Deep and Silent Waters

‘How long have you known Signor Canfield?’ asked Vittoria, aware of the man behind her, talking to Carlo. The sound of his voice made her head beat with rage. He had killed her mother. She wanted to scream it at him. Murderer.

‘I met him in the States while I was over there. He was lecturing at the same university. When he said he was writing a book on Venetian art I invited him to stay with us.’ Domenico smiled down at her.

Vittoria’s heart turned over sickeningly. He was so beautiful.

‘Charming, isn’t he?’ Domenico murmured. ‘He told me he had known your family well. Wasn’t he your brothers’ tutor before the war?’

Vittoria swallowed, her throat clenched. He would be sleeping under the same roof. ‘Yes.’

‘He said there were about half a dozen boys.’

‘He exaggerates, as usual. There were four. Carlo is the only one who survived the war.’

He was watching her intently, and saw that she was trembling. Putting his arm round her shoulders to steady her, Domenico said gently, ‘I’m sorry, three brothers gone … That’s hard to bear, you must miss them badly.’

She let herself lean on him, feeling his warmth seep into her. He smelt of lemons and musk and cigarette smoke; she loved the fragrance of his skin. He was kind … or maybe he really liked her? It felt as if he did. She loved the way he smiled at her, those dark eyes full of light and warmth. She was so happy she was quite light-headed.

This was going to be a wonderful holiday.

Except for having Canfield under the same roof.

Domenico insisted that Carlo must stay, too, for the two days he meant to be in Venice, and they seemed to become instant friends. Domenico took him around the city, showed him the Accademia, San Marco, Santa Maria della Salute. They did a boat trip around the canals, went out to the lagoon islands, to Murano to buy dark red glass, to Torcello to see the Byzantine cathedral. Carlo bought lace and linen to take back to Rachele before they went on to San Michele, the cypress-enclosed cemetery island with the white walls.

When they visited Aunt Maria for afternoon tea Domenico came with them. The old woman was pink with pleasure. She had never before entertained one of Venice’s aristocrats in her own home. As they left two hours later she whispered to Vittoria, ‘Come again, alone, I can’t wa

it to hear all about the palazzo.’

Every evening the men went out – to Harry’s Bar, or one or the other of Domenico’s favourite drinking spots where he introduced Carlo to his friends, smooth Italians, bluff Englishmen, rich Americans who spent their days moving from the first aperitif of the morning to the last brandy of the night, with many stops in between. There were women, too; tough American journalists, elegant English girls, sultry Italians with red, red mouths and hot eyes.

After his two days were up Carlo stayed on. Vittoria had no idea what he did all day but if she saw him come back he often smelt of strong perfume and was almost always drunk.

She was having a wonderful time, too. Olivia had insisted on taking her shopping, talked her into buying clothes Vittoria would never quite have dared buy without Olivia’s persuasion.

Tight-waisted dresses, in pastel colours, poplin shirts in lavender or green, pretty high-heeled shoes or flat black-leather ones. Olivia chose carefully for her to give her more height, make her look slimmer.

Rachele kept ringing up asking when Carlo was coming home. At last one morning she wired that she was coming to Venice to get him.

Carlo grimaced. ‘Well, that’s the end of my holiday. It was too good to last, but never mind, I’ve had the best time of my life. I’ll go up and pack and catch the next train to Milan.’

Just before he left for the station he said, ‘Enjoy the rest of your time here. Domenico’s a great fellow, I like him. We’ve had some long chats, talked it all out, I approve.’ He patted her shoulder clumsily. ‘I’ve told him I’d be delighted.’

‘Delighted about what?’ Shy, excited, uncertain, half hoping yet afraid to let herself believe it, she looked up into his face and Carlo grinned at her.

‘Oh, you know! I’m pleased, Toria. It’s just what I want for you.’

Questions rushed to her tongue but he didn’t wait for her to ask them. Looking at his watch he groaned.

‘I must go. If I miss that train, Rachele will be waiting for me with a rolling pin!’ He kissed her cheek and was gone, swinging along between his crutches at his usual fast pace. She ran out to the landing-stage in time to see the d’Angeli boat chugging away. Carlo waved to her, then he was gone.

Vittoria stayed on another month. In summer Venice was a place of heady pleasures; glorious open-air parties, dances, picnics on the Lido beaches.

As the heat of August passed into the first, cooler days of September, Domenico took Vittoria out into the familiar, elegant gardens of Ca’d’Angeli and, standing in the shade of a great, ancient yew tree, said, ‘Vittoria, I have spoken to your brother and he has given me permission to ask you to marry me. Will you be my wife?’

She was so overcome she couldn’t answer for a moment. Domenico had kissed her a few times, gently, once when they walked home together after a dance, once here in the garden after dinner, but he had not spoken of love.

He looked down into her face searchingly, then smiled. ‘I promise, I will always take care of you, Toria, you can trust me, I won’t ever let you down.’

He took her face between his palms and bent to kiss her, slowly, softly, with a new intimacy, parting her lips, turning her bones to jelly and making her so happy she was almost faint. He did love her. He must love her. He hadn’t actually said he did. But why else had he asked her to marry him?