Charlotte Betts began her working life as a fashion designer in London. A career followed in interior design, property management and lettings.

The Apothecary’s Daughter is her debut novel and won the YouWriteOn Book of the Year in 2010, the Romantic Novelists’ Association Joan Hessayon Award for New Writers in 2011 and the RoNA’s Historical Category award for 2013. The sequel, The Painter’s Apprentice was published in 2012 and shortlisted for the Festival of Romance’s Best Historical Read Award in 2012. The Spice Merchant’s Wife was published in 2013 and won the Festival of Romance’s Best Historical Read Award in 2013. The Palace of Lost Dreams was shortlisted for the Romantic Novelists’ Association’s Historical Romantic Novel RoNA award in 2019 and The Fading of the Light in 2022.

Visit Charlotte’s website at www.charlottebetts.com.

By Charlotte Betts

THE SPINDRIFT TRILOGY

The Light Within Us

The Fading of the Light

Letting in the Light

The Apothecary’s Daughter

The Painter’s Apprentice

The Spice Merchant’s Wife

The Milliner’s Daughter*

The Chateau by the Lake

Christmas at Quill Court*

The House in Quill Court

The Dressmaker’s Secret

The Palace of Lost Dreams

The Lost Daughter of Venice

*ebook only

The Lost
Daughter
of Venice

Charlotte Betts

PIATKUS

First published in Great Britain in 2023 by Piatkus

Copyright © 2023 Charlotte Betts

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All characters and events in this publication, other than those

clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to

real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978-0-349-43273-1

Piatkus

An imprint of

Little, Brown Book Group

Carmelite House

50 Victoria Embankment

London EC4Y 0DZ

An Hachette UK Company

www.hachette.co.uk

www.littlebrown.co.uk

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Acknowledgements

To my daughter Polly.

I love you for the little girl you once were, for
the amazing woman you have become and for
the precious daughter you will always be.

Chapter 1

Venice

October 1919

The train rattled onto the long causeway that connected the Italian mainland to the city of Venice. Fat drops of rain splattered against the carriage window as I looked out at the grey and choppy waters of the Lagoon. The sky was equally grey and fog melded water and sky together at the horizon. Silhouettes of low-lying islands, no more than dark humps, appeared like semi-submerged sea creatures. Every now and then a glowing cinder from the engine flew past the window like a shooting star.

It had been seventeen years since I’d left Venice. I’d neither wanted nor ever expected to return but the telegram I’d received from Aunt Lavinia had been difficult to ignore.

Come to Venice. Please, Phoebe, do not fail me.

Despite what had happened and the acrimonious words that led to our long estrangement, I had many reasons to be grateful to Aunt Lavinia. And perhaps it was time for me to tell her I was sorry. The railway carriage rocked and swayed as it carried me onwards into the swirling fog.

Dusk was falling by the time I disembarked from the train at Santa Lucia station but the rain had ceased. Since I had no intention of staying in Venice any longer than I had to, I carried only a small valise. I rarely travelled without my photographic equipment but it was too cumbersome on such a short visit.

I waved away the porters and small boys who attempted to carry my luggage down the station steps, to where the waters of the Grand Canal lapped the quay. I bought a ticket and joined a group of women and a priest waiting for the water bus. There was a pervasive odour of decaying fish but the sight of the great green dome of the church of San Simeone Piccolo on the opposite side of the canal drove it from my thoughts. Now I was truly back in Venice.

A uniformed soldier stood on the steps, his scarred face and blind eyes turned up to the sky, singing an aria from La Bohème. I dropped a handful of lire into his hat. It was so cruel that, only a year after the war had ended, some of those who’d fought for their country were forced to beg for their living.

The vaporetto steamed up to the quay and the small crowd of passengers surged forward to board. It was strange to hear Italian voices again and I eavesdropped on the conversations around me.

Briny gusts of the penetrating October wind fluttered my scarf; the brackish smell of the waterway was immediately familiar to me. Gondolas, barges and sailing boats passed by. The grand palazzi of the city’s once pre-eminent trading empire lined the Grand Canal, their warm daytime colours leached away by the increasing gloom.

