Violet once told me there are moments in life when we can take a leap into the unknown or turn back toward the familiar. Discovering that she’d had a child out of wedlock, and had taken that leap herself, gave me the courage to take my own.
I woke early and reread Edward’s letter. His words affected me deeply. My reaction to them stirred a memory of the dizzy anticipation I’d felt when I’d first met Charles: a light-headedness, a sense of longing to be with him. Yet now when I thought about Charles, it was with a sense of hesitation and uncertainty that went far beyond any bride-to-be jitters. It was Edward who set my pulse racing, and it wasn’t just the words in his letter, or the moment we’d shared in his gallery the morning before I’d departed; there were other moments—a glance, a pause, a shared appreciation of a new piece of art, the suggestion of something else, something more, waiting to be said or done.
As I’d left the gallery that last morning, Edward had encouraged me to use the trip to explore new techniques and styles. “Don’t be confined by what you think you ought to be doing, Clara. Our best work comes when we set our imagination free.” His words spoke to me now. What I ought to be doing was looking forward to my wedding. What I ought to be doing was writing a few lines to Charles to tell him how much I missed him and loved him. But what I ought to be doing and what I was doing were increasingly becoming very different things. Of course, the proper thing to do would be to send a telegram to Edward’s hotel to explain that I wouldn’t be able to meet him after all. But for the first time in my life, I didn’t want to be proper or do the proper thing. I wanted to do the unexpected thing, the brave and exciting thing. I wanted to take a leap.
Flustered and indecisive, I changed my dress three times and my shoes twice and I fussed and fiddled with a head of hair that insisted on acting like an obstinate child.
“Good luck,” Madeleine offered when I was finally ready to go. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” she added. “Act as a chaperone?”
“I need to do this alone,” I replied. “Besides, two’s company.”
“And three’s a crowd.” She offered an encouraging smile. “Good for you. I’m going to take Matthias up on his invitation to take me for the best coffee in Venice.”
“Send him my regards. I won’t be long. I’ll be back by midafternoon.”
I picked up my gloves and closed the door behind me.
If only it could be as simple as I’d made it sound.
* * *
I WALKED WITH uncertain steps toward the Rialto Bridge, where Edward had asked me to meet him, every stride tugging at my conscience. I’d set off much too early and slowed my steps. Not wishing to appear too eager, or to arrive before Edward, I stopped for a while and watched the gondolas slip beneath an arched stone bridge. The gentle roll of the water below was soothing. I envied its ability to wend and weave in whichever direction it wanted to go, rather than following expectation and convention.
As the wake of a passing vaporetto calmed, I caught my reflection and was reminded of something Violet had said as I’d prepared to leave for this trip. “There are two versions of every woman, Clara: the version we present to the world with a polite smile, and the real version, the one we conceal from others and show only to ourselves when we look in the mirror.” I wondered which version of myself I would take back home, to America.
As a distant church clock chimed noon, I continued on my way, my pulse racing, my heart pounding. I’d thought about Edward so often since leaving America. I’d replayed, over and over, our last exchange on the dockside in New York City, and imagined him in his gallery admiring a new piece, his head tilted slightly to one side as he ran his hands through his hair, sending it this way and that. He was so vivid, so real in my mind that when I looked up and saw him leaning against a lamppost without a care in the world, I had to stop and take a breath. The twists and turns of fate that had led us both to this beautiful city at the same time were about to be unraveled.
I paused. His back was to me, so he hadn’t yet seen me. I could still turn and walk away, or I could continue and let fate decide how things would play out.
I thought of Nellie’s pocket watch: Never turn back.
I stepped forward.
When I was close enough for him to hear, I coughed. “Buongiorno, signor.”
He turned around, a smile spreading across his face as his eyes settled on mine.
“Buongiorno, signorina.”
We stood in silence, each of us searching for the next thing to say until his smile broke into a quiet laugh.
“I’m afraid that’s the extent of my Italian,” he said. “Apart from bella. You look radiant, Clara. Truly.”
I smiled, suddenly shy to be in his company, away from the usual limitations of the art gallery and our roles as tutor and student, and without a wife and fiancé waiting for us to return.
“Don’t worry,” I replied, letting his compliment pass. “Venetians speak exceptionally good English. It makes one feel ashamed, to be honest. They also have wonderful coffee and the best gelato in Italy.”
“Well, we must have both, immediately. What better way for two friends to spend an afternoon.”
Friends.
Given our respective relationship situations, it was all we ever could be, but was it enough?
My initial reservations about meeting Edward soon dissipated, and my conscience quieted as we chatted animatedly over coffee. I told him about our journey so far, our time in Paris and on the Orient Express, my joy in painting the miniature portraits for the Wainwright girls, and our newly discovered grandfather.
“He and Violet had a passionate love affair while she was in Venice, but she returned to America, and he stayed in Venice, and they never saw each other again,” I explained.
Edward was more charmed by the story than shocked. “And yet, after all those years apart, Violet still cared for him enough to send you both to meet him. He must have meant a lot to her,” he said.
“He really did. It’s very romantic, isn’t it.”
As I stirred sugar into a second cup of coffee, Edward reached for my hand.
“I can’t tell you how pleased I am to see you, Clara. I wasn’t sure how you would respond to my letter. I just . . . well, I couldn’t bear to see you leave without saying what I did, and since I was coming here . . .”
His skin was warm against mine and prompted a rush of heat up my neck. Instinctively, I pulled my hand away, then apologized, then apologized for apologizing.
Edward smiled gently. “I should apologize, not you. I’m sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable. It’s just, you look so happy, Clara. You look . . .” He paused as he fished about for the right word. “You look so alive. And this city! Look at it!” He leaned forward. “Doesn’t it make you want to be reckless?”
His enthusiasm was infectious, his eyes sparkling like flecks of amber, lit by the reflection of the sun off the canal. I did want to be reckless, and yet I held back. I was sensible, dutiful, predictable Clara. I didn’t know how to be reckless.
His question lingered, unanswered in the air around us, and I was relieved when he changed the topic of conversation and told me about the exhibition he’d been working on. Art was familiar ground. I felt more comfortable there.
“So, where to next, Miss Sommers?” he asked when we’d finished our coffee and he helped me into my coat. The spring air still carried a chill when the sun slipped behind a cloud. “The Doge’s Palace? The Rialto markets?”
“Art, of course, Mr. Arnold. The Gallerie dell’Accademia.”
“Of course,” he said with a beautiful smile that made my heart skip a beat.
We made our way by vaporetto to the Scuola della Carità on the south bank. I was surprised at how quickly I’d become familiar with the different areas of the city—the sestieri—and felt confident as our guide.
The building itself was beautiful and we walked in hushed appreciation, each of us taking turns to show one another a piece we admired. I was drawn to the work of Paolo Veronese and Tintoretto. Edward’s eye leaned toward Carpaccio and Canaletto.
“Look at the use of light and color,” he whispered. “The shadows and depth are remarkable.”
I found myself as captivated by Edward’s remarks as I was by the paintings themselves, but despite the beauty of the place and the brilliance of the art, my mind wandered, and doubt and guilt stood at my shoulder.
“Is everything alright?” Edward asked, noticing that I’d fallen silent. “You look like you’re a million miles away.” Concern etched his face.
I turned to him. “I’m sorry. I am a million miles away.”
“Might I join you there?” he asked, and it was such a gentle, tender question that it took all my resolve not to fall into his arms and stay there forever.
“I should go to meet Madeleine,” I said. “It’s getting late.”