In Venice, this was more than a saying, it was common practice: hundreds of Venice’s daughters had been consigned to the convent. Few of them went willingly, for it had nothing to do with religious vocation. In true Venetian fashion, it was a matter of money. The typical marriage portion settled on the daughter of an aristocratic family was twenty thousand ducats; few families could afford to marry off more than one daughter. The not-so-marriageable girls—the sick or lame, the unlovely, the obstinate or ungovernable—were forced to take the veil. The cost of putting a girl in the convent—for even convents required a dowry—was substantially less than a marriage portion, only a thousand ducats. The religious orders had kept many a Venetian aristocrat from financial ruin.
In the fifty convents scattered around the city and the islands of the lagoon, a few thousand women whose names were listed in the Libro d’Oro, the register of Venetian aristocracy, were immured for life. There they lived behind walls intended to separate them from society, urged by the patriarch to meditate on the glories of their virginal state.
The reality was somewhat less lofty than that, Alessandra knew. Most of these women had no true calling for the monastic life and performed their vows with little enthusiasm. They spent their time embroidering, gossiping, and socializing with visiting friends and family members in the convent parlor: a place open to visitors but accessible to the nuns only through grated windows. It was an insignificant life of trivial pleasures. No wonder the convents were rife with flirtations and romances—stories of affairs between nuns and priests were commonplace, so much so that Patriarch Priuli had condemned the convents as being no better than brothels. But who could blame the sisters, for what of life was left for them to live?
In her own case, the convent would be even less tolerable. Alessandra wasn’t nobly born, and without money for a conventual dowry, her only option was to become a conserva, a lay sister who carried out the menial chores that the more privileged nuns did not want to do. The thought of spending the rest of her life behind convent walls, the servant of women who were less educated than herself, without books, without music, without freedom, was unbearable to her. Perhaps she had too much pride, but Alessandra saw the convent as a living death, an entombment. Better she had been born a man; she would have rather taken her chances with Jacopo on the open sea than kiss the stony ground and take those irrevocable vows.
But if not the convent, then what? Alessandra lay back on the bench. The dappled sunlight made her feel warm and drowsy. She would have to do something about money—what little she had wouldn’t last past August. She’d already made economies: Bianca had made over her winter dresses for the summer, and she’d had to dismiss Zuan, her gondolier. Nico would have to suffice as gondolier from now on. Perhaps she’d send him to the Ghetto tomorrow with an item for the secondhand shops. What would she sell first? The painted chests, the tapestries, the lute made in Verona? It pained her to think of it; these were not just her belongings, but her mother’s, her father’s, Jacopo’s. But it was either that or starve. She had a vision of herself, Nico, and Bianca living in the house as it slowly emptied, hanging on until there was nothing left. And what then? It was an impossible question to answer.
She awoke to the sound of a monkey chattering and the feeling that someone was watching her. Alessandra opened her eyes and gasped. Above her towered a blackamoor, the darkness of his skin accentuated by the bright blue sky behind him. He had a long, lugubrious face and was dressed in a gondolier’s uniform of striped jerkin and scarlet tights.
“Signorina,” he said, bowing low. His voice was very deep, and oddly accented. “My mistress wishes a word.”
Alessandra sat up. Into her view walked La Celestia, resplendent in a gown of gold cloth so brilliant it was as if a second sun had come into the garden. In flagrant disregard of the sumptuary laws, she was dripping with jewels. Her throat was circled by a half dozen strands of pearls, her earlobes weighted with diamonds, her bodice studded with rubies and emeralds. Behind her stood a pert young maidservant and a boy trailing a small monkey on a leash. The monkey was outfitted in a purple silk jerkin and a tiny, tasseled cap. When he saw Alessandra, he jumped up and down and screeched, then scampered up to perch on the boy’s shoulder, chattering all the while. Alessandra was tempted to pinch herself. Surely this was the strangest dream she’d ever had.
“Charming,” La Celestia said as she took in the garden, the lagoon, the four-story house with its pointed Moorish windows. She came closer to Alessandra and studied her face with a curious but pleased expression. “As I thought, you’re very pretty when you’re not crying.” She squinted at the sky. “Shall we go inside? The sun is ruinous to my complexion.”
Alessandra stood up. “Of course.” She was burning with questions, but she knew it wasn’t polite to ask. She led La Celestia upstairs, to the parlor on the second floor. The room was shaded and cool, the thick damask curtains drawn against the afternoon sun. The courtesan looked over the furnishings and the wood-paneled walls with a practiced eye.
“It’s a bit plain for such a well-situated house, but with some work it could be handsome enough,” she said. “I know some very clever artisans who could help you with the decor.”
“Thank you, but—”
“No Petrarch?” La Celestia asked as she inspected a row of books lining the fireplace mantel. Alessandra watched her fingers pass over the volumes: Virgil, Aristotle, Ovid, Boccaccio, Dante. “You should always have a pocket Petrarch at hand. The finest ladies always carry a copy.” She looked over at her maid. “Isabella?”
Isabella curtsied and help up a small, beautifully bound edition of Petrarch’s poems.
