Mr. Darcy, Vampyre

Chapter 9

The Darcys were not the only English people in Venice. Many of their compatriots, tempted by the easier travel occasioned by the break in hostilities with France, had chosen to travel to Italy too. Elizabeth’s table was soon full of cards left by English men and women known and unknown to them, for, when travelling, all English people became entitled to friendship. It was as Elizabeth examined the new cards one morning when she and Darcy had just returned from seeing the Campanile that she gave an exclamation of pleasure.

‘What is it?’ asked Darcy.

‘This card is from the Sothertons.’

‘I don’t believe I know them,’ he said.

‘But you have a reason to be grateful to them, all the same, and so do I, for they are the owners of Netherfield Park. It was Mr Sotherton’s debts that forced them to leave Netherfield and rent it out to Mr Bingley. I had heard they were travelling abroad, but I never expected to find them here.’

‘Everyone comes to Venice in the end,’ said Darcy. ‘We must invite them to our conversazione, and I must try not to thank Mr Sotherton for managing his affairs so badly that he had to leave his home, though I will be tempted to do so, for it he had been a more capable man of affairs, I would have never met you!’

‘I will send the invitation at once,’ said Elizabeth.

They went through into the drawing room. She glanced, as she always did on entering the room, at the ceiling, amazed at the artistry of the painters who had produced such a masterpiece and had produced it on a surface so high above the ground.

Going over to the writing table at the far side of the room, she wrote the invitation and then gave it to one of the footmen to deliver.

‘Is everything prepared for tomorrow evening?’ asked Darcy.

‘Yes.’

‘Nervous?’ he asked her.

‘No,’ she said, though it was not strictly true.

It was the first time she had hosted a social gathering and she wanted everything to be perfect. If she had been hosting an evening at Longbourn, it would have come naturally to her; if she had been hosting an evening at Pemberley, it would have been more of a trial, but still she would have known what was expected of her, and also what she hoped to achieve; but here in Italy, there were different ways and customs, as well as different food and drink, and complicating everything was the problem of the language.

Darcy had been a great help to her, speaking to the servants on her behalf and translating where necessary, but Elizabeth, realising that her lack of Italian was a handicap to her, had started taking lessons from a genial master. It would be some time before she could understand and make herself understood and until that time Darcy’s help was invaluable. Together they had managed to arrange everything to Elizabeth’s satisfaction and now she was looking forward to the conversazione.

Whilst Darcy went to speak to the butler in order to make the final arrangements for the wine, Elizabeth pulled a sheet of paper towards her and wrote a long overdue letter to her sister. She recalled the last letter she had sent, when she had been in the castle, and it all seemed very strange. Here, with the view of the Grand Canal outside her window, where gondolas glided past and where the buildings dazzled in the sunlight, the alarms of the forests seemed a long way away.

My dearest Jane,

The first thing she had to do, she knew, after the alarming tone of her last letter, was to reassure her sister that everything was well.

I sometimes think I must have dreamt the last few weeks, when everything was dark and frightening, and I pray you will forget about them too, for they are over now. Indeed, I am beginning to wonder if they were ever really as dark and frightening as I imagined. The castle was in a lonely spot and I think this must have preyed on my mind, making everything seem worse than it really was. The appearance of the mob was alarming, it is true, but the danger was soon past and no one was hurt, save for a few minor injuries which will by now have healed.

Here in Italy, it is very different. There are no gloomy castles and no sinister forests. Everything is magical. You must tell Bingley to bring you here, Jane. The buildings, the people, the shops—ah yes, the shops! The Rialto is an Aladdin’s cave and I have bought you a fan. I have also bought some music for Mary, a new gown each for Kitty and Lydia, a shawl for Mama, some books for Papa, and a pair of gloves for Charlotte. Darcy has bought me a parasol to protect my complexion from the fierce sunlight.

Tomorrow night we will be hosting a conversazione here at the Darcy palazzo—in France the gatherings are called salons whilst here they are called conversaziones, but they are much the same thing: evening gatherings where people can meet with friends and amuse themselves. The night after that we will be going to a dinner party hosted by a group of Darcy’s close friends. I am looking forward to it, as it will give me a chance to meet more of the people who are important to him

The Italians I have already met have been charming. They have the most musical voices and they move their hands a great deal when they talk. They are very expressive people, the gentlemen as well as the ladies. In this they are very different to the gentlemen at home, who mostly keep their hands clasped behind their backs.

There are some of our countrymen here as well, so at least I will be able to understand some of our guests, although my Italian is improving!

Darcy returned and Elizabeth laid aside her letter for the time being, and together they went through their list of things to do, making sure that all their preparations were in place for the conversazione.

The landing platform, the colonnade, and the courtyard were full of blazing flambeaux as the guests began to arrive on the following evening. Elizabeth stood in the drawing room to receive them with Darcy by her side. He spoke flawless Italian to the Italian guests whilst Elizabeth greeted them with several carefully rehearsed phrases; both she and Darcy were able to make their English guests feel at home.

The drawing room was abuzz with conversation in a variety of languages, for there were some guests from Switzerland, Austria, and other European countries, too. The ton had their own set of friends, as Elizabeth was discovering, and Darcy knew people from many countries. With all of them he was easy and assured, and she reflected that Darcy, with those he knew, was not the same as the more formal and reserved man who found it difficult to converse with strangers. Although he had made some efforts in that direction since knowing her, he was still not entirely at ease unless he knew people well. With strangers or mere acquaintances he always held something of himself back.

‘Elizabeth!’ cried Susan Sotherton as she appeared in the doorway.

She was small and plump with an abundance of fair hair which curled naturally round her face and she was dressed in a modish gown of ivory silk.

‘Susan!’ said Elizabeth, welcoming her warmly. ‘This is Miss Sotherton,’ she said to Darcy.

‘Not Miss Sotherton anymore, Mrs Wainwright,’ said Susan. ‘I was married in the summer. Mama and Papa asked me to send their regrets, but Papa is not well and Mama did not think it wise to leave him.’