Shivering by the time the vaporetto had travelled the two miles of the Grand Canal, I was pleased to step off the boat and onto the narrow walkway beside the water. I hadn’t assumed I’d be invited to stay with my aunt and, in any case, wouldn’t have felt comfortable there, given the terms on which we’d parted.

I asked a passer-by for directions to the Hotel Danieli and, before long, saw the welcoming glow of lamps lighting the entrance. By now thoroughly chilled, I was relieved to settle into my room and change before dinner.

After breakfast the following morning, the doorman found a gondola to take me to the Palazzo degli Angeli. As I sat on the cracked leather cushions inside the small cabin, the pale sunshine gleaming on the Grand Canal tempered my apprehension about the imminent meeting with my aunt.

The canal was much busier at this time of day. Barges laden with fruit and vegetables, vaporetti and a myriad of smaller craft bustled about their business. The gondola approached the low iron bridge of Ponte dell’Accademia and, a few minutes later, turned into Rio della Toletta, a narrower canal.

As we drew closer to the palazzo, I realised the neighbouring property was now an hotel. There were smart scarlet awnings over the water steps and gondolas were tied up to the scarlet and black-striped mooring posts. Bay trees in terracotta pots flanked the entrance, over which was a sign painted in red and gold with the black silhouette of a bird of prey. Hotel Falcone.

The gondola swayed past the hotel and then, there was the Palazzo degli Angeli. Built during the Renaissance, it was three storeys high with a balustraded balcony running the full width of the first floor. The pale Istrian stone of the lower façade and the bases of the fluted columns were stained green and black by the high tides but the upper floors gleamed ochre yellow. Since I’d last seen the palazzo, some of the stucco had fallen away, exposing the brickwork beneath.

The boat slid up to the landing stage next to the Conte’s old sandolo. The gondolier offered his hand to me when I stepped out of the boat and I was glad of it when my shoe slipped on green slime. The wrought-iron water gate was ajar so I didn’t ring the bell. It wasn’t as if I didn’t know the way. I paused for a moment to glance up at the winged angel carved into the keystone above the high arch of the opening. ‘Hello, old friend,’ I murmured.

Pushing open the gate, I entered the portego. The undulating marble floor was cracked and walls that once had been adorned with frescoes of angels and cherubim were flaking with damp. I walked through an archway into the courtyard and climbed the exterior staircase. Opening the heavy door at the top, I entered the hall.

Murano chandeliers cast a dim light over walls covered in claret-coloured damask and I realised electricity had been installed since I left.

I was staring up at the high ceiling where painted angels peeped over rose-pink clouds when one of the hall doors opened, revealing an angular figure. My sister Eveline. I tensed, waiting for her to speak.

‘What on earth are you doing here?’ she said. ‘You should have waited for the housekeeper to bring you upstairs. How did you know?’

‘Know what?’

Eveline frowned. ‘That Aunt Lavinia is dead, of course.’

‘Dead!’ My hand flew to my throat. ‘But I received a telegram from her telling me to come and see her only a few days ago. What happened? Was she ill?’

‘You’d better come into the drawing room.’ My sister led the way.

I felt sick. Aunt Lavinia – gone! I’d always imagined that, one day, we’d be reconciled and now I’d lost the opportunity. Full of self-loathing, I knew I should have overcome my stupid pride and visited her years ago.

Eveline poked her head around the door. ‘Aren’t you coming?’

The windows overlooking the canal were tightly shuttered, out of respect for the dead. The cluttered room was lit only by two lamps, leaving most of it in shadow.

‘How did Aunt Lavinia die, Eveline?’ Shivering, I held my shaking hands towards the fire that burned in the marble fireplace. ‘Was she ill?’

‘Would you have cared?’

‘Of course I would!’

Eveline shrugged. ‘She slipped on the landing stage and drowned in the canal.’

I pressed my fingers to my mouth. It had been only moments since I’d slipped there myself.

‘Signor Benedetti, Aunt Lavinia’s man of business, had come to visit her. She lost her footing and knocked her head. Fell into the water and drowned. Benedetti jumped in, but it was too late.’

‘How brave of him!’

‘An heroic but futile act,’ said Eveline. ‘It’s the funeral tomorrow. You’ll need to find yourself something suitable to wear.’ She frowned at my marine blue coat with the velvet collar and matching hat.

