The Venetian Playboy’s Bride Read online

Dulcie’s lips twitched. She wasn’t fooled by this apparent boyish confusion, but she appreciated the way he’d paid her a compliment without getting heavy about it.

  ‘But I shan’t be here long,’ she said. ‘I can go back to the hotel when I’ve eaten.’

  ‘I don’t think so. You’re not well yet, and the doctor is coming for you again today. You feel strong now, but it won’t last.’

  In fact her strength was already fading, and when he set soup before her she took it gladly. This was followed by a bowl of rice and peas, cooked to perfection. A few more hours’ rest would set her up, she told herself as she headed back to bed, to find that it had been freshly made. She slipped on the ‘grannie’ nightgown and got thankfully back under the duvet.

  This time, when she awoke, it was to find Dr Valletti just entering the room.

  ‘Yes, you seem better,’ she agreed when she’d checked Dulcie over. ‘But take it easy for another day. Tomorrow you can go out, but only for short periods, and keep covered up against the sun.’

  ‘I’m really well enough to go back to the hotel,’ she said guiltily when the doctor had departed.

  ‘No,’ he said at once. ‘You must stay here where I can look after you. In the hotel there are only servants. What do they care for you?’

  She made a face. ‘If I tip them well enough, they’ll care.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Is that kind of caring enough?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Besides,’ he added, ‘I don’t trust you.’

  ‘I beg your pardon!’

  ‘You’ll do something stupid if I’m not there. So you stay here where I can watch over you. And I don’t want a tip.’

  ‘Well, maybe I’ll leave it for now. I’ll go tomorrow.’

  ‘You’ll go when I say.’

  ‘Yes sir! Is it all right if I get up now and take a shower?’

  While he cooked supper she showered and donned some of the lacy underwear, thinking it was a pity that her complexion wasn’t more becoming. She selected the pale-yellow top to go with the white jeans. Now her appearance was simple and elegant, and much more to her own taste than the elaborate confections she had hanging up in the hotel.

  ‘What are you cooking?’ she asked, sauntering into the kitchen and standing where he could see her.

  ‘To start with, mushroom risotto.’ He paused from chopping parsley and stood back to regard her. ‘Bene! Very nice!’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Yes, I got the size exactly right. I was wondering about that. Can you hand me that onion?’

  She nearly threw it at him.

  At his instruction she laid the little table for two by the open window. It was evening and a soft, bluey light lay over the scene outside. Lamps were coming on, reflected in the water, and from somewhere in the distance came the echoing warnings of the gondoliers, sounding like melancholy music.

  He opened a bottle of prosecco, a sparkling white wine.

  ‘It’s very light,’ he explained, ‘so it won’t upset your stomach.’

  They chinked glasses.

  ‘In fact, I’ve arranged the whole meal to be light,’ he explained. ‘The next course is pasta and beans, then a shrimp omelette. And to finish-fried cream.’

  ‘Fried-? You’re kidding me.’

  ‘No, I promise. You shall watch.’

  And she did watch as he blended flour, sugar, eggs and milk into a thick cream, that he proceeded to fry. It was delicious.

  Afterwards he washed while she dried, wondering at a certain embarrassment in his manner.

  ‘Is something the matter?’ she asked.

  ‘Well-Dulcie would you mind if-when we’ve finished this?-only if you want to, of course-’

  ‘What is it?’ she asked with a little pang of dismay. Here it came, the amorous advance that would make him cheap in her eyes. It was what she’d come here for, and suddenly she would have given anything to put him off.

  But duty came first, so she merely looked at him expectantly while her heart beat with apprehension.

  He took a deep breath and went on with the air of a man plunging off the deep end. ‘There’s a really important soccer match on television tonight-’

  ‘A soccer match?’

  ‘It’s Juventus playing Lazio, or I wouldn’t ask,’ he pleaded. ‘You don’t mind?’

  ‘No,’ she said, dazed. ‘I don’t mind.’

