Deep and Silent Waters

The panelled walls were hung with paintings and tapestries and a massive white marble fireplace, carved with figures, men’s faces, animals, birds, flowers, reached almost to the ceiling. Laura felt suddenly out of place, a clumsy creature in this exquisite world.

As they entered, the man playing the piano looked across the room at them, his fingers stilling on the keys. Laura felt a bewildered recognition as if she had met him before, but knew that it must be merely the Italian colouring, the black hair, olive skin, dark eyes. He had an aquiline nose, a long jawline, high cheekbones and a mouth with a firm upper lip but a full lower one, suggesting passion and sensuality.

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bsp; His mother bustled towards him, gesturing with her plump little hands. ‘Nico, look who’s here! While I was ringing his hotel he was on his way to see us.’

The pianist rose. He was taller than Sebastian, more than six foot, slim-hipped, narrow-waisted, yet with broad shoulders and a deep, muscled chest, the figure of an athlete. It seemed strange that he was wearing jeans, thought Laura. He should be in the dress of some other century, another culture. He did not have a modern face. Her eyes wandered from him to the shabby, ancient tapestries on the wall behind him, filled with men in doublet and hose, riding big horses, with dogs milling around them, confronting a stag at bay, or in a timeless Italianate landscape of cypress and olive trees with red-brick houses and churches in the distance. The faces were all Italianate – any of them could have been the living man at the piano – but there was a far more striking resemblance in a portrait hanging on another wall. of a man, full-length, in sombre red satin. It could have been a painting of Niccolo d’Angeli, and had to be one of his ancestors: the family face was unmistakable, that curved, predatory nose, the same sensual mouth, smouldering dark eyes and angular jaw.

Sebastian went towards him. They stared at each other, then began talking in rapid Italian, shook hands, smiled.

It was a shock to Laura to see how alike they were, at least in their colouring and build, both of them tall, dark men of much the same age with similar faces. They could be brothers.

Her breath caught. Brothers. She slid a furtive look at the Contessa, who was intent on watching them and did not catch Laura’s stare. Sebastian couldn’t be this woman’s son, too? Could he? He had never spoken about his mother to her, except to say that she had died before he left Venice at the age of six. It would explain so much.

Then her common sense reasserted itself. No, it couldn’t be. She had only just met the Contessa, but there was no mistaking the pride and arrogance in that face under the bland smiles. This was not a woman likely to have had a love affair with one of her own servants. She mustn’t let her imagination run away with her.

She was so busy staring at his mother that she missed the moment when Niccolo d’Angeli turned in her direction and suddenly found him standing in front of her, looking intently at her with those liquid dark eyes so like Sebastian’s.

He was saying something, but his Italian accent was so strong that for a moment she didn’t realise he was speaking English and gazed at him without understanding, only thinking that he was much taller than herself – which she always noticed because she was often conscious of being taller than some of the men she met. They always hated that: you saw it in their eyes, in their reluctant, sulky smiles. Men liked women who were smaller than they were, little women they could feel protective about, pet, patronise.

‘Delighted to meet you,’ she heard, and then he reached out, took her limp hand and lifted it to his mouth, the kiss so soft and brief she could hardly believe it had happened until he had released her hand. Then she felt herself blushing.

‘How do you do?’ she mumbled, looking down, in the old child-like belief that if you didn’t meet someone’s eyes they couldn’t see you.

He smelt of a strange mixture of fragrances: turpentine and paint, woodsmoke and a fresh, astringent pine aftershave.

‘I recognised you at once from your films, and you were a model, weren’t you? The camera loves you – it’s those high cheekbones and that wonderful mouth.’ He lifted one long index finger and brushed it along her lips, making her shiver. Sebastian had done that once; the gesture had been identical, her own sensation too.

‘Please,’ Nico said, in his deep, foreign voice, waving a hand towards the yellow sofas. ‘Shall we sit down? Will you have a drink? Some wine?’ He walked to a tray standing on a table near the piano, pulled a bottle out of a bucket of ice and held it up to the dying light from the window. ‘This is a very good Soave, from Verona, not far from here. I know the vineyard it comes from, it is last autumn’s vintage, and you know, they say with white wine drink the youngest wine you can – I can promise it is good.’ It was pale yellow with a green tinge to it. He poured glasses, handed them to his mother and Laura, who had both sat down, then to Sebastian, who still stood as if he couldn’t wait to get away, his brows creased in a faint frown.

Raising his glass in a toast, Niccolo said, ‘Cin cin … salute!’

Laura took a sip. It tasted faintly almondy, quite pleasant. She took another mouthful, self-conscious under the two pairs of eyes, wishing that Niccolo and his mother would stop staring at her.

‘How long are you staying in Venice, Miss Erskine?’ Nico asked.

‘Please, call me Laura.’ The formality of the house was unnerving enough; having him use her surname made it worse. ‘Just two days, we leave the morning after the award ceremony.’

‘Do you have to? Couldn’t you stay a little longer?’

‘I’d love to, but our flight is booked.’

‘Have you been to Venice before?’

She shook her head.

‘Then you must change your flight and stay a few more days – it would be a crime for you to leave so soon. There is so much to see here that a month wouldn’t be long enough, let alone two days. I would love to show you my city, a guided tour of some private houses as well as the usual tourist places.’

‘That’s very kind but I have to get back.’ Laura jumped as something moved behind her on the sofa. She twisted her head to look and broke out into laughter as she saw a tiny black kitten curled up on one of the cushions. ‘Oh, how sweet!’ She put her wine glass on the floor, then turned to pick up the kitten and put it on her lap, stroking the small head with one finger; a slender crimson leather collar encircled its throat. ‘I didn’t see it there. How lucky that I didn’t sit on it. I might have injured it, as it’s so small. How old is it?’

Niccolo knelt down beside her and caressed the kitten too. ‘Just six weeks, his mamma is our kitchen cat, a stray who wandered in here one day.’ She was beginning to understand his English now that her ear had grown accustomed to his strong accent, or perhaps she was so interested in the kitten that she was listening more intently.

‘Lucia adores cats, and she has a soft heart, but my mother was not pleased when these kittens arrived. One died and we’ve managed to find homes for two, but not for this one yet.’ He smiled into her eyes. ‘If you would like him we’d be very happy to let you have him.’

Her face fell with regret. ‘Oh, I wish I could take him back with me, but we have such strict laws about animals coming into Britain. They would insist on him staying in quarantine for six months and that would be cruel to such a very young cat.’

‘Yes, too cruel, I agree. Well, while you’re here you can visit him whenever you like, then,’ Nico said softly, and his long, sensitive fingers brushed against Laura’s as they both fondled the kitten. A prickle ran up her arm, awareness, attraction, a rare sensation for her.