The Venice Sketchbook(85)

“Caroline, I am so sorry. The rain did not begin here until it was too late, or I would have come for you. Here, let me take that wet coat.” He helped her off with it and deposited the dripping umbrella into a stand in a square marble hall. Then he gave her an encouraging smile and led her inside. The room was spacious but not overpowering, with some good pieces of furniture but essentially liveable. A couple was sitting on either side of a fireplace. The man stood up as she entered. “So Father, this is Mrs Grant, the English lady I was telling you about. Caroline, this is my father and mother, the Count and Countess Da Rossi.”

The words “Count and Countess” brought her up short. Why had he not mentioned that his family was noble? The proprietress at the pensione had called them “one of the great families,” so Caroline should have been prepared. The man must have noticed her uneasiness. He came forward with his hand extended.

“Dear Mrs Grant. Welcome. I am so sorry that you got caught in the sudden rainstorm. I’m afraid this is a disadvantage of living in Venice in the winter months. Luca, pour some Prosecco for our guest.”

“Come and sit beside me.” The countess patted the sofa beside her. “You must warm up after your ordeal. And we can speak English.”

She looked younger than her years, although her husband looked his age, with a shock of iron-grey hair. The countess’s hair was still an attractive red-blonde. Whether this was natural or not, Caroline couldn’t say. But she did notice that the countess was most elegant in a plain grey cashmere dress with a Hermè s scarf at her neck.

“It’s kind of you to have me when you must be jet-lagged,” Caroline said.

“Not at all. It stopped us from falling asleep at seven o’clock and then waking in the middle of the night,” the count said. “So our son tells us that you have inherited a floor of one of the Da Rossi buildings. How fascinating. And we don’t know how or why this lease was granted?”

“We don’t,” Caroline said. “All we can think is that it was wartime and maybe they were glad to have the building occupied.”

“Possible, I suppose,” the count said. “So what do you plan to do with the place? Keep it as a holiday retreat?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Caroline said. “It’s all been a bit of a shock. We had no idea, you see. My great-aunt was a private person and never mentioned to any of us that she had lived in Venice. The first I knew was that I inherited the key to her bank vault.”

Caroline looked up as there was a satisfying pop and Luca uncorked a bottle of Prosecco.

“She was a woman who liked to travel? A fashionable type?” the count asked.

Caroline smiled. “Quite the opposite when I knew her. She was quiet, reserved—the epitome of a British spinster. That’s why I’m still so surprised. We were wondering . . .”—she paused, and glanced across at Luca, who was now coming towards her with a glass—“if maybe she had been employed by your family as a nursemaid, a nanny. Although she may have left Venice when you were still a baby. Do you remember your nanny?”

His face lit up, making him suddenly look much younger. “But yes. As it happens, I do remember her well,” he said. “She was very nice. Warm. Unlike my mother, who rarely came to visit the nursery.”

“And your nanny’s name? Did you know that?”

“Let me see. Of course I always called her Nanny. Yes. It was Julie . . .”

“Juliet?”

“No, no. Giuliana. She was a big woman. Arms like tree trunks.” He laughed. “She’d envelop me in her arms and make everything all right. She spoke Venetian to me.”

“Ah.” Caroline nodded. “So not my great-aunt then.”

“But Caroline has sketches of a baby that looks a lot like you—like that old portrait of you that used to hang on the nursery wall. Whatever happened to that?” Luca asked.

“I’ve no idea. It disappeared years ago.” He looked up. “Ah, good. Here is food at last.” And a maid came in with a tray of prawns, olives, bruschetta with various toppings. Conversation waned as they ate. Then they were summoned in to dinner. Talk turned to Luca’s experience in the United States, his mother’s family, the difference in lifestyle. “My cousins—they all had a car when they were sixteen. Can you imagine?” he said. “I had to wait until I was twenty.”

“Where is there to drive in Venice?” his father asked, and they all laughed.

The countess asked about Caroline, and she found herself spilling out some of the story about Teddy, stuck in New York because of the attack on the World Trade Center.

“How you must miss him,” the countess said. “I’m sure he’ll be able to fly soon.”

“I have been telling her that I think she should just go and get him,” Luca said. “What child would not want to fly home with his mother?”

“I’m just praying that they haven’t poisoned his mind against me,” Caroline said. “My ex-husband could be very manipulative. But surely you don’t want to talk about my worries. I came here to find out about my great-aunt, but I think we’re never going to know any more.”

“You say your aunt did sketches of Angelo when he was a baby?” the countess asked.

Angelo. She hadn’t heard his first name before, and her thought went instantly to the painting that hung on her great aunt’s wall at home. Angelo. The little angel. It was him. As she raised her eyes, she found the count looking directly at her. There was something in his gaze she found disquieting. In his eyes. Then she realized what it was. He was looking at her exactly as Aunt Lettie had done before her sight failed. Head slightly to one side, eyebrows slightly raised. And then she knew. Aunt Lettie wasn’t his nanny. She was his mother.