  They spent the rest of the evening sitting side by side on the sofa, holding hands, until he declared that it was time for her to go to bed. But he had to say it twice because she’d fallen asleep against his shoulder.

  Next morning he let her sleep late, and she awoke knowing that the last of her illness had gone. While dressing she noticed with delight that she was no longer red. The colour had softened into a light tan that looked marvellous against her fair hair and green eyes, and even better against the soft-pink top that she matched with the white jeans.

  ‘Who won the match?’ she asked, appearing in the kitchen.

  ‘I forget. You look great. How do you feel?’

  It was on the tip of her tongue to say she felt splendid, but she amended it to, ‘Better than I did, but not quite my normal self.’

  That was true, she told her conscience. She would never feel like her normal self again.

  ‘Then we’ll take it easy today. A light breakfast, then a gentle walk.’

  His solicitude made Dulcie feel a little guilty because she’d allowed him to think her more frail than she actually was. But, to someone who’d lived such a practical life, there was a sweet pleasure in being cosseted, and she reminded herself that her mission was to discover the truth about him. If the truth turned out to be that he was a marvellous man, kind, gentle, affectionate, considerate and chivalrous, then she would report this truth and be happy for Jenny.

  Over rolls and coffee he said, ‘I have to buy food this morning, so we can take a stroll.’

  ‘You mean I’ve eaten you out of house and home?’

  ‘You’ve hardly touched anything.’

  She was about to mention the clothes he’d bought her, then hesitated, remembering the first night, the intensity in his voice as he’d said, ‘Please don’t insult me with money.’

  Suddenly inspired she said, ‘Let me cook something for you today. An English meal.’

  He regarded her quizzically. ‘Her Ladyship can cook?’

  ‘Her Ladyship spent lots of time with the cook because she was the most interesting person in the house,’ Dulcie said truthfully. ‘And the kindest. She was almost a mother to me after my own died. And she made me learn everything she knew. She thought it might come in handy one day.’

  ‘You mean when the revolution happened and the tumbrels came for you?’ he teased.

  ‘Well-’ she considered, also teasing ‘-if I was being carried off to the guillotine I’m not sure that cooking would help me much, but you’ve got the general idea. I’m sure Sarah pictured little old ladies sitting at the foot of the guillotine, knitting the Maddox family crest into a shroud. What’s the matter?’ she asked quickly, for he’d dropped a dish on the floor, where it shattered.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said hastily, dropping down to clear the pieces.

  ‘You jumped. Was it something I said?’

  ‘Just a feeling of having been here before. Let’s go out and get food.’

  He took her to the market by the Rialto Bridge where the food stalls stretched in profusion, and he pointed out fruit, vegetables, meat and fish. But he kept himself at a slight distance, and then slid out of sight while she did the buying, which puzzled her even while she appreciated that it gave her the chance to pay for the food without upsetting him.

  Afterwards he took the bags from her, refusing to let her carry even one, and they strolled hand in hand.

  ‘This isn’t the way we came,’ she said, looking around. ‘At least, I don’t think so, but the streets all look the same.’

  ‘No, we’re going a different way. I thought we
’d take a detour through St Mark’s Square. You haven’t seen it yet.’

  In St Mark’s he took her to an outside table at one of the many cafés and they sat drinking coffee and listening to the music from a four-piece orchestra. Dulcie crumbled up a small cake and fed it to some of the thousands of pigeons that thronged the visitors. The sun hadn’t reached its height, making it no more than pleasantly warm, and she leaned back, eyes closed, overwhelmed by a blissful content that she could never remember feeling before.

  She opened her eyes at last, turning to him, smiling, and caught an unguarded expression on his face. His feelings were there, open and defenceless. It was a look not merely of love but almost of adoration, with nothing held back, and it took her breath away. Beneath his smiles and jokes there was this?

  Then a sound disturbed the pigeons and they rose up with a wild beating of wings, thousands of them, darkening the sky, making the air swirl. Her head spun, though whether it was the pigeons or what she had just seen Dulcie was too confused to know.