Elizabeth nodded in quick sympathy. Mr Sotherton’s illness was more accurately described as drunkenness, and it was this propensity to drink, coupled with a propensity to gamble wildly, that had led to the Sothertons’ difficulties.

‘You must let me introduce my husband,’ said Susan. ‘Ah, here he is.’

Mr Wainwright came forward. He was not handsome, but he had an agreeable countenance and he seemed good humoured. He was also, by the look of Susan’s clothes and jewels, wealthy. But a quick glance at Susan’s face showed Elizabeth that the marriage had not been contracted for mercenary reasons and she was glad. She had found it difficult to forgive Charlotte for making a practical marriage, and she was pleased that Susan had not succumbed to the same fate.

‘How long have you been here?’ Susan asked.

‘We are newly arrived,’ said Elizabeth.

‘I thought you must be, or I would have seen you before now. It is good to see a familiar face; we have been travelling for months. But more of that later, you have other guests to greet.’

The Wainwrights moved on and Elizabeth and Darcy greeted the rest of their guests.

Once everyone had arrived, Elizabeth was free to join in the conversations. There was much talk of the political situation, and the recent invasion of Venice by the French was spoken of at length with sadness and regret. When the mood seemed in danger of becoming too dark, Elizabeth turned the conversation to art, a subject sure to energise the Italian guests, who were great patrons of all the arts.

The ceilings in the Darcy palazzo were much admired, as were the sculptures and statues which adorned the rooms.

Elizabeth found many of the guests charming and agreeable, but it was when she met Susan by chance in the ladies withdrawing room that she really began to enjoy the evening.

‘I never was more surprised or delighted to hear that you had married Mr Darcy,’ said Susan, as she examined herself in the mirror and patted her hair into place. ‘I am glad that something good came out of poor Papa’s follies. I always thought you would find it difficult to marry anyone in Meryton. You were too clever for the local men, you know. Mr Darcy seems very much in love with you. He can scarcely keep his eyes away from you.’ She separated the curls around her face and wrapped them round her finger one by one to refresh them. ‘And what do you think of my Mr Wainwright?’

‘I like him,’ said Elizabeth.

‘Yes, so do I. I was lucky to find him. I thought I would have to stay with Mama and Papa in boarding houses for the rest of my life, for Papa gambled away all my marriage portion, you know. It was not tied up as tightly as it should have been, and it soon slipped through his fingers. I am only glad that Netherfield is entailed, otherwise he would have gambled that away, too. Mama wanted me to marry Papa’s heir, some distant relation by the name of Mobberley, so that when Papa died I would be able to return home, and of course, she would have been able to return home with me.’

‘That is exactly what Mama wanted me to do,’ said Elizabeth. ‘She wanted me to marry Mr Collins, Papa’s distant relation, and she was very angry when I refused.’

‘Your Papa, I suppose, gave you his support,’ said Susan.

‘Yes, he did. He said that I must be a stranger to one of my parents, for Mama had already declared that she would not see me again if I refused him, and he would not see me again if I accepted!’

‘Dear Mr Bennet! How lucky you are to have such a father, though even he has not been very sensible where saving is concerned. At least we will not have any such problems when we grow older, for we have both had the good fortune to love wealthy men.’

‘And yet you did not marry for money. It is easy to see you love your husband.’

‘You are right. The odious Mobberley is richer than my dear Arthur, but I could never have married him for I have never liked him, but I love my Wainwright very much. Perhaps too much,’ she said mischievously, resting her hand on her stomach. ‘There is already another little Wainwright on the way. To begin with, Wainwright used his discretion so that he would not risk giving me a child whilst we were travelling, but his discretion could only last so long! So now we have to delay our return to England. It is not safe for me to travel over the Alps in my condition, and I have no fancy for a long sea voyage. I am sick very often and I do not want to risk sea sickness in the moments when the other sickness gives me some peace.’

As she spoke, an idea came to Elizabeth. She had thought of many reasons for Darcy avoiding her during their wedding tour, but here was one she had not thought of. He had wanted to show her Europe, knowing she had never been out of England and that there might not be another chance to see it because the political situation was so volatile. He might have then decided it would be a good idea to delay any possibility of her suffering from sickness or other complaints until they returned to England.

If he had not been so restrained, their travelling would have had to be much curtailed if she had become enceinte like Susan, and their flight from the castle would have been difficult indeed. The magnificent journey over the Alps would have been vastly unpleasant for her if she had been suffering from sickness and, moreover, it could have been injurious to her or the child, or both. But they would not be in Europe forever, and besides, Darcy’s restraint might not last for any longer than Mr Wainwright’s! As she went downstairs, she tried to weigh the advantages of it lasting until they returned to England against the pleasures of it breaking whilst they were still in Europe, and it was in a more cheerful frame of mind that she rejoined her guests.

‘You look happy,’ said Darcy, joining her.

‘I am,’ she said with a radiant smile.

He put his arm around her waist and led her to meet some of the more dignified guests, who professed themselves charmed to meet her. The evening was further enlivened by impromptu musical performances, so that it was with great regret that Elizabeth saw the evening come to an end. As the guests left, they expressed their thanks for one of the most agreeable evenings they had spent in a long time, and Susan whispered to Elizabeth as she said goodbye, ‘It was a great success.’

Darcy and Elizabeth watched their guests from the window, seeing them climb into the gondolas that waited for them in the way that carriages would have waited for them in London. Elizabeth laid her head on Darcy’s shoulder and gave a happy sigh as she saw the flotilla of graceful boats gliding away, to the accompaniment of the softly lapping waters of the canal.

There were a great many congratulatory calls the next day, and Elizabeth was glad to know that her first party as hostess had been a success. It made her eager to give more such parties when they were back at Pemberley.

After basking in the glow of all the congratulations, she turned her attention to their next engagement, this time an engagement at which they were to be guests. It was to be held by a Venetian friend of Darcy’s. The friend had not been able to attend their own conversazione and Elizabeth was looking forward to meeting him.

‘How exactly did you come to know Giuseppe?’ asked Elizabeth, who was eager to learn more about her husband and about his life.

