Evening Star

by Catherine Coulter

  “Forgive me, Uncle, what did you say?”

  “I was telling you about the business venture I am considering with your mother. It involves some speculation, admittedly, but with the unrest plaguing Europe, I fancy there is little risk in banking on still more immigration to America. And the poor souls will need ships to travel on, ships that will not dump them below with cargo, to risk dying before they arrive in New York.”

  “You are providing the capital, Uncle?”

  “Yes, and your mother will have the ships constructed in the Van Cleve shipyards.”

  “They cannot be simple cargo ships, then. Nor can they be constructed like the passenger liners, because the souls immigrating to America will not have the money to pay.” She tilted her head, and her voice became grim. “After all, if the Irish must leave Ireland because of the terrible potato famine, it cannot be expected that they will have two sous to rub together for a voyage to America.”

  “True. Design is the crux of the problem. Aurora has several of her designers working on a solution: how to make ships equally suitable for cargo and for families without compromising either the safety of the cargo or the lives of the passengers.”

  “I trust you will not pour your capital into the project until there is a solution.”

  “I have no intention of living out my old age as a pauper,” he said, grinning at her.

  A light rap sounded on the door, but Daniele did not move to open it. He walked instead to the golden cord beside the thick blue velvet drapery and pulled it open.

  The room was more stark than the Golden Chamber, Giana saw, without the lush furnishings. But the sweating naked man on the bed with the buxom Lucia astride him, her position unusual in that her back was to him, was but more of the same. Giana could hear the man groaning as Lucia raised and lowered her body, splaying her hands sensuously over his legs. Giana could not prevent a shudder at the animallike sounds he was making.

  Suddenly the door to the chamber burst open, and another man ran inside, fully dressed.

  “Now for our own special commedia dell’arte,” Daniele said softly. “All well rehearsed, with everyone knowing his part.”

  Giana stared at Vittorio Cavelli. He was dressed in a full-sleeved white shirt, tight trousers, and black riding boots. He was slapping a riding crop against his thigh, his smooth young face mottled with fury.

  “What is this?” he yelled. “You miserable unfaithful bitch, you offer yourself to my best friend the moment I leave you alone.”

  Lucia drew herself off the naked man and cowered away from Vittorio, covering her bountiful breasts with shaking hands. “No,” she cried, “it was he who seduced me. I swear it. He forced me to submit.”

  “Liar. Deceitful whore. You were riding him like a wild mare. Well, did you seduce my wife, force her?” he angrily demanded of the naked man, who now sat on the edge of the bed.

  The man, as young as Vittorio, olive-skinned and slender, broke into loud, scornful laughter. “She tore my clothes off,” he said, pointing toward the trembling Lucia. “She is a whore, and unworthy of you, Vittorio. She will spread her legs for any man who wants her.”

  Giana darted a confused glance toward Daniele, but his face was impassive. Her fingers clutched the arms of her chair so tightly the knuckles showed white.

  “No, no.” Lucia cried. “It is not true, my dear husband. Never would I betray you willingly. He forced me.”

  “Shut up, harlot. I will teach you that I am your master.”

  Vittorio raised the riding crop and brought it down over Lucia’s white shoulders. Lucia shrieked and fell to her knees in front of Vittorio, clawing at his riding boots.

  “No, my husband, no more, I beg of you.”

  “The unfaithful whore must be taught a lesson,” Vittorio snarled to the other man. “Bind her.”

  Giana lurched forward in her chair, a cry on her lips. She felt Daniele’s hand grasping her arm, pulling her back. “Hush. Do not intrude on their charming charade.”

  She watched numbly as the man pulled Lucia to her feet and bound her wrists together with a silk scarf that Vittorio tossed to him. He pulled her long hair from her back and held her against him, stretching her upward until she stood on her tiptoes.

  “No, my husband,” Lucia wailed, “do not do this.”

  Vittorio walked slowly toward Lucia. “Whore,” he spat, and brought the riding crop down across her white buttocks.

  “Stop it, Uncle. By God, you must stop this.”

  “Shut up, Giana. Lucia would not thank you, you know. She earns a good deal of money playing these games.”

  “It is Vittorio Cavelli.”

  “Yes, I know. A interesting young gentleman.”

  The other man held the straining Lucia tight against him. “Again, Vittorio, again. I want to hear her scream.”

  The riding crop descended again and again, and Lucia yelled, tossing her mane of black hair, writhing frantically to escape the whip.

  “Give me her belly,” Vittorio cried suddenly. He ripped open his trousers as the other man whirled Lucia about to face him, and drove his thigh between her legs to spread them. Vittorio lashed her once again with the riding crop, and slammed into her. His yells of sexual pleasure mixed with Lucia’s screams. He fell away from her onto the bed, and watched as the other man quickly untied Lucia’s wrists and flung her to the floor.

  “Take the bitch. Cram the unfaithful little whore,” Vittorio cried.

  Giana said not a word as the man drove into Lucia’s belly. White-faced, she rose and walked from the room.