  And when the flight was over and she could see him again she found that he was rising, gathering bags and saying things about leaving. She managed to take a bag in the teeth of his protests, and they wandered away along the waterfront until it was time to turn inland where some of the calles were so narrow that she had to walk behind him, but still with her hand clasped in his.

  In her mind she could still see his face, transported with joy yet with a strange look of peace, like a man who’d come home and found it a blissful place. She wanted to close her eyes against that look, and she wanted to see it all her life.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked, looking back at her. ‘You’re lagging behind. Are you tired?’

  ‘No, I’m fine.’

  ‘I’ve kept you out too long.’ He slipped an arm about her shoulders. The smile he gave her was almost like those she’d seen before, just friendly. But behind it she could see the shadow of the other look. She slipped an arm about his waist and let him guide her home through streets of gold.

  CHAPTER SIX

  H E ORDERED her to rest in front of the television while he unpacked the food in his tiny kitchen, and made her a cup of tea. Remembering his strictures about English coffee she was half looking forward to returning the compliment, but the tea was excellent.

  She spent the afternoon at work in the kitchen while he helped with the ‘menial tasks’, fetched and carried and generally did as he was told, but with an air of meekness that belied the wicked glint in his eyes.

  Several times she glanced at him, wondering if she would catch the intense look that had seemed to suggest so much, but he had himself under command now. Except that often she sensed him watching her too.

  But he had his timetable, she knew that now. While she was officially an invalid he would act like her brother. And after that she would be gone, she remembered with a little ache.

  In the early evening they sat down to eat and her meal was a triumph. He approached it cautiously, as if to say that he’d heard about English cooking but was prepared to be kind. He ended up scraping the plate and asking for more.

  Afterwards he settled her on the sofa with a glass of prosecco, while he prepared the coffee. When he returned she was reclining peacefully on the sofa, admiring the masks on his wall.

  ‘Ah, you’re looking at my zanni,’ he said, setting the cups on a low table.

  ‘Zanni?’

  ‘It means clowns. In English you would say they are “zany”. Most of the masks there are clowns, Harlequin, Columbine, Pierrot, Pierrette, but there are others too because masks have always been so important in Venice, right back to the thirteenth century. Ladies of the night would offer themselves in a variety of “faces”, aristocrats who wanted to indulge themselves anonymously. And sometimes the “ladies of pleasure” and the “great ladies” were the same. There were couples who grew very amorous-then removed the masks and discovered they’d been married for years.’

  ‘All very disreputable,’ she said.

  ‘A lot of it was, which was why at different times in Venice’s history masks have been banned. They concealed a little too much.’

  ‘You make it sound as though masks were Venice’s exclusive preserve, but surely every civilisation has appreciated them.’

  He shrugged. ‘Certainly, you’ll find them in other countries, but it was the Venetians who turned them into an art form.’

  ‘But why? Why you and not the others?’ she asked, genuinely interested.

  ‘Perhaps it’s something to do with the Venetian character, a certain fluidity.’

  ‘What exactly do you mean, fluidity?’

  He grinned. ‘Unkind people have called it unscrupulous. We are not a solid, respectable race. How can we be?’ He indicated the canal beneath the window. ‘We don’t live on solid foundations. We travel through streets that move beneath us. Our city is sinking into the lagoon, and it has changed hands so often through the centuries that life itself isn’t solid. We live on our wits, and we’ve learned a certain-let’s say-adaptability. And the best way to be adaptable, is to keep a variety of masks available.’

  ‘A variety?’

  ‘One is never enough. Over the centuries we’ve played so many roles. We’ve conquered the surrounding areas, and in our turn we’ve been conquered. Venetians have been both masters and servants, and we know that each is just a role to be played, with its proper mask. Come and look more closely.’

  She did so, wondering at the variety of expressions that could be encompassed by a little painted cardboard.

  ‘There are so many. It’s incredible.’

