Authors: M. A. Sandiford
28
On a balmy evening,
Elizabeth crossed
Piazza delle Erbe
arm in arm with Darcy. It was dusk,
and the market stalls were closing down. The recital would start in just ten
minutes, but as a precaution they had decided to arrive at the last moment and
walk straight to their reserved seats.
Wearing her new silk dress, with veil and
bonnet over the blonde wig, Elizabeth hoped she would be well disguised; even
so, she kept her gaze to the front, resisting the temptation to keep a lookout
for Carandini, or agents who might be in his employ. Walking the length of the
piazza
was daunting, but less conspicuous than arriving in a carriage. They reached
Palazzo
Maffei
, the location of the recital, and were ushered to seats at the front
between Professor Pavoni and the Zambonis.
While Elizabeth greeted Signora Zamboni,
she heard Pavoni whisper to Darcy, ‘There will be a delay. De Santis is late
and a servant has been sent to his house.’
Elizabeth frowned. She had met Giovanni
De Santis, a young fop of undoubted talent who had offered to serve as
accompanist free of charge—intending, in her view, to exercise his charms
on Fraulein Edelmann. A rehearsal in Signor Zamboni’s music room had been cut
short when De Santis realised, first, that the piano part provided him no scope
for displaying virtuosity, and second, that Hilda would be chaperoned by her
friend Signora Ashley, and was in any case unmoved by his flattery.
Ten minutes passed, and the small
sala
filled to overflowing. Allowing herself a quick glimpse, Elizabeth took in a
hundred seats, all occupied, with latecomers standing at the back. The
conversation was so loud that she could scarcely hear herself speak. There was
no platform, just a well-lit space at the front for the grand piano, flanked by
two small round tables holding vases of dark red roses.
As she leaned to catch a remark by
Signora Zamboni, Elizabeth felt a tap on her shoulder.
She turned back to Darcy. ‘Yes, dear?’
He pointed to his right. ‘Fraulein
Edelmann is calling you.’
‘
Scusatemi
.’ She bowed to Signora
Zamboni and joined Hilda Edelmann, who was in animated discussion with
Professor Pavoni.
‘We can find someone else from the
Accademia
.’
Pavoni waved his arm in the direction of the second row.
‘Who?’ Fraulein Edelmann insisted.
‘I don’t know. Someone.’
Hilda reached for Elizabeth’s arm and
pulled her closer. ‘Rebecca, we have a problem. De Santis left this morning on a
trip to a vineyard and has not returned.’ Her grip tightened. ‘You know the
pieces. You play them perfectly. It is a lot to ask, but could you …’
Elizabeth felt a shiver pass through her
body. To perform in public was daunting enough, but she would also become a
focus of attention. Carandini, if he were here, would surely see through her
disguise, especially since he was familiar with her style of playing. On the
other hand, to let Hilda down …
‘Just a moment.’ She leaned over Darcy
and informed him in a frantic whisper what had occurred. ‘Giles, what can I do?
It’s risky, I know, but I see no alternative.’
‘No.’ Darcy was incisive. ‘Make some
excuse. You are not a professional musician. You have never performed to such a
large gathering. It is far too much to ask of you.’
She stiffened, riled by such a blunt
dismissal. ‘I remind you, sir, that I will not be playing a concerto, only some
simple accompaniments which in Hilda’s opinion lie well within my modest
capabilities.’
He sighed. ‘I was merely trying to
suggest the form your excuse might take. It surely goes without saying that my only
concern is for your safety.’
She stood up, her fear displaced by indignation
at his paternalism. ‘I have already admitted that there is risk, but for my
part I am willing to run it. If you disagree, you might prefer to leave now.’
He stared at her, aghast. ‘Miss B…, I
mean, Rebecca, this is folly.’
She swung round and re-joined Fraulein
Edelmann, who led her to a side room where they could prepare.
Elizabeth trembled as Hilda
Edelmann helped adjust the wig. Her bonnet, with its comfortably anonymous
veil, had been set aside on the dressing table.
‘These overlays.’ Hilda fingered the nets
on the upper arms of her dress. ‘Will they hamper you?’
‘No.’ Elizabeth strained to follow
proceedings in the
sala
, where Signor Zamboni was introducing the
recital, no doubt announcing the change in personnel. She realised now that
Darcy was, as usual, correct. Not for the first time, she had allowed his haughty
manner to cloud her judgement, and blinded herself to the truth of what he was
saying. She
was
a rank amateur. The audience had paid to listen to skilled
musicians; instead they would witness the floundering of a woman who through
pride had ventured out of her depth.