“See? I always carry one.” La Celestia looked back at the books. “Have you read all of these?”
“Yes.”
“Including the Latin and Greek?”
“Yes.”
“Hmmm…” Her expression was inscrutable. “There is such a thing as being too well educated.” She turned to the lute in the corner. “Do you play?”
“Yes.”
“Sing and dance?”
“Yes…a little,” she added honestly.
La Celestia stepped over to the best chair in the room, spread her skirt, and sat down. She nodded at Isabella and the girl silently slipped out the door, apparently heading downstairs to wait with the gondolier, the boy, and the monkey. “Your manners as a hostess could use some improvement,” the courtesan said. “Aren’t you going to offer me a refreshment?”
“Forgive me, but I don’t understand why you’re here,” Alessandra said.
“To discuss your plans for the future, of course. What are you going to do now that Signor Liberti is dead?”
“You know about Lorenzo?” Alessandra was so astonished that she blurted out his Christian name.
“Very little goes on in Venice that I don’t know about.” Apparently La Celestia took some pleasure in surprising her, for she wore a self-satisfied smile. “It took a few days, but I finally remembered where I’d seen you—at a comedia at Ca’ Pesaro that you attended with Signor Liberti. You turned no small number of heads there, though you seemed to be quite unaware of the effect you had. As you were the other day at the Palazzo Camerlenghi.” Her expression grew serious. “I’ve heard that you are now without means, but surely Lorenzo left you with something: jewels, houses, land, livestock?”
“No…well, some gold earrings, and he paid the taxes on this house.” That Lorenzo may have paid the taxes with her own money was something Alessandra chose not to say. The courtesan’s tone made her feel defensive.
“Is that all?” La Celestia asked.
“Yes.”
“You mean you have nothing put away?”
Alessandra shook her head.
“I was told that you were smart. Have you so immersed yourself in those books that you’ve given no thought to your future?”
“How could I possibly have known that Lorenzo would die?”
La Celestia burst out lau
ghing. “My girl, he was a man. Men die all the time. They’re positively geniuses at it, always running off to war or some such thing. It’s a woman’s destiny to be abandoned by men, in one way or another. Tedious, but you must admit it’s true. Your mistake was to rely on a man to take care of you.”
“But you yourself…,” Alessandra ventured.
“You’re thinking that I’m a living contradiction of my own advice. There you’re wrong. I don’t rely on one man, I rely on many. That way, if one of them dies, the effect is not felt so strongly. A wiser course for you to follow in the future.”
The future? Alessandra thought. What future? La Celestia waited patiently for Alessandra to comprehend her meaning.
“Are you suggesting”—Alessandra knitted her brow; she would be embarrassed if she had misunderstood—“that I become a courtesan?”
“I admit that was my intention in coming here. However, I’m concerned about your lack of business acumen. You sold yourself very ill.”
“Sold myself?” Alessandra felt her cheeks flush.
“You might not like the sound of the words, but the difference between being a kept mistress and a courtesan is only one of degree. You bartered away your most precious commodity, your maidenhood, for a few baubles and back taxes.” La Celestia clucked softly. “Not even a pearl on those earrings?”
“No,” Alessandra admitted.
“It grieves me deeply,” she sighed. “With your pretty face, you could have sold your virginity for a very high price. Numerous times.” She shook her head. “But no regrets, I always say—there’s no profit in them. So, what will you do? I take it the convent doesn’t appeal to you.”
“No.”
“Any suitors on the horizon?”
“No.”
“Yet you hesitate.”
“You make it sound as if being a courtesan is easy. But I’ve heard of women who are beaten, or have their faces slashed, or worse. And what of the French disease?”
“There are dangers, that is true. But life is full of danger, whether or not one is a courtesan. There are ways to avoid those problems. I’ll teach you myself. You do realize this is a highly unusual offer. Most women would pay dearly for my secrets.”
“Why are you offering to do this for me?”
“Something you will learn soon enough is that even the most beautiful women grow old.” A shadow crossed La Celestia’s eyes and for a moment Alessandra caught a glimpse of the woman behind the courtesan’s polished facade, and realized that La Celestia was indeed older than she first appeared. The sunlight that slipped through the curtains revealed tiny lines around her eyes, deepening creases at the corners of her mouth.
“There will come a time when men will no longer pay so handsomely for my favors,” La Celestia went on, “but I refuse to make the mistakes that other courtesans make. Instead of ignoring the future, I’m planning for it. For my instruction, and for introductions to the richest and most distinguished men in Venice, there is a price: twenty-five percent of your earnings.”
“That seems rather high.”
“Does it? Why don’t I put it to you as my mother put it to me: ‘You can become a courtesan—not a prostitute, mind you, but a cortigiana onestà—and enjoy riches the likes of which you’ve never imagined, or you can sell candles on the church steps and live in poverty and filth.’ You don’t seem to have many more alternatives than I did.”
“Perhaps not, but—”
“Tell me, why did you choose to become Lorenzo’s mistress instead of taking orders? You must have known that you would not be accepted in most society, that it would make it much more difficult for you to marry well.”