‘I hoped I’d never have to wear black again, now the war is over.’

‘I’m still wearing mourning for my husband,’ said Eveline, plucking at her black skirt.

I noticed how drawn and pale her face was. ‘I’m very sorry to hear that. So we’re both widows. John fell at the Somme.’

‘I daresay he left you well provided for, though, unlike my husband. Matteo didn’t die a hero’s death. He caught influenza – just as the war ended – so there’s no widow’s pension for me either.’

If past history was anything to go by, anything I said in reply would only make her more resentful. ‘What time is the funeral?’ I enquired.

‘You must be here by half-past ten tomorrow.’ She stood up.

Clearly dismissed, I left.

The following morning, I studied my reflection in the hotel mirror. The new hat didn’t suit me and the dress and coat I’d bought in a hurry from a small shop were too short since I was taller than the average Italian woman. There hadn’t been time for me to see a dressmaker and have something altered or made.

At half-past ten, I presented myself at the palazzo. This time, the water gate was locked and I rang the bell.

A plump middle-aged woman wearing a housekeeper’s sober clothes came to unlock the gate.

‘Valentina!’ I said. ‘Is it really you?’

She smiled and her face lit up, eyes almost disappearing behind the apples of her cheeks. ‘Signora Wyndham. So many years!’

‘I never imagined you’d still be here.’

‘My husband Jacopo – you remember Jacopo?’

‘So you married him!’

‘Poor man.’ Valentina assumed a pious expression but her eyes twinkled. ‘It wasn’t fair to make him wait any longer. We have a fine son, too. Franco is working with his uncle in Mestre.’ Her expression sobered. ‘The other servants left or died during the war until only Jacopo and I remained. And now, both the Conte and the Contessa have gone, too.’ She dabbed at her eyes. ‘Signora Rizzio is waiting for you.’

Eveline stood by the fireplace. She didn’t come forward to greet me.

I refused to be intimidated. My footsteps clipped across the parquet floor as I navigated through the gloom, sidling between scagliola-topped tables and gilded chairs.

Eveline wore a black coat with threadbare cuffs, which was at odds with her elegant velvet hat with a wide brim and black ostrich feathers.

I came to a halt at the sight of two children sitting on the sofa.

‘This is my son Carlo, who is ten, and my daughter Rosetta,’ said Eveline, moving to rest a hand on the girl’s shoulder. ‘She’s eight.’

My heart lurched. My sister’s children. Children of my own blood. ‘What a wonderful surprise!’ I said. ‘I’d no idea you had children, Eveline.’

‘Why would you, since we never communicate?’

Choosing to ignore her antagonistic tone, I smiled at my niece and nephew. ‘I’m your aunt Phoebe. I’m delighted to meet you both.’ I held out my hand to Carlo.

He stood up, his expression sullen.

‘How tall you are!’ I said.

Rosetta stared at her feet. I saw that her dark plaits were tied with black ribbons.

‘And you look so like your mamma when she was young,’ I commented.

Neither child seemed inclined to speak.

‘Do you have children?’ asked Eveline.

I shook my head and tried not to notice the gleam of satisfaction in my sister’s eyes.

‘The water hearse will arrive shortly,’ she said.

It was then that I saw a figure sitting on the carved armchair that had once been Uncle Emiliano’s favourite seat by the window. I froze, remembering how he’d often gravitated there to read his newspaper in the afternoons. It had distressed me when, before the war, Aunt Lavinia sent me a terse note informing me he’d died. Would I have gone to his funeral if I’d been invited? I’m not sure. In any case, the note came too late for that.

The man stood up and walked towards me, smiling. I blinked. The Conte had been clean-shaven whereas this man had a moustache.

‘This is Signor Benedetti,’ said Eveline. ‘My sister – Signora Wyndham.’

He was about my age, handsome in the Italian manner. ‘I remember a Signor Benedetti,’ I said, ‘but . . . ’

‘You remember an older man?’ He shook my hand. ‘My father managed the Conte and Contessa’s affairs for a long while. He retired two years ago.’

Signor Benedetti the Younger had black hair. His father’s had receded and I’d never seen him in a suit as beautifully tailored as the one his son wore today.

