Chapter 13
Six weeks later
They had reached the sea at Mestre, and across the lagoon saw at last the domes and towers of Venice, glowing in the sunset.
While Monk and Leighton made practical arrangements, Thomas descended with Edward Gardiner, keeping an eye on Ned Turton as he drew Sylvie de Montmorency aside, her maid following dutifully.
They were in a formal garden with statues, hedges, and trestles where vendors offered melons, figs, drinks with ice.
Thomas ordered lemonade and carried a glass to Sylvie.
‘Merci.’ Sylvie’s English was improving, but she often reverted to her own language. ‘You are a treasure.’
‘There are gondolas.’ Turton pointed. ‘What’s Monk up to?’
Edward Gardiner joined them, bringing slices of melon. ‘Finding custodians for our carriages and horses.’
‘They seem well organised here.’ Thomas saw Leighton returning, and waved. ‘Henry! Have a drink!’
‘Thanks.’ Leighton took a long draught. ‘We can leave now. Thaddeus will make sure our luggage is sent to the right place. He thinks we’ll find rooms at Hotel Leon Bianco. If not, it can be sent on.’
There was little conversation during the crossing.
The faintest of breezes rippled the lagoon, thick with gondolas in both directions, as they circled the north of Venice and entered through the Canal Reggio, their gondola weaving a route through barges and other boats.
On either side, tenements loomed over the narrow canal, orange-red brick walls crumbling with age.
Every so often came a bridge for pedestrians, set so low that the gondolier had to crouch.
They emerged into the wide Grand Canal, and a sharp left turn delivered them to a jetty where a call from their gondolier brought two servants to help them disembark.
Entranced, Thomas looked down the canal to the Rialto Bridge, just visible round the next bend. The palaces were breathtaking, in a mixture of styles embracing centuries of history. It was a view everyone should see, he thought, at least once in their lives.
Sylvie came to his side. ‘Magnifique.’
Their eyes met: she was equally moved.
‘It is a gift,’ he said.
‘Florence too, they say,’ she said in French. ‘You must visit. With Monsieur Leighton.’
Thomas entered the hotel, noting with a smile that she had not included Turton in the invitation.
They found rooms, Thomas sharing with Edward Gardiner, Miss de Montmorency with her maid, and while awaiting their luggage took supper on a balcony as dusk fell.
It was fresh local fare: bean soup with rough noodles, a plate of seafood, and a local speciality of liver fried with onions.
In the dark, gondolas continued to pass at surprising speed, their lanterns creating a pattern of dancing lights reflected in the water.
Later, the sound of an orchestra approached from the Rialto bridge, and they saw a barge pass with the musicians, gondoliers echoing the melody in their plaintive voices.
‘An enchanted city,’ Thomas said to Edward. ‘Have you plans for tomorrow?’
Gardiner looked down the table, where Henry Leighton and Ned Turton were competing for the attention of Sylvie. ‘I see no point in delay. Mario promised to write to his father on my behalf. I will introduce myself, and see what follows—if anything.’
‘Would it help if I came along?’
‘You will want to explore.’
‘We’ll be here months. And like you I’m eager to meet the Pavans.’
A dessert was served as Thaddeus Monk returned with their trunks.
The bear-leader tucked into bean soup while Leighton made an announcement.
The hotel owner knew of a family called Gritti with a palace further along the Grand Canal, in between the Rialto bridge and St Mark’s Square.
A floor presently rented to Austrian visitors would be free at the end of the week.
It would make an ideal base. Miss de Montmorency could stay there too while awaiting her uncle, who was to take her on to Florence …
Thomas glanced at Edward, wondering how much this was going to cost. But they could share a small room, and Leighton, always generous, would let them off lightly.
They retired to bed, to be woken early by shouting and splashing.
Unshuttering the window, Thomas saw the canal covered in an assembly of barges and rafts laden with fruit and vegetables.
These craft were not going anywhere; they formed a floating market, where servants were already jumping from raft to raft to make their purchases.
Amidst this confusion, Thomas spotted gentlemen in evening finery, presumably treating themselves to grapes, peaches or melons before going home to sleep off a night spent gambling, or drinking, or cavorting with their mistresses.