Hilda dealt her a reassuring smile.
‘Ready?’
Elizabeth froze for a moment, then felt
herself wilt, as if all energy had drained away. ‘I cannot do this.’
Hilda’s arm came around her. ‘Rebecca. Listen
carefully. I have done this many times. Do you know how?’
‘I can’t imagine.’
‘I do it for
myself
. Not for
them. It gives me joy to sing, and even more joy when I have a friend to accompany
me. When we play tonight, we do it for our own pleasure. The people out there
may listen if they wish, but we care not a fig whether the music pleases them.
Mistakes do not trouble us. We can make a thousand mistakes and it will count
for nothing, so long as we are enjoying ourselves. You see?’
Elizabeth nodded. Was this true? Was it
really possible to
ignore
the audience? She brightened, standing tall
again. ‘Very well. We play for ourselves alone.’
They made their entrance, and she was
surprised to find a young man beside the pianoforte. Was this a reprieve? Had
they found a more suitable substitute for De Santis? But on spotting an extra
chair, she realised he was there only to turn the pages.
Applause greeted them, and she bowed,
taking her cue from Hilda, before adjusting the piano seat. Suddenly the nerves
were gone, and she felt a strange stillness. Whether she could
enjoy
the
experience remained to be seen, but there was a job to be done, and she would
simply have to do it. The familiar score of the Purcell faced her on the stand,
and after exchanging a glance with Hilda she found herself playing the opening
chords. The touch was lighter than she was used to, but she quickly adapted.
Hilda hit her entry perfectly, and the magic of her voice took over. Now there
really was no audience. It was as if she were being led by an expert dancer,
her arms and feet eased into the correct motions.
The piece was over, people were
applauding, and Hilda beckoned her forward to take a bow. Glimpsing Darcy still
in the front row, she looked down to avoid meeting his eye.
The Mozart began, and the young man at
her side revealed a second reason for his presence as he stood up to take on
the role of Don Giovanni. Although not acting his part fully, he advanced a few
steps towards Hilda, who retreated to suggest the peasant girl’s reluctance. Their
interplay drew some laughter from the audience, especially when he rushed back
to the piano to turn a page. The applause at the end shook the small hall, with
cries of
‘Bis, bis’
demanding a repeat.
‘We will do it again,’ Hilda hissed as
they took another bow. ‘Sorry, I should have introduced you. Signor Rossi, Signora
Ashley. Just once, then we will continue.’
Rossi escorted Elizabeth to the piano,
and she confidently replayed the duet. Far sooner than she could have imagined,
performing had become fun. Her companions were so immaculate, and the audience
so noisily appreciative, that she felt invulnerable, as if buoyed along by a
current.
Since the recital was a brief one-hour
affair, there was no interval. They ended as usual with the Schubert songs,
which had more challenging piano parts, but by then Elizabeth was secure enough
to bring them off with only minor slips. As a light-hearted encore they tried
the Papageno-Papagena duet from Mozart’s
The Magic Flute
, which Elizabeth
recalled from the performance at
La Fenice
in Venice. More cries of
Bis
,
yet another repetition, and at last the ordeal was over.
As the crowd surged to the exit,
Elizabeth was aglow with a satisfaction she had never believed possible. She
realised that her role had been small, but even so, what a thrill to feel such enthusiastic
acclaim. Walking to join Darcy and the others she detected a new grace in her
carriage; it was as if her body deemed she was now a person of worth, and
should comport herself accordingly.
She wanted to apologise to Darcy for her
outburst before the recital, but was immediately surrounded by Zamboni’s
family, and other members of the
Accademia
. Pavoni too congratulated
her—evidently with some relief. She was searching for Darcy when a
familiar voice whispered, ‘Miss Bennet, can it be you?’
She turned round, open-mouthed. ‘Miss
Dill!’
Alice Dill faced her, with a smiling
Gerard Hanson at her side. ‘I’m sorry. I meant, Mrs Ashley.’
‘How wonderful to see you again!’
Elizabeth dropped her voice. ‘It seems my disguise is ineffective.’
‘We are artists,’ Miss Dill said.
‘I received your gift, which I will
treasure. Have you enjoyed Verona?’
‘Our accommodation is hardly palatial,’
Hanson said, ‘but there is so much art and architecture that we had to stay a
few more days.’
‘And happened to attend this recital,’
Miss Dill added.
‘Have you greeted Mr Ashley? My, ah,
husband?’ She looked back to the front row, where Darcy was speaking with
Professor Pavoni, and froze in horror as an all-too-familiar figure strode
towards her, his maniacal eyes impaling her. The short reddish hair, the
sideburns, the thin features, there could be no mistake. He confronted her,
just a yard away, and behind him she saw the dark blue uniform of a constable.
