Lady of Asolo Read Online Free PDF Page A

contessa sighed. ‘She’s got herself involved with the wrong crowd at university. They go around distributing leaflets about how the Veneto should become independent of Italy. I just hope they aren’t about to become terrorists.’
    ‘Gosh! What a worry for you!’
    ‘It’s that boyfriend of hers, Federico, I’m sure of it. He’s got her twisted around his little finger. Luca and I keep telling her how unsuitable he is, but the more we try and convince her the more she turns to the boy. It would be nice for her to meet someone sane like you.’
    Not that sane . . .
    Within minutes the contessa had arranged a small table overlooking the valley and a glass of water for her paintbrush. Then she took her leave, assuring Fern of an invitation to dinner via her son.
    Fern opened her rucksack and took out a small board. Was she having hallucinations? Not exactly. After clipping paper onto the board, she started to work. Spreading water onto the paper, she asked herself if she could be reliving a past life. Ridiculous. There’s no such thing as reincarnation. She added paint to her palette, a small plastic tray. Maybe the young woman, Cecilia, was a projection of herself? She began transferring the scene in front of her onto the paper: the cypress trees, the vineyards and the olive groves. There were definitely some similarities between herself and the young woman - the same hair and build and something about Cecilia’s personality that reminded her of herself before . . . That’s it! Must be something to do with the fire, some bizarre warp in her brain related to the trauma she’d suffered. She dried her brush on the old rag she kept in her bag, then scuffed it and rubbed it on the palette. Time to add some leaves. And time to get a grip on yourself, Fern!
     

4
     
     
    ‘Siesta for you, my lovely,’ Aunt Susan said, picking up the plates and taking them to the dishwasher. ‘I’ll take a nap myself. Then we can go for a stroll and I’ll show you what’s left of the Barco. It would make a fabulous setting for one of your watercolours.’
    ‘Barco?’
    ‘Caterina Cornaro’s country estate. There’s part of the east wing still standing and this house is built near to where the west wing once stood.’
    A chill sliced through Fern. Why? Then she remembered. Cecilia had been about to set off for the Queen’s villa when her horse had spooked and she’d taken a fall. This is becoming too, too weird.
    Fern poured herself a glass of water and took it up to her room. There was a packet of valerian tablets on her bedside table, and she swallowed two. Stretched out on her bed, she stared at the wall opposite. Aunt had framed a watercolour she’d sent her of Westminster Abbey. Fern had sold the same print to a greetings card company only last month, with the promise of further commissions as soon as she could come up with them. Art was what had saved her sanity after she’d lost Harry. He’d been everything she’d ever wanted, and he’d died because of her.
    She felt tears prickle, but she swallowed her distress. It was something she’d got used to doing; if she’d let them flow she wouldn’t have been able to stop. Don’t think about Harry! Don’t think about what you did! Don’t think about how he died!
    Sleep came, and the next thing Fern knew her aunt was calling from outside her door.
    ‘Wakey, wakey!’
    Fern rubbed her eyes and glanced at her travel clock. Five pm. She’d slept for three hours. No wonder she felt groggy. ‘Give me a minute,’ she called out.
    In the bathroom, she stared at her reflection. A blur. She squinted and the image wavered like a ripple across a pond.
    ‘ Lorenza . . . ’
    The whisper tickled her neck. Fern spun around. No one. She looked into the mirror again. Her breath caught. Another woman was staring back at her! The woman had the same colour hair as hers, and there was something about her that was familiar. Perhaps the mouth and the shape of her face, or the curve