According to Turton, the alleys around the canal concealed a multitude of small apartments that the nobility maintained, in secrecy, for amorous adventures; how he knew this was unclear, but perhaps the hotel owner had expertise in this direction as well.
Edward was impatient to get started, but Thomas managed to dissuade him: the Pavans might not be early risers. A leisurely breakfast, careful toilette, and they descended to the jetty.
Francesco Pavan lived in a corner tenement further up the Grand Canal, in a zone populated by banks and merchants.
The ground floor served as an office, but on seeing two well-dressed English visitors, the clerk sent for a footman who escorted them up a staircase.
Here the décor abruptly changed: stone stairs, worn by the passage of feet for centuries, gave way to a hall with a Persian rug, chandelier, fine furnishings and art.
A short wait, and the owner arrived, a man of sixty, well-preserved, dressed in dark brown waistcoat and breeches with a white ruffle at the neck.
‘Buon giorno. Ben arrivato.’ Pavan bowed with understated elegance, and switched to accented but precise English as he ushered them to a studio filled with books and samples. He found them comfortable seats and called for wine and almond biscuits. ‘Friends of Mario, no? You are most welcome!’
Assessing Pavan, Thomas found him serious and acute. A healthy glow suggested he took care of himself. The silver hair (no wig) was neatly cut and curled at the bottom. The eyes were relaxed, the mouth determined: a man one could like and trust—but not easily deceive.
Introductions were made, and Signor Pavan listened attentively as Edward Gardiner explained his purpose. The wine was sweet and white, and Thomas felt a drowsy well-being as the merchant let Edward have his say, interrupting occasionally to clarify a point.
‘Excellent.’ Pavan spoke quietly. ‘I see you are educated, practical, well-versed in law. All valuable qualities. But one needs also to understand, how do you say, the mechanism of buying and selling. If I may ask, what drew your interest to Venice in particular?’
‘The coincidence of meeting your son,’ Edward said.
‘Mario has charm.’ Pavan sighed. ‘But practicality, no. I hoped once he might take over the family business. I have had instead to train my son-in-law Signor Basso. But for the sake of honesty, I should confess that Venice is not what it has been in past centuries. The world has learned from us. In England, Mr Wedgwood makes fine pottery. In Saxony they make porcelain and glass. Even our artists are copied. Yes, we produce. My friend Geminiano Cozzi has his factory still, and a warehouse full of fine pieces, the porcelain we once called white gold. Yet to sell in England is hard: my broker in London has fewer orders with each passing year.’
‘Do you have confidence in him?’ Thomas asked.
‘Not much.’ Pavan turned to Gardiner. ‘Let me show you what we have. If you are still keen to proceed, it would please me to employ you here. I will teach what I know, introduce you to other producers. And we shall see.’
Edward’s face lit up. ‘That would be wonderful.’
‘Come.’ Pavan rose, and showed them a cabinet holding cups, saucers, plates, but also classical sculptures in glossy light-grey porcelain.
Thomas studied a figure of Neptune standing over four seahorses, all exquisitely rendered.
In size it was suitable as a centrepiece at a formal dinner, and as a work of art it must command a high price.
Still, in the London ton, fashion trumped cost: if Lord X exhibited a fine piece at a banquet, Lady Y would want one too.
Even in middle-class homes, doctors and lawyers might pay a little more to serve tea and coffee from such beautiful sets.
They moved to chandeliers and other samples of glassware. Similar pieces hung at Longbourn, Lucas Lodge, and other estates near Meryton. But centuries of tradition told, and Pavan’s exhibits had an effortless artistry evident even to the non-expert.
‘You must meet my family!’ Pavan was in good spirits as they took their leave. ‘The Leon Bianco, right? I will confer with my wife and my brother, and let you know.’
Messages passed, and by evening the invitation was extended to Thomas’s entire party, and the venue established as the Pavan ancestral home in Campo San Luca, a quarter beloved of artists and writers.
A servant was sent to guide the visitors through a maze of alleys and bridges to a small paved square—a short walk, but impossible to remember.
The house belonged to Lorenzo Pavan, the older of the brothers and an artist of renown.
Inside it was spacious, with a grand hall, and a warren of rooms mostly let to students who assisted the master in his work.
In appearance Lorenzo was stockier than his brother, with unruly white hair, and mobile features that openly displayed his feelings.
