Marguerite Kaye - His Rags-To-Riches Contessa

Becky pushed her empty plate to one side. ‘Have you been all over the world? I can picture you, leaping from deck to deck, cutlass in hand, confiscating chests of gold from the Spanish.’

‘You forgot to mention the parrot on my shoulder. And my peg leg.’

‘And the lovely wench, swooning in your arms because you rescued her from a rival pirate, who we know must be the evil one, because he’s wearing an eyepatch.’

Luca threw back his head and laughed. ‘You’ve watched too many plays.’

‘Not watched, but acted in them,’ Becky admitted, smiling at the surprise registered on his face. ‘And not any of the kind of roles you’re imagining either.’

‘What do you think I’m imagining?’

‘Breeches roles. Not that I wasn’t asked, and not that I bother about showing off my ankles or playing the man, but...’ Becky’s smile faded. ‘It’s the assumption associated with those particular roles that I resented. I haven’t been on the stage for—Oh, five years now. Since I was seventeen,’ she added, ‘in case you’re curious and too polite to ask my age.’

‘It’s not the thing in England,’ Luca agreed, ‘to discuss age or money. But you’ll find attitudes differ here in Venice.’

Brunetti, the major-domo, entered the dining room at this point, followed by his minions bearing more dishes, and Luca busied himself with serving her the next course. Risotto, he called it, rice with wild mushrooms, to be eaten with a spoon. It was creamy but not sweet, and though it looked like a pudding it tasted nothing like.

‘I think you might be right about Italian cooking, compared to English,’ Becky said. ‘Not that I’m exactly qualified to compare, mind you. I’ve never had a dinner like this. All this food just for two people, it seems an awful lot. We didn’t even finish the—What did you call it?’

‘Antipasti. It will doubtless be finished in the kitchen. Palace staff eat better than most. What kind of food do you like to eat, Becky?’

‘Whatever I can lay my hands on, usually. Beggars can’t be choosers.’ She spoke flippantly. What she’d meant was, I don’t want to talk about it . Then she remembered that she’d agreed to talk, and that Luca had talked, and it was her turn. ‘I don’t have a kitchen, never mind a cook. I eat from pie shops. Whatever’s cheap at the market at the end of the day, bread—ordinary food, you know?’

He didn’t, she could see from his face. ‘But you seem... Not comfortable, but you don’t seem to be uncomfortable with all this,’ Luca said, waving his hand at the room, frowning.

‘Well, that’s a relief to know. The only time I’ve ever sat at a table anything like this was on the stage, where the food was made from plaster and cardboard. I’m a good actress. Luckily for me, The Procurer spotted that.’

‘She saw you onstage?’

Becky shook her head. ‘I told you, I’ve not been on the stage for five years, and The Procurer is...’ She bit her tongue, mortified. ‘Now, that is one subject I’m not at liberty to discuss.’

‘Then tell me instead, what you meant when you said that you resented the connotations of—What did you call them, breeches roles?’

‘That’s when a girl plays a boy on the stage.’ Becky studied him over her wine glass. ‘You know perfectly well what I meant. That a girl who flaunts her legs on the stage is reckoned to be willing to open them offstage,’ she said bluntly. ‘It’s what draws most denizens of the pit, with good reason in many cases. But I wanted none of it, and it was easier to remove myself from harm’s way than to keep fending them off.’

‘Surely whoever was in charge—the theatre manager?—would have protected you.’

Becky laughed harshly. ‘Then he would have needed to protect me from himself. He was the worst of the lot. A perk of the job is how he viewed it,’ she said sardonically. ‘Play nice, you get the best parts. Refuse to let him paw you with his grubby little hands, the work dries up. I decided to take the decision out of his hands by quitting. There are many actresses who are happy to exploit their good looks to their advantage, and good luck to them, but I, for one, refused to. They are the ones being exploited, in my view.’

She was surprised to see that Luca seemed genuinely shocked. ‘Which makes you rather remarkable, I think,’ he said. ‘Was there no one else to look out for you?’

‘I was seventeen, hardly a child. You grow up quickly, in that game. If you mean my parents, I never knew my father. As for my mother, she was an actress herself. She lived long enough to put me on the stage alongside her. I was six, maybe seven when she died.’ Becky finished her risotto and drained her wine glass, and decided to put an end to this conversation too. She wasn’t used to talking about herself. ‘I never went to school, but I didn’t need to, not with the stage to educate me. Reading. Writing. Manners. Plays of all sorts, from bawdy nonsense to Shakespeare, who can be quite bawdy himself. Anyway, that’s quite enough about me for now. I’m much more interested in hearing about you and your life on the ocean wave.’

To her relief, Luca obliged. He was a natural storyteller, transporting her from the dreary dockyards of Plymouth and the grey seas of England, to the azure blue of the Mediterranean, the sultry sun of Egypt, the mayhem of Lisbon and the vast expanse of the New World. There were naval battles, but he glossed over those in a way that she could see disguised pain, suffering, the darker side of human nature. And though he made little of his own role in war at sea, it was clear enough it had been a significant one, that he was not one of those officers who hid behind his men.

‘And then, when Napoleon was defeated at Waterloo, it was obvious that there would be no more wars, and therefore no need for a vast naval fleet. The prospect of sitting behind a desk in the Admiralty filled me with dread,’ Luca said, ‘and so I resigned my commission. Yes,’ he added over his shoulder to his major-domo, who had appeared once more, ‘we’re quite finished.’

Becky looked down at her empty plate. There were fish bones. She hardly recalled being served any fish. Her wine glass was half-full of red, not white. How long had Luca been talking, answering her eager questions? But she wasn’t nearly satisfied. ‘Why the navy though? And why the English navy?’

‘British. Because Venice no longer possesses one. Because I would never countenance serving our usurpers any more than my father would have, whether French or Austrian. Because my mother’s family have a proud seafaring tradition. Admirals, and pirates too,’ Luca said with a wicked smile.

Shaking her head at the offer of coffee, Becky sat back in her seat with a contented sigh. She’d eaten so much she was sleepy. ‘What have you been doing for the last years, then?’

‘Learning how to build ships, not sail them,’ Luca retorted. ‘I spent some time in Glasgow. The Scots are even better ship makers than we Venetians used to be, though it pains me to say it. My father, to my surprise, heartily endorsed my desire to become a shipwright.’

‘But why? Noble families like yours don’t tend to dirty their hands by becoming involved in trade.’

‘We are Venetians,’ Luca said. ‘We invented trade.’

Becky bit back a smile. He puffed up with pride whenever he mentioned his beloved Venice. ‘I’m surprised you ever left the city if you love it so much.’

‘We once had a great navy. Our merchant ships travelled the world. But all that was lost as other seafaring nations supplanted us. Venice’s reputation these days is based on its notoriety for vice and excess, a city devoted to pleasure. Always, when people talk of her, it is Carnival and nothing else. It is because I am determined to contribute somehow to making this city great again that I left her.’