Bad Miss Bennet Read online

  We drifted along the canal past glorious Palladian villas belonging to Venetian nobles. It was most soothing after our ordeals. Finally, the magical city appeared through a light haze and, as we made our way through the basin of St Mark’s, the sky was pale pink tinged with gold and the spires and domes pierced the sky as in a fairytale.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Venice, Winter 1817

  The Hotel Europa on the Grand Canal was our designated abode. Mrs Makepeace was in ecstasies with the place and even Adelaide thought this city worthy of note although she has complained of foreigners and their ways right across Europe.

  The morning after our arrival I was in the lobby of the hotel gazing out across the water, lost in thought, when the proprietor, Signore Grazzielli, approached me in an overly familiar manner. Speaking in excellent English he pointed out some of the magnificent buildings across the canal, San Giorgio Maggiore with its tall tower and the church they call Zitelle, which means ‘the spinsters’.

  ‘There was a convent there which took in destitute females.’ He showed me the colourful façade of the Palazzo Dario and mentioned its sinister reputation, adding in a more conspiratorial fashion, ‘Welcome to Gehenna by the sea, signora!’ He was leering at me in an unsettling continental manner. ‘This city is given over entirely to sinfulness and pleasure, every vice is indulged here.’

  ‘Really?’ I replied, ‘and you have such beautiful surroundings for it.’ The man eyed me warmly. ‘You and your mistress will be very satisfied in Venice. The English especially appreciate what we have to offer.’ I disliked his inference.

  ‘Are you by any chance referring to Lord Byron?’ The man leered again,

  ‘Indeed, signora, the English milord is famous here. He appreciates our women, our culture, our indulgences.’ He moved away as Mrs Makepeace appeared demanding to know whether any mail had arrived from England.

  When my employer had finished fussing and fuming the proprietor advised us to take chocolate or an aperitif at Florian’s in the Piazza San Marco. He procured a gondolier for our exclusive use while we were in the city, whistling up a gondola rowed by a burly and quite handsome fellow called Tito Salieri who sang constantly and quite charmingly in the Venetian manner.

  He did not seem too happy to have Wellington in his vessel. I fancy he muttered something uncomplimentary about the English as we set off across the Grand Canal. I had already observed that the city must be a sad shadow of its former self. I knew it was once a great and splendid republic but it has been ruled by the Austrians for several years and their soldiers were very noticeable in the throng around the Piazza San Marco. There was no longer a doge, their maritime empire had vanished, the canals were weed-choked, and the exquisite buildings were crumbling and scarred with leprous patches of plaster. But the lagoon glittered in the sun and the lambent quality of the light continued to delight artists and lovers.

  When we arrived in the Piazza San Marco we were overwhelmed by the huge number of people of all kinds and nationalities who were thronging the place. The piazza was a vast square. Napoleon called it the drawing room of Europe because you may in due course meet everyone you know.

  As we sat in Florian’s sipping prosecco, a delightful sparkling wine, I was surprised to see Captain Marshfield entering the café. He had left us before we crossed the Alps to return to Paris, as I thought. He acknowledged us nonchalantly and asked permission to join us. Mrs Makepeace scarcely seemed to remember him.

  ‘This is Captain Marshfield from the embassy in Paris,’ I reminded her. I looked keenly at him but he affected not to notice.

  ‘What a coincidence that we all arrived in Venice at the same time. You made no mention of coming to Italy when we parted in France, captain.’

  ‘Indeed, madam, I was unexpectedly given a mission to Venice which I hope to execute in the next few days. I shall then be free to enjoy a short holiday in this glorious city. I am sure our paths will cross; of course if I can be of any assistance …’

  ‘Charming! Charming!’ Mrs Makepeace interrupted. ‘How delightful to see you dear boy. Where are you staying?’

  ‘At the consul’s house on the Grand Canal.’

