I tried to find a good spot to sketch the Bridge of Sighs but realized that the best views were from the other side. I retraced my steps to the waterfront and stood sketching the narrow canal with its lacy marble bridge. Several tourists tried to peer over my shoulder. Oh dear. My art skills are certainly not good enough for public scrutiny yet, I thought. I hurriedly closed my sketchbook, and at that moment the great bells from the campanile rang out. Twelve o’clock. Golly. I’d better return for lunch, or Aunt H. will be worried. I made my way back to St Mark’s Square and attempted to retrace my route home. I must have come out of the square by a different archway because I didn’t recognize where I was. There had not been a little canal running beside the street when I came in. I pressed on, in what I hoped was the right general direction. I was just crossing the canal via a little stone bridge when I heard a sound. At first I thought it was a baby crying. It was coming from the water beneath me. Then I looked down and saw a cardboard box floating past. And from the box came the sound. Not a baby, but what sounded like the mewing of kittens. Someone had thrown a box of kittens into the canal to drown them!

I looked around. Nobody in sight. I couldn’t just let the kittens float away until the box became sodden and they drowned. I went back to the side of the canal where there was a walkway, held on to a post and reached out as far as I could. The box was too far away for me to retrieve it and was moving slowly but steadily past. Soon it would pass between tall buildings where there was no footpath. There was nothing for it. I put my bag down, took off my hat, held my nose and jumped in. The water was surprisingly cold. I gasped and swallowed a mouthful, but struck out valiantly for the box. I hadn’t had much opportunity for swimming in England, apart from in the sea at Torquay, where one bobbed in the waves, and I realized too late that my skirts had become awfully heavy, clinging to my legs. I tried to hold the box above me as I kicked out for the side of the canal. I managed to place it up on the walkway, then tried to climb out. That was when I realized the walkway was a good foot above the water and there were no steps in sight. I had no way out.

My sodden clothing and shoes were pulling me down now, and I was tiring fast. I tried to remember the Italian word for “help”—if I’d ever known it in the first place. What was it in Latin? If only I’d paid more attention to Miss Dear! I tried to cling to the side, but there was nothing to hang on to. Above my head, the kittens kept mewing and the box shook as if they might get out at any moment. Then suddenly I heard a noise. The put-put of an approaching motorboat. It drew level with me, and I was afraid it would run me down or go past without seeing me. I released one hand and waved.

“Help!” I cried.

A man’s face appeared over the side. “Dio mio!” he exclaimed. “Un momento!” He cut the motor. Strong arms reached down, and I was unceremoniously hauled aboard. He stared at me for a moment before saying, “You are English. Sì? ”

I nodded. “How did you know?”

“Only a British girl would be foolish enough to go swimming in a canal,” he said in very proficient English. “Or did you fall in?”

“I wasn’t swimming. And I didn’t fall in. I jumped in, to save some kittens.”

“Kittens?” Obviously the word was unknown to him.

“Baby cats.”

He looked astonished. “You jump in the canal to save baby cats?”

“Someone was going to drown them. They were in a cardboard box. See. I’ve put them up on the path.”

“And what would you do with these baby cats? Take them home with you to England?”

I hadn’t thought that far ahead. “No, I don’t think Aunt Hortensia would agree to that. Besides, we are heading on to Florence and Rome. I thought I’d find them good homes.”

“My dear signorina ,” he said, shaking his head, “Venice is a city of cats. More cats than people. They keep the rats down, which is good, but they also have many babies. Too many.”

“Oh, I see.”

He studied my crestfallen face. I in turn studied him. After my shock, I had not taken in the fact that this was a sleek teak craft and that its driver was young and extremely good-looking. He had a fine head of unruly dark curls and a strong, chiselled jaw. He was wearing a white shirt, open at the neck. Exactly as I had wanted my gondolier to look. When he smiled, his whole face lit up. His eyes actually sparkled.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I expect we can find a place for them. One of our servants, perhaps, or we can have them taken out to our villa in the Veneto.”

“Really? That would be wonderful.”

He started the motor again and manoeuvred the boat to the side of the canal, lifting the kittens on board and then handing me my hat and my bag.

“Your bag is heavy. You have been shopping?”

“No. My art supplies. I’ve been sketching. I’m going to be an artist. I start at art school in September.”

He nodded approval. “Congratulations.”

“I hope they are all right,” I said as the box on the seat teetered. “They may already be wet and catch cold.”

I put down my bag, then opened the box of kittens cautiously. Four little black-and-white faces looked up at me. “Mew?” they said in unison.

“Look at them. Aren’t they adorable?” I said, holding it open for him to see. “And they are fine. Absolutely fine.” I put a hand up to my mouth as I felt myself about to burst into tears. It wouldn’t do to cry in front of a strange man. I closed the box again in case the kittens escaped.