‘
Signorina
Bennet.’ Gabriele
Carandini bowed. ‘A passable performance, marred by wrong notes in the encore. I
believe we have matters to discuss with the Prefect of Verona.’
A hand touched her arm, and she saw
Darcy at her side. Scarcely able to speak, she whispered, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘You were wonderful,’ he whispered back.
He turned to face Carandini. ‘On what grounds do you seek to arraign Mrs
Ashley?’
‘Travelling under false papers, for a
start.’ He stood aside, to let the constable through, and hissed in Italian,
‘Signor Darcy, who abducted my fiancée. Take care, he may resist.’
The constable placed a hand on the hilt
of his sword. ‘You will accompany us?’
Elizabeth watched the angry workings of
Darcy’s face as he looked around for possible avenues of escape. He met her
eye, with a slight shrug, and replied politely to the constable, ‘Of course. We
have nothing to hide and will do as you ask.’
29
Flanked by two constables, Darcy
tried to affect an air of nonchalance as they walked the short distance to a
neighbouring square, the location of the
Prefettura
. At his side
Elizabeth stayed close, perhaps disturbed by the antics of Carandini, who was
trotting impatiently ahead and occasionally looking round to check she was still
there.
They reached a red-brick building sporting
a cluster of flags, with ominous gratings on the lower windows, and were led
through to a cell furnished with a bare wooden bench and table. Outside they
heard Carandini’s frantic demand that Elizabeth should be given into
his
custody and not left alone with Darcy.
Più tardi,
later
,
an
official kept telling him. First they would see the
viceprefetto
.
A bolt was drawn and Elizabeth’s
pretence of dignity collapsed. She leaned forward, head in hands, muttering
self-deprecations, until Darcy gently touched her arm.
‘We will find a way out of this.’
She sat up abruptly. ‘How?’
‘We must reason with the vice-prefect.
Carandini has no authority here, and not all officials are corrupt.’
She sighed. ‘Go on. You may as well say
it.’
‘Say what?’
‘This is entirely my fault. You told me
not to agree to Hilda’s request. You explained it was too risky. As usual I
paid no attention, went my own way, and now I have put us both in great
danger.’ She faced him with a look of despair. ‘
Why do you do it?
Why
waste time, effort, money, even your own safety, to help an unworthy creature
like myself? Your sister needs you. Your estate. Your family.
Why?’
He said softly, ‘You know why.’
She found a handkerchief and impatiently
wiped her eyes. ‘And now you will be lenient with me. You will tell me I was
blameless, that I acted from the best motives.’
‘You took a risk to help your friend.
Nine times out of ten no harm would have resulted. We were unlucky.’
‘There we are. I am exculpated.’ Her
face wrinkled in disgust. ‘But I have not forgotten your words before the
recital.
Rebecca, this is folly
.’
She looked so desperate that Darcy
instinctively took her hand. ‘Dear Miss Elizabeth, let us not waste energy in denigrating
ourselves. We are not the villains here.’
She softened, as if moved by his
gesture, and squeezed his hand before pulling back. ‘You are kind.’
The door jolted open and an official
pointed at Darcy.
‘
Venga
.’ Come.
The vice-prefect Signor
Vicario was a tall thin man with a bony pock-marked face, and what appeared a
permanent scowl. He waved Darcy to a chair, peered at a document on his desk,
and said in Italian:
‘Who are you?’
‘Fitzwilliam Darcy.’
Vicario waved a wad of papers. ‘Yet you
were carrying passes in the name of Ashley. Mr and Mrs. This is a serious
offence. May I ask how these letters of passage came into your possession?’
Darcy paused, confounded momentarily by Italian
officialese. But he had anticipated such a question, and prepared what he hoped
was a safe reply.
‘They belonged to an English couple whom
I met at a hotel in Florence. Mr Ashley left the papers behind. I offered to
carry them to Venice, hoping to catch up with him there.’
‘A most unlikely story.’ Vicario
regarded him with contempt. ‘So why show these papers rather than your own?’
Darcy explained, as best he could, that
he had been forced to use fake identities in order to rescue an English lady
from attempted abduction and forced marriage.
Vicario shook his head. ‘Again you lie.
I have spoken with Signor Carandini, a respected businessman. He can produce
witnesses that the Englishwoman was visiting his family and signed a document
agreeing to their betrothal. Moreover, his physician testifies that she was ill
and under his professional care when you
abducted her from Lido.’