‘I was walking home from a ball one night when I heard cries and I saw that a young man and woman were being attacked by cutthroats,’ said Darcy. ‘I went to help them, and together the young man and I drove off the assailants. He thanked me and introduced himself, then introduced his sister. They invited me back to their casa where I met the rest of their family. I was welcomed warmly, and they made it their task to show me the city, helping me to see it not as a tourist but as a native. They took me to all the famous sights, but they also took me to the less famous places, and they opened doors for me that would otherwise have remained closed.’

‘Did you not have letters of introduction when you arrived?’ asked Elizabeth.

She knew that this was the custom for young men of social standing on their Grand Tour.

‘Yes, I did, and I had a guide as well, but they could only do so much for me. Giuseppe and Sophia did so much more. They took me to visit the best painters’ workshops and they showed me where the best sculptures could be bought. They taught me how to appreciate art in a way that my tutors had not been able to do. For the Venetians, art is in their blood. It is a part of them, a part of their lives. Giuseppe, who loves all things beautiful, once said to me that, if he was cut, he would not bleed blood, but paint.’

‘Let us hope you never have to put it to the test!’ said Elizabeth.

Darcy grew silent, but then, rousing himself, said, ‘They helped me choose many of the works of art which now adorn Pemberley’s walls. A great number of the paintings in the gallery and most of the sculptures in the hall and elsewhere came from Venice.’

He spoke of his friends so warmly that Elizabeth found herself eager to meet them, but when they were in the gondola the following evening, on their way to the casa, Darcy said, ‘You may find Giuseppe morose at times. Venice’s recent troubles have rendered him gloomy. When Napoleon invaded the city it hurt him deeply, and when the city he loves was then given to the Austrians, as though it was nothing more than a bargaining chip, he felt the insult keenly. Many of the customs and traditions he loves have been stripped away. The great horses that used to decorate the basilica have been taken to Paris, the carnivale is outlawed, and now French banners hang from the windows of the Doge’s palace.’

‘I understand,’ said Elizabeth.

And indeed, she could understand Giuseppe’s feelings at having his beloved home invaded. England had also faced the threat of invasion, and although it was suspended for the moment by the signing of a peace treaty, it might one day return.

When the Darcys arrived at the Deleronte’s casa, Elizabeth found it to be as splendid as any palace on the Grand Canal. The landing stage was brightly lit, and the mooring post was painted with gay colours. There were many more gondolas coming and going, and the Darcy gondola had to wait before it could approach.

Darcy stepped out of the boat first, then offered his hand to Elizabeth and she followed. She was now used to the bobbing of the boat and she could judge its movement towards and away from the landing stage exactly, so that she stepped out at exactly the right time.

They went under the colonnades and into the courtyard, which was brightly lit with flambeaux, and then went up the steps, where they found their hosts waiting to receive them.

It was to be a small party, and so there was not the ceremony that prevailed at larger gatherings. The atmosphere was more informal—a gathering of friends—and Giuseppe and Sophia’s welcome reflected that informality. They greeted Darcy warmly and expressed themselves delighted to meet Elizabeth.

As they drew the Darcys into the room, Elizabeth was reminded of Charles and Caroline Bingley, for Caroline had been her brother’s hostess at Netherfield, just as Sophia was Giuseppe’s hostess here. But there the similarity ended. Sophia was not the cold and superior woman Caroline was; Sophia was warm and passionate, moving her hands expressively as she talked. Her brother was quieter, and Elizabeth remembered Darcy’s words and thought she could discern an air of melancholy about him.

To look at, the brother and sister were very much alike. They had black hair and black eyes with smooth, translucent skin. Their clothes were old fashioned, as were the clothes of their other guests. Not for them the Grecian styles which had swept England and France in the last five years. Instead they wore sumptuous clothes in jewel-coloured fabrics, the women’s dresses sitting on their waists.

Elizabeth was introduced to the other guests, a dozen in all, and saw that they all shared the Italian dark hair and dark eyes, with smooth, translucent skin. Elizabeth found it hard to guess at their ages. Their faces were unlined, but their eyes were full of experience.

They made much of Elizabeth and made her feel at home. They demanded details of the Darcys’ wedding tour and teased Darcy, telling Elizabeth that it was obvious she was good for him.

‘I have never seen him looking so happy,’ said Sophia, who, as the hostess, took the lead in the conversation.

‘Who would not be happy, married to a woman as beautiful as Elizabeth?’ asked Giuseppe gallantly.

‘And what do you think of Venice?’ asked Alfonse, who was there with his wife, Maria. ‘Is she not the most wondrous city you have ever seen?’

Elizabeth was only too happy to share her appreciation of Venice and the dinner guests nodded sagely at each compliment to their home.

They asked if she had been to the great cathedrals and if she had walked in the squares and when she said that yes, she and Darcy had seen a great deal and all of it miraculous in its beauty, Sophia smiled and replied, ‘You have said just the right thing to please my brother. He loves our great city.’

‘I can see why,’ said Elizabeth.

‘Alas, Venice is not as great as she once was,’ said Giuseppe, ‘before Napoleon put his boot on her beautiful neck.’

‘You must forgive my brother. He feels things very much,’ said Sophia.

‘Who would not?’ he cried. ‘Elizabeth will understand, she is English. She lives on an island and so she can enter into some of our feelings. It was a terrible moment for us when Napoleon’s soldiers marched into Venice.’

At the mention of Napoleon, the atmosphere in the room subtly altered, becoming awash with fierce melancholy. Elizabeth imagined Napoleon’s troops marching through the streets of Hertfordshire and she shuddered, but for her it was only in her imagination, a second’s vision, no more. For those around her, the invasion of their homeland was real.

‘Ah, yes, I knew you would understand,’ said Giuseppe, seeing the shudder. ‘The English and the Venetians, we have much in common. We are both great island nations, we are daring and bold, we are explorers and adventurers, we have a great love for our country, and we have a great pride in all our achievements. We sail the seas in search of new lands and new goods to trade… but I am forgetting,’ he said, with a comical smile, ‘the English, they look down on trade. Darcy is horrified at the very word!’

