“Signore, Signora, colazione.”
I don’t know how I got through the day without betraying my feelings but I tried to behave as though nothing unusual had happened. Aubrey was just as he had been throughout our honeymoon until those hours of that night.
But I could not forget. Memories kept coming back to my mind. I never wanted to think of them again. He did not seem to notice my preoccupation. I dreaded the night. But when it came he was as gentle and solicitous as ever. It was just as though that nightmare experience had never happened.
I was beginning to feel a little better. I was even wondering whether I possibly could have imagined the whole thing. I had heard of some of the terrible tortures which had been inflicted on those who crossed the Bridge of Sighs and had been heard of no more. I had become obsessed by the memory of the dead man who had been brought out of the canal. Was it possible I had exaggerated what had happened? I was in a disturbed state. I had passed through an ordeal of terrible apprehension. But how could I invent practices which I had never known existed? Venice had had a strange effect on me. So much beauty with so much which was sinister lurking behind it.
When I was home I should be able to assess this more easily. I would go and stay with my father for a while. I knew I should never bring myself to tell him of that night’s experiences, but I could draw on his practical view of life, his common sense.
In the meantime there seemed nothing to be done but behave as though it had never happened.
Aubrey refused to see a doctor, but he promised that when we returned to the Minster he would do so; but he was sure no harm had been done.
I was glad when the last day came.
I declined Benedetto’s suggestion to send one of the maids to help me pack. I said there was not a great deal and I would do it myself.
I took Aubrey’s coat the one he had been wearing when he had been attacked. It was dirty and he had not worn it since. As I folded it I felt something in the pocket. I put in my hand and drew it out.
I could not believe it. It was the purse for which he had been attacked. It was one of those leather ones, rather like a dolly-bag which are clipped and held together by a gold ring. It jingled as I drew it out. There was money in it.
I counted it. A fair sum just about what one took out for a day’s needs.
I could not understand it.
I went out to the veranda where Aubrey was sitting waiting for me to finish the packing. I held out the purse.
“What is it?” he said.
“Your purse. Those people didn’t take it after all.”
“Where did you find it?”
“In the pocket of the coat you were wearing.”
“It couldn’t be.”
“It was. Why should they have knocked you down and then not taken your purse?”
“I don’t understand it.”
“Nor do I. Didn’t you look to see if they had your purse?”
He wrinkled his brow.
“When I regained my senses … I don’t know what I did. Perhaps I just presumed they had taken it. I felt very strange, Susanna … I have felt a little odd since.”
“Then you should see a doctor.”
“As soon as we get home.”
I gave him the purse.
“Why do you think they attacked you, if it was not robbery?” I asked.
“It must have been robbery.”
“Then why take nothing?”
“Perhaps they were surprised.”
“Then why take you to a hut and lock you in?”
“Who knows the motives of these villains? In any case I’m glad to have my purse back. I’m rather fond of this one.”
He took it from me and threw it into the chair. The coins inside jingled and he laughed.
“So I’m richer than I thought,” he said.
“I am just going to finish the packing,” I told him. As I did so I thought: This is all very mysterious. How glad I shall be to be home.
As we crossed the Channel and I caught a glimpse of the white cliffs, a feeling of reality seemed to return to me. What had happened that night had been due to a blow on the head which Aubrey had received. It had temporarily changed his character. I believed such things could happen. And the purse? The purse had worried me a little. The robbers must have been surprised and perhaps fearing they might have killed Aubrey dragged him away to that place, locked him in and made off.
Wild conjectures, of course. But I had to try and find some solution if I was going to behave normally, if I was to delude myself into believing that nothing had changed between us. It had, of course. But I must consider my position calmly. I was married to Aubrey, bound to him; whatever he had done, I had to try to do my duty. I must not allow myself to despise him because of one incident which might have been an aberration on his part. Strange things did happen in people’s minds in strange circumstances.
I had to go very carefully.
We stayed a night with my father before going on to the Minster. He was very pleased to see us and I would not worry him by letting him know that everything was less than perfect.
He was very contented. Polly and Jane had turned out to be treasures, and the house was conveniently near the War Office where everything was going smoothly, and it was clear that he was happier in London than he had been in India even though he worked in an office instead of being on active service.
He was delighted with the plaque of Dante and we fixed it on the wall of his study where he could see it every day.
Then Aubrey and I went down to the Minster. Amelia was delighted with her bracelet and looked well. She was sure everything was going well with her pregnancy and to crown her pleasure, Stephen was a little better. The news of the coming child, so said the doctors, had worked wonders.
I asked Amelia if they thought he might recover.
She became grave and shook her head.
“It is still there. It will grow and then suddenly that will be the end. But at least he is in no pain and I want to make his last months as happy as I can. I pray he will live long enough to see his child.”
“I’ll pray for that, too,” I said.
Stephen was pleased that we had thought of him during our honeymoon.
He professed himself delighted with the Raphael.
“How did you know I always had a special admiration for his work?” he asked.
“Inspiration,” I told him.
I was getting very fond of him and I believed he was of me. I used to look in for a brief visit every day, and Amelia said it did him good to see me. I discovered he had a great love of music, art, and literature. He was more serious-minded than Aubrey and it came out quite clearly that he had always regarded his young brother as the wayward one on whom he must keep an eye.
He implied that he had done this in the past and that now he was handing on that duty to me, in whom he had great confidence.
“I am glad you will live here,” he said.
“Take care of Amelia.”
“I think Amelia can look after herself.”
“I am glad you will live here. There is something strong about you.”
Strong! I thought of myself helplessly trying to decide what I should do when Aubrey had been missing, of that terrible ordeal through which he had forced me and with which I had no idea how to contend. I was weak . accepting life . shelving what I knew I should look more closely into and I could not bring myself to do so for fear of what I should find.
And he called me strong! If he only knew. But how could I tell him?
How could I ever tell anyone?
“And when the child comes,” he was saying, ‘you will love him. Perhaps you will have children of your own. I want you to regard ours mine and Amelia’s as one of them. “
“Of course I will.”
We did talk about the attack on Aubrey. It was hardly likely that such an incident should not be discussed at length. Aubrey had been seen by the doctor as I insisted he should, and the verdict was that the blow on his head had done no harm.