‘You ask too many questions!’ she said irritably. ‘Where’s my lemon chiffon? I shall wear that for dinner this evening. The Contessa is joining us here for the evening, and we’ll leave the hotel tomorrow morning for the Palazzo.’ She turned away, studying her reflection satisfactorily. ‘By the way, you’ll be dining with us this evening.’
Since their arrival at the Danieli, Emma had dined in her room, leaving their table in the dining-room to Celeste, who liked the mystery she created around herself, and liked to know everyone was speculating about the lovely widow who sat alone at her table every evening.
Emma’s eyes widened now, but she made no further comment. The mystery deepened, and a faint suspicion was dawning within her that Celeste wanted to impress this Contessa with her affection towards herself. But why? Unless the Contessa had expected that Celeste would take care of her stepdaughter when Charles Maxwell died.
Could this be the link she was seeking? Emma wondered. It was painfully true that until now Celeste had considered Emma an encumbrance, the sooner to be rid of, the better.
Emma wore a pink linen gown that evening, which while having cost Celeste quite a large sum was nevertheless very simple in design, and did not entirely suit Emma’s fair colouring. She suited more definite colours rather than pastel shades, and in her present mood of suspicion, Emma couldn’t help but wonder whether Celeste had chosen her clothes more to detract from her attractiveness than to add to it.
It was true that in the past she had not had a lot of money to spend on clothes, but those she had were serviceable and youthful, and she had never before had this feeling of being quietly manoeuvred into anonymity.
The Contessa arrived on the dot of eight and Celeste and Emma met her in the downstairs lounge. Emma thought she had never seen a more regal person in her life, and as both Celeste and the Contessa were so small she felt doubly at a disadvantage.
However, the Contessa was in a mood to be charming, and when the introductions were over, and they had ordered a pre-dinner aperitif, she turned from her minute questioning of Celeste, to Emma, and said:
‘And you, my dear; how do you find your sudden change of fortune?’
Emma glanced at Celeste, and then shrugged disarmingly.
‘I … er … it’s very different from the hospital,’ she said uneasily.
Celeste’s fingers gripped her arm warningly.
‘Hospital?’ said the Contessa, frowning. ‘You have been in hospital, my dear? But this is very unfortunate at your age.’
‘I … w …’ began Emma, but the grip on her arm was painfully tightened.
‘Did I not tell you in my letter that Emma had had a severe dose of flu’?’ Celeste was saying swiftly. ‘It almost turned to pneumonia, and of course hospital was the safest place.’
Emma stared at her stepmother in amazement. If she had needed any confirmation of her earlier suspicions, surely this was it!
‘No, my dear Celeste,’ said the Contessa, as Celeste relaxed her grip on Emma’s arm. ‘You did not tell me. But no matter. How fortunate it was that you were coming to Italy. You will find recuperation here far more enjoyable than in London I venture to say. I know that country very well, and the climate appals me!’
Emma swallowed hard, unable to think coherently for a moment.
‘Your English is excellent, Contessa,’ she murmured awkwardly, unable for the life of her to think of anything else to say, and she knew she was expected to say something.
‘Thank you, my dear. I have always thought so, myself.’ The Contessa smiled. ‘Come, drink up your martini. I think it is time we went in for our meal.’ She slid an arm through Celeste’s. ‘And now, my dear, you must tell me everything. I want to know all about these two late husbands of yours, and whether you are thinking of marrying again. At thirty-three your life has barely begun. We must try to make your stay an unforgettable one.’
Emma felt stunned. She wanted to plead a headache, which she surely had, and leave them for a while to gather her scattered wits, but her innate sense of decency would not allow her to insult the Contessa in this way. Besides, she knew well what Celeste’s reaction would be if she suddenly found her stepdaughter trying to escape from the evening’s entertainment.
So she went in to dinner, and toyed with her food while she listened to the conversation going on between the Contessa and her stepmother. The meal was delicious; the minestra, a soup made of vegetables and herbs, was both aromatic and tasty, but Emma hardly noticed what was on her plate. Even the sweet dessert failed to arouse her from the lethargy into which she had sunk. To her relief, the Contessa addressed most of her remarks to Celeste, so she was saved of the need for more lies, although Celeste was not averse to embroidering the truth to suit her own ends, as well as altering circumstances completely should she find it more in her interests to do so.
‘Poor Charles,’ she was saying. ‘He was still a young man when he died, barely fifty-three, and so charming!’ She glanced at Emma. ‘Naturally, Emma and I shared our grief together, and I think we helped one another at that awful time.’
‘Of course.’ The Contessa was understanding. ‘It is always an unhappy time, and you were lucky to have a companion so near your own age. After all, my dear, you could not by any means be taken for this child’s mother! You look ridiculously young yourself, and you could almost be taken for sisters.’ The calculating look she gave Emma as she said this implied more implicitly than words that she considered Celeste far too attractive and delicate to have such an opposite for a daughter.
‘Emma and I are good friends,’ said Celeste, looking again at Emma, as though daring her to deny this statement, but Emma was too absorbed to care.
And, as the evening wore on, she wondered why she cared anyway. After all, she had never been left in any doubt as to Celeste’s feelings towards herself from the time she was sent away to boarding school, and she had only assumed she was being taken on this trip as a kind of maid-companion, so what did it matter if Celeste chose to act as though she were the fairy godmother who had taken Emma from a life of prosaic existence, to the elegant world of palaces and countesses and riches?
It seemed logical to suppose that Celeste wanted to appear as Emma’s saviour and mentor, and the Contessa with her obvious pride in family would hardly consider a woman who had abandoned her stepdaughter without regret two or three years ago as a fit and proper member of her society.
Emma was not a fool, whatever Celeste might think, and chances of free holidays, although they might not come every day, should not be sufficient to warrant the deliberate deceiving of an old lady. For that was what Celeste was doing, there was no doubt about that. And the reasons would no doubt become evident if the present Count chose to make an appearance. Middle-aged, ugly, debauched; he might be any or all of these things, but Celeste, who had not baulked against marrying a man already in his seventies in the United States for the sole and obvious purpose of gaining a wealthy position in society, would hardly consider any of these things important when compared to the noblesse she would achieve by calling herself the Contessa Celeste Cesare.
Emma felt sickened, and ashamed. By even being here she was allying herself in the deception, and all thoughts of the pleasure she herself might gain from this free holiday were banished by embarrassment of the situation. She would tell Celeste as soon as they got back to their suite that she was going home, and Celeste could move into the Palazzo tomorrow and do whatever she liked without any assistance from her.
The Contessa suddenly turned her attention to Emma. She studied her for a moment, and then said:
‘How are you liking your visit to Venice, my dear?’ She smiled. ‘Are you interested in old buildings and museums and art galleries? Or are you more enamoured of the Lido, and the calm blue waters of the Adriatic?’
Emma gathered her thoughts. ‘I think it’s a beautiful