Contrary to his statement, Darcy was smiling, aware that he was being teased. But underneath the teasing lay something more real. Elizabeth realised that Giuseppe was exploring her beliefs, and she was aware that, although Darcy’s friends had told her how good she was for Darcy, they were still assessing her and wondering if she was good enough for their friend: not good enough in terms of social standing or wealth, but in terms of making him happy.

‘What will Elizabeth make of us, whose fortunes came from great mercantile adventures?’ Giuseppe continued.

Elizabeth smiled.

‘I am sorry to disappoint you, but I do not look down on trade. One of my uncles is in business in London, and even if that were not so, I would not hold it in contempt, for it is trade that supplied Darcy’s friend, Bingley, with the money to rent Netherfield, and without it I would never have met my husband.’

There was general laughter, and Darcy looked at Elizabeth with admiration and approval.

‘Excellente! Well said! Then we have a great deal in common, as was to be expected, for we both love trade and hate Napoleon,’ said Alfonse with a laugh.

‘Napoleon!’ said Giuseppe, and he became sorrowful again. ‘That upstart! What gave him the right to march into our city, destroying in days what it took us centuries to build, robbing us of our greatest treasures? What gave him the right to drive something wonderful from the world?’

The mood was becoming melancholic and the men were becoming morose. The women were uncomfortable, turning their fans in their hands or arranging their skirts to hide their disquiet.

Sophia proved her worth as a hostess by immediately lightening the mood and hitting upon the one thing that could rescue them all from their melancholy: a celebration.

‘Let Napoleon have his edicts,’ she said, dismissing him with a wave of her hand, ‘let him give Venice to Austria. Let them all conspire to control us. They will not break our spirits. Let them say what they will, we will have a ball, a great masked ball in honour of Elizabeth and in honour of the splendours of Venice. Let us show Elizabeth how we Venetians used to live.’

The idea caught hold at once.

‘But yes, let us show Elizabeth some of Venice’s former splendour. A masked ball for Elizabeth!’

The mood had altered. The melancholy had disappeared, to be replaced with pleasure and excitement. Everyone had their own suggestions to make and the details of the ball began to take shape.

‘Let it be a costume ball,’ said Maria.

‘Yes! A costume ball! And let it reflect one of our greatest centuries, let us wear the clothes of a bygone era. We will dress in the clothes of the thirteenth century,’ said Alfonse.

‘No, the fifteenth,’ said Maria.

‘The sixteenth,’ said Giuseppe, ‘the time of the great artists, of Titian and Tintoretto.’

‘Very well,’ said Sophia, ‘the sixteenth century.’

‘I have no suitable clothes,’ said Elizabeth with regret, for the ball sounded exciting.

‘You shall take from me, I have plenty, and masks, too, with which to surprise the gentlemen,’ said Sophia.

‘But of course,’ said Lorenzo. ‘That is all part of the excitement, trying to guess what face lies behind the mask.’

‘We will let the others make the arrangements whilst we do something more interesting: I will help you to choose your clothes. Come, Elizabeth,’ said Sophia. ‘We will enjoy ourselves!’

She led Elizabeth upstairs, through corridors lined with great works of art, and took her into a grand apartment with high ceilings and huge mirrors all around. She rang for her maid and soon the room was ablaze with light as candles blossomed into life.

‘Here!’ said Sophia, throwing open a huge pair of doors and walking through into an antechamber full of clothes. They were of all styles and colours, some new and some very old. ‘These are the ones we will wear at the ball, from here,’ said Sophia, showing Elizabeth a collection of gowns at the back of the anteroom. ‘These are from the days of Venice’s glory.’

As Elizabeth looked at the clothes, she saw that they were very old, the glorious fabrics faded with age, but exquisite in their beauty.

‘Do you never dispose of gowns in your family?’ asked Elizabeth, amazed at how many there were.

‘In my family,’ said Sophia pensively. ‘No. They remind us of other times, other balls, other lives, other loves. And that is what we live for, is it not, to love? You, who are so newly married, know that it is true. See, this dress, it is the one I wore when I met Marco Polo.’

‘When you met Marco Polo?’ asked Elizabeth in amusement. ‘That would make you 500 years old!’

Sophia’s hands stilled on the fabric of the dress. She said, ‘You are laughing. Then Darcy has not told you?’

‘Told me what?’ asked Elizabeth.

Sophia became so still that she looked like a portrait, extremely beautiful but somehow unreal. Then, just as Elizabeth was beginning to be unnerved, she gave a slight shrug of her shoulders and said, ‘It is not important, only that he has not told you my English, it is not very good. You will forgive me if the things I say do not always make sense?’

‘Of course,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Your English is, in any case, far better than my Italian.’

They laughed and then Sophia turned back to the clothes and said, ‘Now, which dress is for you?’

Elizabeth looked through the glorious gowns made of rich fabrics in blues, yellows, and scarlets. She took out a dress of deep blue velvet, which was criss-crossed with a latticework pattern in gold, matched by the slashes in the sleeves which allowed the gold silk of the undersleeve to be seen. She held it up, the candlelight winking on the gold thread woven into the latticework.

‘Ah, yes,’ Sophia said, ‘That is very beautiful. It is well chosen. Try it on!’

Sophia helped Elizabeth to slip out of her own gown and into the antique costume. As Sophia fastened it, Elizabeth looked at herself in a mirror and was surprised at what she saw.

‘I look quite different,’ she said.

‘Already the transformation, it takes place,’ said Sophia, standing behind her.

The dress was fitted at the waist, showing Elizabeth’s figure, which was usually disguised beneath her high-waisted gowns, and the fuller skirts flowed in folds to the floor. The dress was cut low at the neck with a square neckline, and it was richly embroidered with more gold thread.

Elizabeth was reminded of her childhood, when she and Jane had dressed up in Mrs Bennet’s old clothes for a game of charades. They had loved the rich fabrics and hooped skirts, and they had taken great pleasure in trying on a variety of wigs.

