while. ‘I told Gino sternly that he had no right to tell lies just to make things sound romantic when they weren’t. D’you know what he said?’

Pietro shook his head.

‘He said, “But, cara, one of the prisoners was Casanova, the greatest lover in the history of the world. You can’t get more romantic than that.”’

He had to laugh at her droll manner. ‘Did you forgive him?’

‘Of course. You have to forgive Gino his funny little ways.’

He noted her use of the present tense, as though Gino were still a presence in her life. Was this how she explained his desertion to herself? Gino’s funny little ways?

Ruth went on talking about her day, putting a light-hearted gloss on it, while he watched her with a heavy heart. A stranger would never have known the anguish that lay behind her flippant manner. But he saw it, because it was like looking at himself.




CHAPTER THREE


‘THE trouble with you,’ Pietro said at last, ‘is that you’re not organised. You need to do this properly, with someone who knows Venice and who can keep an eye on you to stop you doing something daft.’

‘Well, I’m interviewing applicants for the position,’ Ruth said promptly. ‘There’s no salary, unpredictable hours and it needs to be someone who can put up with me.’

‘I’ll consider myself hired.’

‘I haven’t offered you the job yet,’ she protested in mock indignation.

‘Fine. Shall I wait at the end of the queue? If you’re wise you’ll snap me up while I’m on offer.’

‘Now which one of us is mad?’ she chided him.

‘Fifty-fifty, I’d say. It’s best that way. We may be the only people in the world who can cope with each other.’

‘But haven’t you got your firm to run?’

‘I have a good manager, and January isn’t busy.’

They left the restaurant and wandered back to the path by the water just as a vaporetto approached the landing stage.

‘That’ll take us down the Grand Canal as far as we need to go,’ Pietro said, seizing her hand and beginning to run.

They made it onto the great water-bus just in time, and laughed, holding themselves against the rails until a wave made the boat lurch, sending her stumbling against him. He steadied her, reminded again how insubstantial she was.

But then she gave him a cheerful smile and he realised that it was only her body that was frail. Tonight he’d glimpsed her cheeky fighting spirit, and he liked it.

‘Shall we sit down for safety?’ he asked.

‘No, thanks, I’m fine.’

Ruth fixed one hand onto the upright rail and leaned slightly over the side, gazing down into the water rushing by. With a sigh of resignation Pietro wound an arm about her waist, holding her safe. It was simpler than remonstrating with her.

But it was a mistake, bringing back the previous night when she’d put her arms about his neck, kissing him again and again in the joy of eager young love. It had been so long since a woman had kissed him that he’d tensed, holding himself still, not responding to the shock, then waking her gently.

To his relief she hadn’t seemed to know what had happened, and he’d managed to block it out of his mind. But it was there again now, her lips on his mouth, her body pressed against his, sweet and vulnerable. He tried to banish the memory, knowing that he had no right to it. It belonged to Gino, to a man who hadn’t cared enough to claim it.

As soon as they got home he bid her goodnight and hurried to his own room to check his cell phone, but there was no message. Annoyed, he dialled, and, to his relief, Gino answered.

‘Sorry, sorry, I know you said it was urgent,’ came his cheery voice. ‘But I’m a bit tied up.’

‘Then get untied and talk to me about Ruth Denver.’

There was a silence.

‘What about her?’ Gino asked in a thin voice.

‘She’s here.’

‘What? How?’

There was no mistaking the tone of his voice, Pietro thought grimly. Gino was aghast.

‘She came to find you. She needs your help to recover from her injuries. Gino, you said she dumped you. You never mentioned an attack.’

‘Look—it’s not—The attack has nothing to do with it. She did dump me.’

‘That’s not what she says.’

‘What—exactly does she say?’

Through the ultra-cautious words Pietro could sense the cogs and wheels of the lad’s mind turning, and it filled him with dismay.

‘She says you spent a loving evening together at the restaurant, then you were attacked by thugs. After that she lost her memory. When she saw you again she didn’t recognise you.’

‘Oh, she recognised me all right. We didn’t have a loving evening. She told me it was over. I haunted the hospital until I knew she was better, but when she saw me she told me to go. Why do you think I never got in touch with her again? Because that was what she wanted.’

Pietro groaned, not knowing what to believe.

‘What did she mean about me helping her with her injuries?’ Gino asked.

‘She has gaps in her memory and she wants you to help fill them.’

‘That explains a lot. Pietro, this is one very troubled lady. She doesn’t know what really happened and what didn’t.’

‘All the more reason for you to come back and help clear her mind.’

