As they drew apart, Alessandra saw that he was already aroused, something that was not lost on the courtesan, who reached down to stroke what Alessandra could see was much larger than her hand. Then La Celestia sank to her knees in front of her lover.
What could she be doing? Alessandra wondered. For a second she thought that La Celestia glanced at the voyeur’s chamber with a brief, mischievous smile just before she took Gabriele’s penis in her mouth. Alessandra’s jaw dropped in amazement. She had never done that with Lorenzo; she hadn’t even known it was something that lovers did. But La Celestia’s actions didn’t seem to surprise Gabriele at all, and it was clear that he was enjoying it. He rested his hands gently on La Celestia’s head as she caressed him with her lips, tongue, and hands, and his head fell back with what appeared to be intense pleasure.
La Celestia raised her eyes to his and stood up. Gabriele ran his hands over her body, then brought his mouth to her breasts, suckling each one in turn. After a moment, he knelt down, too, and for the second time Alessandra looked on with astonishment as he buried his face between her legs.
The effect on La Celestia was immediate and even more remarkable than the effect she’d had on him. She moaned with delight, her hands briefly on his head before they restlessly moved over her own body, fondling her breasts and her lips, the touch of her own fingers adding to her gratification. Gabriele clutched her hips and pressed his mouth more firmly into the tender spot he’d found. La Celestia moaned again, louder this time, her legs trembling. Then her lover, without forsaking his post, braced her back with one hand and placed the other on her buttocks, and lay her down before him, continuing to bite and lick her with the most spectacular results. The courtesan writhed on the floor, her legs bent, her back arched, her hands on Gabriele’s head as if to more closely embrace him in this extraordinary kiss. Shocking sounds issued from her lips. If Alessandra had not been a witness to the scene before her, she would have thought that La Celestia was in tremendous pain, with piteous cries that were rising to a crescendo. At last, with a long and terrible moan, the courtesan sat up and, pressing her lover’s face to her most sensitive part, rocked back and forth as if being shaken by an unseen force, then collapsed back upon the rug.
Never with Lorenzo had Alessandra ever experienced anything like that, certainly; La Celestia’s satisfaction was almost frightening in its intensity and yet undeniably compelling. It had affected Alessandra more deeply than she could have imagined: the flush she felt in her face, her fractured breathing, the spreading warmth at her very core all testified to it.
The lovers sat back, La Celestia leaning against her hands, her lover on his haunches, smiling contentedly at each other. So Gabriele had liked what he’d done; but was this it? Alessandra wondered. Then Gabriele stood up and walked to La Celestia’s side, leaned over, and took her up in his arms. No, of course there was more, Alessandra realized as he carried La Celestia to the bed and placed her on the edge, facing him. The bed was of a height for them to be perfectly positioned as he stood before her. He gripped her ankles and raised her feet in the air as she sank back, stretching her arms out. She rested her ankles upon his shoulders, gazing up at her lover with a look of unashamed delight. Gabriele grabbed her hips and pulled her closer, and the passionate struggle began.
The lesson went on for more than an hour. Alessandra would not have imagined, before this, that the act of love had so much variety. For the first time since entering into her agreement with La Celestia, she looked forward to her new vocation with something that felt like anticipation.
The Lovers
7 June 1617
ALESSANDRA PEEKED OUT from behind the door of the camera d’oro to the portego, where La Celestia’s guests were seated around an immense banquet table, finishing the last course of the feast she had provided. All of the guests were men, all of them were considerably older than she, all of them were wealthy and influential. Two wore the scarlet togas that signified their membership in the Senate, one was a vestment-clad prelate, the others were dressed in the best aristocratic fashion, with somber-hued garments made of the finest fabrics money could buy. None was conspicuously handsome, but none, she noted with relief, was markedly hideous, either.
Alessandra stepped back as La Celestia entered, closing the door behind her. “Are you ready?” she asked.
“I suppose so.”
“You don’t sound very enthusiastic.”
“I’m of two minds,” Alessandra admitted. “One part of me can’t believe that I let you talk me into doing this. The other part knows that you’re right—it’s the best way.”
“Of course I’m right. First impressions cannot be erased. To be revered and respected, you must be thought special—and after tonight, you’ll be considered extraordinary. People will talk about this, mark my words.”