‘And now, you must choose a mask.’ Sophia showed Elizabeth a collection of masks of all shapes and styles, saying, ‘We Venetians, we love our masks. We have worn them always, until Napoleon; he banned them. But they are a part of us, a part of our heritage. We love mystery and the thrill of the unknown. It is a good thing for a nation of explorers! So much do we love it that even at a ball, we must explore: we explore each other.’

She picked up one of the masks.

‘See, here, we have a mask that covers the whole face; the features, they are richly moulded. And see,’ she said, picking up another mask, ‘here we have the flatter masks. This one, it has no fastenings, only a bar at the back to be held between the teeth.’

Elizabeth looked at it curiously, saying, ‘It must be very uncomfortable.’

‘But yes, it is true, that mask is not comfortable at all, and it makes conversation impossible. You will not wear that one. Perhaps you like this one?’

She held up a full face mask which was supported on a stick, but after holding it in front of her face for a few minutes, Elizabeth realised it would soon make her arm ache.

‘I think this one,’ she said, choosing a half mask that was held on by a band passed round the back of the head.

‘Si, that is a good one. It is still possible to eat and talk with the mouth being uncovered, but the nose and eyes are obscured, as well as the cheeks and forehead, so the mystery, it is preserved. You will set the others guessing! Your hair, it must be changed too. The styles of the day were similar but not the same. It must be parted in the middle and smooth over the top, with waves down the side of the face and the fullness pulled back into a—’ She broke off and said something in Italian. ‘No, it is no good, I do not know how to say it in English, but no matter, my maids, they know how to arrange such styles and I will send one of them to help you on the day of the ball. It is very important to make it right,’ she said, ‘otherwise it spoil things.’

At last they went downstairs, to find that dinner was being announced. As they went into the dining room, the talk of the ball became interspersed with other topics of interest, and to the Italians one of the greatest topics of interest was their art. Alfonse declared that Titian was a better artist than Canaletto, and Giuseppe declared that No! No! Canaletto was the better of the two. Darcy’s opinion was sought and, as they ate, a lively discussion ensued.

It was with a light heart that Elizabeth stepped into the gondola at the end of the evening as she and Darcy travelled back to their own palazzo.

Elizabeth was so caught up in the novelties of Venice that it was some days before she finished her letter to Jane, but when she found herself with a free hour, she took up her quill and finished the letter she had begun on arriving.

Darcy and I have been all over Venice, to the Doge’s palace and the Arsenale and a dozen more such wonderful places. We have crossed the Rialto bridge and wandered through the square of St Mark’s. The Venetians tell me that the city is not what it was before Napoleon ransacked its treasures, but there are still great beauties everywhere.

Tonight we are going to a masked ball. It is to be held in my honour and I am very much looking forward to it.

Perhaps we could try holding something similar at home, though I think such clothes and masks would look very strange in Hertfordshire! Here in Venice, they seem somehow right. The mask feels surprisingly comfortable, although I cannot see to the side very well when I am wearing it. It is beautiful, a work of art, as everything is in Venice. It is sculpted into the shape of a human face and it is decorated with jewels at the top.

There is time for no more or else this letter will never be sent!

Adieu for now, my dearest Jane,

Your affectionate sister,

Elizabeth

‘Are you writing to Jane?’ came Darcy’s voice as he entered the room.

‘Yes.’ She folded the letter and addressed it.

‘Have you told her about the ball?’

‘Yes, or at least, I have told her we are going to the ball. I will write again tomorrow and tell her all about it.’

‘Is your costume ready for tonight?’ asked Darcy.

‘Yes. And yours?’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘What are you wearing?’

‘That would spoil the surprise,’ he said. He looked down at her with a smile. ‘I love to see you like this, happy and excited. I knew you would love Venice.’

The clock, an ornate work of art made of ormolu and heavily gilded, struck the hour.

‘It is time to get ready,’ Elizabeth said.

She returned to her room, a large and airy apartment ornamented by frescoes and furnished with gilded marble furniture, and she began the leisurely process of preparing herself for the ball. As she bathed in scented water, she thought of all the times she had dressed for a ball at home, with the noise of the Longbourn household ringing in her ears: Lydia running round the house in search of a missing shoe or ribbon, Mary moralising, and their mother scolding everyone in turn, before complaining about her nerves. She did not miss their noise and chatter, but she did miss Jane. What fun it would have been to dress in her costume with Jane by her side!

But such thoughts did not last for long; there was too much to think about and too much to do.

Sophia had been as good as her word, and she had sent one of her maids to help Elizabeth. Annie had at first been suspicious of the Italian woman, but her suspicions had soon been overcome. Elizabeth sat at her dressing table so that Sophia’s maid could arrange her hair and Annie paid close attention, helping to smooth Elizabeth’s hair over the crown of her head and arrange the waves around her face, then catch the remaining hair up in a chignon pinned at the back of her head.

They helped Elizabeth to put on the heavy, unaccustomed dress, fastening it at the back with deft fingers and then standing back to admire the effect. Elizabeth scarcely recognised herself in the cheval glass, and when she donned her mask, her disguise was complete.

‘Oh, Ma’am, you will fool them all!’ said Annie.

Sophia’s maid let forth a volley of Italian which neither Elizabeth nor Annie understood, but she seemed to be pleased.

‘Is Mr Darcy still here?’ asked Elizabeth.

‘No, Ma’am, he’s already gone,’ said Annie.

‘Then I must go too,’ said Elizabeth.

They had arranged to travel to the ball separately because it was part of the challenge of the ball to see how long it would take them to recognise each other.

Elizabeth put on her cloak, for the nights were cold, and ran downstairs in high spirits, prepared to enjoy herself at the ball. She went through the courtyard and down to the canal, where she stepped lightly into a gondola. She was so used to the gondola that she did not falter, even when it rocked beneath her, but sank gracefully onto the silken cushions that lined it as the gondola moved out into the canal. The waters were dark, shot through with rippling gold as they reflected the many torches that challenged the night. They lapped against the boat and their music mixed with the voice of the gondolier as he began to sing in a rich tenor voice, brimming with passion.

