The fog had still not lifted by the time she arrived at St Mark’s square. The great basilica was hidden and so was the towering Campanile. She could not see Florian’s anywhere, but she found it at last by walking all around the square, her head down and her cloak pulled firmly round her with its hood up, covering her head and face.
She went in, glad of Annie’s company, for the people looked at her with hostility and she felt awkward and out of place. When she discovered that Sophia was not there she felt even worse and she stood by the door for a moment, deciding what to do. The customers were still looking at her, some appraisingly, some suspiciously, and the waiters surveyed her with stony faces. She wished there were some women there, for Sophia had said that women were admitted to the café, but there were none at the tables; they were all men.
‘We will wait a little,’ said Elizabeth to Annie, taking a seat at an out of the way table. ‘I am sure Sophia will be here presently. I think we are perhaps rather early.’
The waiter came and Elizabeth ordered coffee.
In England she would have enjoyed looking at the people who sat and talked or watching the world go by, but some of those in the café carried with them an air of danger, and she looked down, not wanting to meet their eyes. She looked instead at her coffee, stirring it with its silver spoon. It was with relief that she heard Sophia arrive at last. Looking up, she saw Sophia being greeted warmly by the waiters and many of the customers, and the café, at once took on a more cheerful air.
‘Ah, Elizabeth, I am sorry I have kept you waiting, I was delayed,’ Sophia said. ‘Maria and I, we have been to the see the sick and the dying, to give them succour, and we were delayed on our return by the fog. Nothing is moving quickly in Venice this morning, not the people in the streets nor the gondolas in the canals; it is all travelling warily, hesitantly, and with good reason, for a misstep can lead to disaster in such weather, with the city so full of canals. It is the change of season. In summer we have the sun and this year it has lasted long, but now, today, it is autumn and the mists they have come down like a shroud.’
‘Is it often foggy here?’ asked Elizabeth.
‘But yes, and in the winter it is worse; we have snow. The cold winds, they blow down from the mountains, and the canals, they freeze. But never mind, we are in the Trionfante, what care we for fog or ice or snow? You did not have any trouble finding it, I hope?’
‘To begin with, yes. My gondolier had to ask where the Trionfante was. He couldn’t find it until we realised it was called Florian’s now,’ said Elizabeth.
Sophia paused.
‘Ah, yes,’ she said. ‘Florian’s. Of course. He was the patron many years ago, and the café became known by his name, I had forgotten. It is a wonderful place, is it not?’
‘Ye—es,’ said Elizabeth.
‘You do not like it? But ah, I see it in your eyes, you are afraid of some of the people. They whisper in the corners do they not?’
‘Yes. They look like they are plotting,’ said Elizabeth, with a smile to show that she knew such a thought was ridiculous.
But Sophia treated her remarks seriously.
‘Yes, they are plotting. They want to put an end to the French; they want Venice to return to what she once was. But how can we return to what has gone?’ she asked sombrely.
Elizabeth had the feeling that she was speaking of something more personal than the fate of Venice and did not interrupt her thoughts by a reply; indeed, she was sure that Sophia wanted none.
‘The glory, it has passed,’ Sophia went on, looking round the room. ‘The great days, they have gone. There is no place in the world now for our kind,’ she said, turning suddenly to look at Elizabeth. ‘Not unless we will take it, and take it with much blood. There are those who will do so, but me, I find I love my fellow man too much and I cannot end his life, not even to restore what has been lost. But without great ruthlessness, glory fades and strength is gone.’
Elizabeth’s mood, already low, became lower still. There was a darkness lurking beneath the gilding of the city and Venice had lost its appeal. She did not quite know how or when it had happened, but now, instead of beauty, she saw only decay. Sophia’s face, so bright the day before, now seemed tired, and her conversation now seemed more macabre.
Seeming to sense something of Elizabeth’s drooping spirits, Sophia made an effort to lighten the conversation and she began to talk about the ball.
‘You were a great success last night. “The English bride” was spoken of everywhere. We Italians, we have a passion for romance, and your marriage to Darcy is just the sort of thing we like: two people separated by a great gulf coming together with love triumphing over all. It is a thing that does not often happen, and when it does we celebrate it, no matter how hard the future might be. Your dress, it was remarked upon, and how well it suited you, and how surprised everyone was when you removed your mask.’
Elizabeth did her best to respond but could not recapture her enthusiasm for either Venice or the ball, and she was glad when both she and Sophia finished their coffee so that they could say goodbye. She set out again with Annie, returning to the Darcy palazzo in no better spirits than she had left it.
The fog had lifted a little by the time she and Annie arrived, but the cloud was still low and the light was dim. Elizabeth went up the stone steps in the courtyard with Annie behind her and then into the great hall, to find that Darcy had returned from his own morning appointments.
‘Did you enjoy yourself?’ he asked, as she entered. ‘Was Sophia full of talk of the ball?’
‘Yes, she was,’ said Elizabeth, ignoring his first question.
She thought how different it was, talking of the ball with Sophia, instead of talking over the balls at Meryton with Jane and Charlotte. In England, there had been pleasure in reliving every moment, good or bad, whereas here there had only been weariness.
As she removed her cloak, Elizabeth felt a long way from home. The sights which had so delighted her only a few weeks before were now unsettlingly foreign, and she could muster little enthusiasm when Darcy reminded her they would be attending a conversazione that evening.
‘You are not feeling ill?’ he asked, looking at her searchingly. ‘Because if you are, we don’t have to go.’
‘No, of course not, I am perfectly well. I am a little tired, that’s all. I will have a rest this afternoon and then I am sure I will enjoy myself.’
Her hopeful pronouncement did not in fact come to pass. There was a crush at the conversazione and the air was stale. In warmer weather the windows had been open, but now that the weather had changed, the windows were firmly closed. The noise grated on her ears and the atmosphere was oppressive. She saw Giuseppe, who bowed to her across the room, and she caught sight of Sophia and Alfonse, but there were a lot of faces she did not know. The thought of meeting so many more new people was daunting and, for the first time on her wedding tour, Elizabeth wished herself back in her room with the curtains drawn. She withdrew to a corner, where Darcy soon found her. He noticed at once that she looked pale, and when she confessed that she had a headache, he said, ‘It’s hot in here. I will fetch you something to drink.’
She watched him threading his way through the throng whilst she sank down gratefully on a sofa. One of the gentlemen happened to glance in her direction at that moment and walked over to her, saying, ‘Forgive me, Signorina, but you seem to be unwell. Is there anything I can get for you?’
She managed a smile of sorts and made an effort to speak cheerfully.
‘No, thank you, I am quite well, I assure you.’
‘You do not look it. You are overcome by the heat, I think. You will allow me to fetch you some refreshment?’