‘Benvenuti!’ The artist was seated at the end of a long table, flanked by two students; nearby, Francesco Pavan sat by his wife Agnese, whom Thomas and Edward had met briefly that morning.
Steadied by a student, Lorenzo rose to greet them individually, but civility gave way to undisguised admiration when he espied Sylvie de Montmorency.
‘Graziosa!’ He studied her, his head tilted a little, as if memorising the topography of her face. ‘I desire …’ He struggled for words. ‘To make ritratto.’
‘He would like to paint your portrait,’ Francesco Pavan translated.
‘Mademoiselle de Mortmorency will be leaving soon for Florence,’ Henry Leighton said.
Lorenzo spread his hands. ‘Una sessione.’
‘One session is enough.’ Francesco said.
Sylvie nodded, flushed with pleasure. ‘I am honoured.’ She paused. ‘May we see …’
‘Lo studio?’ Lorenzo turned to a student. ‘Antonio!’
The young man, earnest and curly-haired, guided them up to a third-floor room. The studio was large, and very neatly laid out, with a half-finished landscape on the easel.
‘Good light.’ Antonio looked uneasy as Leighton and Turton advanced to peer at the painting. ‘No touch.’
Moving away from the others, Thomas stood at one of the three arched windows.
The area near Campo San Luca was devoted entirely to tenements, separated by narrow alleys, but from this room one could see over a smaller building to the Grand Canal and beyond.
He studied the view, fascinated, hearing footsteps as the others began to leave.
Turning, he found the studio deserted, and took the opportunity to approach the landscape and study the brushwork.
Up close it was nothing special. Retreat a few steps, and like magic it fell into place.
Descending, Thomas heard voices on the second floor, and assuming this was part of the tour, walked down a corridor to re-join the group.
A portrait of a woman attracted his interest; it was at once beautiful and sad.
The voices loudened, and he realised that a man was speaking angrily, in Italian, while a woman tried to calm him.
Thomas shrank away as a door burst open and the man stalked off towards the stairs.
Behind him a woman inched out, and with a start became aware of Thomas’s presence.
‘Signore?’
‘Scusate.’ Thomas stepped forward, hardly able to breath as he took in a face of ethereal loveliness, with dark brown eyes and straight hair modestly arranged. ‘I was, ah, looking at the painting.’ He pointed.
She sighed, as if in relief, before replying, ‘Of course! If I may present myself? Signora Basso. Concetta.’
‘Thomas Bennet. From England.’
‘I know. You are the reason we are come to the house of my uncle. The picture, you like it?’
‘Very much.’ He looked again, confirming that the lady in the portrait was not Concetta Basso. ‘Who …’
‘Rosanna, my uncle’s wife.’ She moved closer, lowering her voice. ‘She died before I was born, and in his dolore …’ She broke off. ‘How do you say?’
‘Sadness? Grief?’
‘Yes, in his grief uncle made this painting from memory. He never married again.’
Thomas nodded, and whispered, ‘Beauty passes.’
‘Esatto.’ She met his eye in a look of understanding. ‘Yet at the same time, it is all that matters. You like letteratura, perhaps? Gray? Cowper?’ A smile. ‘It is the reason I have learned a little of your language.’
He paused, transfixed by her intent expression, and the sudden intimacy of the conversation. To say something, he recalled a line of poetry.
‘The curfew tolls the knell of parting day …’
‘I know it!’ She touched his forearm, then withdrew as if aware that this gesture might be misconstrued. ‘But not all.’ She frowned in frustration. ‘And leaves the world to darkness …’
She broke off, and Thomas said, ‘We should perhaps go down.’
She sighed. ‘Of course.’
‘I could not help overhearing …’ He blinked, disturbed by her direct gaze. ‘I’m sorry. It’s not my affair.’
‘You understood?’ she asked.
‘One phrase. Just before your husband left.’
‘Inutile come moglie?’ Anger flashed in her eyes, masked by a wry smile. ‘Yes, he said I am a useless wife, and perhaps he is right. I’m sorry you heard this. Let us please forget it.’
‘I will tell no-one.’ Thomas extended a hand, inviting her to lead the way to the stairs. ‘Would your husband be angry if he saw us talking?’
She met his eye again, and with an impish smile touched a finger to her lips.