‘But surely I’ll just confuse her more? What’s that?’ Gino’s voice sounded as though he’d turned his head to reply to someone. Then it became stronger again. ‘Look, I’ve got to go. There’s someone at the door.’

The line went dead.

Pietro cursed, knowing that Gino had made an excuse to escape.

He was more worried than he wanted to admit. It was just possible that Gino’s version was correct, and Ruth was so disturbed that she didn’t know what had really happened. She’d even partially admitted that.

But then he recalled her smiling as she said, ‘You have to forgive Gino his funny little ways.’

There had been a kindly tolerance in her voice that simply didn’t fit with the picture Gino was trying to paint. That was surely the real Ruth, forgiving and generous?

For some reason he wanted to believe this of her. But how could he tell when even she didn’t know the full truth about herself? For the first time he fully understood the implications of her confusion, and how it might prove to be a nightmare, not only for her, but also perhaps for him.



Over breakfast next morning Pietro said, ‘I have a few things to check, then I’m ready to take up my new position as your right-hand man.’

‘Look, that was only a joke,’ Ruth said hastily. ‘I don’t really expect you to give up your time to me.’

‘You may have been joking. I wasn’t. You should try to relax. The more you worry, the less clear your mind will become.’

The rain had gone and it was a fine morning as they set out to walk to St Mark’s Piazza. Along the way the shops were opening, the owners arranging goods outside, smiling as they saw Pietro. Most of them hailed him, and some eyed Ruth with a look that said, ‘Ah, you found her, then?’

She smiled back, relishing the feeling of being enveloped in kindness.

Through squares, along calles so narrow that she could touch both sides at once, and over tiny bridges, they finally reached the huge piazza. At one end was the glorious cathedral. On the other three sides were elegant arches, behind which were commercial establishments. One of these was Pietro’s headquarters, a place where trips and hotels could be booked and various necessities hired.

‘I’ll introduce you to Mario,’ Pietro said. ‘He’s a brilliant manager, although a little too meek for this violent city.’

‘Violent?’ Ruth queried. ‘But surely it’s a gentle, peaceful place. That’s why they call it La Serenissima?’

‘La Serenissima is only serene on the surface. Underneath it’s another story, sometimes a cruel one.’

She had a partial demonstration as soon as they entered, and she saw Mario, a young man with a plump, amiable face and an air of innocence. He was trying to cope with a middle-aged woman who was talking loudly and furiously.

‘It’s no excuse to say that they’re booked up—’

‘But, signora,’ Mario pleaded, ‘if that trip has no spaces left for that date, what can I do? Perhaps the next day—’

‘I want that day!’ she snapped.

Mario looked frazzled.

‘Excuse me,’ Pietro murmured.

In seconds he had the matter under control, convincing the lady politely but firmly that tantrums would get her nowhere. He even managed to persuade her to book for the following day. Mario watched, almost with tears in his eyes.

When the woman had gone, Pietro introduced the two of them.

‘Padrone, I’m so sorry,’ Mario started to say.

‘Forget it,’ Pietro said kindly. ‘Nature just didn’t design you to be a forceful man.’

‘I’m afraid not,’ Mario said, crestfallen.

‘But in every other way you’re an excellent manager, so let this matter go. How’s business apart from ill-tempered ladies?’

‘Doing well,’ Mario hastened to tell him. ‘There’s hardly a hotel room left.’

‘I thought everything was empty in January,’ Ruth said.

‘It’s empty now, but in four weeks we start Carnival,’ Pietro told her. ‘And nobody wants to miss that. For eleven days the city will be packed. Everyone will eat too much, drink too much, and enjoy themselves in any way they please—also too much. But that’s all right, they wear masks, so they get away with it.’

The rear of the shop was taken up with the hire department. There were printed catalogues, and large screens on which costumes could be projected.

But the real thing was also there, masks and outrageous costumes, all glowing with life and colour; brilliant reds and blues, vibrant greens and yellows, glittering with sequins and tinsel.

Mario, who had followed her while Pietro glanced through the books, began to show them off.

‘These will be hired for the street parties,’ he explained. ‘For the big indoor occasions everyone will be much grander.’

He held one of the masks before his face. It was fierce and sexy in a slightly satanic way, and it transformed him into a man many women would find intriguing. Then he removed it and became gentle, sweet-natured Mario again.

‘Ah, well,’ he sighed. ‘I can dream, can’t I? That’s what Carnival is for.’

‘Perhaps your dream will come true,’ she said, liking him.

‘No, signorina. I dream of the lady who won’t be disappointed when she sees the real me. If only I could keep this mask on for ever.’