‘May I express my deepest condolences for your loss, Signora Wyndham?’ he said.

I realised he still held my hand and Eveline was staring at us. Hastily, I disengaged my fingers from his grip. ‘It is shocking,’ I said, ‘even though my aunt and I were no longer close.’

‘She spoke of you many times.’

‘Oh, dear!’ I said. ‘I doubt she had anything good to say.’

‘Not at all!’

I couldn’t help noticing that he had the remnants of a black eye. That intrigued me; he didn’t look like a man who would involve himself in a fight.

‘After the funeral, Signor Benedetti will disclose the contents of Aunt Lavinia’s will to us,’ said Eveline.

‘My presence won’t be required for that,’ I said. I neither hoped for nor expected any bequest. Long ago, Aunt Lavinia had made that perfectly clear in a searing denouncement of my character and morals. ‘I plan to return to London early tomorrow morning.’

‘It won’t take long,’ said Signor Benedetti.

Valentina came in to murmur something to Eveline before leaving the room.

My sister stood up. ‘The pallbearers are waiting and the mourners are gathering on the canal.’ She pulled down the black veil attached to her hat and motioned to the children to come to her side.

Signor Benedetti buttoned his overcoat and we all went silently downstairs. The doors to one of the store rooms in the portego stood open. There, in the flickering candlelight, six pallbearers stood waiting around a coffin.

I jerked in alarm. The lid was open.

‘I was sure you’d want to pay your respects properly to Aunt Lavinia,’ said Eveline.

I knew what was expected of me. My sister’s steely gaze was like an icy finger running down my back as I approached the flower-filled coffin.

Aunt Lavinia’s hair was white now, her expression remote and her once sparkling eyes forever shuttered. Dutifully, I bent to press my lips to her waxen forehead and tried not to recoil at the chill of her skin. Behind me, Eveline sighed as if she were disappointed.

We waited while the pallbearers closed the coffin and draped it with a gold-embroidered cloth. When they carried it aloft through the water gate, we all followed.

The other mourners waited in respectful silence in their gondolas, the men removing their hats when the coffin came into view.

The water hearse was handsomely coated in shiny black varnish. Wider than a normal gondola, the prow was adorned with a golden angel, wings unfurled, and carved gilt embellishments.

I watched while the coffin was placed on the bier under a black-curtained canopy with gilded finials and a great deal of gold rope and tasselled decoration. Irreverently, I couldn’t help thinking the bier looked like a rather grand four-poster bed. But Aunt Lavinia would have enjoyed the pomp and circumstance of this, her final journey.

A hired gondolier, dressed in black with a gold sash, helped us into his craft. It was a raw, damp day and there was no cabin, perhaps so that the chief mourners remained on view for others to assess the depth of our grief.

I stared straight ahead, struggling with the sense of unreality that had overtaken me since the moment I’d heard my aunt had died.

A moment later the funeral party set off, a flotilla of a dozen gondolas and other small vessels following the bobbing progress of the water hearse to the island of San Michele, where the City of Water buried its dead.

Chapter 2

Once Aunt Lavinia had been interred next to her husband in the di Sebastiano family vault, the funeral party broke up. One by one the mourners’ gondolas slipped away from the procession. It wasn’t Venetian custom to hold a reception after a funeral and I was relieved not to have to make stilted conversation with people I didn’t know.

Only one gondola followed us all the way back to the palazzo and it moored up to one of the red and black posts outside the Hotel Falcone. A man of upright bearing alighted and stood watching us as we disembarked.

When he raised his hand in acknowledgement, I couldn’t help noticing his aquiline nose and high Slavic cheekbones. He walked into the hotel. ‘Who was that?’ I asked Eveline.

‘Signor Falcone, the owner.’

‘Falcone is a troublemaker,’ said Signor Benedetti.

‘In what way?’ I asked.

He gave a dismissive shrug. ‘Shall we go inside, out of the cold?’

Eveline hurried through the water gate.

Valentina came to greet us in the hall, her expression sober. ‘Jacopo has attended to the fire and the drawing room is warm for you. Signor Falcone has sent us food from the hotel kitchens.’

‘Thank you, Valentina,’ said Eveline.

