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here.’
    ‘Oh.’ I was surprised and, if I’m honest, a little offended then that he had not made the effort to meet me. ‘OK . . . I’ll just leave this with you.’
    The old man took the letter, closing the door simultaneously, leaving me on the street wondering whether he would really pass on the letter or use it as kindling.
    I waited for a moment or two, toying with the idea of knocking on the door again and asking, since Mr Donato was in, whether his servant wouldn’t mind if I delivered my thank-you note in person. But my bravado soon deserted me. If Donato hadn’t wanted to see me that morning, why would he want to see me now? Or perhaps he had seen me. Perhaps his was the shadow that had lurked in the gallery bordering the garden. Yes, that was it. He had seen me all dolled up in my very best pencil skirt and decided I wasn’t worth getting to know, unlike the long-legged, large-breasted supermodels of St Moritz and Saint Tropez. I felt myself growing hunched at the comparison.
    My mobile phone vibrated in my pocket.
    It was Nick.
    ‘ Aperitivo? ’ he suggested, in an exaggerated Italian accent. ‘Look for the Ponte dei Pugni. There’s a bar right at the foot of it. You can’t miss it. Everyone spills out onto the bridge.’
    ‘OK,’ I said. ‘Why not?’
    I needed company again. I felt oddly downcast by Donato’s decision not to make my acquaintance that morning and that small rejection somehow amplified the much larger hurt I was already feeling with regard to Steven. Plus, there was something about the Donato house. It seemed to have thrown a shadow that remained with me as I walked away. There was sadness there, most definitely. But why? I glanced up at its shuttered windows one last time as I got to the end of the street. Perhaps I was going bonkers, but I was sure someone was watching me again.

Chapter 11
    12th November, 1752
    Night could not come quickly enough. Even though it is November and the days are supposed to be short, I felt as though darkness would never fall. The hours I spent sewing in front of the fire seemed like a year. And then, even when it was dark, I had to wait longer. Maria normally sends me up to bed at the earliest possible opportunity, but tonight of all nights she was not in any hurry. I asked if the priest was coming to take her confession. She bristled and told me the priest has gone to visit an elderly relative in Padua. Besides, she added when she realised her answer might have told me too much, she had no reason to confess. Unlike some. She nodded her head towards the windows and the darkness beyond. I knew she wanted to gossip about the people in the house across the canal but of course, she couldn’t gossip with me. More’s the pity for her. I could have added some real colour to her hearsay.
    Instead we had to sit in silence, both of us frustrated. Her without the prospect of divine intervention. Me just waiting for the end of this interminable day. If only I felt Maria could be trusted. If I could have told her exactly what happened on the canal beneath my window last night, how quickly our evening together might have passed.
    Anyway, I digress. At last, at last, the time came when Maria suggested I go to my bed. I had been hinting for several hours already. Yawning and sighing, complaining of dropped stitches. But I know Maria dislikes being alone in the darkened rooms of the palazzo. My father is away on business. My brother has accompanied him this time. There remains only me to keep her company. Both Maria and I knew that Fabio, my father’s boatman and general factotum, would have taken advantage of the absence of the master of the house and gone to visit his sweetheart. Lucky Fabio, having a sweetheart whose parents don’t care about her reputation at all.
    So, I went to bed. I made a show of reluctance, of course, but Maria said it was her duty to ensure I didn’t fall asleep in church the following day. I agreed that would be a terrible shame,