‘You might not like that as much as you think,’ she mused. ‘In the long run it’s best to be yourself—whoever that is.’

‘But to be a stranger, even to yourself, can be such a pleasure, especially when you can choose which stranger to be.’

‘I suppose that’s true,’ she murmured, looking through some of the female masks. ‘Being able to choose would make all the difference.’

She began to try them on, starting with one that was made like a cat, and that covered her face completely.

‘This might be a good one to hide behind,’ she mused.

‘But a mask isn’t always to hide behind,’ Pietro said, coming to join them. ‘Sometimes it can reveal what you never knew before about yourself.’

‘That would be the time to beware,’ Ruth said. ‘You wouldn’t know what you were also revealing to other people. They might see you in a way you never dreamed of, and then where would you be?’

‘Among friends,’ Pietro told her softly. ‘And it might be their insight that sets you free.’

Poor Mario looked blankly from one to the other, until rescue came in the form of a customer. Mario hastened to his assistance, but found himself in trouble again. The newcomer was German, speaking no Italian and very little English. Soon there was chaos. Pietro groaned.

‘Don’t worry,’ Ruth told him. ‘This is your lucky day.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you have me,’ she said, and walked away before he could reply.

It took her only a few minutes to sort things out, translating the visitor’s enquiry, then Mario’s response, to the desperate relief of both.

When the satisfied customer had departed, her two companions were loud in their praise.

‘My lucky day indeed!’ Pietro said. ‘Now I remember you said you were a language teacher. And you sold him our most expensive package.’

‘Mario did that. I was just the conduit.’

‘Thank heavens for conduits,’ Mario said fervently, and they all laughed.

‘We do have an assistant who speaks German,’ Mario added, ‘but she’s only part-time, and not here yet.’

‘I think that’s worth a coffee and cream cake,’ Pietro said. ‘Come on.’

They went along the covered passage to the Café Florian, its elegant interior still reflecting the style of the eighteenth century, when it had first opened.

‘Did Gino ever bring you here?’ Pietro asked.

‘Oh, yes, he told me about Casanova coming here.’

Pietro suppressed the wry comment that this was just what he would have expected. Casanova, the infamous eighteenth-century lover of a thousand women, a man who’d flirted with the church as a career but also flirted with witchcraft. Imprisoned for debt and devil worship, he’d escaped and travelled Europe, pursued by scandal, finally ending his days as a respectable librarian in an obscure castle in Bohemia.

Like many other young men Gino had passed over the respectable part, and used the rest to his advantage.

‘He said Casanova came to Florian’s because it was the only café in Venice that allowed women inside,’ Ruth remembered now.

‘Did he say anything else?’

She nodded. ‘Lots of things. Some of them were just to make me laugh. Some of them—’ She shrugged, with a little sad smile. Then she tensed suddenly. ‘No! No!’

‘What is it?’ he asked urgently.

She was pressing her hands to her forehead, whispering desperately, ‘No!’ while Pietro watched her in concern.

Suddenly she gave an exasperated sigh, and dropped her hands.

‘It’s no good. It’s gone. That happens all the time.’

‘But it doesn’t mean anything. Nobody remembers every detail.’

‘I know. I try to tell myself that everyone goes blank sometimes, even normal people.’

‘Ruth, you’re perfectly normal.’

‘No, I’m not. Normal people don’t go do-lally in the middle of a conversation.’

‘I forbid you to talk like that,’ he said in a tight voice.

‘All right, not another word, I promise.’

But her easy compliance made him rightly suspicious.

‘And I forbid you to think it either,’ he snapped. ‘That’s an order.’

‘Hey, you’re really used to being obeyed, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, and I expect to be obeyed this time. Don’t you ever dare call yourself abnormal again.’

Ruth suddenly understood that he was really angry, not just with the exasperated indignation of the day before, but in a mysterious, inexplicable rage.

‘Don’t you understand why you mustn’t think in such a way?’ he demanded in a calmer voice.

‘I suppose so. But after a while it’s natural.’

‘Then you’ve got to stop. I’m going to make you stop.’

‘Pietro, it’s not the same as ordinary forgetfulness. One minute the memories are running through my head, the next—darkness descends. If only I—’ She made a helpless gesture.

‘Don’t try to force it,’ he advised her.

‘But I’m so close—if I can just—’

‘No,’ he said, taking her hands in his. ‘Let it go. If you fight, it’ll fight back. Think of something else—anything else. Find something good and hang on to it.’

There was only him to hang on to, she thought, feeling the warmth of his hands clasping hers. She closed her eyes, willing him to keep her safe, as he was doing now.