The housekeeper dropped her gaze. ‘Prego, Signora Rizzio. Lunch will be ready in ten minutes.’ She tiptoed away.

I couldn’t remember Valentina ever moving so quietly before. As a girl, she’d clattered about everywhere, singing to herself with her dimples flashing and a cheerful word for everyone, whether they wanted it or not.

‘Why did Signor Falcone send food?’ I enquired.

‘It’s usual to receive such gifts after a death,’ said Signor Benedetti, once we were warming ourselves by the fire. ‘The household of a grieving family isn’t expected to cook.’

‘Mr Falcone is very kind then,’ I said, ‘for a troublemaker.’

Signor Benedetti grimaced but ventured no further comment.

Feeling curious, I covertly studied my sister’s children. With eyes downcast, they were unnaturally quiet.

Conversation was stilted. It was a relief when Valentina returned and announced lunch was served.

We trooped into the shuttered dining room, where a cobweb-draped chandelier cast shadows over the sixteen-seater table. The walls, still hung with ruby and gold paper, were crowded with gilt-framed paintings of the Conte’s ancestors, mostly now also adorned with cobwebs. I remembered how Uncle Emiliano had liked to tell anecdotes about them, guffawing all the while at their outrageous exploits. His family had originated from Rome but his grandfather had made his fortune investing in the railways and bought the Palazzo degli Angeli after falling in love with Venice.

Valentina served us an excellent seafood risotto, followed by a rich beef stew and polenta. The children ate with gusto and lost some of their reserve so I asked them about their schooling.

‘Carlo and Rosetta are both excellent students,’ said Eveline, almost as if she expected me to dispute the fact.

‘I’m sure they’re a credit to you,’ I said.

After Valentina had cleared the dishes and brought us coffee, Eveline told the children to go and read in the library. Obediently, they slipped away.

Signor Benedetti sipped his coffee. ‘It is time for me to tell you about the Contessa’s will,’ he said.

Eveline sat up very straight, hands folded on the table in front of her. There was a tinge of pink in her cheeks and an expectant gleam in her eyes.

Signor Benedetti took a folded document from his jacket pocket and read it aloud.

The will was written in complicated Italian legal phrases that went over my head. I leaned back and wondered how soon I could leave. Uncle Emiliano had been the last in a long line of an obscure noble family and Aunt Lavinia had already told me I would never inherit anything from her. Although since the lawyer had requested my presence here today, possibly she’d changed her mind and left me some trifling gift.

I suppressed a yawn. My visit to Venice, combined with the painful emotions it had evoked, had been draining. It was dispiriting to know I had to face the reverse journey in the morning when I returned to my lonely life in St John’s Wood.

‘NO!’ Eveline reared up so abruptly that I jumped. Her chair fell backwards and crashed onto the parquet. ‘She promised! All these years of running her errands and putting up with her interference . . . ’ Pressing her knuckles to her mouth, she said, ‘How could she?’ She turned to Signor Benedetti. ‘You knew, didn’t you? I didn’t understand at the time but that’s why you—’

‘Calm yourself, Signora Rizzio!’ He shrugged. ‘I merely carried out the Contessa’s bidding.’

Eveline turned to me, her expression furious. ‘How long have you known?’

‘Known what?’

‘Oh, that’s right! Pretend innocence as usual.’ She pushed her face close to mine, voice shaking with anger. ‘But I know how far from innocent you are. You were always the pretty and attentive sister, weaselling your way into our uncle and aunt’s good books. You’ve always managed to have things your own way, haven’t you?’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I stammered. ‘I haven’t seen either you or Aunt Lavinia for years.’

‘I saw Lorenzo first and still you took him . . . ’

‘Eveline, I told you all those years ago, he never thought of you in that way.’

‘You encouraged him to fall in love with you, didn’t you? And then there was John Wyndham. I was the elder sister and should have been married first. He could have given me a comfortable position in the world. But what happened? You snatched him from right under my nose.’

‘It wasn’t like that!’ I refrained from telling her that John had remarked she was unsuitably bold for him. Choosing my words carefully, I said, ‘Uncle Emiliano insisted I leave the palazzo. I was seventeen with nowhere to go, so when Aunt Lavinia wanted me to marry John Wyndham, I had little choice.’

