Chapter 21

‘No. Not those.’ Lilly folds her arms across her chest, tapping an impatient foot on the laminate flooring.

She glares at me from the kitchen door as I reach into the glass cabinet, caressing the silver lockets; Ysabelle’s hair has been restored to its rightful place. I am finding it much harder than I would have thought to live with another person. After years alone it is strange. Lilly has her own way of doing things. She is slightly untidy, occasionally disorganised, and very bossy. She gives little consideration to my feelings. She criticises me constantly, complaining about how I have wronged her. It is a battle. Oddly, I love it.

‘I can’t leave them here.’

‘Then put them in storage. I can’t live with them, Gabriele.’

Checkmate. Can either of us concede when there is so much at stake? It has become clear to me that she will never be the loving companion I dreamed of. Perhaps this is my punishment for hoping that I could one day be happy when I am a murdering fiend. I realise there is only one thing to do in this situation. I let go of the locket I’m clutching; I let go of this piece of my past.

The truth is I have never been happier. Whatever terms that suit her are fine with me because just being around her ... Besides I have forever to convince her to love me; I am nothing if not enduring.

‘Okay. You win.’

She squeezes her lips in thought. It is incredibly attractive, almost a pout. It also reveals that she doesn’t believe my acquiescence. As always she’s suspicious of any kindness I show her.

‘Don’t behave like a wimp. I know you’re not one.’

I don’t answer. Instead I reach down for the tissue paper and begin wrapping the lockets, and pack them into a box.

‘They represent nothing to me now. They can go into storage ... like you said.’

‘But they did mean something to you?’

‘Once ...’

‘What?’

Lilly has hounded me day and night to talk; tell her of the past. I am afraid to speak. I know that once I begin, it will pour from my lips like sand through a timer. It would be like giving my entire soul over to her for disapproving scrutiny and I am not yet strong enough to take the disparagement.

‘What good would it do to tell you?’ I shrug.

I don’t believe it will help her feel better. She will still have to kill to live. She frowns at me again, shrugs, then turns once more to the cupboard she is ravaging. I watch her for a moment before turning away, back to my task.

‘Bloody hell.’

‘What?’ I twist; my heart leaping.

‘How many DVDs and videos have you got in here?’

‘Oh.’

‘I didn’t take you for a movie buff. What’s this? Casablanca? God, that’s old.’

‘I like old films ...’ My response is lame even to my ears.

She is enjoying looking through my cupboards, wading through my life; it gives her an insight into me.

‘Seriously, have you watched all of these?’ She giggles; a light girly laugh that under normal circumstances would inspire a very male reaction from me.

I don’t answer. So many long sleepless nights in four hundred years; so many hours to fill. Funny I haven’t spent one evening since her arrival looking at the television. All we’ve done is played music - and argued.

‘I used to read a lot ... before the age of video and DVD,’ I say.

‘Oh. Love at First Bite. Bram Stoker’s Dracula, Bride of Dracula ... God, do you believe your own press or what? There are loads of vampire movies here ...’

She tosses the cassette into the large tea chest by her feet and reaches into the cupboard for another.

‘These are all in alphabetical order aren’t they? Jesus, you’re organised. That’s really sad, do you know that? That’s some form of obsessive compulsive ... What’s this?’

An old dusty video of King Kong tumbles to the floor. On the cover Fay Wray looks into the camera, her hand crushed to her screaming lips.

I step into the kitchen, pick up the cassette and look into those big charcoal rimmed eyes. Black and white, though I know that those false eye lashes frame pale blue irises and those lips are painted blood red, just as I saw her on the opening night at the Chinese Theatre.

‘Miss Wray, look this way ...’

Flash.

‘How did it feel to be held by a big ape?’

‘Back-off asshole, only badge press are permitted photos.’

The security guard, aspiring cop, shoves me back from the red carpet.

‘I’ve got a card,’ I tell him as I look deep into his coal eyes.

‘See it?’

‘Yeah. Sure.’ He walks away dazed and she poses for me, white satin dress clinging to her legs.

She’s not wearing underwear.

‘What else have you got here? Oh no ... not Mighty Joe Young.’

She laughs.

‘Stop it. Damn you!’

Lilly’s razor nails are painted the same deep red, and I flinch as her fingertips brush my cheek. Her soul is in her eyes. I am her mirror. We are like a paused DVD; suspended mid sentence, action frozen. Cut. And then, I press play.

‘This is my life.’

‘Tell me,’ she pleads. ‘I just want to know.’

‘Why? So you can ridicule it? Feel superior?’

She shakes her head. No. The words gag my mouth. It is like a thousand stories; Ysabelle, Francesca, Amanda, Sophia and more merging and blending in a confused mass. I can’t share it. Not yet. Lilly’s hand strokes my face, soothing. Her lips kiss my cheek, cooling. I think I am dreaming; I never thought she could give me the slightest tenderness.

‘How can you expect me to understand anything unless you share?’

I shake my head. My body tremors in sympathy and I stumble against her. She holds me until the torrent subsides and beyond. When the night fades into morning we still sit, huddled together on the hard wooden floor; two monsters afraid of the daylight.

Then - the sunrise burns in fiercely, breaking us apart. We stretch and stand in unison. Lilly quickly shuts the blinds, closing out the life giving heat.

‘It hurts,’ she says, rubbing her arms. ‘Always in the morning.’

‘Yes. But it gets better, the more you feed.’

She is silent, still for a moment.

‘I was never meant to live, was I?’ she asks eventually; the question I had been dreading the most. ‘I’d given up hope ...’ I am so afraid.

She begins to fill the kettle.

‘A hot drink is what we need ...’ She is too perky.

