Love and Lucia Read online

  She had known then as if a voice from Heaven told her so, that this was her chance to speak to him.

  She remembered very clearly the first time she had ever seen him. It was at a Steeple Chase arranged by the Duke of Madresfield on whose estate they lived in the village of Little Morden.

  Because her mother had thought it would amuse her, she had suggested to her father, who was too immersed in his painting to be interested, that they should go to watch the Steeple Chase.

  He had looked up from his easel with a frown.

  “Is that wise, my darling?” he had enquired.

  “We need not go near the stand where the Duke and his friends will watch the race,” her mother replied. “we can see the riders at the end of the course near the Folly.”

  Her father nodded as if he knew what she meant.

  “We shall have a perfect view from there,” his wife continued, “and I know Lucia will enjoy seeing the men ride with an expertise that is something I used to enjoy watching when I was her age.”

  There was just a note of wistfulness in her mother’s voice which Lucia had noticed was always there when she spoke of fine horses.

  Although her mother and her father rode and she had a pony of her own, she knew that her mother did not feel they had the sort of horseflesh that she would wish to have for their small stable.

  Although she never complained, there were times when she spoke of how she had ridden as a girl that brought a sparkle to her eyes and a lilt to her voice that was very revealing.

  They had gone to the Steeple Chase, and as the riders came thundering towards them to take the high fence that was directly below where they were sitting, Lucia had been aware that there was one man who was outstanding.

  It was not only because he was in front of the rest of the field, but also because he appeared to ride better than anybody else and seemed to be part of the huge black stallion on which he was mounted.

  He took the fence with a foot to spare.

  Then, as his horse landed faultlessly, he looked back over his shoulder to see how those following him had fared.

  There was, as he did so, a smile of triumph and satisfaction on his lips which told Lucia he would win the race with ease.

  As he rode on her eyes followed him, and as he took another fence a little way in the distance, her mother said, “That was the Marquis of Wynchcombe. I saw in the newspaper that he has been awarded a medal for gallantry at the Battle of Waterloo.”

  “He is a very good rider, Mama.”

  “It runs in his family,” her mother answered almost beneath her breath.

  Then as the other riders passed them her father said,

  “Let us go home. I want to finish my picture, and it depresses me, my darling, to know you are regretting you cannot take the fences in the same style and riding the same sort of horses.”

  “That is where you are wrong,” her mother had replied quickly. “You know I have no regrets about anything.”

  Despite the fact that there were a few other spectators present like themselves, her mother had bent forward and kissed her husband on the cheek.

  Instantly his eyes lit up, dispelling an expression of anxiety as he asked,

  “Do you mean that? Do you really mean it?”

  “How can you ask such an absurd question?” Lucia’s mother had replied. “Let us go back to what to me is the happiest and most perfect place in the whole world, and which I would not change for a thousand Palaces or ten thousand horses.”

  Her voice rang with a sincerity which was unmistakable, and Lucia watched her father put out his hands to pull her mother to her feet.

  Then, linking his arm in hers, they had walked away over the rough grass, laughing together and saying things that only they could hear.

  Lucia followed them.

  But she was thinking of the Marquis, thinking of the way he had jumped the fence, and the smile of triumph there had been on his lips.

  She was only fifteen but she had the feeling then that she had just seen an outstanding person.

  She was sure the Marquis was a man who would always win exactly what he wanted in life, whatever opposition there might be against him.

  Chapter Three

  The Marquis found himself growing impatient as the luncheon with its inevitable dishes of pasta seemed to be more drawn out than usual.

  His host belonged to one of the most ancient Venetian families, and the rest of the guests were all aristocrats to their fingertips, and very conscious of it.

  They talked politics, and once again the iniquities of the Austrians were enumerated, criticised and mouthed over until the Marquis found himself beginning to yawn.

  The Palazzo in which the party took place was redolent with history, but was also, the Marquis noticed, badly in need of restoration.

  It was sad that so many Palaces, houses, Churches and monuments were neglected in Venice. At the same time, he could not help feeling that it was entirely the fault of the Venetians themselves.

  If they had spent less time in frivolous enjoyment, they might easily have kept their Republic independent and continued to be, as they had been once, prosperous and important.

  However, it was no use regretting the past, the Marquis thought, and he tried to encourage them to take a more optimistic view of the future.

  But when he left the party he felt that they had neither the spirit nor the determination to amend their lot.

  Instead they just grumbled against their Austrian overlords and made the lives of those who had to serve the Emperor in Venice as uncomfortable as possible.

  As his gondola sped away from the Palazzo into the sunshine he found himself looking forward to seeing Lucia again and talking, if it was possible, to Bernard Beaumont.

  The Grand Canal glittering in the sunshine reminded the Marquis of Turner’s picture of it, and yet he thought the one painted by Beaumont which he now owned was even more impressive.

