Iain Pears - Stone's Fall

Which was done against the wishes of his family, and that was the source of the scandal. Especially as the good gentleman – many years her senior – had died not long after without successfully providing an heir. This was such a complete failure of responsibility that the Marchesa was held to be somehow to blame, because someone had to be at fault for such a lapse in a family which, however impecunious of late, had successfully negotiated disease, war and ill fortune to survive in an unbroken line for seven centuries.

Now it was all over; a great name was on the verge of extinction – already was extinct, in the opinion of many. Bad fortune attends all families eventually; England itself sees regular snuffings out of great names; for my part I care not one jot, nor would I if they all disappeared, although I grant the utility of aristocracy in holding land, for unless that is stable the country cannot be. But, for the most part, three generations is more than enough to complete the ruin of any line. One generation to make the fortune, a second to enjoy it, and a third to dissipate it. In my case, of course – unless my current quest produces an answer I do not expect – not even that is allotted to me. I have no heir. It is something we could not do. All wish to leave something behind them and the vast organisation I have created is not enough. I would have liked a child; as I buried my father, so he should have buried me, and looked after Elizabeth when I was dead. It is our only chance of any immortality, for I do not delude myself that my creations will outlive me for long; the life of companies is very much shorter than the life of families.

That, in truth, was the greatest sadness of our lives together; we were so close. Elizabeth was transformed by joy when she told me she was to have a baby, and tasted true, uncomplicated happiness for the first time. But it was snatched away in the most horrible fashion imaginable. The child was a monster. I can say it now, although for years I banished all thought of him. He had to die; would have anyway. She never saw it, never knew what had really happened, but the sorrow was overwhelming for her. We buried him, and mourned – for him and for what might have been. It was not her fault; of course it wasn't. But she took it on herself, thought that her life had somehow been responsible, that the degradation she had known had suffused her being to such an extent that even the product of her body was corrupted. I thought for a while she might never recover, worried she might go back to those terrible drugs that she had once used so readily when strain and nervousness overtook her. Her life had been hard and dangerous; the syringe of liquid made her forget just enough to keep going.

She came through, of course; she is so very brave. But there were no more children. The doctors said another pregnancy might kill her. I think she would have embraced such a death gladly. She is more precious than all the heirs, all the children in the world. Let everything turn to dust, blow away on the winds! But let me have her by my side until the end. If she left me, I would die myself.

'I do hope you enjoyed my little evening,' the Marchesa said when all was, at last, over.

'It was charming, madam,' I replied. 'Most interesting.'

She laughed, the first light-hearted sound to have filled the room all evening. 'It was terrible, you mean,' she said. 'You English are so polite you are ridiculous.'

I smiled in an uncertain fashion.

'Yet you behaved yourself, and made a good impression. I thank you for that. You have solidified the reputation of your country as a place of seriousness and dignity, by sitting and saying nothing for such a long time. You may even receive an invitation to some evenings from one or two of my guests.'

She noticed the look of dismay which passed over my face.

'Don't worry; on that they are easy enough. They will be quite happy if you do not go.'

She stood up and let her dress fall about her. I got up as well.

'And now,' she said, 'we may begin on the more interesting part of the evening.'

My spirits lifted at the very idea.

'We will eat first of all, and then . . .'

'Then what?'

'Ah, for that you must wait and see. But there will be people you know, so you will not be lonely. Have you encountered Mrs Cort, for example?'

I trust that I did not give myself away, but in some ways she was excessively perceptive. I said I had met Mrs Cort.

'Poor woman.'

'Why do you say that?'

'It is not hard to see that she is unhappy,' she said softly. 'We have become friends, in a fashion, and she has told me much of her life. The cruel way she was treated by employers in England, the failings of her husband . . .' She put a painted nail to a painted lip to indicate the need for discretion. 'She is drawn to the Beyond.'

I could have said that, in my experience, her interest in more earthly matters was rather more notable, and that I had no need to be told about discretion, but said nothing.

'But then, this life has little to offer her,' she continued.

'She has a husband and a child.'

She shook her head in a melodramatic fashion. 'If you knew what I know . . .' she said. 'But I must not gossip. Let us go in and welcome the guests.'

She allowed me to take her arm, and we finally left the cold, draughty salon. I did feel slightly aggrieved that what I had taken to be Louise's confidences to me she had also divulged to the Marchesa, but accepted that desperation does make women tell each other secrets. I put it out of my mind, and felt my mood improving with every step towards the dining room; merely moving began to unfreeze my flesh, although feeling her so close was a little uncomfortable. She wore her usual overpowering perfume and pressed herself against my arm in a manner which was perhaps more intimate than her age made respectable.

In the dining room the candles were lit, and a fire blazed to take off the evening chill – it was warm outside but the houses are so permanently damp they are never truly comfortable at night – and food was waiting to be served. We ate, and as we ate others entered. Marangoni, first of all, then Mr and Mrs Cort, and my heart leapt as I saw her, and we exchanged a brief glance of complicity. She held my gaze for only a fraction of a second; no one could have seen it, but it was enough. I wish to be with you, now, she told me, as plainly as anything could. Not with him. I greeted Cort as ordinarily as I could, but my feelings towards him had changed utterly. As much as possible I had taken to avoiding those places where I was likely to run into him; I did not trust myself not to betray some hint of my contempt, as I could not now think of him without remembering Louise's description of what he was truly like. He noticed, I am sure, and was bemused by it, as well he might be, and the temptation to explain welled up in me. For her sake only I controlled myself and made polite conversation for a few moments, although his replies were vague and slow.

Macintyre was not there, of course. He was too solid a man to consider attending such an event, even had he not been offended by the Marchesa's rejection of his wish for rooms that might have made his daughter more comfortable. Longman and Drennan made up the party, so we were seven in all by the time the meal was done – not a Venetian amongst us, I noted.

Then the Marchesa began to talk, all about auras and journeys, souls and spirits, This Side and The Other Side. The room was darkened, the atmosphere became more tense, even though not a single guest was anything other than sceptical about the entire business. Except perhaps Louise, who seemed quite nervous. About Cort I could not tell; he seemed almost drunk, unresponsive to what was going on all around him.

We were going to have to pay for our meal with a visit to the Other Side. It was absurd, of course, but in comparison to a more orthodox Venetian at home, it was positively enticing. Certainly it was different, and I was interested to see how it might be done. What stagecraft was to be deployed, how convincing it would all seem. To begin with, it was hard to stop laughing; I noticed that even Drennan – not a man to give way to raucous amusement – was working hard to prevent his mouth twitching into a grin. The Marchesa adopted an ethereal tone of voice and waved her arms around so the folds of her sleeves billowed out. 'Is anybody there? Do you wish to communicate with anyone in this room?' She put her hands to her forehead to indicate concentration; stared wild-eyed at the ceiling to hint at the awesome nature of what was happening; sighed heavily to show spiritual disappointment; groaned softly to prove how hard she was having to work. 'Be not afraid, O spirits! Come and deliver thy message.' In fact, it was very like a parody of a spiritualist meeting, and hard to avoid giving the table a kick, just to see how she would react.