It is my turn to comfort. I put my arms around her waist, hugging her to me from behind, even though I know it is likely she will push me away. She remains still, allowing my caress, her arms wrapping around mine as she leans back against me.

‘Even though I can’t talk yet ... I’m so glad you’re here,’ I whisper into her hair.

‘I ... think you really mean that, Gabriele.’

I bury my face in her hair. Kiss her throat, tracing a pattern with my tongue down her collar bone. She shivers in my arms and for a moment I have hope that she will respond, let me love her again. The soft whistle of the kettle breaks the mood and she pulls away, slipping from my hands like a fish almost caught. Her heart pounds in her chest, I can feel it, sense it; almost taste it.

‘Come on. We’ve still got work to do.’

Yes. We have to leave. Run away, like every other chapter in my life. I almost want this to end, had hoped it could. Maybe when we are settled in the country estate we may live in quiet domesticity hidden away from the world. For she at least is safe for me to love; I cannot hurt her more than I have already.

‘Where can Madre be?’ asked Gabi. ‘She’s never gone out and not told us where she was going.’

‘I don’t know. But I feel she’s not going to come back soon,’ Marguerite whispered.

Huddled together like two conspirators they sat in the dark before the thriving fire in the nursery. I hid in the shadows by the doorway listening to their childish concerns. I had said nothing to them, pretending the disappearance was a complete mystery to me also.

Earlier in the day I had caught Senora Benedictus looking at me suspiciously as the children questioned me about Ysabelle. The senora’s job was primarily to act as governess to the twins, however unofficially her presence in the household also worked as a chaperone for Ysabelle and I. This had legitimised her presence in my home and made it possible for us to live as a family, even though we were unmarried. Although this had never been formally discussed with Senora Benedictus, I knew she had always been aware of it. I also suspected that she knew I was Marguerite and Gabi’s father.

On returning early in the morning I had removed several of Ysabelle’s personal items, including clothing, jewellery and a full purse of money. As I searched through her drawers, deliberately leaving some mess, a drawer semi ajar, a cupboard open and untidy as though Ysabelle had searched for specific things, I had come across the silver locket I had given her soon after she moved in with the children. I didn’t have the heart to throw it away. She had loved it; flushed with excitement when I gave it to her.

‘I’ve never owned anything so beautiful,’ she’d said.

It had been one of her favourite things. As I stuffed the small trunk with her most used items, I inserted the lock of hair I’d taken from her and placed the locket around my neck. I was determined that her death would not be forgotten because the locket would always be there to remind me that I had destroyed this innocent woman.

Within an hour, weighted with heavy chain, I heaved the trunk out into the middle of the canal and let it drop. It sank, bubbling and hissing as the remaining air leaked out and the vile smelling water seeped in. I watched until the last bubbles dispersed on the surface and no sign of my crime remained. Then quietly I returned to the Palazzo, slipping into my room as the morning mist dispersed from the water by the raw heat of the summer sun.

I rang for my valet at the usual time, dressing with the same care and patience, my face blank. Every movement mimicked the routine of all my other mornings. Marco, my manservant, never once raised a questioning brow to anything I said or did. Even if I had behaved differently it would not have registered with him; his mind was full of the new servant girl the housekeeper had hired a few days earlier. So, I chose my clothes with the usual care and thought. In this way I ensured that the household workers were unaware that their informal mistress was dead.

As my children cried softly by the fire, my heart splintered and the pieces began to fly into different corners of the globe. I knew. It was time. I had to leave. But first I would make sure that Gabi and Marguerite had everything they needed. I would always do my best for them, but they were not safe in my presence.

As the quill scratched across the parchment, dry sobs shook my shoulders. I was angry and sad. I hated Lucrezia for coming into my life and taking away my humanity. Maybe if I had never met her, Ysabelle and my children would have been able to live happily with me forever. I wrote letters of introduction to two separate schools. One an academic and military establishment for young boys and the other an exclusive finishing school set in Geneva, which was only available to those young ladies with extraordinary wealth. I sealed the letters with hot wax and the family crest and carefully lay them on top of my desk to dry.

Senora Benedictus arrived a few minutes later. Her muddy eyes wouldn’t meet mine. ‘Senora. Please take a seat. What I have to say may take some time.’

Quietly she sat; her back as severe as the walls of the watch tower.

‘Senora Ysabelle has left me the care of the children.’ Her eyes flicked up then back to her clasped hands. ‘I’m sure I will not be shocking you if I reveal that I am not their uncle?’ She said nothing. ‘I am their father. I have decided it will be in their best interests to go away to school. As you know Marguerite has an incredible mind. There is an excellent academy for young ladies in Switzerland.’

It went on for several minutes. The senora neither spoke nor looked at me; her silence was her accusation even though her mind was closed to me.

‘I shall be commending them both to your care. You will first deliver Gabi to the school in Verona and then make your way to Switzerland. Naturally I will be giving you a generous severance pay and all expenses for the journey. Would you care to return to Venice or do you need further expenses to another city? I could also make some enquiries on your behalf; there is a Baron I know whose wife has recently given him a son.’

‘That will not be necessary, signor. I can find my own appointment.’

‘A reference then, naturally. I shall write it immediately.’

‘Thank you.’

As she left my study I was not certain how much she knew and if she was ever going to be a threat to me. Either way it did not concern me, for as soon as she left the next morning with Marguerite and Gabi I ordered my household dissolved and I sold both house and possessions to the first foreign visitor to offer. I left money behind with a trusted steward for Senora Benedictus to collect on her return. I knew that my sudden flight would raise even further suspicion but it did not matter. Who would want to investigate the sudden disappearance of a scullery maid? And even if Senora Benedictus did decide to report her suspicions, who would care enough to come looking for me?