‘What is your song about?’ she asked when he drew breath.

‘About love, Signora. What else is there to sing about? The man and woman in my song, they cannot see a way to be together and so she drowns herself in the canal. It is very tragic and very romantic.’

‘But much more romantic to live,’ said Elizabeth.

‘The beautiful signora is right,’ he said. ‘The living have pleasures the dead know nothing of.’

They came to rest outside Sophia’s palazzo. The gondolier jumped lithely out of the gondola and tied it to one of the gaily coloured mooring posts. Elizabeth stepped out of the gondola as sure-footedly as he and then ascended the steps to the palazzo. It was ablaze with light, which spilled from the windows and illuminated the night.

She went into the courtyard and was greeted by a hubbub of noise and laughter as she climbed the stone steps to the door. As it opened for her, she heard the sound of violins playing and the chatter of many voices.

Guests turned to look at her as she entered, taking an interest in the new arrival, with faces made strange by their masks. Some of them wore half masks like her own, covering only the eyes, cheeks and foreheads, others were full face. Some were sculpted to fit their wearers, with well-shaped holes for eyes and mouth, and some were distorted, so that the wearers’ heads had a strange, animal like appearance. Long noses, hooked up or down like beaks, changed the features and added a touch of the bizarre to the scene. She tried to find some familiar faces, but either the masks were doing their job very well or the people she knew were not near the door.

She slipped through the throng, drawing appreciative glances from the men as she passed, and went into the ballroom. It was full of people in costume, the full skirts of the women competing in their brilliance with the velvet tunics of the men.

Some of the guests were already dancing, but the dance was strange and the music was strange also. It seemed to come from an earlier time, and Elizabeth guessed that it too was a celebration of Venice’s glory centuries before. The men were leaping athletically, and then lifting their partners and spinning them round before putting them down again on the floor. The guests knew the steps, and she thought that they must have hired dancing masters especially to teach them. Alas, she did not know the dances and she wondered if there would be some with which she was familiar later in the evening.

As her eyes ran over the other guests, hoping to recognise someone, she saw a strange figure watching her through a gap in the crowd. He was dressed in the colour of dead leaves and his mask was of dark cream with touches of old gold. He was not Darcy, of that she was sure, but she found him oddly compelling. His mask was moulded into the semblance of a smile, but the smile was distorted so that it looked almost malevolent. There was something gleeful about the grin and something cruel. She tried to look away but found she was held by some power she did not understand. It was only broken when someone stepped between them.

‘Might I have the honour?’ asked the gentleman who had blocked her view.

He spoke in a disguised voice, but there was no mistaking him.

‘Are you sure it is acceptable to dance with your wife?’ she asked mischievously.

His mask was only a half mask, like hers, and he smiled ruefully.

‘You knew me,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ she said, thinking, I would know you anywhere, no matter how you were dressed. ‘And you recognised me too.’

He had evidently followed her train of thought for he looked at her lovingly and said, ‘Always. No mask could ever disguise you from me. I know the feel of you, Lizzy, and nothing can ever change that.’

He offered her his hand, but she said, ‘I don’t know the dance. I don’t even know its name. Though I don’t suppose it can be difficult,’ she added with an arch smile.

‘No?’ he asked.

‘No. After all, every savage can dance!’

He laughed.

‘I was in a bad humour that night. How could I have been so rude to Sir William? The poor man was just trying to make me feel welcome.’

‘As he was trying to give consequence to a young woman who had been slighted by other men!’

‘Will I ever be forgiven for such a remark? Probably not, nor do I deserve to be.’

‘Oh, I think, now that you have given me a palace, I might consider it,’ she teased him.

‘Only might?’ he asked.

‘Very well, if you teach me the dance, you may consider yourself absolved. Is it a uniquely Venetian dance?’ she asked, as he gave her his hand and led her onto a quiet corner of the floor.

‘No, the galliard is danced everywhere—or was, a long time ago.’

The dance was a strange one, full of lifts and leaps and twirls, but by watching the other dancers and by listening to Darcy, she was able to catch the steps.

‘And now I lift you,’ he said.

He put his hands on her waist and lifted her from the floor, then turned around whilst lifting her. She leant back against him, feeling the heat of his hands through her gown before he put her down again.

‘You smell wonderful’ he said, inhaling deeply.

‘I should do, I am wearing the finest Venetian perfume!’ she said.

‘No,’ he said intensely, ‘not the perfume. You.’

They had moved into a world of their own, having eyes for no one but each other, wrapped up in the scent and the sight and the feel of each other, and they did not leave it until the music stopped.

Elizabeth felt a sense of loss, and she struggled to regain that world of heightened senses. She resented the other guests for taking her husband away from her, as they exclaimed over his dancing and introduced him to more of the guests. And then she too was claimed, and her hand was sought by one of the gentleman, who begged her to dance with him. He was gay and good humoured and to her delight she recognised him as Giuseppe.

‘Ah! But how did you know?’ he asked.

‘I recognised your voice.’

‘Then I must disguise it if I am not to spoil the surprise for others. Have you recognised Sophia yet?’

‘No,’ said Elizabeth, looking round the ballroom. ‘Is she here?’

‘Yes. You must guess which one she is.’

Elizabeth made two false guesses before finally guessing correctly, for Sophia was wearing a full face mask. In the end, Elizabeth recognised her because she recognised Sophia’s gown as one of those she had seen in the dressing room, when she and Sophia had been choosing their clothes.

‘Are you enjoying yourselves?’ asked Sophia as she crossed the room to join them when the dance ended.

‘Very much,’ said Elizabeth.

‘It is different from your balls at home?’

‘Yes, it is entirely different.’

‘You do not wear masks, I think?’

‘No, we don’t, but it isn’t just the masks,’ said Elizabeth. ‘The clothes, the dances, the music, everything is different.’

‘Ah, yes, you have very stately dances in England,’ said Alfonse, joining them. ‘I know, I have been there. You turn up your noses and you look at no one, then you walk down the ballroom in silence and you turn round at the end.’

Elizabeth laughed at his description of the English dances.