‘You’ve always taken what should have been mine and I hate you for it!’ hissed Eveline. ‘And you too, Cosimo Benedetti. May you both burn in hell!’ She rushed from the room, shouting for her children to follow her. Two minutes later, the front door slammed.

In the sudden silence, the dining room seemed to ring with the echoes of her outburst.

I swallowed. ‘I don’t understand why she suddenly reopened old wounds.’

Signor Benedetti pursed his lips. ‘I believe she had expectations that the Contessa would leave her the Palazzo degli Angeli. It came as a shock to her to discover that it is now yours.’

‘Mine?’ Confused, I said, ‘That isn’t right. Aunt Lavinia would never leave it to me.’

‘The Contessa made her wishes perfectly clear,’ he said.

Panic gripped me. ‘But I don’t want the palazzo!’ Venice held such painful memories for me, all I wanted was to leave. ‘It must be a mistake.’

‘You’re shaking!’ His brown eyes were sympathetic. ‘Do not distress yourself, Signora Wyndham.’

‘Why would Aunt Lavinia do this?’

Signor Benedetti steepled the tips of his fingers. ‘Your sister lived here at the palazzo during the war. After Signora Rizzio was widowed, she and the Contessa had a disagreement and your sister moved out into her own apartment.’

I wondered why they’d argued. ‘I’ll make the palazzo over to Eveline,’ I said. ‘She has children to care for.’

‘The Contessa made it abundantly clear to me that your sister must not have the palazzo.’

‘But why?’

‘She wouldn’t say.’ He placed his hand lightly on my wrist and spoke soothingly. ‘If you don’t want the palazzo, there’s no difficulty. I’ll help you to find a suitable buyer.’

‘How soon?’

‘I might know someone I can approach.’ He patted my hand. ‘I must go now but I’ll call upon you in the next few days to discuss the matter further.’ He stood up. ‘In the meantime, try and enjoy a little holiday at the Palazzo degli Angeli.’

‘But I can’t stay here!’

‘You must. The palazzo will be yours to sell once the necessary paperwork has been approved but it’s your responsibility to clear your aunt’s effects. In view of the circumstances, I doubt your sister will wish to assist you.’

I was sure Eveline would go out of her way to make things even more difficult for me.

‘I’ll send the housekeeper to you,’ he said. ‘A glass of brandy perhaps, to soothe your nerves?’

‘Thank you, Signor Benedetti.’

He made a formal little bow and left the room.

The following morning, I awoke to the sound of church bells. I sat bolt upright in bed, disorientated until I realised I was in the bedroom of my girlhood. The familiar mahogany wardrobe and dressing table, even the blue damask curtains were the same, although now the sun had faded them to tatters. Nothing had changed, except that there was no longer a washstand and towel.

After a moment, I got up and went to the bathroom. The previous night I’d discovered a splendid marble-clad temple to cleanliness with hot and cold water that spouted from gold taps shaped like dolphins. As I bathed, I wondered what had become of the sturdy girls who used to deliver fresh water in brass buckets to the earthenware storage urns in the kitchen.

Downstairs, I peeped into the ballroom. The parquet floor was dusty and the tasselled silk curtains closed. Gold-painted chairs lined the walls and the chandeliers were tied up in bags of muslin. There was a general air of neglect and I supposed there had been no dances or parties at the Palazzo degli Angeli since before the war.

I walked through the palazzo, ghosts from the past echoing in my mind. The rooms were stuffed to the rafters with antique furniture in want of a good polish: heavily carved stools, marquetry-inlaid bureaux, ebony torchères in the shape of blackamoors, corner cupboards painted in the Venetian style and myriad objets d’art. It shocked me to see how run-down everything looked. When I was a girl, everything had shone and there were always fresh flowers. Of course, there had been many servants then.

I waited for my breakfast in gloomy splendour at one end of the long dining table, mulling over how to begin to clear the palazzo for sale. I felt weighed down by the thought of it.

Valentina brought in a tray and placed a basket of bread, apricot jam, butter and a pot of coffee on the table. ‘Rolls fresh from the oven, Signora Wyndham.’

‘Thank you, Valentina.’

‘After your breakfast, shall I come to your study for my orders?’

