Chapter 16
Sylvie de Montmorency’s baby was due, and of a sudden the sleepy haven of Villa Pisani was a hive of activity.
From Venice, a caorlina rowing boat brought Concetta, accompanied by a midwife and a wet-nurse.
Also in the group were Francesco Pavan and Edward Gardiner, visiting until evening.
Henry Leighton had immersed himself in organisation, provisioning the villa not only with food, but every imaginable practical or medical necessity.
Two absentees were Enzo Basso and Thaddeus Monk. Basso was away on business, travelling inland to Padua and Verona. Monk had returned from Rome and was in Hotel Leon Bianco, ready to guide Leighton’s party back to England; he had no wish to spend a day on Lido.
Winter in Venice had brought snow, ice, and freezing fog, but by mid-February the air was mild, with a promise of spring. After lunch, while attention focussed on Sylvie, Thomas took Edward aside and suggested a walk through the woods to the monastery.
It was the first time Gardiner had described his work with Pavan, and Thomas found his account surprising and even quite interesting.
If he had thought of the topic at all, he had imagined a merchant as someone who carried spices or carpets or whatever to a faraway place and exchanged it for gold, silver, or other merchandise.
Long ago this might have been true, but modern trade had been transformed by the so-called packet ships, introduced to carry mail but able to transport people and goods as well.
A new type of merchant had emerged—the broker, who bought and sold on behalf of clients.
A broker would reserve space on a packet boat and fill it with goods for several clients, including shops as well as wealthy individuals.
Ships sank, of course: transport by sea carried risk.
But this had become a minor problem with the availability of marine insurance.
Through Francesco Pavan, Edward now understood how this system operated.
He had met captains of packets from England and learned how to reserve space on the best terms. He knew how insurance worked, and which Venice banks had arrangements with their counterparts in London’s Lombard Street.
He had also met the producers, not only of glass and porcelain, but jewellery, art, furniture, clothing.
These items were ideal for his purposes because they had high value per unit volume, and unlike food, could be moved and stored without decaying.
While establishing these contacts, Edward had collected samples; these would be shipped to London, allowing him to impress rich collectors or shop owners.
Next morning Sylvie’s labour began, and Concetta joined the midwife and the wet-nurse while Henry Leighton hovered in the corridor outside the bedroom.
Thomas, having no useful role, took a book to the salotto, a pleasant well-lit room overlooking the gardens.
Pavan and Gardiner were back in Venice, so his only company was Signora Bordoni, who seemed amused at the fuss being made over Sylvie, and muttered Fanno d’una mosca un elefante—They make an elephant out of a fly.
She added that she had given birth to five children in her youth with no difficulty at all.
After an hour Concetta came down, swinging her arms impatiently as she suggested a walk.
First births, according to the midwife, took time.
The baby would come ‘when it was ready’, perhaps in the evening.
They wandered around the garden, past fig trees, lemon trees, cypresses, and continued through woodland to the beach.
It was a cool grey day, and Concetta strode ahead at such a pace that Signora Bordoni struggled to keep up.
‘Why the hurry?’ Thomas said.
‘I am afraid. For Sylvie. And perhaps a little angry with her for being so silly. Also jealous. Is that enough?’
‘Poor Signora Bordoni will be worn out.’
Concetta looked back with a sniff. ‘She is fine.’
Turning, Thomas realised this was true: the companion had let them go ahead and resumed her usual ambling gait.
‘So you make confusion over nothing, Thomas Bennet.’ A grin, and Concetta walked on—a little slower.
‘Why should you be jealous of Sylvie?’
Concetta paused, before blurting out, ‘Because she can have babies and I can’t.’
He gasped, not expecting such a momentous reply. ‘I’m sorry, Concetta. Is this certain?’
‘I am married already three years. My husband, eager for a son, asked a doctor to examine me.’ She screwed up her face.
‘We say in Italian, esplorazione in piedi. The lady stands up while the doctor kneels and explores. The doctor found I had a defect and could not have children. So you see …’ She faced him, eyes blazing.
‘It is true what my husband says. Una moglie inutile. Useless wife.’
‘Then he is either stupid or cruel. No woman chooses to be barren. It is a misfortune.’
‘Dearest Thomas!’ Her anger melted. ‘But if your wife were—how do you say—barren, would you not also be disappointed?’