‘In some private balls it may be so, but at an assembly it is very different, with a lot of lively country dances,’ she said. ‘There is a great deal of chatter and laughter, I assure you.’

‘An assembly? I do not believe I have ever been to an assembly.’

‘Then you must go,’ said Elizabeth.

‘Darcy, have you ever been to one of these assemblies?’ asked Giuseppe, as Darcy joined them.

‘I have.’

‘But he disliked it excessively,’ said Elizabeth teasingly.

Darcy raised his eyebrows and the others exclaimed, begging to know more.

‘Not excessively,’ said Darcy.

‘Confess it,’ Elizabeth said, laughing. ‘You thought it was insupportable!’

‘But how is this, if it is full of lively country dances?’ asked Sophia. ‘To me, it sounds fascinating.’

‘I had only just arrived in the neighbourhood and didn’t know anyone there,’ said Darcy.

‘And, of course, no one can ever be introduced in a ballroom!’ said Elizabeth.

Giuseppe laughed.

‘I can just imagine it,’ he said, looking at Darcy. ‘Darcy striding in with his nose in the air. You look horrified, my friend, but it is so! I have seen it.’ He turned to Elizabeth. ‘You have married a proud man, Elizabeth, from a noble line. He has ever been thus.’

‘But Elizabeth has made him more human. And now he must dance,’ said Sophia. ‘Darcy, you must partner me.’

‘And the lovely Elizabeth must be my partner,’ said Alfonse, bowing.

They took to the floor again. Elizabeth found herself becoming more used to the galliard, and she could soon dance it without having to watch the other dancers. It was an energetic dance, and the room resounded with the sound of the gentlemen landing on the floor as they leaped and twirled.

Other dances followed, all equally strange, and Elizabeth had to concentrate on the steps of each one in turn so that she was glad when it was finally time for supper.

As she was going into the supper room, she felt a frisson of some strange emotion and her eyes turned, almost against her will, to the shadows in the corner, where she saw the man in the strange mask again.

‘Who is that?’ she asked.

‘Who?’ asked Giuseppe.

Elizabeth turned back to the man in the strange mask, but he had gone.

‘Never mind,’ said Giuseppe, ‘you will see who he is at the unmasking after supper.’

Elizabeth enjoyed the food as she enjoyed the company. There was noise and good humour and laughter. The food was good and plentiful and the wine was very fine. The Italians took it seriously, pronouncing on the flavours and discussing the vineyards and even the grapes from which it was made.

Everyone ate, though those in full face masks found it more difficult than others. They lifted the corners of their masks carefully and ate sparingly, so as not to reveal their faces. There were many guesses as to the identity of the different guests, and by the end of supper, there was a buzz of excitement as it would soon be time for the unmasking.

They moved through into the ballroom, where the musicians played quietly, forming a background to the chatter, until, at the stroke of midnight, there was a loud chord from the violins and Sophia and Giuseppe demanded everyone’s attention.

‘You have all been very patient…’ began Sophia, raising her voice so that she would be heard above the hubbub.

Shushhhing sounds ran round the room and the hubbub quieted.

‘You have all been very patient,’ said Sophia again, speaking more quietly now that she did not have to compete with the general noise, ‘but now the moment has arrived. Signore e Signori, remove your masks!’

There was a rustle as the guests, as one, removed their masks to reveal smiling, excited faces. There were cries of surprise, as well as cries of recognition, with many voices saying they had already guessed the hidden identities, some truthfully, others less so.

Elizabeth was congratulated by those around her, and Darcy moved to her side, saying, ‘Did you enjoy it, your first masked ball?’

‘Yes, very much,’ she said. ‘We might think of holding something similar at Pemberley. It would be fun and I am sure Georgiana would like it.’

‘Whatever you wish,’ he said.

The evening was drawing to a close. Some of the guests were leaving, thanking Sophia and Giuseppe for a marvellous evening, and thanking Elizabeth too, for the ball had been in her honour. Elizabeth and Darcy added their thanks, and once the other guests had left, they too went down to the canal.

It was only as she was stepping into the gondola that Elizabeth realised she had not seen the strange man at the unmasking, but she forgot him as soon as she lay back in Darcy’s arms. The gondolier was singing as he began to ply his oar, moving the boat forward along the Grand Canal, and their way was lit by moonlight.

The romantic atmosphere exerted its charm: once back at the palazzo, when Darcy escorted Elizabeth to her door, and he kissed her on the lips: no tortured token this, but one of deep longing.

‘Good night, Lizzy,’ he said softly, and as he left her there, she shivered with anticipation, thinking: soon, soon.

She undressed slowly for she was tired, and when she had put on her nightgown, she gave a yawn and climbed into bed. She blew out the candle and lay for some time in a hazy state between sleeping and waking as she relived the evening, until at last the sound of the water lapping the stones beneath her window lulled her to sleep.

She moved from the waking world into the sleeping world with scarcely any boundary between them. Memories of Venice, with its exotic clothes, strange masks, narrow streets, dark canals, glittering palaces, and romantic gondolas, all whirled together in the landscape of her dreams. She dreamt she was with Darcy, dancing with him at the ball. Then the scene changed, and she was laughing and talking with him as they walked through St Mark’s Square. There were people all around them, laughing gaily and gesticulating with their hands as they talked in Italian, French, and English, their languages merging into one great murmur. Flocks of birds fluttered into the air as they passed and then settled down again when they had gone. The sun shone above, and from far off came the sound of the gondoliers’ song.

They crossed the square and turned down a narrow street, emerging into a smaller square with a fountain playing, and then entered another narrow street, still noisy, still happy. But as soon as they entered it, something changed. The noise stopped as though it had been cut off with a knife and the light altered, going from the golden light of sunshine to the cold, hard light of moonlight in the blink of an eye. Elizabeth felt a rising tide of panic and had to fight the urge to run. The world was no longer a reassuring place; it was ominous. The buildings towered above her like cliffs, and the narrow street made her feel trapped and shut in. The canals running at the side of the street no longer seemed romantic; they were dark and forbidding, their deep waters hiding dark and deadly secrets.