  Then he told himself that it was absurd to be so obsessed by an unknown artist, and doubtless when the pictures were hung on the walls of the Palazzo he would find a hundred flaws and even be convinced that the artist’s whole conception of light was wrong.

  He was certain that was what other art lovers would tell him!

  At the same time, his instinct still told him very clearly that whatever they might say, they would be wrong, while he was right.

  As the gondola moved on, making for the small canal which would bring him as near as possible to the house where Beaumont occupied the attic, the Marquis was questioning in his mind whether all great artists painted what they felt emotionally rather than exactly what they saw with their eyes.

  The question had not occurred to him until now, but he knew that Beaumont’s interpretation of Venice appealed to him in a way which he had to admit aroused a personal involvement and was a subtle appeal to his sensitivity.

  There was something he had seldom felt before when looking at a picture.

  At the same time, some cynical, practical part of his mind wanted to argue that such an attitude was just an illusion and when he saw Lucia again he would perhaps feel very differently about her.

  The gondola drew up beside a bridge and as the Marquis stepped out he recognised a narrow callete running between high bridges and knew that at the end of it was the turning which would lead him to the house where Lucia had taken him this morning.

  He told the gondola to wait and walked through this old quarter, thinking that the washing hanging from some of the windows and the ragged children playing down near the canal were all evidence of extreme poverty.

  There were however, balconies of delicate marble flanked by carved lions which had been erected in more prosperous times.

  There were also ancient stone shields on the walls which the Marquis felt could tell a story of valour and victories which were now lost in the Venetians’ glorious past.

  He walked on until he came to the door of the high building where Lucia lived.

&nb
sp; As he reached it the Marquis had a sudden impulse not to go in, but to return to his own Palazzo.

  He had a strange feeling that if he became any more involved with Beaumont, his daughter and his pictures, it might have far-reaching consequences in his personal life.

  He had no idea why he should feel this way, and he thought it was both strange and unpleasant.

  At the same time the feeling was there, and it was almost as if he was being urged to go no further, while on the other hand it was something he wished to do.

  “It must be the wine I drank at luncheon,” he told himself.

  Then, with what was almost an effort, he started to climb the dilapidated and dirty staircase which twisted and turned up to the top floor.

  When he reached it he stood for a moment as he had before, looking out over the roofs of Venice.

  He could see the great shining domes of the San Marco, and the tall, square tower of the Campanile.

  Its gilded angel, glittering in the sun, had served once, the Marquis remembered, as a landmark for the fleets of galleys bringing the riches of the Orient to Europe.

  They had sailed into Venice, their holds filled with silks, spices, slaves, jewels, manuscripts, antique carvings and relics.

  It was their trading which had made the Venetians so rich and prosperous, and it was their frivolity and stupidity which had lost them the near monopoly they had once had of bringing to Europe the goods every country was longing to buy.

  Then, as the sunshine seemed to envelop what he was seeing with a glitter of gold which could no longer be translated into money, the Marquis turned to the door beside him and knocked on it.

  It was opened almost instantly by Lucia, who stood looking, he thought, different from how he remembered her.

  It was not only that she was wearing a coloured gown instead of the black one in which he had first seen her, and which he knew she had worn because she wished to attract as little attention as possible.

  It was the first time that he had seen her hair uncovered, and it was different from what he had expected.

  He had realised she was fair, which came from her English blood, but her hair was in fact so pale that it was the colour of the sun in the very early morning.

  Even so, in the afternoon light there were touches of gold in it and the gold was also reflected in the grey of her eyes.

  As she came from the door of the room out on to the landing where the Marquis was standing, she seemed even more insubstantial than she had been when he had first seen her.

  Her figure was so slight from privation that she seemed more like a child than a woman.

  She looked up at him, her eyes very large in her heart shaped face, and said in a low voice,

  “Papa is sleeping. I thought – my Lord, if you – did come to see me – we could talk – elsewhere.”

  “Of course,” the Marquis agreed. “Where do you suggest?”

  She made a little gesture towards the stairs up which he had just climbed and said,

  “There is a place at the back of the building which is quiet.”

  “Then let us go there,” he agreed with a smile.

  He started to descend the stairs up which he had just climbed.

  He noted as he did so, that while he chose carefully where he should put his feet on the cracked and broken steps, Lucia moved down them sure-footedly and gracefully.

  When they reached the door on to the street, Lucia moved instead down another passage which led to the back of the building.

  Here there was a door which led them down a few steps and across a dilapidated paved and walled garden that might once have been filled with flowers and statues.

  At the end of it there was another small canal.

  There was a stone seat where doubtless in days gone by the owners of the house had waited for their guests, or perhaps young people had made assignations without their parents’ knowledge.

  Even now it was still a romantic spot, with the dark water of the canal reflecting like a mirror the tall houses sweeping up on both sides of it to a blue sky.

