One Way to Venice by Jane Aiken Hodge

Author:Jane Aiken Hodge [Hodge, Jane Aiken]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Publisher: Endeavour Press
Published: 2015-06-01T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

THAT AFTERNOON at Torcello was a nightmare of its own. To begin with, the island, with its lush, neglected green growth of vegetable garden and vineyard reminded Julia in a strange, disconcerting way of La Rivière . And from La Rivière to Breckon and Dominic was just one agonizing mind’s breath. She ought to have told Breckon about the anonymous letters. It seemed incredible, now, in retrospect, to have let herself be brushed aside so easily. And—again—should she have let Tarn persuade (over-persuade?) her to this afternoon’s outing.

Stopping beside him on the path to pretend to admire the village green, with its scatter of grey buildings and huge, dominating cathedral and bell tower, she paid them only token attention. “Tarn, what am I going to do?”

“Quit worrying, for Christ’s sake!” He had never used that tone with her before and must have seen her face change. “Sorry, girl, I’m as low as hell myself today. And work to do before I face Mr. Author Heyward again. So, you run along, relax, enjoy yourself. I’ll be right here, nose to the grindstone.”

“Oh!” Stupid of her not to have realised that for Tarn, inevitably this must be partly—mainly?—a business trip. It had been his own necessity that had made him take such a firm line with her doubts. Mad to have come. And nothing, now, that she could do about it. As he settled down to one of his rather scratchy line drawings of the cathedral’s towering façade, she moved reluctantly towards it.

“That’s right,” said Tarn more cheerfully. “Go say hullo to the Madonna for me. She’s worth it.”

Disconcerting, as always, to have to pay to go into a church. But, once inside, Julia stopped dead at sight of the huge, tragic, triumphant figure that dominated the main aisle. She stumbled to a chair and sat, her knees weak. How could the mosaic workers who had built up the great portrait have come so deep to the quick of a mother’s grief? She found she was both praying and crying, but quietly, not to disturb the great silence of the church.

It was disturbed, after a while, by a crowd of tourists who must have come on one of the special excursions to the island, and she rose to flee from their exclamations and flashlight cameras. “Super, isn’t it?” The girl’s accent stopped her at the main door, and she recognised the young couple she had met the day before.

“Even my barbarian likes it.” The tall young man, Peter, had recognised Julia, too. But, “Come on, Sue you get the best view from the bottom of the aisle. Be seeing you,” he dismissed Julia.

Outside, she forgot them at once. Tarn had disappeared. Absurd not to have remembered how quickly he did those sketches of his. But he could not be far off. She walked quickly around the corner of the cathedral, saw no sign of him, and retraced her steps to investigate the open gallery of the small, incredibly ancient-looking baptistery. But

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