Chapter 15
A month later
Thomas sat in the formal garden of Villa Pisani, the holiday home of a family related to the Grittis.
It was afternoon, warm in October, and he was alone among shaped hedges, dusty paths, shrubs growing in huge vases, and lawns of rough grass, all circled by dense woodland—a world apart from the main island of Venice.
It was not what he had expected from Italy.
But he was happy, reminded of his love for nature, and peace and quiet.
They were on Lido, a large thin island used by the nobility for vacations and hunting, owing to its beaches and abundant birds.
The villa, located at the north end near the San Nicolo monastery, was roughly the size of Longbourn, and housed a caretaker and gardener as well as the visitors—Leighton, Sylvie de Montmorency, Thomas himself, and servants.
Edward Gardiner was still with the Pavans, Thaddeus Monk travelling. But Turton had moved on.
Events had come to a head in dramatic fashion.
At first, Ned had declared himself unwilling to leave, having hit on a rich vein of pleasure in the so-called ridotti, where wealthy Venetians liked to gamble in maschera—wearing masks.
The card games at these casinos required no skill: the real purpose was to flirt and pair off incognito.
What Ned had not realised was that these adventures carried a risk.
Suspicious husbands sent spies to follow their wives.
So Leighton set off for Florence, and the very next day, at two o’clock in the morning, a gondolier fished Ned Turton out of the Barcaroli canal—alive, but badly beaten. The Grittis’ physician found no broken bones, but insisted on a week’s rest for bruised kidneys.
Thomas wondered, at first, whether the attack had been ordered by Sylvie’s uncle.
But Turton explained that he had been ‘accompanying a lady home’ when two blackguards had frogmarched him into an alley.
The lady had warned the men to leave him alive, addressing them by name, but made no effort to seek help.
As to her identity Ned had no inkling, but the assailants were plainly servants sent by her husband, not vengeful Florentines.
Nevertheless, the experience underlined the relevance of Leighton’s warning, and one morning Turton’s room was empty.
No warning, no message. He had simply gone.
A few days later Henry Leighton was back, having convinced Sylvie’s uncle of his sincere desire to make amends.
Her entourage included a capable manservant and an Italian maid, replacing the unreliable French girl who had accepted Ned Turton’s bribe.
Concetta Basso had come immediately to Palazzo Gritti to welcome her friend, and her visits had continued after the transfer to Lido.
She was upstairs at this moment, in the room used as Sylvie’s boudoir, accompanied as usual by Signora Bordoni.
It was evident to Thomas that Leighton was not acting only from duty.
He had adored Sylvie from the start, but held back, upset by her infatuation with Turton.
Very different were her feelings now. Leighton had taken pains to save her from disgrace; he was her brother’s close friend; he was kind and they had fun together.
Thomas had little doubt of a happy outcome.
But he still worried, what of the child?
Would they risk taking it back to England, and try to protect Sylvie’s reputation by asserting the birth had come later, or the wedding earlier?
Or seek safety by leaving the baby at the foundling hospital?
He heard footsteps, and saw Concetta approaching with her companion. She smiled, twirling a parasol, and said, ‘A fine day, Mr Bennet. I wonder …’
‘Yes?’
‘It is a lot to ask. But Signora Bordoni yearns to walk along the beach, and Sylvie says you know the way.’
Thomas smiled at this absurdity: the beach was a few minutes away in the obvious direction.
‘May I accompany you?’
‘Molto gentile.’ So kind.
Lido was a seven-mile-long ribbon with a beach along its eastern side. In the north the shore was wild and bordered rough grass and scrub. As they strolled on the firmer sand near the sea, Signora Bordoni dropped back, allowing her mistress to speak with Thomas in privacy.
He asked after Gardiner, and Concetta laughed. ‘Oh, he learns fast, and father is so happy to train him! Mario had no head for commerce.’
‘I assumed the business would pass to your husband.’
‘It will. But Enzo comes from a family of bankers and would not be content in the role of apprentice. He thinks he knows about commerce already.’