  ‘We are at the Europa,’ I remarked, ‘although I am sure you already know that.’ He refused to meet my eyes which confirmed my suspicions. The man was following us – but why? Either my employer had committed grand larceny of which I was unaware, or the man was in thrall to my attractions. I was flattered of course, but not greatly complimented. The captain was nondescript in every way. He had one of those instantly forgettable faces, was of average height and bearing, and appeared to have no fortune worth noting. I have had my fill of penniless officers, even if they had the ear of Wellington himself. I fear he will be tiresome if he insists on escorting us to social events.

  As if he had read my thoughts the captain said, ‘Most of the nobility in this city are virtual paupers. They squander their money in casinos and at theatres and endless balls. Their poverty does not seem to be a hindrance to their enjoyment.’

  ‘Why not? We are a long time in the grave, sir.’

  ‘Indeed,’ my employer added with feeling. ‘I am well-acquainted with the truth of that, for am I not one of the living dead?’ We looked at her in horror. ‘I did not mean literally, my dears, only that I have been a recluse for so long.’ I smiled and patted her hand.

  ‘Do not fret, madam, now you are in Venice, the carnival of Europe.’

  The captain asked if we would be staying for the carnival. This event began on the day after Christmas in Venice, and, as it was still early November I doubted that Mrs Makepeace would stay the course. She surprised me by declaring her intention of remaining. The captain turned to me, bent on furthering my education.

  ‘Did you know, Mrs Wickham, that this city was built on stilts? Huge wooden piles were sunk into the lagoon and this wondrous place – this city of decadence – was erected on top of them.’ He sipped his wine thoughtfully, watching the melee around us. Gehenna by the sea, Signore Grazzielli had called it. So it was decadence on stilts – an alarming and provoking image. The captain’s eye was on me again and I strove to change the subject,

  ‘They say Lord Byron often comes to Florian’s. I hope to have a sight of him.’

  Marshfield snorted and waved a hand at the crowds thronging the piazza, Greeks, Turks, Arabs, Europeans and Austrian officers in the fanciest of uniforms. Orientals were puffing on pipes called shiskas and a goodly number of Venice’s thousands of whores were parading their wares. Hawkers, street people and musicians milled around. It was a veritable maelstrom of humanity. ‘Would you recognise an English aristocrat in this crowd – or anyone else for that matter?’

  Nevertheless I felt I should know the poet’s noble features anywhere.

  The captain eventually took his leave assuring us that he would make enquiries about renting an apartment on our behalf. No-one of consequence stayed in a hotel for any length of time, he assured us. I thought the man was impertinent. We had not asked for his assistance and the Europa was perfectly comfortable.

  We remained to be ogled and clucked over by passers by and men in the café. A Turkish gentleman approached us and courteously asked if I would consent to become his fifty-fourth concubine. The man was obviously a person of note but I was not impressed. He claimed to have been overcome by my fair English looks. There were noticeably few of our countrymen and women in evidence. Mrs Makepeace rapped him with her reticule and told him to be off. He departed evidently overcome with grief. Incarceration in a seraglio was not part of my plans although it would certainly have solved some of my problems.

  I came back to earth when my employer decided to return to the hotel. Adelaide was instructed to accompany me to the Venice poste restante to retrieve the mail. Pulling my cloak around me I took possession of the passports and weaved my way through the crowds followed by Adelaide. Once again I remarked how few English people were in evidence. Florence and Rome were their favoured cities
and they seldom stayed more than a day or two in Venice, but my employer was an incurable romantic and the water city bolstered her fantasies.

  As we returned to the hotel through tiny side streets bordering sluggish green canals the marine melancholy of the place became more apparent, adding to my own barely suppressed sorrows. I handed a small parcel to Mrs Makepeace containing a copy of Lady Caroline Lamb’s scandalous novel Glenarvon which she received with joy. I declared firmly that I would not read a book that slandered Lord Byron. In the excitement my employer almost forgot to show me the invitations she had received. I was to accompany her to a conversazione at Countess d’Albrizzi’s palace and to a luncheon with the British consul.