  Lucia sat down on the stone seat, which was carved at either end with a Venetian lion, chipped and cracked but still recognisable, and as the Marquis seated himself beside her she said,

  “I – do not know how to begin to – thank your Lordship for the food you sent us. Papa looks a little better already – and now he has fallen into a sleep of contentment, which is – something he has not – done for a – long time.”

  “I hope you have eaten too,” the Marquis replied. “I do not need to tell you that you are much too thin.”

  She laughed, and it revealed little lines at the sides of her mouth which the Marquis knew were there solely because she was undernourished.

  “I had forgotten such marvellous food existed,” she said, “and Papa enjoyed the wine – although I would only let him have a – very little of – it.”

  “I have given orders to my chef to cook you a great deal more food,” the Marquis said. “It will be sent to you tonight, and I have told my secretary to find you better lodgings, with a studio where your father can work again as soon as he is well enough.”

  Lucia clasped her hands together and said in a voice that trembled,

  “How can – you be so kind? At the same time – we must not – impose on you.”

  “You are not doing that,” the Marquis answered, “and I have decided into which Bank I will pay the money for your father’s pictures.”

  There was a little silence. Then Lucia said,

  “I think – when he is well enough – it would be wisest for us to – return immediately to – England.”

  “You think such urgency is important?” the Marquis enquired.

  She did not answer, and after a moment he said,

  “I asked you a question, and I think you have a reason for not answering it.”

  She gave him a little glance which told him without words that she was surprised at his being so perceptive, before she said reluctantly,

  “You will think – it is a strange thing for me to say – and that I am just – imagining things – but I am absolutely convinced that we should return to England now – in case Papa – leaves me here – alone.”

  She spoke as if the Marquis compelled her to tell the truth, and after a moment he said,

  “If that is what you feel, then I think you are right. I will instruct my Courier to find a ship sailing for England in which your father will be comfortable without incurring too much expense.”

  “If your Lordship – would do that – it would be – very kind.”

  “I have already told you,” the Marquis said, “that when you reach England I would like your father to paint my house in Buckinghamshire. I will give you my address so that you can get in touch with me as soon as he is well enough to undertake the commission.”

  Lucia gave a little sigh as she said,

  “Your kindness is overwhelming, my Lord, and for Papa to know that he has something definite to do in England will make it easier for me to – persuade him to leave Venice.”

  “I feel almost as if I am committing a crime in taking him away from the views he has painted so beautifully and so differently from anybody else,” the Marquis said. “At the same time, England can be beautiful, too.”

  “Very, very beautiful!” Lucia agreed with a rapt little note in her voice.

  “I can see you love your country,” the Marquis remarked, “and yet in a way you do not look entirely English.”

  He made the remark casually because he was thinking that her fair hair and the grey of her eyes, fringed by lashes that were darker than might have been expected, gave her somehow a faintly ‘foreign’ look.

  She stiffened and glanced away from him so that all he could see was her profile, and he was almost sure there was a faint touch of colour in her cheeks that had not been there before.

  “Am I right?” he asked. “And you are not English?”

  “Of course I am En
glish!” Lucia replied quickly.

  “How could I be anything else when I am Papa’s daughter?”

  She spoke so positively that the Marquis looked at her in surprise.

  At the same time he was almost sure that there was some mystery about her ancestry, and he had been right in thinking she was not wholly English, although why it should matter he had no idea.

  Then, as if she was afraid he would go on asking her questions, Lucia said,

  “I am sure your Lordship has many things to do this afternoon, and I must not take up your time.”

  She rose from the seat as she spoke and the Marquis rose too, wondering if he could force her into an admission about herself, then decided it would be unkind and anyway, it was not important.

  They walked back to the house, and as they did so Lucia said,

  “If Papa improves and your Lordship is kind enough to pay us the money for his pictures, I am sure we will be able to leave here in a week or ten days’ time.”

  “It will of course depend on what ship is available,” the Marquis answered.

  “There are always ships in the harbour, and I am sure at this time of the year, when the visitors are beginning to arrive in Venice, there will be ships returning to England in which there will be room for us.”

  She spoke almost as if she was determined there would be accommodation available, and the Marquis thought with a faint smile that, however much her father wished to remain in Venice, she would doubtless overrule any objections he might make.

  As he reached the house he turned and looked back, and thought that where they were standing the contrast of the sunshine with the deep shadows cast by the high houses made a very attractive picture.

  “If your father was with us, Lucia,” he said, “I am sure he would want to paint this.”

  “He has already painted it several times.”

  “You have not shown me those pictures or told me of them,” the Marquis commented.

  “I am not keeping anything from you,” she answered quickly. “It was just that when we grew poorer and poorer, Papa could not afford to buy any more canvases, so when he had painted a picture, he erased it and started again.”