“At the moment, I’d prefer to be standing in a window.”
“Don’t worry, you’re going to enchant them.” La Celestia led her to a table, at the center of the room, on which sat an enormous silver platter with a domed lid. “Alvise,” she called, and a sturdy male servant came forward. He clapped; three others were soon at his side, and together they lifted the cover off the platter. Inside was a huge, gold-leafed papier-mâché seashell, large enough for Alessandra to lie down in.
“Hand me your robe and Alvise will help you up,” La Celestia said.
Alessandra was glad it was night and the room not too brightly lit. Underneath her robe, she was practically naked, though not in the least unadorned. Her neck, wrists, and ankles were wrapped with pearls; slender gold and silver ribbons were interwoven in her hair, which fell in waves around her shoulders and down to the middle of her back. A sheer tunic hung to midthigh, though it did little to conceal the parts of her body it covered—as she looked down she could clearly see her nipples, which had been carefully painted gold, and the triangle of gold fabric that hid her sex. For the crowning touch her skin had been coated with a combination of gold dust and sugar, and she gleamed and sparkled as if she were made not of flesh, but of gold.
“You look ravishing,” La Celestia said, arranging Alessandra’s hair around her shoulders as she settled into the shell. “Perfect, in fact, like Venus just risen from the sea. Now don’t forget to smile, just a little. You want to seem inaccessible but not too inaccessible, understand?” She nodded to Alvise, and the servants placed the cover over Alessandra, shutting her inside what felt like a giant silver egg.
The seashell was created for dramatic appearance, not for comfort, Alessandra realized as the four bearers picked up the platter and carried it into the portego. Thank goodness she wouldn’t be in it for very long; it took only a few moments to reach the banquet table. From inside the enclosed salver, she could hear the chatter of La Celestia’s male guests, then the courtesan’s voice ringing out over them.
“Gentlemen—now, for the reason you have all joined me here tonight…”
The chattering stopped. Alessandra’s heart was beating so loudly it seemed to echo inside the dome. She was going to stand up naked in front of a room full of men. It was the most shameful thing she had ever done. “You mustn’t think that,” La Celestia had said when Alessandra confessed her reservations about this debut. “You have no reason to feel ashamed, or to be embarrassed. You will be one of the most beautiful women these men have ever seen. There is great power in that, and you must not forget it. Until you become rich, the power of your beauty is the only power you have. If you use it well, you can live life in whichever way you see fit. If you do not use it, you will be at the mercy of fate.”
Alessandra felt a slight jolt as the bearers set the platter down at one end of the banquet table and then, as they’d rehearsed, waited until La Celestia spoke.
“Gentlemen, may I present”—the four bearers slowly lifted the lid—“La Sirena!” La Celestia finished with a flourish as they removed the cover.
At first, there was a profound silence that seemed to Alessandra to go on endless
ly. She looked down the table at the two rows of men who stared back at her, apparently not entirely comprehending what they were seeing. She glanced at La Celestia, who prompted Alvise to go to her. Alessandra took his offered hand and stood up. As she did, the august assembly seemed to realize that she was a living, breathing woman—and gave a collective gasp of surprise, then burst into applause.
“So, did you get a good look at any of them?” La Celestia asked.
“No, I was too nervous,” Alessandra replied. They had returned to the camera d’oro; outside, a trio of musicians played while the men talked in small groups scattered around the portego. “So many faces—it was all a blur.”
“I’m happy to say that the reverse isn’t true.” La Celestia regarded Alessandra with pride. “I don’t think any of them will ever forget seeing you rise up out of that shell. It was brilliant. They were struck dumb, which is astonishing. Not one of those men ever shuts up voluntarily. You were a resounding success. They’re lining up for you; truly, you have your pick.” She motioned Alessandra to the door and peered out. “So, which one strikes your fancy?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“Choose three, then, and I’ll help you decide who should be your first lover.”
“Three, is it?” Alessandra studied the men along with La Celestia. “To begin with—not the bishop.”
“I understand your disinclination, but eventually you’ll want a high-ranking man of the church as one of your lovers. Every courtesan, at some point, needs protection from those who would cast doubt on her moral character.”
“Ahh. I see.”