  Daniele loosened his collar and set his empty brandy snifter upon the sideboard. He thought he heard a noise, and turned to walk from the library onto the balcony. He drew up at the sight of Giana, dressed only in her white cambric nightgown, leaning over the railing, staring at the magnificent sprawling city. She had tied her heavy black hair in a ribbon off her neck, and lazy curls framed her face.

  “You could not sleep my dear?”

  “No, it was too hot,” she said, not turning to face him.

  “There is some breeze here.”

  “Uncle Daniele?”

  “Si?”

  “Will Vittorio do that to Cametta when they are married?”

  “It is unlikely. Her family would be most displeased were he to tie her up, beat her, and share her with another man. If she had no family, it would be another matter entirely.”

  “He is unnatural.”

  “He is wild and young and quite degenerate. At least Cametta will be a countess. With the money she will bring him, he will be able to indulge all his elaborate charades. Given his tastes, I venture to guess that Cametta will not have to suffer much of him in her bed.”

  “Cametta loves him.”

  “She is infatuated with him, and has less sense than a child. She will be perfectly happy, I assure you. Vittorio will give her a child, and then she can lead the kind of life for which she has been raised.”

  He saw Giana shudder.

  “Are you cold, my dear?”

  She shook her head. “No, I am sad.”

  “Don’t be,” he said sharply. “It is life.”

  “But she will be his wife.”

  Daniele sighed. “Giana, do you still not understand? Being a man’s wife is all the girl can aspire to, but it is not much. A wife holds a place somewhat higher than a man’s servant and somewhat lower than his dog. She is his chattel, by law. If he wants to beat her, he can, unless, as in Cametta’s case, her family holds the purse strings. Then, I venture to say, it would not be excessively wise. But even if the man’s pleasures are somewhat perverted, like Vittorio’s, any court in Italy, or England for that matter, would uphold his right to do whatever he wished. A wife must submit. It is her duty.” Daniele was silent for a moment. “I recall a story about the famous French author Victor Hugo. You may know he is reputed to be quite a lady’s man. He married some eighteen years ago. It is said that his wife protested his excessive sexual appetite
s, claiming that he had forced her nine times on their wedding night. The judge, as of course any man would, reproved her sharply and returned her to her husband.”

  Giana felt her throat close over angry words. Her gaze remained fastened toward the darkened city. Why can I not see Randall’s face? Why can I not imagine what he would say at such a story?

  “Did you know that a woman in England cannot even sign a contract? Your mother, to transact her business, must have Thomas Hardesty, her partner, affix his noble signature for it to be legal. I find it odd that your Queen Victoria not only encourages such things but also has actually backed laws to further subjugate women.”

  Daniele laid his hand on Giana’s arm and was surprised to find her rigid beneath his fingers.

  “What are you thinking, my dear?”

  Giana drew a deep breath. “I was thinking,” she said quietly, knowing that she wasn’t speaking precisely the truth, “that with all the injustice in the world, it is fortunate for me that I will have Randall to protect me.”

  Daniele’s intake of breath sounded like a hiss. “Bennett protect you? Has it never occurred to you, Giana, that you should want to protect yourself?”

  She waved away his words, and her voice was softly sad. “I don’t know if I could bear leaving Randall, Uncle.”

  “Randall, my child, or what you still imagine him to be?”

  “Good night, Uncle,” Giana said stiffly, shaking off his hand. “It is cooler now. I believe I will be able to sleep.”

  Chapter 7

  “The Flower Auction,” Daniele explained to Giana, “is a touted Roman tradition.”

  “What an unusual name. What is it, Uncle?”

  “When a girl is a virgin, as you are, my dear, she is considered a prize until the first man takes her maidenhead, or deflowers her. Hence the name Flower Auction. Attendance is carefully controlled, with only very wealthy, selected gentlemen admitted. I have seen the list of gentlemen who will be present. Several of them unfortunately have seen you at Madame Lucienne’s, and so, my dear, to safeguard your shady reputation, you will wear an auburn wig.”

  “You want me to be one of the girls at the auction?”

  “Yes. I have already spoken to Signora Lamponni, the directress, so to speak, of the event. I have paid her a fee, and she will allow you to take part. Only the most beautiful girls have been selected, all trained harlots, but their virginity has been carefully guarded in anticipation of this night. The sums of money sometimes paid for their maidenheads is truly astounding.”

  “You go too far with this, Uncle.” She shook her head vigorously, her lips tightly compressed.

  “You will not have to worry, Giana, for I shall be the man who buys you, and I promise I shall close the bidding before you are naked on the dais.”

  “Naked?”

  Her eyes were huge with outrage, but he ignored her, and continued smoothly, “Yes. You see, the gentlemen bid for them. They remove their clothing, slowly and enticingly, to let the gentlemen’s lust raise the sum bid for them all the higher. They disrobe until the bidding has stopped and a man has bought their services for the night. But it frequently happens that the gentlemen draw out the bidding just to see the girls standing naked before them. Then if the man who has purchased a girl wishes, he can examine her himself, in front of all the other gentlemen, to assure himself that she is indeed a virgin.”

  “It is despicable. I will not be part of such a disgusting, perverted display.”

  “Oh yes you will, Giana. You are so close to fulfilling both your agreements; to your mother and to me. To refuse to cooperate with me now would mean that all you have done would go for naught.”