‘In fate, not in her.’
‘I think you would comfort her. You would explain how much you valued her mind, her taste, her conversation.’
‘Hmm.’
He hesitated, and Concetta gave him a shove. ‘Now it is my turn to be disappointed. In you!’
‘I try to be kind …’ He broke off, unsure whether to go on. But it felt natural to confide in Concetta after she had revealed such intimacies. ‘In truth, my marriage has turned out badly. We can have children. But I am the wrong kind of man to make her happy.’
She sighed, and was silent awhile, before asking, ‘Is that why Signora Bennet did not come with you to Venice?’
‘She is interested in my estate, the town where we live, and her status in the local community. Nothing else.’
‘Poor lady.’ She faced him sadly. ‘She has a treasure, and cannot see it.’
He stopped walking for a moment, and their eyes met. ‘I could say the same of your husband.’
A long pause, then she took a deep breath and moved on, pointing to the sky. ‘Do you think God laughs at us?’
‘Ask a priest.’
‘I would not dare! But humour is my consolation, and I think yours too. It makes us less—resentful. We admit our errors, and see ourselves as if from afar. There is a saying by one of your great English statesmen, Walpole. To the man who feels, life is a tragedy; to the man who thinks, a comedy.’
Thomas smiled. ‘So we are both people who think?’
‘You more than me.’ She threw up her hands. ‘Do you mind listening to my nonsense, Thomas?’
‘There is nothing I would rather do.’
‘I can stay this week. Then my husband will return, and you will leave for England.’
She sighed, and they talked of other things.
During dinner a maid ran in with news that a baby girl had arrived. Thomas entered last, and saw Concetta beside the cradle, gazing in wonder, while Sylvie sat up in bed leaning against two pillows.
Thomas took the seat at Sylvie’s side. ‘How are you?’
‘Tired.’ She spoke good English now. ‘Relieved it is all over.’
‘The midwife says you are fine, and that the little one is perfectly formed.’
A shrug. ‘I held her briefly, and yes, she is quite sweet. But for now I am simply glad she is out. The wet-nurse can look after her.’
‘You must get your strength back.’
Thomas rose and joined Concetta at the cradle. Babies in his experience looked much alike, but he had been entranced by Jane’s eyes, and her pale fair hair. Sylvie’s daughter was brown-haired, her skin still red and blotchy.
He smiled at Concetta. ‘Has Sylvie chosen a name?’
Concetta shook her head, with a slight frown. ‘For now I use Bambalina, which means little girl.’
Thomas gently fingered the tiny hands. ‘A miracle.’
Concetta leaned over the baby and cooed, ‘Hai sentito?’ Did you hear? ‘Sei un miracolo!’
‘Who knows what future awaits her.’
Concetta sighed, and Thomas moved away.
Downstairs he found Henry Leighton relaxing on the divan with a decanter of port. Leighton waved, and poured a second glass. ‘Cheers! Mission accomplished.’
Thomas clinked glasses. ‘What comes next, if one may ask?’
‘I ask for Sylvie’s hand. In fact …’ Leighton lowered his voice. ‘I wrote to the baron a month ago for his consent. He will reply to Florence.’
‘Did you mention, ah, …’
‘The baby? No.’ He made a helpless gesture. ‘Frankly, I don’t see how we can keep it. Fortunately, Sylvie agrees.’
‘She might develop feelings for the child.’
‘We can have our own sons and daughters. The priority is to protect the family reputation.’
‘You could pretend the baby was adopted.’
‘And have Sylvie reminded every day of Turton, and her own naivety?’ Leighton drained his glass.
‘Sorry, but I’ve made the arrangements. I shall make a substantial anonymous contribution to a charity.
In return, the director will accept the baby and treat it as a foundling left on the hospital doorstep.
The little girl will be well treated, and receive an education.
Meanwhile, once Sylvie is recovered, we shall go to Florence and prepare for our marriage.
Which means I cannot join you on the return journey.
Sorry and all that. But you can keep my carriage and driver, and I’ll leave a letter of credit with Thaddeus. ’
‘Good of you.’ Thomas paused. ‘Are you certain about this, Henry? The marriage I mean.’
