The Venice Sketchbook(69)

“Good morning,” he said. “How are you enjoying your new residence?”

“Very much, although it’s too cold at the moment. I need to find an electric heater.”

“I will have my men locate one for you,” he said. He went over to the window, then turned back to her. “You have not found any of your aunt’s papers? Anything to do with the lease?”

“Nothing at all, except a lot of paintings and sketches—but I did find something interesting, a reason my aunt could have been connected to your family. See here.” She sat in the chair and then held up the sheet of paper. “It’s possible she worked as a nanny to your family, don’t you think?”

Luca leaned over and examined the sketches. “Yes, it is possible. I can see a resemblance to the early photographs of my father. Oh, and you know what? There was a painting of him in the old nursery in the palazzo where I grew up. I don’t know what has happened to it now. Maybe your aunt was commissioned to do the painting, and these were the sketches she used for it.”

Caroline nodded. “The only thing that’s confusing is that your grandmother had quite a reaction to my being British, and I got the feeling her animosity could have been about my great-aunt.”

Luca shook his head. “I think it’s more probable that Nonna had a bad experience, maybe with the British soldiers when the Allies occupied the city. Conquering troops are not always well behaved, you know.”

“That’s true,” Caroline agreed, still seeing the anger in the old woman’s eyes. She was suffering from dementia, that was clear. She might have got things mixed up, but . . . “I was wondering,” she began hesitantly, “if there was a family tragedy. Perhaps a child she was caring for died and she was held responsible?”

Luca frowned. “I don’t think so. I never heard any mention of a dead child. Besides, my father would have been born around that time, and he is still alive and well. And I’m pretty sure he wasn’t a twin.” He walked over to the window, then came to perch on the arm of her chair. Caroline was horribly aware of his presence. “If she was the nursemaid, that would be relatively simple to find out. We would have old employment records in the company headquarters.” Caroline wished she was not sitting down. It put her in a vulnerable position, although there was nothing hostile in his demeanour. “The only thing I can’t understand is the ninety-nine-year lease. Who gives one of the servants a lease to this prime piece of property? And if she was the artist and not the nanny, who rewards an artist with such a nice place as this?”

“Perhaps it wasn’t nice in wartime. Perhaps it was in a dangerous position and vulnerable to hostile shelling?” Caroline said.

“You may have a point there. They wanted somebody to live in it—anybody. But you would have granted that for a month at a time, wouldn’t you?”

“We may never find out.” Caroline stared back at the smiling baby.

“So how long do you plan to stay here?” Luca asked her suddenly, getting up again.

“I have taken the three weeks’ vacation time that were owed to me. I may not stay that long, especially if a small fire can’t heat the place. I’ve been through my aunt’s possessions, and there really isn’t anything apart from the paintings. And I’m not even sure which of those I’d want. They are quite good, but . . .”

“Not your taste?”

“Not exactly, especially the abstracts and the nudes.”

“I like a good nude myself,” he said, giving her a wicked grin. Then he corrected himself. “Sorry, that was impolite of me.”

“Not at all. I am particularly fond of some of Degas’s nudes. I’m a big fan of the impressionists.”

“Me too.”

“Oh, you like art?”

“Some of it. I’m old-fashioned in my taste, although my new apartment is all very modern—sleek white lines. Bare walls.”

“You don’t want to express yourself,” she said, standing up because she didn’t like feeling at a disadvantage. “It was like my great-aunt’s room when she died. Nothing of herself in there at all. You’d never know what kind of person she was, except it was exceedingly neat and tidy.”

“Ah well, you’d never be able to say that about my rooms,” Luca said. He turned for the door. “I should go. I’ll have a heater sent up. Of course when the renovation is finished, the whole building will be centrally heated. You will be nice and warm when you come back.”

“Yes,” she said, staring out of the window, where a large freighter was now sailing out of the canal. “I don’t know when that will be. It all depends . . .”

“On when your son comes home,” he finished for her.

Her eyes met his. “Yes,” she said again.

On his way to the door, he paused. “Don’t go for a few more days. My father emailed to say they are on their way home. Leaving the grandchildren with great sadness, but my mother has a medical appointment. You should meet them and see if he remembers anything of his old nanny.”

“Thank you,” Caroline said. “I’d like that.”

“And my mother is American. She can speak English with you, which will be a great treat for her. She gets tired of speaking Italian and Venetian all the time.”