The Love Child

“Because of Harriet it will succeed.”

“Oh, my poor Priscilla!”

“Don’t pity me. I loved Jocelyn. I had that. We should have married and then it would have been wonderful. But this happened …”

“I wept for you, Priscilla. I knew how you felt. You see…”

“Yes, I know. You and Edwin.”

“At least,” she reminded me, with a quirk of her lips, “Jocelyn did not desert you.

I had the idea that you did not want me to come with you.”

“If I gave that impression it was only because of the difficulties. I did not want more people involved than was necessary.”

“You might have known I should want to be with you.”

“Thank you, Christabel.”

She looked almost happy. It was as though she was pleased by what had happened. Perhaps she, too, felt the need to get away from Eversleigh.

It was well into April when we arrived at the Palazzo Carpori. I had heard Venice called the Pearl and the Queen of the Adriatic, but I was unprepared for its unique charm and beauty. We had stayed at Padua and arrived in the afternoon; and there it lay before us … those islands of the lagoons connected by their stone bridges while countless brightly coloured boats, each with its gondolier, plied through the canals or waited hopefully for those who might need them. It was like a fairy city; the light was golden; the sun seemed to have scattered diamonds on the waters and the houses and palaces were like enchanted castles.

Harriet accepted our wonderment with a kind of smug contentment. She was in excellent spirits and this was partly due to what she called “the plan,” which was so wild that she was sure no one but herself would have attempted to carry it out. But she was going to make it succeed.

Gregory, Harriet, Christabel and I were taken in a gondola to the palazzo; the rest of our group followed with our baggage.

Our gondolier had a smattering of English, which was quaint and musical to listen to, and he obviously wanted to use it on us. I noticed that his eyes were on Harriet with undisguised admiration, which did not displease her, though, heaven knew, she must have had a surfeit of it. He kept addressing himself to the bella signora, and as we shot under the bridges he declared himself very happy that we had come.

Venice was the most beautiful city in the world. “Look, bella signora … bella signorina … here the Rialto. Carpori soon. Very nice palazzo; La Contessa very nice lady. She use my gondola … sometime. Very kind.”

He was implying of course that he expected similar kindness from us and I was sure he would get it. Harriet always believed in being generous to those who served her.

“Carpori close to St. Mark’s. Leave to me. I show.”

The gondola came to rest and we alighted before the palazzo. In the sunlight it looked like a piece of confectionery. Everything seemed touched by that golden light and I felt as though I were stepping out of reality into an enchanted world.

The Conte, who with his wife, the Contessa, owned this beautiful palace must, I suspected, be a man of some wealth. At each end was a tower with a row of arches in the centre opening onto a long veranda. The walls were covered in marble of delicate shades of pink. Behind the veranda was a large hall with exquisite murals and paintings on the ceilings. The floors were paved with marble in beautiful colours of blue and gold.

Christabel caught her breath in wonder and I understood her feelings. I had never imagined anything so lovely.

A beautiful staircase led to the next floor. Here window arches, extending from end to end, formed a continuous arcade.

As soon as we entered, the house servants came to greet us, headed by one whom I guessed to be the majordomo, a garrulous, important-looking man with black sparkling eyes and an ingratiating manner, who was Giuseppe. He clapped his hands and others ran to do his bidding while he fussed around us.

Rooms had been made ready for us. Mine contained a bed with silk hangings, which was very charming, and I was delighted to be able to step out onto the veranda and look out over the canal.

Harriet was soon with me, her eyes dancing with excitement. She had come to see how impressed I was with her cleverness hi arranging such lodgings for us.

“But it is so luxurious!” I cried.

“What did you expect? Did you think I would bring you to a hovel?”

“You have some very good friends.”

“Ah, yes. I once did the Contessa a great service. She was a merry girl, but she has become fat-a fate which sometimes overtakes us and I must watch it does not catch up with me. She loved good food, my dear Contessa. She was Marie Gissard. French.