Page 34

She picked up one of the scenes from her first draft. Violetta had escaped her captors, and was fleeing through the network of underground tunnels. Pomona saw in a flash why the whole scene felt silly and artificial. Violetta wouldn’t be reflecting on the melancholy prospect of never seeing her childhood nurse again! She’d be out of breath, a stitch in her side, trying to force her legs to move faster, terrified that at any moment she would slip, or feel a hand seize her from behind…

She frowned and picked up her quill. Ideas were forming in her mind—and not the straggling, weak, sickly ideas that she’d struggled to marshal onto the page for months. These were whole battalions of ideas, springing up vigorously and organizing themselves into sentences and paragraphs almost of their own accord.

The sharp marsh grasses stung as they whipped against her face. The mud sucked at her feet as she ran. With every desperate step, Violetta expected to slip and fall. Had her captors noticed yet that she had escaped the grim shed in which they had confined her? If they had not, it could not be long now until they did… and then they would be upon her!

Her lungs burned. Her heart felt as though it would burst out of her chest. The skin between her shoulder blades crawled, anticipating with every dreadful, interminable second the blow of a musket ball… or the iron grip of a pursuer’s hand!

Could she reach the sanctuary of the shore, and the little boat that she had concealed amongst the tall reeds? Curse the first day that the evil Sir Aloysius had ever glimpsed her at her uncle’s court—and curse the day that his henchmen had brought her to this dismal island!

On and on her pen scratched. The self-loathing and sluggishness that she’d felt for months were gone. Words and even full sentences came fluently to her mind—almost as though they already existed somewhere, and she was merely the person who happened to be copying them down onto paper.

The work wasn’t what she’d call easy, precisely. It felt more as though she was purging something from her system. Her heart was pounding and she felt shaky, and even a little sick. And yet, scene by scene, page by page, as the sun sank lower and the red glow reflected off the roof tiles faded, she kept working.

She didn’t stop to second-guess herself or worry about how the story compared to The Prisoner of San Severino. And for the first time, she seemed to sense the shape of the entire story—almost as though it was a physical object in the room with her, and if she stretched out her hands she could touch it and mold it. Nothing like this had ever happened to her before, and she had no idea how long it would go on.

The next time she looked up it was fully dark. The servants had come in with candles, and a night breeze and several mosquitoes had come in through the open shutters. She sat back, rubbing her neck. Her back hurt. Her hand was cramped. She realized that she hadn't eaten dinner.

Part of her was afraid that if she let herself stop, this burst of inspiration would vanish. She was afraid to put her papers away, to leave the library, to eat a light meal (that she barely tasted) and go to bed—but after the events of the day, she was too exhausted not to.

And from almost the moment that she opened her eyes the next day, the same urgency propelled her back into the library. The more she wrote, the more everything began to fall into place. The monks’ abbey became a nunnery where Violetta sought refuge under a false identity, rather than be forced to marry Sir Aloysius. Sir Aloysius held a sham wedding anyway, by disguising a serving woman in heavy veils for a ceremony in the same church where she and West had gone to see a Titian altarpiece.

West, she noticed on her brief breaks from work, seemed unusually preoccupied himself. Was it because of what she’d said to him during their outing—that she wished that she hadn’t gone? Yet he didn’t seem resentful. When they dined together he asked her whether she might be working too hard, or was making certain to open the library shutters for fresh air in the afternoon. If anything, he seemed solicitous for her well-being. But he didn’t suggest any outings—not even in the city itself. She supposed that wasn't surprising. Still, she was too distracted by her story to ruminate on it.

Day after day, previously intractable problems untangled themselves as she wrote. Lido, with its exposure to the open ocean, was where Count Rodolphe was cast ashore when his ship wrecked in a violent storm as he came to rescue Violetta. No longer was he a hapless, useless fop who never seemed to be in the right place at the right time. Now he was a hero battling impossible odds to rescue the woman he loved from a forced marriage.