‘The Englishwoman, Miss Bennet, is
here,’ Darcy said. ‘If you question her you will discover that she was being
held prisoner and given laudanum to keep her compliant. You will also observe
that her health has improved since she was removed from this physician’s
so-called
care
.’
Vicario waved this away. ‘She will say
whatever you have told her to say.’
‘How can you make such an assumption
without first investigating?’
The vice-prefect glared at him. ‘It is
not
your
prerogative to ask
me
questions, sir. By your own
confession you are guilty of serious infractions; it remains only to determine
their full scope.’
‘None of this reflects on Miss Bennet,’
Darcy said. ‘It was I who presented false papers, not she. I implore you, allow
her to return to her family in England.’
‘You are in no position to bargain.’
There was a rap on the door and the vice-prefect grunted. ‘What?’
An officer entered. ‘Message from the
commander, sir. Request to interview the prisoners directly.’
Vicario frowned. ‘Strange. Very well.
Let them be sent over.’
The
Castelvecchio
, or Old
Castle, was a square compound built in red brick with little ornament. Located
in the city centre, beside the river Adige, it was a well-known landmark with a
violent history still fresh in people’s minds. Once a fortress of resistance to
Napoleon’s armies, it had been damaged during the French conquest, and occupied
briefly by Bonaparte himself. Now it served as a barracks from which the
Austrian commander and local militia maintained control of the city and its
environs.
Having viewed the castle and fortified
bridge on his tour of Verona, Darcy was familiar with its high walls and numerous
look-out towers. It was not a place from which one could hope to escape.
They were brought in a carriage by two
guards from the
Prefettura
, and handed over to an officer at the gate.
In the carriage Darcy had summarised his unproductive encounter with the
vice-prefect; it seemed now that they were being passed up to the next level, a
symptom perhaps of the seriousness of their situation. Elizabeth was calm, but
he sensed this was more in resignation than hope.
After a brief wait they were taken to an
imposing office with a huge heavy door, richly carved, and patterned marble
floor. Behind a long desk sat a tall bulky man in military uniform, with sleek greying
hair parted in the middle, moustache, and pince-nez hanging from a cord. Facing
him, leather chairs had been arranged in a semi-circle, and as they entered
Darcy recognised a nervous-looking Gabriele Carandini at the far right. A woman
rose from the next chair, and Elizabeth gasped.
It was Fraulein Edelmann.
The commander came round the desk, and
bowed. The contrast with Vicario could not have been acuter. He beamed at them,
and said genially, ‘Herr Darcy! Fraulein Bennet!
Guten Abend!
My name is
Brigade Commander Johann Graf. Let us see whether we can sort out this little
misunderstanding.’
Bewildered, Darcy sat next to Elizabeth
and nodded to Fraulein Edelmann, who dealt him a steely glare in return.
Commander Graf resumed his place, and
continued to address them in painstakingly correct English. ‘Before we begin,
my interest in this matter should be explained. As you will know, I am a
general in the Austrian army and have been assigned responsibility, under the
Treaty of Vienna, for overseeing administration in the Republic of Italy. I am
also a music lover, and this evening had the pleasure of attending the recital
by Fraulein Edelmann—’ He extended an arm. ‘Whom I have known many years,
since her father is both a colleague and a friend.’
Darcy observed Elizabeth as she threw an
inquisitive glance at Hilda Edelmann, but the singer refused to meet her eye
and remained impassive.
‘Duty obliged me to leave early, so that
I did not witness what happened afterwards. However, I understand from Fraulein
Edelmann that her accompanist, whom she knew as Mrs Ashley, was detained, along
with her husband.’ He beamed at Elizabeth. ‘I should mention, as an aside, how
much I enjoyed your performance.’
Elizabeth reddened, but made no reply.
‘Now, to specifics. Fraulein, I suggest
you wait outside now.’
Graf waited for Hilda Edelmann to leave
before raising a sheath of papers. ‘Vice-prefect Vicario has forwarded these
letters of passage in the name of Ashley, which are admitted to be false.
Signor Carandini alleges that his fiancée, Miss Bennet, was abducted by Mr
Darcy when under his protection.’
‘And receiving treatment from my
physician,’ Carandini added.
Darcy snorted. ‘Treatment! You mean, she
was tricked into taking an opiate, to secure her compliance.’
Graf held up a hand. ‘Gentlemen! Please
understand that my duty here is to administer justice, and this can be done
only if we confine ourselves to what can be
proved
, through evidence. Mr
Darcy, I see no reason to doubt Signor Carandini’s testimony on this point. It
is conceded that Miss Bennet was given laudanum. For all you know, this was
done for valid medical reasons. Your allegation is therefore speculation.’