‘Orders?’

‘For your lunch and dinner.’

‘Oh, I see. Just bring me something simple for lunch. A sandwich maybe.’

Valentina’s eyes widened. ‘But there are many gifts of food for you in the kitchen.’

‘Whatever you think best then.’

‘Signora . . . ’ She twisted her apron in her hands.

‘What is it, Valentina?’

‘Signor Benedetti said you are not coming to live here?’

‘I must stay for a while but my life is in London. The palazzo must be sold.’

Valentina’s brown eyes glistened with tears. ‘But my life is at the Palazzo degli Angeli. And Jacopo’s too. I have worked here for over twenty-five years. What shall we do if you send us away?’

‘You’ll have some time before the sale to find new situations,’ I said, uncomfortable in the face of her distress. ‘And I’ll give you both good references.’

Valentina sniffed noisily.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘but I cannot live here. Perhaps the new owner will take you on?’

She dabbed at a tear with the corner of her apron. ‘It will not be the same as if you lived here.’

I didn’t know what to say to comfort her. ‘I’ll be here long enough to sort through the Contessa’s personal belongings. Will you advise me what to do with them? A worthy cause, perhaps.’

Valentina blew her nose noisily. ‘The churches distribute clothing to the poor. There are so many widows and men too damaged to work since the war.’

‘I was only expecting to be in Venice for a day or two and I travelled very light,’ I said. ‘I must write to my housekeeper and ask her to send some of my things.’

‘Perhaps there is something of the Contessa’s you might wear until they arrive? She was tall and slender like you.’

‘I’ll take a look.’

Valentina returned to the kitchen, her expression so tragic it filled me with guilt.

A little while later, fortified by strong coffee, I went into Aunt Lavinia’s study. The desk drawers were full of papers and, in the bookcase, ledgers of household accounts stretched back several years.

Opening the dusty shutters, I looked down at the canal. Mist drifted across the water before a shaft of pale sunshine broke through, reminding me of a beautifully ethereal photograph I’d taken of the Embankment at home. That image was the frontispiece of my recently published book, Landscapes of London.

I took a sheet of the creamy, deckle-edged writing paper that Aunt Lavinia had always used and wrote to my housekeeper in England. I asked her to forward my camera and tripod together with some clothes and gave her careful instructions on packing things safely. Since I might have to be here for a few weeks, I decided I would use the opportunity to photograph Venice, even if I couldn’t develop the plates until I returned to my darkroom in St John’s Wood. Despite everything that had happened, it made me smile to think that I’d taken my very first photographs on the Brownie camera Uncle Emiliano gave me. That timely gift had set me on my journey to becoming a professional photographer.

I placed the letter on the hall table for Jacopo to post then set off up the curving staircase. I knew I must face up to sorting through Aunt Lavinia’s possessions.

In her bedroom I stood in the shadows, listening to the silence. There was a faint hint of gardenia perfume in the air, the one Aunt Lavinia always used to wear because the Conte loved it so. As children, Eveline and I had often watched Carmela, our aunt’s maid, dressing her mistress’s thick blonde hair – hair that was exactly like my own. Eveline’s was darker. Sometimes Aunt Lavinia had asked our advice on which brooch or necklace to wear and we’d been allowed to select an item from the glittering treasures in her jewel box.

I threw back the shutters to let in the light and dispel the ghosts. From this vantage point I looked down on the garden. A man with a drooping moustache, Jacopo I guessed, was raking up leaves. The dark pillars of two cypresses framed a marble statue of Venus ranged against the garden wall. The fig trees were bare but a climbing rose on the pergola still bore a few withered blooms. In the summer heat, this garden had always been a cool, green oasis. Since space in the city was so scarce and most properties were tall rather than wide, the garden would be a useful talking point when it came to selling the palazzo.

A long time ago, on velvety summer nights, I’d met my lover under that pergola to exchange illicit kisses. For a moment or two, I remembered the feel of his hands in my hair and the urgency of his lips against mine as he promised to love me forever and ever. Melting inside and quivering with the pleasure of his touch, I’d known then with absolute certainty that I’d never love anyone else. That part of our whispered promises had certainly been true.

I rested my forehead against the glass and surrendered my thoughts to the past.