“I wanted my freedom.”
“Exactly. ‘Freedom is the most precious gem a courtesan possesses. Given this privilege, even infamy seems honorable to her.’ Francesco Pona wrote that. Once you’re accustomed to freedom, it’s impossible to give it up. And believe me, there is no freedom in poverty.”
“I believe I have more choices than what you’re offering.”
“Do you? I see only three: you can become a nun, you can become a courtesan, or you can join the whores on the Bridge of Tits and sell yourself for cheap. If you’re smart, you’ll be at my house Wednesday at noon.” She stood up and walked to the door. “Tell me, did you love him?”
“Lorenzo?” It seemed shameful to admit that she had never loved him, that she suspected she would never love anyone. “I don’t know.”
The courtesan gave her a penetrating look. “That’s good. It’s better if you don’t love them. You must take my word on this.”
Chapter Four
CLAIRE PUSHED OPEN a heavy glass door and walked into Forsythe Academy’s main corridor. Meredith had called her that morning and insisted that Claire meet her at the school at one o’clock. As she turned right off the corridor and into the suite of offices where Meredith worked, she was still unsure as to why she’d been summoned.
“Good, I was hoping you’d get here first,” Meredith said as Claire entered. Her office was reminiscent of her well-furnished home, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, decorator lamps, and two upholstered chairs facing an antique mahogany desk.
“First?” Claire asked.
“Someone’s going to be joining us.”
“Who?”
“Why don’t I start at the beginning?”
“Fine.”
“The father of one of our students is getting married next week. His second marriage, obviously. He and his new wife will be honeymooning in the south of France. Originally, his daughter was going to stay with her mother for the summer, but her mother is…well, she’s not well. She’s in the hospital, in fact. This morning he called to ask if we knew anyone, perhaps a teacher, who could take his daughter to Paris for a week. That way, he and his new wife can enjoy their honeymoon, then go back to Paris, pick up the daughter, and spend another week en famille before coming home. But summer school begins in a week and I’m shorthanded as it is.”
“Are you suggesting that I take this kid to Paris?”
“No! To Venice. The dates of their trip and your conference coincide perfectly. I spoke to him already and he said it was fine as long as Gwendolyn is in Paris in time to meet them. I get the feeling he’s desperate. Apparently the new wife isn’t keen on having a stepdaughter along for the entire honeymoon.”
“And what am I supposed to do with her while I’m at the conference?”
“Take her with you. She’s not a child, she’s fourteen. Tell her to sit still and shut up for the duration, then do something fun together afterward.”
“I don’t know how to have fun with kids,” Claire protested.
“You don’t like kids?”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like them, it’s just that I haven’t been around teenagers since…since I was a teenager.”
“I’m around teenagers all the time, and they’re not any different than we were. Most of them are really quite nice. Gwen’s a normal kid. Perfectly normal. But the thing that’s most important to remember about this plan is that Gwendolyn’s father is very well off, and he’s going to pay for everything. He may even cover the cost of the conference and throw in a little extra for your time.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’m completely serious.” Meredith was grinning, her eyebrows raised in a positive slant, but the pen in her right hand rapidly tapped the desk, revealing her anxious energy.
“What is it you’re not telling me?” Claire asked.
“There was an incident that you’ll have to be discreet about. In other words, you can’t discuss it with Gwendolyn. Her father injured his foot a few days ago in a…a golfing accident.”
“Someone ran over his foot with a golf cart?”
“No, someone punctured it with a bullet.”
“This girl’s father is the guy who got shot by his ex-wife?”
“Yes.”
“Which means that this girl’s mother is the woman who shot him.”
“Yes.”
“But you just said she was normal, perfectly normal. Having a mother who shoots people is not normal!”
“Keep it down, he’s going to be here any minute. You have to pretend that you don’t know anything about this.”
“I thought you said her mother was ill, that she was in the hospital.”
“She is. She’s in the psych ward at Mass General.” Meredith shrugged in reply to Claire’s perturbed glare. “Temporary insanity is an illness. At least, that’s the position her attorney is taking.”
“You must be temporarily insane to think that I could be a chaperone.”
“You don’t want to do this?”
“No, I don’t want to do this.”
“Then let me lend you the money for the trip.”
“No, I couldn’t accept it.” The night before she’d tried to estimate how much it would cost to go to Venice; once she’d added up airfare, hotel, food, and incidentals, it had been well over three thousand dollars. Even at tony prep schools like Forsythe, assistant deans weren’t highly paid. The money Meredith was speaking of was probably everything she’d managed to save. “I don’t know when I could pay it back,” Claire continued. “What if I’m never able to pay it back? It would ruin our friendship. And that would be much worse than not going to Venice.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that I’m worried about you. You’ve hardly left your house in two years. Except for the nights we’ve gone out together, which I can count on one hand, I don’t think I’ve seen you dressed in anything other than sweats and those ridiculous flannel pajamas.”
“You think my pajamas are ridiculous?”
“When you wear them for days at a time, yes.”
The Rossetti Letter (v5) Page 5