  ‘There are as many as there are expressions on the human face, or types of the human heart.’

  ‘Then how is anyone to know who you really are?’

  ‘Because sooner or later each person dons the mask that reveals the truth.’

  ‘But which truth?’ she asked quickly, ‘when the truth itself is always shifting?’

  He made a sudden alert movement. ‘You understand. Something told me that you would. Of course, you’re right. I can only say that when people’s faces are hidden they are free to become their true selves.’

  ‘Then their selves shift also, and they become another self,’ she pressed him. It was somehow important.

  ‘Of course they do,’ he countered. ‘Because people turn into different people all the time. Are you the same person you were last year, last week, the day before you came to Venice?’

  ‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘Not at all.’

  He took down a mask with a very long nose and held it before his face. ‘Pantalone, the merchant, greedy for profit.’ He changed the mask for one with a shorter nose, but ugly. ‘Pulcinella, he’s a bit of a thug. In England you call him Mr Punch.’ Another change to a broad, plump mask. ‘The doctor, spouts yards of pseudo science.’

  He whisked another mask off the wall and held it up so that his eyes looked through the slits. It was uncannily like his own face.

  ‘Harlequin,’ he said. ‘His name derives from Hellecchino, which means “little devil”. He’s like a rubber ball, always bouncing back: cunning and inventive, but not as clever as he thinks he is, and his mistakes always bring him to the edge of disaster. He wears a multi-coloured costume because his kind friends have given him their old cast-offs to sew together.’

  ‘Poor fellow,’ she said laughing. ‘And are you like him?’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ he asked quickly.

  ‘You say more about him than the others.’

  ‘True. Yes, I suppose I do. I hadn’t realised. But that’s my point. A man may be Harlequin today and Pantalone tomorrow.’

  ‘You, the greedy merchant?’

  ‘Well, a merchant anyway.’ Almost to himself, he added, ‘With a pipe and slippers.’

  He saw her puzzled look and hastened to change the subject. ‘Anyway, it’s good to see you laugh. You don’t laugh enough.’

  ‘I laugh a lot with you.’

 
‘But not at other times. I wonder why.’

  ‘You don’t know what I’m like at other times.’

  ‘I think I do. Something tells me that you’re a too-serious person.’ He touched her arm lightly. ‘You let yourself get burned because you’re not used to spending time in the sun. That’s not just true of your body. Your mind and spirit aren’t used to the sunshine.’

  She was about to tell him that this was nonsense, when she was overwhelmed by the sense of its truth. Watching her, he saw the dawning of comprehension in her face.

  ‘Why?’ he said. ‘It’s not just because of the man who broke your heart.’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ she said slowly.

  Her mind was ranging back over a sea of memories. How old had she been when she’d sensed that her family lived on a knife-edge? When had she started doing the sums for her father? He’d never been able to add, perhaps because the truth was too frightening to know.

  She’d been fifteen when she’d cried- ‘Dad, you can’t afford it. You’re in so much debt already.’

  ‘Then a little more can’t hurt, can it? C’mon sweetie, don’t pull a long face.’

  A charmer, her father. But a selfish charmer who’d taught her the meaning of fear without ever knowing it. She’d built her own defences, working hard at school, promising herself a brilliant career. But it hadn’t happened. She’d ended up without a single exam pass, because a run of ill luck had convinced her father of the need for a long stay abroad. When they returned a year later her chance had passed. So she’d found a job where she could live on her wits, because in the end, they were all she had.

  ‘Tell me,’ he begged, his eyes on her face.

  ‘No,’ she said quickly. This tale of poverty wasn’t for him. ‘You’re right, I’ve been too serious.’

  ‘Maybe it’s time to put on another mask. Perhaps you should be Columbine. She’s a sensible person, but she’s also sharp and witty, and can see life’s funny side.’

  ‘Which one is she?’

  The mask he took down was painted silver, adorned with sequins and tiny coloured feathers. He fitted it gently over her face and tied the satin ribbons behind.