Deep and Silent Waters

Vittoria reddened, all too aware of the three men listening.

‘She looks charming, that colour suits her. I wish you would stop wearing pants, Olivia, not to mention all that makeup!’ Domenico said quickly, taking Vittoria’s hand and kissing the back of it. ‘I remember meeting you, at my house one day during the war – but, like my wicked sister, you’ve grown up since then. I don’t think I would have recognised you if I hadn’t known who you were.’

‘Thank you for inviting me to Ca’ d’Angeli,’ she managed to say, her throat dry with excitement. He was even better-looking close to. The last time they had met he had been a boy – now he was a man, so much taller than she was. She loved his clothes, the way he smiled, that wonderful golden skin. ‘How does it feel to be back in Italy?’

‘Stupendo! It’s great.’

‘Did you like America?’

‘America?’ he repeated. ‘Molto simpdtico! I loved it! It has such energy, such terrific music – and the art! Amazing! You must go there too. You’ll love it, everyone does.’

‘Not quite everyone,’ a cool, smooth voice murmured, and she reluctantly moved her eyes to Canfield.

‘Ciao, Toria,’ he said, taking one of the hands she was deliberately holding down at her sides.

He lifted it to his mouth and she felt the brush of his flesh with distaste.

She was not pleased to see him again, but she couldn’t say so in front of the others so she didn’t answer, just forced a polite smile and inclined her head. His shrewd, cynical eyes read her expression but he went on smiling, unsurprised, faintly amused, as if he had expected that reaction from her. She had never hidden her dislike and resentment.

‘You’ve become a young woman,’ he said. ‘And there’s a faint look of your mother … the eyes, perhaps? The cheekbones?’

‘My mother always said I took after my father,’ she told him coldly. ‘Maybe, if it had lived, the baby she died giving birth to might have looked like her.’

She saw him flinch. Ah! So he wasn’t as impervious as he wanted to seem. ‘It was buried with her,’ she added, watching him remorselessly, hoping to see more evidence of her blows landing, but Carlo, his eyes bulging, interrupted.

‘I didn’t expect to see you here, Canfield! What are you doing in Venice?’

Vittoria could see the relief with which the Englishman turned to face him. ‘Writing a book on Venetian art. Hallo, Carlo. You’re looking fit and well, I’m happy to see.’ He held out his hand, and Carlo took it, the habit of good manners too engrained for him to refuse.

‘Is that how you earn your living, Canfield? I remember you wrote before the war. Do you earn enough to live on or do you still teach?’

‘I no longer need to teach. My books on Italy are doing very well and I can live on the money they bring in. How’s the factory doing? I’ve seen your products everywhere so I know you’re still in business.’

As Carlo answered, his manner warming a little because Canfield had touched on the subject closest to his heart, Olivia slipped an arm round Vittoria’s waist.

‘Come on, let’s walk down to the landing-stage – our boat is waiting. The porter has taken your luggage down there already. We’re going to have such fun, Toria. There’s a beach party over at the Lido tonight, and tomorrow an American friend of ours is having a dance for his birthday. His family are meat-packers from Chicago.’

‘Are what?’ Vittoria queried, bemused by the phrase.

Olivia giggled. ‘That’s what he calls it. They put beef in cans and sell it all over America. They’re rolling in money, Toria, and Greg is gorgeous, blond and blue-eyed. Wait till you see him! He’s spoilt but, then, he’s an only son and he’ll inherit the business. He gets everything he wants – his sister is always complaining about it, and I don’t blame her, but he’s such a charmer. His parents adore him. They just gave him his own motor-boat for his birthday and he zips up and down the canal, waving to me. The Murphys live in a palazzo round the bend from us, in the Grand Canal. They rent it, of course. It belongs to the Lazaro family, but they can’t afford to live in it.’

‘Who runs the business in America while the Murphys are over here?’

‘Oh, they put in a manager and Mr Murphy goes home every so often to check on things, but Mrs Murphy and Greg and Bernadette stay here.’

‘Bernadette is the sister?’

Olivia nodded. ‘They’re Catholics, of course – Irish descent.’

‘Catholics? That’s nice.’ Vittoria had been wondering how the d’Angeli family would react to Olivia marrying outside the Church.

Olivia grinned knowingly. ‘Isn’t it? No need to worry about that!’

They both chuckled. Domenico caught up with them. ‘What are you two whispering about?’

‘You,’ his sister told him.

‘What else?’ His dark eyes wandered over the crowded steps where students in jeans and T-shirts, tourists in shorts, sat nursing their rucksacks and consulting creased maps of Venice. ‘Venice is full of Americans again,’ he told Vittoria, keeping step with her, riveting the eyes of some of the students with his long-legged, lithe body. He had a physical grace that was mesmerising, especially combined with the unintended arrogance of his self-assurance, the birthright of centuries of d’Angeli ancestors who had been lords and rulers in this city.