  During the following weeks Mrs Makepeace seemed to shed ten years while I felt myself ageing imperceptibly although I was barely twenty-one. The dampness made my bones ache and I found the food disagreeable. There was too much of rice and liver for my taste, although the fish was plentiful and fresh.

  Because we were unable to speak the language our opportunities for conversation were limited. Wherever we went Captain Marshfield would materialise in the vicinity. Even when Tito rowed us out into the lagoon, the captain would endeavour to draw alongside in his own gondola. He offered to escort us to the theatres for which Venice was famous and Mrs Makepeace was delighted with his attentions. The captain spoke French and Italian fluently. He was a diplomat, after all.

  He negotiated the rental of an elegant apartment in a palazzo on the Zattere, thus ensuring a long stay on our part. Mrs Makepeace was very satisfied with the move. The apartment, like so many in the city, was full of frescoes and faded grandeur and remarkably short of furniture. She did not consider that the man had become our virtual shadow. I, however, spent many hours in my room pondering the matter. I was convinced that I was the focus of his interest – although I could not fathom why.

  ‘Perhaps he’s sweet on you, madam,’ Adelaide said, but I could not agree. The man did not behave like a lover. I found I was unable to sleep at night. Often in the small hours I would gaze out of my window at the stupendous view, watching a cold moon rising from the sea and silvering the lagoon. I hated having to linger in this damp place redolent of lost hopes and dreams.

  Was Marshfield following a long trail from the Prince Regent and Von Mecks, even from poor Mr Getheridge? My highwayman had said that the Von Mecks affair was not yet concluded. I shed a few tears. Everything in my life had turned to ashes. I had lost love, prospects and friends. I was an exile from my country and, worst of all, I was a lowly companion to a mad old woman who was reliving her youth while I festered on the sidelines. And it was all my own fault. I had encouraged her in this madness.

  The one consolation I might have derived – a sight of Lord Byron – had eluded me. Wherever we went he had been there, often only minutes before, but he remained elusive, invisible. Sighing, I returned to my bed where my dreams were haunted by ghostly gondolas on misty canals on which I floated alone, searching for something that was always out of reach.

  ‘You look fairly like an antique remnant, madam,’ was Adelaide’s verdict the next morning.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The consul was a dullish but kindly man called Hoppner. My employer and I attended a luncheon party at his beautiful house on the Grand Canal. Captain Marshfield, inevitably, was in attendance waving tickets for the Benedetto theatre under our noses and insisting on accompanying us there. The consul remarked that he had entertained Lord Byron only a few days past. The events of my daily life had become set in stone; the captain would always be at my heels and Byron will have just left wherever I arrived.

  The solution lay in acquiring a cloak and mask such as the Venetians wore during Carnival. The alleyways and humpbacked bridges of the city were thronged with these mysterious revellers disguised by the masks of the commedia del’arte – hideous long-nosed men, white faced clowns, quaint feline creatures and even a death’s head. Surely this last would discourage the captain’s attentions.

  I asked Signore Grazzielli at the Hotel Europa to obtain a costume for me and sometimes I slipped away into the crowds while Mrs Makepeace enjoyed a siesta. I was determined to throw off these bouts of melancholia brought on by my position in society – or lack of it. I confided to my journal my failure to meet up with the Count, Lord Byron or indeed, anyone other than Captain Marshfield.

  During one of my own masked wanderings I came upon Adelaide who had been disappearing into the back streets of the Castello district during her off duty hours. I was curious about her activities and as we wandered around she confessed everything. She had struck up a relationship with a relative of our gondolier, Tito Salieri.

  ‘Tito introduced me to his cousin Vittorio who is a baker in the Castello district. We sort of got to know each other better. He was lonely because his wife has taken up with that Lord Byron.’

  ‘Byron! Are you sure about that?’

  She shrugged. ‘Everyone in Venice knows about it. The woman is very beautiful and spends most of her time at the Palazzo.’ I swallowed my indignation and surprise. Why did my hero prefer Italian women to his own womenfolk?

