Aunt H. was one of those formidable Victorian ladies. She showed no sign of being tired as we made our way back to the pensione. I suggested taking a vaporetto, as I was really worn out by this time. But she insisted the water buses were too crowded, and she had no wish to be pressed up against an Italian man. “They pinch bottoms, you know,” she whispered in horror. I tried not to smile.

Eventually we came back to the pensione and changed for dinner. We dined on mushroom risotto as Aunt H. wanted something that would not upset her delicate stomach. It was quite good; so was the creamy cake that followed it, and I was allowed a glass of local white wine called Pinot Grigio. We sat and chatted with other guests—or rather Aunt H. chatted and I sat, wishing I were out experiencing the sights and sounds of the city—and went to bed around ten.

Aunt H. fell asleep immediately. I lay there, listening to distant music. I had almost drifted off when I heard something rattle against the shutters. I got up. Was it the wind? But no draft came in. Then it happened again. I opened the shutter and looked around.

“Julietta. Down here,” came the whisper.

And there he was in his boat, underneath my window.

“Come,” he whispered, holding out his arms to me. “I will help you.”

“I’m in my nightdress,” I said, my heart beating rather loudly.

“I can see.” He smirked. “Hurry. Dress quickly.”

I couldn’t believe what I was doing. I stumbled into my clothes, shooting hasty glances at my snoring aunt as I fumbled with buttons. Then I arranged the bolster in my bed to look like a sleeping person and started to climb out of the window. It was a long drop and I hesitated. Instantly his arms came up again, and he lifted me down into the boat, his hands around my waist.

“Now,” he said, “we go.”

“The shutters.” I looked back at them, half open.

He stood up precariously on the rim of the boat and closed them. Then he pushed us off, moving the boat silently along the side of the canal until we were far enough away to start the motor. Off we went into the night.

When we pulled out into the Grand Canal, we looked at each other, and I gave a nervous laugh that I, good child until now, had dared to do something so naughty. He laughed, too.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“You’ll see.” He was still smiling.

I did wonder for a moment whether I was being kidnapped. We girls at school had heard about the white slave trade, and I was, as Aunt H. had said, horribly naive. But somehow he didn’t look like my image of a white slaver.

“So tell me about my kittens,” I said. “Are they safe?”

“They are very happy. It seems that we have had a problem with rats out at our estate in the Veneto, so our cook will take them out there and the caretaker will feed them until they grow into good rat catchers.”

I gave a little sigh of relief, just hoping that I could believe him. I had no experience with boys or men, and certainly not with strange foreign men. I wanted to trust him. And he had offered to escort myself and my aunt around an art festival. That ought to indicate that he was trustworthy, right?

We reached the end of the Grand Canal where it opened to the lagoon. The vast shape of a church with a white dome loomed on our right. Lights sparkled on the water as we moved along the promenade. At this time of night it was still lively with pedestrians, and music and laughter floated towards us. I hoped he might be taking me to join the revellers, then immediately realized I was not dressed for an evening out. But we kept on going, past the entrance to St Mark’s Square, until on our left were no more buildings, no more people, only darkness. Now I began to feel uneasy again.

“Where are we going?” I asked, a tremor in my voice now.

“I wanted to take you to the Biennale,” he said. “Unfortunately it is not open at night, but I can show you where it is held. These are the Giardini , the city gardens. My favourite place to be.” As he talked, he steered the boat to a landing stage, jumped out, tied it up efficiently, then held out a hand to me. I stepped on to land. He reached down to haul out a basket.

“What is that?” I asked.

“I wanted you to have a good meal while you were here,” he said. “The aunt does not allow the restaurant, so it must be the picnic. Come. I show you my special spot.”

“A picnic? In case you hadn’t noticed, it’s dark,” I said.

“Is there a law against picnics in the dark? I do not think so.” He took my hand. It felt wonderful, and instantly I knew I was safe with him. Paths wound between magnificent old trees and stands of bushes, some in full flower. Every now and then there were lamp posts, giving just enough light to see our way. Occasionally other couples strolled past, then an old lady walking her dog. Life went on late in Venice!

“You see that, behind the trees?” he pointed out. “That is the German pavilion.” I spotted a white building with columns like a temple. “And that one over there is the English pavilion. So many pavilions dotted around the grounds. Too bad I can’t take you inside. We will have to make do with the art of the gardens.” And he paused beside the statue of a Greek god. It was weathered from years of rain and salt. A vine had grown up over its plinth, and bushes grew on either side.

“This is my favourite statue,” he said, running his hand over its arm as if it were alive.