Darcy shook his head. ‘Miss Bennet’s
health has
improved
since her rescue. This shows that she was never ill
in the first place. Her symptoms were merely those of withdrawal from the
opiate.’
‘It could be argued that her recovery testifies
to the success of the treatment.’
‘The balance of probability favours my
interpretation.’
Graf smiled. ‘In other words, you are
not sure.’ He turned to Carandini. ‘Signor, what is it that you want?’
Carandini looked longingly at Elizabeth.
‘I would like my fiancée to be returned to my household, so that we might
proceed with the wedding. As for Signor Darcy, I assume the appropriate
penalties will be applied.’
‘Miss Bennet is not your fiancée,’ Darcy
said.
Carandini pointed to the desk. ‘I have
documentary evidence of her consent.’
‘Forged,’ Darcy snapped.
‘Stop!’ Graf raised a palm. ‘Again, Mr
Darcy, how can you possibly support such an assertion? You were not present.
You have no idea what happened.’
‘I have Miss Bennet’s testimony.’
‘Very well, let us hear from the lady
herself.’ He faced Elizabeth, speaking as if to a child. ‘Enlighten us. Did you
sign this document?’
Darcy tensed, anticipating her denial,
but after what seemed a struggle she said only, ‘I cannot be sure.’
Graf raised his eyebrows. ‘Really?
Perhaps I am out of date, but I would have expected a young lady to react to a
proposal of marriage with greater attention.’
‘I was so tired. Signor Carandini kept
telling me that I had to sign. I did not know what the document meant. He said
it made no difference, since I had already signed it, and he only needed a copy
…’
Graf turned to Carandini. ‘Is this
true?’
‘No.’ Carandini’s voice rose to a nasal
whine. ‘Signorina Bennet signed the agreement in full knowledge of its import.’
He looked at Elizabeth with forced magnanimity. ‘I forgive my fiancée her error.
No doubt Signor Darcy has worked on her since the abduction, confusing what was
once a clear memory.’
‘Signor!’ Graf was incisive. ‘This time,
it is
you
that I must hold to the evidence. You have no knowledge of
what passed between Mr Darcy and Miss Bennet after she left your house. Your
assertion is speculation.’
‘I have the signed document,’ Carandini
insisted.
‘Indeed.’ Graf spread his arms. ‘I have
no evidence to counter your assertion that Miss Bennet signed a betrothal
agreement. There does, however, seem doubt as to her mental state at the time. You
have admitted she was being treated with an opiate. I believe our best course
is therefore to ascertain her feelings
now
.’ He turned to Elizabeth.
‘Miss Bennet, having witnessed your performance this evening, may I assume you
have recovered from the side-effects of the drug, and can express your wishes
clearly?’
She replied quietly but firmly. ‘Yes.’
‘I’m delighted to hear it. Pardon the
blunt query, but it must be asked. Do you wish to marry Signor Carandini?’
‘I do not.’
‘You are definite on this point?’
‘Yes.’
‘Has there ever been a time when you
felt differently?’
‘Never.’
Graf turned to Carandini with a gesture
of resignation. ‘That seems clear enough.’
Carandini’s face had darkened to purple.
‘This is nonsense,’ he spluttered. ‘Signor Darcy has seduced my fiancée and
poisoned her against me.’
‘Please.’ Graf gently hushed him. ‘I
understand that you have acted in good faith, as has Mr Darcy, but I beg you once
more to refrain from speculation. You say Mr Darcy has manipulated Miss
Bennet’s feelings. How do you know? The only direct evidence available is the
testimony of Miss Bennet herself.’
Carandini looked imploringly at
Elizabeth. ‘No-one could doubt our attachment. I vividly recall her smiling
face, her joy in making music together. Ask my mother, my sister …’
‘Such signals can be misinterpreted,
especially when two people come from different cultures.’ Graf faced Carandini
and lowered his voice. ‘Signor, I am persuaded that we have here a
misunderstanding, and that you, like Mr Darcy, have acted out of genuine
concern for Miss Bennet’s welfare. Your disappointment is understandable, and
you have my sympathy. I must ask you, however, to make your peace with Mr
Darcy, and withdraw your claim to Miss Bennet’s hand.’
Carandini looked at Elizabeth once more,
his face suffused with pain, then tore himself away and said petulantly, ‘So
you are giving my fiancée to Darcy, even though he has broken into my house,
removed her by force, and fled using a false identity?’