Thomas nodded, wondering whether Francesco Pavan had urged Concetta to marry Basso for this very reason. ‘I hope your husband does not resent the new pupil.’
‘Enzo is proud. He likes control. But your friend will leave in a few months, so he is no threat.’ Concetta lowered her voice. ‘I’ve been talking with Sylvie about Mr Turton.’
‘You mean—what took place?’
A nod. ‘It was much as one might have imagined. Sylvie had grown up in a protective family and only just emerged into society. When a handsome gentleman declared himself in love with her she was excited, flattered, and at the same time overawed. She felt he knew, so to speak, the rules of the game—while she did not. He told her she must lie with him, if her love was true. Next day she confided in her maid, who explained that it was acceptable to refuse.’
‘I noticed that after a time Sylvie began avoiding him.’
‘She trusted you.’ Concetta eyed Thomas with her teasing smile. ‘As any sensible woman would.’
‘We spoke sometimes. But not of Turton.’
‘It is hard for a young girl. Such emotion, such yearning, so little knowledge. But she has found love now.’ Concetta sighed. ‘I hope you are not bored here.’
‘Reading, as ever, is my solace.’
‘Mine too!’ Concetta swirled, spreading her arms and pointing out to sea. ‘What lies over the water?’
‘The Balkan coast, I imagine.’ Thomas tried to recall his travel guide. ‘Much of it still controlled by your republic.’
‘I have been reading Giuseppe Parini, our greatest living author.’ She resumed walking.
‘He wrote a poem called Il giorno which describes the typical day of a gentleman, full of banalities. Get out of bed. Choose between chocolate or coffee. Toilette. Letters. Our young gentleman then visits his lover and they lunch with her husband!’ She turned, as if to check whether Thomas was amused or shocked.
‘Who does not mind since he has an amante of his own. They play games, walk the streets, dine, play cards, sleep late. Next morning it all repeats—except perhaps that the gentleman opts for coffee instead of chocolate.’
Thomas smiled. ‘A pointless existence.’
‘But Parini never says this! He writes as if instructing a young aristocrat how a normal man of his class passes the day. That is what makes it so funny.’
‘Your relatives are not like that,’ Thomas said.
‘They are not gentlemen. They work.’
Thomas wondered what lay behind this turn in the conversation. Was Concetta challenging him? Was she influenced by the new ideas coming out of France? But he detected no hostility. She was happy, enjoying herself.
‘I sometimes ask myself …’ He smiled, to show he was not offended. ‘Whether in my whole life I have ever done anything of benefit to another person.’
‘And have you?’
‘Not to my knowledge.’
‘Mr Gardiner says you are helping him in his career.’
Thomas looked away, recalling that he had invited Edward mainly to excuse his desertion of Fanny.
‘Come on, Mr Bennet!’ Concetta gave him a little push.
‘You must admit at least one good deed. And bankers and merchants are not saints. What motivates most of them is money, power, status. A man like yourself, having the advantage of education, can dedicate himself to higher values. Beauty. Truth.’
‘So my father told me.’ Thomas sighed. ‘And I believed him, once. But I was never destined for greatness. I have no unusual talent, no strength of purpose.’
‘The same is true of almost everyone. But you are not like Parini’s young gentleman, who wastes his life on trivialities. You observe. You learn. You appreciate.’ Concetta looked suddenly embarrassed. ‘I hope that in my small way, I do too.’
He said softly, ‘You are kind, Signora Basso. But I find it hard to take myself so seriously.’
‘Concetta.’ Pain showed on her face. ‘I would like you not to use my married name. And if you permit, I will call you Thomas when we are alone.’
He flinched, surprised, and she pressed. ‘Do you agree?’
‘Yes.’ He whispered her name, trying to pronounce correctly. Con–CHET–ta.
‘So.’ She smiled. ‘Perhaps we are friends? Thomas? But not in front of my family!’
Their eyes met, and he felt joyous, and at the same time desolate. So beautiful, so fascinating …
So unattainable.