“If you wish to be an artist, you can do no better than making careful observations here,” Aunt H. said, pointing to a painting by Tintoretto that took up an entire wall. Golly, I thought. How long would it take to paint something like that, even if one had the skill? All those paintings were so large, so magnificent, I couldn’t envision myself ever attempting such things. I was more entranced with the Bridge of Sighs—so called because prisoners crossed it on their way to the prison beyond and it was the last glimpse they would have of the outside world. So sad and romantic! I must definitely return to sketch it! I thought.

I was actually rather glad when Aunt H. said we should return to the pensione for luncheon and then a rest. It seems that everything closes at midday in Venice—shops, museums. The whole city shuts down and sleeps. I couldn’t sleep, of course. I lay on my bed listening to the sounds beyond my shutters: the slap of oars, the putter of motorboats, the cooing of pigeons and the high-pitched squeaks of the swallows. And I felt ridiculously content, as if everything made sense for the first time in my life. No more Miss Masters’s Academy for Young Ladies. The whole world awaited me.

At dinner that night, the menu said Fritto Misto, and in English, Mixed Fried Fish . What actually came on our plates were little unidentifiable bits and pieces of tentacles, whiskery shrimp and various shellfish.

“Gracious me,” Aunt Hortensia said. “I think they have scraped the bottom of the lagoon for these. They don’t even look edible.”

Mine actually tasted quite good, although the tentacles were a little alarming to chew. We finished dinner with fruit, cheeses and coffee. Outside I could hear the city livening up. A gondolier sang as he passed beneath our window. Further away a jazz band was playing. Laughter echoed from the narrow street across the canal.

“Can we go out and explore?” I asked.

Aunt Hortensia looked as if I had asked to take my clothes off and dance naked in St Mark’s Square.

“A lady does not go out unescorted after dinner,” she said.

And that was that. We went to the sitting room, and Aunt Hortensia conversed with two English ladies. I excused myself, went up to my room and checked my art supplies. My lovely pristine sketchbook, a gift from Daddy. A small box of watercolours, a pen and a portable inkwell, charcoals and pencils. Everything a budding artist would need. I sighed with contentment. Tomorrow I would start sketching, and in September I would be a student at the Slade School of Fine Art in London.

I dipped my pen into the ink and wrote, Juliet Browning. Begun May 1928 .

CHAPTER 2

Juliet, Venice, May 1928

It turns out that Aunt Hortensia was right to have been suspicious of the mixed fried fish. The next morning she reported that she had vomited in the night and felt too weak to get up. Would I please ask for a boiled egg and tea to be sent up to her, and she would stay in bed all day. I delivered her message. The proprietress was most solicitous and insisted on chamomile tea—much better for the stomach. I ate breakfast alone in the garden while the pigeons perched hopefully on unused seats. Then I went back to my aunt.