  “Mother would be frantic if she knew what you were making me do.”

  Daniele shrugged. “That, Giana, is beside the point. Your mother placed you in my care; and you, my dear, agreed to undertake whatever I wish. Do not flout me now, Giana. Think of the prize you will have in such a short time.”

  He hooked his thumb under her chin, forcing her to look up at him. Her eyes were still filled with shock.

  “Please, Uncle,” Giana whispered, “do not make me do this. I beg of you.”

  He hesitated but an instant, then said firmly, “Don’t worry, my dear, I will buy you before you have to remove your gown.” He saw that she would protest further. “Listen to me, Giana. All you have done this summer is observe passively. You have no idea of what it feels like to be the object of a man’s desire. No, you will neither plead nor argue with me further. At least at the Flower Auction you will feel what it is like to be put up for sale, like a horse.”

  Giana drew back from him. But two more weeks, she thought, but two more weeks. But she felt afraid, more afraid than she had felt that first night at Madame Lucienne’s when Signore Salvado had casually caressed her breasts. She raised her face and looked at him. “Not a horse, Uncle,” she said coldly. “A mare.”

  “Good. You have regained your perspective, I see.”

  A welcome thunderstorm blew through the heat-baked city, and took the heat with it. Giana found she even needed a shawl over her demure white silk gown. There was not a bit of makeup on her face to spoil the innocence of the tender young flower in her virginal white gown, waiting to be plucked. Only the curling auburn wig with its fluffy tendrils falling over her forehead served to disguise her.

  The villa Daniele directed his driver to was off the Via Merulana. It was a tall red-brick building set behind a thick wall of trees and a high black iron fence. A servant in black livery opened the grating gate upon seeing Daniele’s elegant invitation. Giana started forward at the sound of dogs snarling near the carriage.

  “No need to worry, they are chained, Giana. Signora Lamponni likes her privacy. I will shortly leave you in her hand. You will join the other girls before you make your entrance into the grand salon to mix with the gentlemen. The auction begins promptly at eight o’clock.” Daniele leaned over in the carriage, took Giana’s chin in his hand, and said gently, “I urge you to look about you, Giana, and to listen. It is true that all the girls, save you, are quite willing to be auctioned off tonight, for they will earn a great deal of money in the process. But the fact remains that it is men and their desires who have made the Flower Auction a fact. It is they who have placed such value on a girl’s virginity, and they who will pay to take that innocence. It is, I suppose, a reaffirmation of their power, of their manhood.”

  “You are a man, Uncle.”

  “Yes, but an old one. I find I become quite the philosopher as my own desires fade. I don’t want you to become a victim, Giana, it’s really as simple as that. That is your mother’s wish also, I might add.”

  “But is there still no caring? Do not some men love their wives faithfully? Surely they cannot all be animals. What of Angela’s husband, Signore Cavour?”

  “Yes, he is faithful to his young wife, so far as I know. She is lovely, quite submissive, and worships him. He is a god to her, a role he undoubtedly relishes. But even with his love, she is smothered in stupid tradition that dooms her to a life that is appallingly restricted, while he—” Daniele shrugged. It was odd, he thought, that he should be condemning a quite workable system, one that he himself never questioned, had in fact found most comfortable, until he had met Aurora.

  “Signore Cavour is fat,” Giana said, “and Angela starves herself to please him.”

  Daniele laughed. “She is wise for one so young. Perhaps she will keep him faithful. Who knows?”

  Giana shrugged, but her lips were drawn into a thin line. He leaned over and patted her gloved hand.

  “Do not despair, Giana. Someday you will find a man who will be your equal, and be all things to you, as you will be to him.” Daniele waited for Giana to throw Randall Bennett in his face as the paragon of all virtues, but she remained silent.

  She was shown by a stone-faced woman servant into a small antechamber where five young girls were chatting gaily. They looked up, watching her as she entered, and she
felt for an instant as if she were back at Madame Orlie’s seminary, joining the other girls for afternoon tea, until she saw their eyes. They were assessing her value, just as might a competitor. They were all quite young, pretty, and dressed in soft pastel colors. With their full skirts pressed together, they looked like a vivid rainbow.

  “Ah, you are finally here, signorina. Come, I wish to speak to all of you before you join the gentlemen.”

  Signora Lamponni was an immense woman, tall and large-boned, with striking sable-colored hair and wide brown eyes. She was dressed in severe black silk, like a respectable middle-aged matron, and not a procurer of young virgins. The five young faces were staring at her, drinking in her words. Giana shook her head, realizing that she was not listening.

  “You will drink with the gentlemen, if they wish it, and converse pleasantly with them. Do not let any of them monopolize you. The more gentlemen who see what delights you have to offer, the more money they will bid, and more money will be yours. They are not to fondle you, for it is against the rules. As all of you know, there are only very wealthy gentlemen present. If you are truly skilled, it is possible that the man who buys you will wish to keep you for his mistress.”

  There was a low buzz of excited speculation among the girls. Dear God, Giana thought, they want this. All of them. But they were so very young, as if they had just emerged from a classroom.