‘All right?’ he asked when she finally looked up.

‘Yes, I’m all right now.’

‘Did you find something?’

She smiled. ‘Yes, I found just what I needed.’

Suddenly her face brightened and she cried, ‘Giovanni Soranzo!’ in such a voice of triumph that people stared at her.

‘Excuse me?’ Pietro said.

‘You must have heard of him—Doge of Venice, early fourteenth century.’

‘Yes, I’ve heard of him. I’m descended from him.’

‘And so is Gino. He told me all about it. That’s what I was trying to remember. You were right. When I stopped thinking about it, it came back.’

‘Then we’ve made progress already. Can you remember anything else he said?’

‘The Doges ruled Venice for twelve centuries, and were immensely powerful. Gino was so proud of being descended from one of them. He showed me the portrait you keep in the palazzo.’

‘We’ll have another look at it some time.’

‘When we’ve finished lunch I’d like to wander around a bit on my own.’

‘No,’ he said at once.

‘Yes,’ she replied firmly. ‘I’m not going to run away again, I promise.’

‘You might get lost.’

‘You can’t get lost in Venice. If you take a wrong turn you just come to the edge and fall into the water. You climb out, soaking wet and cursing horribly, and retrace your steps. You must teach me some of those fine Venetian curses. Gino said they’re the best in the world.’

He was forced to laugh at her determined humour.

‘I’m safe now, honestly,’ she continued. ‘I’ll come back to the shop later, and if you’re not there I’ll make my own way home.’

He agreed but reluctantly, and when they left Florian’s his eyes followed her across St Mark’s Piazza until she vanished.

It was as well that he returned to the shop, for his part-time assistant didn’t show up, and it was a busy afternoon. Late in the day Ruth slipped quietly inside. To his relief she looked calm and cheerful.

He called the palazzo, giving Minna the night off preparing his meal, and on the way home he stopped in several food shops buying fresh meat and vegetables.

‘Tonight I do the cooking,’ he told Ruth. ‘And if that doesn’t scare you, nothing will.’

‘But Gino said you were a wonderful cook.’

‘Compared to him, I was. I enjoy it. And I enjoy surprising people who don’t expect me to be able to do it.’

Toni came to meet them as soon as they entered, paying particular attention to Ruth, whom he seemed to consider his particular concern after having guarded her on the first night.

There was a note from Minna on the table, to say that she had taken Toni for a walk and seen him settled before going out for the evening.

‘I’d better give him his medication before I start cooking,’ Pietro said. ‘Can you hand me the little brown bottle on that shelf behind you?’

Ruth glanced at the label before handing over the bottle, and without thinking, she said, ‘Good stuff.’

‘You’ve come across these pills before?’ Pietro said quickly. ‘When?’

‘I—don’t know. I just know them. You give them to a dog who has petit mal, mild epilepsy.’

‘That’s right. Perhaps you had a dog of your own?’

‘No, I don’t think so. My aunt didn’t like animals. How often does he have these?’

‘Just one a day. Perhaps you can give it to him while I start the food.’

He retreated to the kitchen, but lingered in the doorway, watching as Toni nestled against her, clearly content to trust her. In a few seconds the pill was down.

Her offer to help with the meal was met with lofty dismissal. Women, Pietro gave her to understand, did not belong in the kitchen. While she was still trying to puzzle this out he indicated the china and gave her permission to lay the table.

‘Cheek!’ she said amiably, and got to work.

Ruth had to admit that he served up a fabulous meal, starting with risi e bisi, rice with peas, assuring her that it had been a big favourite with Giovanni Soranzo.

‘Oh, yeah!’ she said sceptically.

‘Listen, you’re not talking to Gino now. If I say it, it’s true. Well, sort of. Traditionally it was the starter on the Doge’s lunch menu every year, during the feast of St Mark.’

‘Ah,’ Ruth said cunningly, ‘but is there any evidence that he actually liked it?’

‘He ate it, and it never killed him,’ Pietro hedged. ‘Why don’t you open the wine?’

Although she’d known him such a short time Ruth was coming to treasure these moments of bantering, which took her mind away from problems. She wondered if it did the same for him.

The meal continued with pasta in olive oil, followed by cream cod mousse and sweet biscuits, washed down with light, delicious wines.

Suddenly she said, ‘I was going to ask if you’ve been in touch with Gino since I arrived. But you must have been, and, since you haven’t mentioned it, I guess he doesn’t want to know.’

Pietro was taken by surprise, but realised that he shouldn’t have been. He was getting used to her sharp wits.





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