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Patrick dragged his gaze away from Antonia and looked around the garden. ‘It’s so quiet here; you would think this was a country area, instead of being the middle of Venice! How much longer will you all be staying here?’
‘A few more weeks, that’s all. I shall be sorry to leave.’ She had the strangest sensation; she couldn’t believe she was really here, in this tranquil little paradise, with the man who had haunted her for two years. She had been so terrified of seeing him again. Yet here they were sitting under the fig tree with the gentle, musical splash of the fountain to keep them company, talking quietly, and she didn’t feel afraid any more.
Except...except that every moment or so she would look at him and feel herself shrink, as if from the touch of fire. It hadn’t been this man who had attacked her, yet she found it hard not to keep confusing the two of them. Their faces shifted, changed places all the time in her mind, as the leaves on the fig tree moved, flickering dark flames of shadow which were never still, could not be counted.
‘And then you go back to Florence?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘No, I’ve finished my course there. I’ve got a job.’ She stopped, said wryly, ‘Well, Uncle Alex got me a job. Cataloguing a private collection—have you heard of Patsy Devvon? She’s the widow of Gus Devvon; his family made early radios, but he sold out of the company and invested his money in computers, I gather.’ She could talk to him freely about the Devvons; the subject was impersonal; it unlocked her tongue; she talked fast, lightly. ‘When he retired he came over to Europe, settled here in Venice, and spent years buying things—paintings, sculpture, books, even early radios and gramophones and recordings. It’s all in a hideous muddle; things got piled into rooms on the upper floor of this palazzo where they lived. The floor was never used and is very damp, the plaster is cracked and crumbling on the ceilings and the paintwork is blistering, there’s mould and fungus growing on things... It’s such a mess.’
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nbsp; Patrick watched her with very clear, thoughtful blue eyes. She had looked so different, talking like that, her face mobile, changing, full of life.
‘So you’ll stay on in Venice after the lease of this house runs out? Alone?’
She flushed slightly, looking down, and nodded.
His eyes narrowed. What did that look mean? He was beginning to recognise her expressions; the fragile mobility of her face was self-betraying. She was hiding something, or not telling him something. But what?
‘Will you try and find another flat, or stay on in a pension?’ he asked.
Another of those tell-tale hesitations. She was reluctant to tell him anything about herself, but his level stare somehow forced her to answer in the end.
‘I’ve been invited to move into the palazzo until I’ve finished my work.’ Then, quickly, she added, ‘I’ll be sorry to leave this house. I’ve loved living here. The house is small, but cosy, and gardens are so rare in Venice; this one is like a dream.’
He let his gaze wander around from the pink house to the fig tree, an olive tree growing nearer the house, roses climbing on the walls, orange trees, swaddled like babies, in straw matting, standing in huge terracotta pots along the wall of the house.
‘Beautiful,’ he agreed. ‘That fig is covered with fruit; I’ve always wanted to have my own fig tree and be able to pick them when I wanted them.’
‘Have one,’ she offered, smiling. ‘There are so many; we’ll only eat a few.’
‘May I really?’ He smiled, stood up, and broke off one of the plump, pearshaped, ridged fruit which took two years to ripen from green to that rich, luscious purplish black.
Sitting down again, Patrick used his thumbnail to break open the fig, and they both stared at the glistening greeny pink seeds inside.
Patrick broke off one half, offered it to her. Antonia lifted it to her mouth, her white teeth visible as she ate some of the sweet interior, and Patrick did the same, then stiffened, his eyes fixed on her left hand.
‘Is that an engagement ring?’
Antonia pulled her hand down to her side, as if to hide it. The fig fell out of her fingers and rolled under the bench.
Patrick leaned over and seized her hand, lifted it to stare at the enormous diamond surrounded by a circle of smaller ones in an elaborate platinum setting.
‘When did this happen?’
‘I got engaged last month.’ Her voice was a mere thread of sound, with a faint tremor in it.
He was frightening her again. That look was back in his face—a harshness that disturbed her. Why was he looking at her like that? As if she had done something wrong? Then she thought, And why do I feel so guilty? Why didn’t I want him to know?
‘Who is he?’ Patrick’s voice was curt. Seeing the ring on her finger had knocked him off balance. That was the last thing he would ever have expected, that Antonia Cabot might be planning to get married.
He was angry, too, although he didn’t know why he was. Maybe because this had upset all his beliefs about her? He was puzzled. Antonia did not look like a girl who was blissfully in love and couldn’t wait to get married. In fact Antonia Cabot looked like a wraith, afraid of everything, but especially of men.
‘His name is Cy,’ she whispered.
‘Is what?’
‘Cy—short for Cyrus,’ she said. ‘Cyrus Devvon. Mrs Devvon’s nephew, or, rather, her late husband’s nephew.’