  ‘What does the baker think about this situation?’ I asked. Adelaide grinned.

  ‘He don’t mind too much. You know how these Venetians are. He just wants a bit of company.’ Adelaides’s only problem was the fearsome temper and jealousy of La Fornarina, the baker’s wife. She feared crossing the path of this virago.

  ‘If she found out I was a-dallying with ’er other ’alf I’d be mincemeat, madam,’ she assured me. ‘That female ’as a fearsome temper and she always carries a knife.’ Adelaide rolled her eyes indicating her amazement at the strange ways of foreigners.

  ‘It is the Italian character,’ I told her.

  ‘They say she is like a wild cat,’ my maid continued with a nervous giggle.

  ‘The women of Brighton are pussycats beside her.’

  I left her to return to her baker reflecting that my trusty maidservant had a determination to make the most of every opportunity and to seize the day that was in tune with my own desires. We were very compatible. I feared this relationship of Adelaide’s was the closest I would get to Lord Byron.

  Despite her fear of the baker’s wife Adelaide continued to spend her free afternoons with Vittorio, returning to our apartment with a toothsome collection of Venetian pastries and breads. The consul’s wife had told me that Venetians made terrible servants, intent only on robbing their employers.

  ‘This is such a corrupt city,’ she had said. ‘Deception is in the very air, even Lord Byron takes care to have English servants. Venetians are good only as lovers!’

  Vittorio was certainly good for Adelaide. She positively glowed and bounced as she went about her duties. I was glad that she had recovered from her passion for the footman in England. A distracted, lovelorn retainer would have been of little use to me. Adelaide was my eyes and ears and I needed her in peak condition.

  The affair, however, came to a sudden and painful end. I met Adelaide as she tried to board the traghetto, the communal gondola used by the common people to cross the Grand Canal. Several people can be accommodated in a standing position on payment of a few coins. My maid was in an agitated condition and in danger of overturning the vessel. A small riot seemed imminent. Still clad in my carnival costume, I was forced to pluck her from the hostile crowd and deposit her on a seat by the canal. After snivelling for a few minutes she confessed the latest developments in her romantic saga between loud sobs.

  ‘His lordship ’as thrown over that woman, the baker’s wife.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I suppose ’e got tired of all the temper tantrums. But that’s not the worst of it, madam.’ I sighed, there was always trouble following us like a stray dog sensing leftovers.

  ‘Tell me everything,’ I urged. More sobs ensued.

  ‘The baker’s wife rushed out of the palazzo and threw ’erself in the Grand Canal.’

&nbs
p; ‘Is she drowned?’

  ‘No, they fished her out and sent her back to the baker. I managed to slip out of the back door before she saw me, but … she knows about me, madam. Someone must ’ave told ’er, and she ’as sworn to kill me.’

  ‘Nonsense! You are with me and she would not dare attack you in my presence. You must not go out alone. Always go with Tito, he will protect you.’

  I wondered if there was now a vacancy at the palazzo but my maid assured me that it had already been filled – by another Italian.

  Naturally, all Venice was agog with this latest development, as Captain Marshfield hurried to remind me. A few days later we were walking near the little church called the Miracoli when he turned to me and said,

  ‘Your hero has added another notch to his bedpost. I do not know why he is so successful with women. They say he is no great lover – it is merely his title and his reputation that attracts them.’

  ‘And possibly his looks and his poetry,’ I added. ‘Quite a formidable collection of advantages, would you not agree?’ The captain’s upper lip contorted in imitation of the humpbacked bridge on which we were standing. I enjoyed watching his discomfort. When we returned to the apartment I informed him that Mrs Makepeace could not receive him that morning. ‘She is having a little conflict with the rheumatics. The dampness of this city is a trial to us all.’ He gave me a speculative look.

  ‘Do you think she will wish to move on soon?’ I shrugged. ‘She sometimes mentions Rome and Florence, but nothing more. I fear she is overcome with Venetian indolence.’ Marshfield nodded,