And when he alone of all his crew was preserved from the waves, and had to crawl up the dunes on his hands and knees using the very last of his strength, only to be told by an ancient shepherd that he was too late, and that the wedding had already taken place… Pomona, overcome at the pathos of the scene, wept into her handkerchief.

And then at last, Sir Aloysius wicked schemes were defeated. He was clapped in chains, and taken to await justice in a prison on the island that in reality now held the Austrian garrison. Violetta and Count Rodolphe were reunited, expressed their love to each other, and married in the cathedral of St. Mark. She gulped back more tears and wrote, “The End.”

It was over. She sat staring at the stack of pages. She felt triumphant, and yet also ill and headachy from her bout of weeping. There had been a knot in her stomach the entire time that she’d been writing, as though she’d been propelled through the work by something partway between excitement and anxiety… although closer to anxiety. Without it she felt both relieved and hollow.

The book still needed polishing, she reminded herself. There were scenes that she might have to rewrite, or cut altogether. It was far too early to congratulate herself. And besides, the story contained none of the thrilling elements that had made The Prisoner of San Severino such a success. Mr. Wynde would probably be very disappointed.

Everyone would probably be very disappointed.

“No one recalls bringing a foreigner to the island that day, your grace. That is, apart from you and the duchess. And there has been so much gossip about why an English duke should wish to visit such an isolated and desolate spot that the activities of other foreigners seem to have attracted less interest than they ordinarily would.”

Oh, for… West rubbed his forehead and cursed his lack of self-control in that shed. If he’d brought more scandal down on Pomona… “What is being said?”

Signor Rinaldi coughed delicately. “Well, the most popular version of the rumor is that the reason that your grace has been visiting so many locations around the lagoon is that you wish to purchase land here, in order to build a palace—as the late Duke of Brunswick did on Lido, of course. There is much speculation about where your house will be, how many local people will be employed, and how many wealthy visitors may be expected to visit you and la duchessa. I beg your pardon, your grace.”

“I see.” How naïve he’d been not to realize that everything he said and did now would become a subject of speculation and gossip—and that many people would also wonder if he might benefit them in some way.

He leaned back in his chair. “Well, could the gunman have sailed from elsewhere? A village on the mainland, perhaps? What if he did not have someone take him there, but simply hired a small boat from some local fisherman?”

Signor Rinaldi inclined his head. “I have pursued those avenues of inquiry already, your grace. Of course, there may yet be something to learn. But there has been a great increase in the number of English visitors. Many come to Venice seeking out the picturesque and the antique. This widespread activity means that it is easier for one foreigner—assuming that he was a foreigner—to conceal himself.”

West had reported the incident through official channels, of course After all, if the man had been a poacher, such lawless behavior couldn’t be tolerated. The governor had sent him a personal note, vowing to increase patrols of the area. But as nobody had had a clear look at the man, there was nothing else that could be done. And so he'd hired Signor Rinaldi.

Signor Rinaldi spoke eight languages, and according to West’s contact in the governor’s offices, had been an intelligence officer for the Kingdom of Naples during the war. He was said to be the best investigator in Venice. And yet even he had been able to learn nothing.

“The duchess’s safety is my only concern. Until we know who this man was and whether he meant harm, we cannot be certain that there will not be a repeat of the incident.”

“Indeed.” Signor Rinaldi looked thoughtful. “My suggestion, your grace, is that you and her grace begin to consider traveling onward. A villa in the mountains is more agreeable than Venice during the summer months—and more difficult for anyone with ill-intent to approach. And I would suggest that for now you, and the duchess are accompanied by sturdy footmen when you go anywhere.”

He departed via the palazzo’s back gate. West had been careful to keep his inquiries from Pomona. She seemed to be busy, and he didn't wish to worry her.

But the following morning—and possibly owing to their visit to the Austrian garrison—Pomona received a gilt-edged invitation bearing the crest of the Kingdom of Lombardy-Venetia, requesting the honor of the presence of the Duca and Duchessa di March at the Archduke’s ball.