“Wouldn’t you look tense if your husband walked out and was trying to take your son?” Caroline said, instantly regretting her outburst.

“Of course I would. But the point is that you can’t do anything about it at this moment. You have to be patient and wait it out. So I say fulfil what we think is Aunt Lettie’s last wish. Take her box and go to Venice. Scatter her ashes in a place she clearly loved.”

“Would you like to come with me?” Caroline asked, reaching out her hand to her grandmother.

Granny smiled and shook her head. “Oh no, my dear. My travelling days are over. Besides, if Aunt Lettie had wanted me to go, she’d have made it clear to me. She wants you to go. Not me.”

CHAPTER 8

Juliet, Venice, July 1938

I never thought I’d have the chance to visit Venice again after the events of the last ten years, but here I am, back in the beloved city. It seems like a miracle. I arrived a few hours ago, together with Miss Frobisher and twelve girls from Anderley House School, where I teach. The train journey was hot and crowded, and on arrival in Venice we had to run the gamut of men trying to snatch our bags and drag them into gondolas as we emerged from the station, just as they had done ten years previously when I came here with Aunt Hortensia.

“Oh, Miss Browning, this is absolutely ghastly, isn’t it?” Miss Frobisher wailed, grabbing on to my arm. “It’s just too, too ghastly. Why on earth didn’t we take the girls to Paris instead? The French are so much more civilized than this mob of uncouth rabble. Likely as not, we’ll be murdered in our beds, if we don’t die of heatstroke before we find the convent.”

I tried to reassure her and was relieved when we found that the convent where we would be staying was one of the few places in Venice with no navigable canal near it. Instead we would have to walk over the Grand Canal by the Ponte degli Scalzi, a stone bridge of many steps, to the district of Santa Croce, cross another canal by a smaller, steeper bridge and then wind our way through narrow alleys. They all seemed to have different names at each corner, made even more frustrating when carrying our suitcases. It was hot and muggy, and Miss Frobisher had brought a large leather suitcase she could hardly lift. I felt sorry for her but wasn’t about to offer to carry it.

“Are we nearly there, miss?” one of the girls pleaded. “My arm’s about dropping off.”

“When can we have a drink, miss?” another chimed in. “We’re all dying of thirst.”

That had been another inconvenience for us. The train we had taken had no dining car. This was all right as we had boarded in Calais in the evening and still had the sandwiches we had brought with us. But finding there was no hot drink to be had in the morning was a shock. We had to change trains in Milan and had hoped to find a drink in the station, but our train had come in late and we had to sprint between platforms, flinging ourselves on board at the last minute. My mouth felt like sandpaper, and I knew what the girls must be going through.