She reached out for Darcy’s arm but it was not there. She turned towards him and saw to her horror that he had gone. She ran down the street looking for him and calling his name but there was no reply. On she ran, through the maze of streets, until she knew she would have to turn back or become hopelessly lost. She began to retrace her steps, only to find that the streets had changed, and that she had changed with them. She was no longer dressed in her pale blue muslin, instead she was holding onto wide skirts made of scarlet silk which flowed around her like liquid flame.

‘Darcy?’ she called, afraid, but her voice dropped into the silence with the deadness of a stone. ‘Darcy!’ she called again.

But there was no reply.

And then, just as she was longing for the sound of another human voice, she heard something. It was at the very edge of her hearing and at first she could not tell what it was, but then she recognised it as music. Its faint strains were coming from somewhere in front of her. Violins were playing a jaunty tune.

It sounded strange in that dark and gloomy place, but she began to run towards it. As she drew closer, she could hear voices too, faint but unmistakable, and she followed them, running over the bridges and down the narrow passageways with her skirts flowing out behind her.

She saw light ahead, the brightness of many torches. She could see people in the square, dressed in brilliant costumes and friendly masks. She felt a rush of relief and began to run more quickly, seeing them turn towards her in surprise as she ran over the final bridge—and then they disappeared, the lights blinking out in a heartbeat, the voices abruptly silenced in mid-sentence, and with a feeling of horror, she found herself in the dark square and it was empty and she was alone.

She sped across the square, looking for the revellers, but they had gone. She looked down every narrow street, hoping to see some sign of them, but there was nothing—except, at the end of the last one, a man in costume, wearing a mask that was shaped into a curiously distorted grin. He turned to face her and she felt the power slipping out of her, as though her will was leaking out through holes in her side and flowing into him.

He beckoned and she moved forward, like a puppet with no control. She felt a brief stirring of her will as the last dregs of it resisted, and for a moment, she remained motionless, fighting his pull. But then he beckoned again and her legs began to move of their own accord.

‘No,’ she said, and then, ruthlessly,’ No.’

And suddenly the streets were full of people again, running past her wildly, shouting, ‘Incendio! Incendio!’

There was panic in the air and a red glow on the horizon, growing brighter and brighter by the minute, and looking up she saw that the Palazzo Ducale was burning. The wickedly triumphant flames were leaping high into the sky where they crackled and burned across the nightmare black. She ran forward to help but before she could reach the palazzo, everything changed again and she stood still, bewildered and uncertain, not knowing which way to go. Without the fire, she could see nothing save a dark silhouette of buildings.

And then the hairs rose on the back of her neck. She felt her flesh crawl with horror as she knew with all her senses that there was someone—some thing—behind her. It was waiting in the shadows, biding its time, taunting her, playing with her like a cat with a mouse. It was a frightening thing, a glorious thing, a wonderful thing, a terrifying thing. And old. She was drawn to it, but she mustn’t go to it, she mustn’t, she mustn’t…

She resisted its pull and backed away, crying, ‘No!’ as she did so.

She felt it laugh and then grow stronger, exerting more pressure, bending her will.

‘No!’ she cried again.

She picked up her skirts and turned and ran, through the streets, across the canals, pursued by its relentless force, dark and malign.

On she went, past the Doge’s palace, with the ghosts who haunted its bridge clutching at her. She put her hands to her ears in an effort to stop the sound of their sighing, their terrible sighing.

‘No! No! No!’ she cried.

‘Yes,’ came a whisper in the wind. ‘You are mine, my love, my bride, my Serenissima.’

On she ran, with the waters rising all around her, creeping out of the canals, oozing and alive, crawling into the streets, following her, pursuing her, and giving chase.

‘Acque alte!’ she called.

‘Elizabeth!’

‘Acque alte! Acque alte!’

‘Elizabeth,’ said Darcy again, shaking her. ‘Elizabeth, wake up. It’s a dream, my love, it’s nothing but a dream.’

The waters stopped and listened to him, and then slunk back, slithering into the canals like supple snakes, and Darcy was there beside her, a gateway back to the real world. He was bending over her and shaking her gently, his tousled hair falling into his eyes and onto the white fabric of his ruffled nightshirt. As she emerged from the strange dream world, he sank into a chair and pulled her onto his lap, cradling her to him, and she was in her bedroom once more, where the candles blazed and the fire glowed and all was peaceful and secure.

‘Ssshh,’ he said soothingly, his arms around her and his warmth wrapping her round.

‘Oh, it’s you, it’s you!’ she sobbed in relief. ‘I was so frightened! The streets were awash, the Palazzo Ducale was burning, and I had lost you, I had lost you… I looked and looked but I couldn’t find you anywhere.’

‘Hush, my love, it was nothing. Nothing but a dream.’

She put her arms round his neck and rested her cheek against his shoulder. Her heart began to slow and to resume its steady beating. She rubbed her cheek against the soft fabric of his nightshirt and gave a sigh as the last of the dream flowed out of her, then turned her face up to his. She was surprised to see that he looked troubled.

‘What is it?’ she asked, lifting her hand and stroking its back across his cheek.

Now that she was safe, the dream was receding and she felt foolish for having been so frightened.

‘Nothing,’ he said, taking her hand and kissing it, then turning it over and kissing her palm and then her wrist. ‘It is just that I am surprised, that’s all. How did you know about the floods? And how did you know that the Venetians called them the acque alte?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Someone must have told me, Giuseppe perhaps,’ although she could not recall his having done so.

‘And the fire? How did you know about the Palazzo Ducale catching fire?’

‘I didn’t. I thought it was just in the dream. Did it really burn?’

‘Yes, it did, a long time ago. Centuries ago.’

‘Then someone must have told me about it, or perhaps I read about it somewhere.’

‘Yes, perhaps,’ he said, but his mood was sombre.

‘It was nothing, my love,’ she said, and now she was comforting him. ‘A nightmare, that is all.’

‘Of course,’ he said with a distant smile.

But he put his arms around her and he did not let her go.