‘You fear I am acting out of duty to the Montmorencys, having failed to protect their daughter?’ Leighton shook his head. ‘On the contrary, I love her. Always have.’
It was past midnight, and the house had at last gone quiet.
Sylvie would be asleep, exhausted, the baby removed to the floor above with the wet-nurse.
Thomas lay awake, contemplating the next weeks as if watching sand fall through an hourglass.
Venice had been the highlight of his life, and for a few days its beauty and fascination would still be his.
But the upper chamber of the hourglass was almost empty.
A creak came from below the window, and he got up to take a look.
His room was at the back, facing the ornamental garden, and in the moonlight he could see clearly the first-floor terrace, the statues on the balustrade, and the silvery outlines of sculpted hedges, fountains, and benches.
A woman came out, ghostly in a white nightgown, her unpinned hair streaming over a shawl.
She threw her arms out as if embracing the cold air, and whirled round in a gesture Thomas recognised.
Not Sylvie, nor Signora Bondoni. But what was Concetta doing?
He considered opening the window and calling down, but instead put on a dressing gown and slippers, and felt his way to the stairs.
On the first floor the salotto still glowed with the embers of the fire.
Carefully Thomas went to the French window, closed but unbolted, its green shutters pushed aside.
He saw the figure in white standing at the far edge of the terrace, a sizeable area where they had dined during summer; on each side, steps ran down to the garden.
He took a deep breath, and opened the door.
She turned, raising her hands protectively, and spoke in a soft hiss. ‘Thomas? Sei tu?’
He came closer, whispering. ‘What are you doing?’
She pointed up at the second floor. ‘The others …’
‘Asleep. I heard because my room is directly above. You will catch cold out here.’
A nod, and she returned to the salotto, carefully fixing the shutters and pulling the bolts. They faced one another and he saw she was shivering.
‘Will you return to your room?’ He whispered, although no-one would hear them now.
She went to the fireplace. ‘It’s warmer here.’
‘I can find you a blanket.’
She shook her head, and met his eye with a look of supplication. ‘Hold me, Thomas. For a few seconds.’
He moved forward, with an uncanny sense that this was happening to someone else. His arms enfolded her; he felt the fabric of her nightgown and the soft curve of her waist. Her eyes were tearful, but she was smiling, like a naughty child.
‘Is this a mortal sin?’
He withdrew, and they remained holding hands. ‘I don’t care.’
‘We manage these things better in Italy. Every week we confess our sins. Then we leave the church, cleansed, and commit the same sins over again.’
‘Concetta …’ He sighed. ‘Why?’
‘The terrace?’ She pulled an armchair nearer the fire and sat down. ‘It was such an emotional day. Sylvie. You. The poor baby. It is foolish, but I wanted, somehow, to escape.’
‘Where could you go?’
‘Nowhere! It was, how do you say, symbolic.’
‘You feel trapped?’
‘It is my fault, of course, so I have no reason to complain. But yes. Because my situation in life is that I cannot have the love of a man, nor that of a child. And today I see a child come into the world unloved by her mother. And I see you, and know you will soon be gone.’
He nodded. ‘In bed I was having similar thoughts. Not about the baby. About Venice—and you.’
Concetta took the poker, and kneeled beside the grate. ‘If we clear the ash, there may be brighter embers beneath.’
‘Let me do it.’ He kneeled beside her, but she gave him a little push and deftly exposed the glowing wood.
‘There.’ She replaced the poker and faced him, still on her knees.
‘We have a few days,’ Thomas said.
She extended a hand. ‘Which must last me for ever.’
‘As a memory to treasure?’
‘A dream, for ourselves only.’ She met his eye in an intense gaze. ‘Is it possible, do you think?’
He thought of his marriage vows, given at a time when he had never experienced love and had assumed he never would.
Perhaps the conventions were right. Wives had to be cared for, children had to be raised in stable families.
Happiness had sometimes to be renounced, even the most intense joy that life could offer …
But to be denied even a single experience?
Forever?
He looked up at Concetta, who was smiling as if amused by his soul-searching, and reached again for her hand. They came together, gently, and their lips brushed.
‘My true love,’ he whispered.
‘My heart is yours. Now and always.’
They kissed again, with intense hunger, as if in sudden realisation that a week would have to suffice for a lifetime.