“In the meantime, may I suggest Dario Contarini, in the senator’s toga, and Sebastian Valier, over there by my portrait. Both are of excellent families, rich, and generous, both in and out of the bedroom. As for the third…what think you of that man standing with the bishop?”
“The dark-haired one?”
“Yes. An interesting man. I suspect he is wealthier than he lets on. Quite unusual in Venice, where everyone claims to have more than they’ve got. And he is very ambitious—rumor is, he’ll be a duke before long. I remarked on his face when he looked at you. I know desire when I see it, and I would say that he had a serious case.”
Alessandra looked at him more carefully, noting his muscular jaw, powerful neck, sensual mouth. His eyes were his best feature: they regarded everything with an amused irony and a certain dispassion, and it seemed that there was little that escaped his attention. He exuded power and authority, and she suspected that he could charm or threaten with equal success. “There is something about him…”
“Yes, I agree. He is attractive, is he not?”
“Yes.”
“Come on, then, I’ll introduce you.”
Alessandra, wrapped in her robe once more, followed La Celestia across the portego. The bishop and his interlocutor turned as they approached. “La Sirena”—La Celestia gently offered Alessandra’s hand to her intended—“may I present Alphonso de la Cueva, the marquis of Bedmar and the Spanish ambassador to Venice.”
Chapter Five
“TURN LEFT ON Hollis,” Claire said to the airport shuttle driver. From her perch in the front-passenger seat, she watched Harriot’s sunlit, tree-lined streets pass by the windows and brooded a little. What in the world was she going to talk about with a fourteen-year-old? She couldn’t discuss Gwendolyn’s parents, obviously. The poor kid. Claire envisioned a sad-eyed, waiflike girl. How had Edward Fry described his daughter? Sweet and kind of shy, he’d said.
The shuttle stopped in front of the Forsythe dormitory known as Chesterfield House. Assuming that she would be meeting Gwen inside, Claire barely glanced at a girl sitting on a short stone wall facing the street. With a second look and growing dismay, she saw a suitcase on the ground beneath the girl’s dangling feet, a bulky backpack beside her on the wall, and knew that she could be none other than Gwendolyn Fry.
Perfectly normal? She wished Meredith were there to explain precisely what she’d meant by that. Claire hadn’t been around Forsythe students much, but she was pretty certain there weren’t any others who looked like this. The girl’s waist-length hair was dyed a color that didn’t occur in nature, burgundy with a purple cast to it, which covered a much prettier, light coppery red revealed by the roots at her scalp. Her green eyes were rimmed by so much liner and mascara she resembled a silent film star or a raccoon. She had a full but narrow mouth that Claire knew at once had an unfortunate tendency to hang open. A small silver ring pierced her left eyebrow and a matching hoop studded her navel, which was clearly visible above the pair of tight, bell-bottom jeans she wore. Her blouse—a diaphanous, pink and red paisley chiffon thing—gathered under her breasts and then was split right down the front, revealing her entire midriff.
The outfit was much too sexy for a fourteen-year-old; at least it appeared as if it were intended to be sexy. On Gwendolyn Fry it simply looked awkward, as if she were wearing someone else’s clothes. First of all, they were too small for her. Waiflike she was not; the blouse plunged past deeper cleavage than Claire would ever see on her own chest.
“Are you Gwen?”
“Yes.” Her eyes revealed a different response: Duh. Who else would be sitting out here?
“Hi, I’m Claire.”
“Oh.”
No “hello,” no “nice to meet you.” Clearly the girl had no manners, but Claire was already, within seconds of meeting Gwendolyn Fry, thoroughly unsurprised by this.
“Where’s Mrs. Randolph?” Claire asked. The dormitory housemother was supposed to meet her with the final paper to sign, one stating that she would be Gwen’s legal guardian for the next week.
An almost imperceptible movement of the head. “Inside.” Gwen slid down from the stone wall and grabbed the waistband of her jeans with both hands and hitched them up, an automatic reflex that appeared to be a requisite part of wearing such low-cut pants. She was taller than Claire by an inch or two, which Claire felt was unfair somehow. It put her at a disadvantage. She’d been expecting a girl—no, if she were honest, she’d been expecting a child—and instead got one of those fourteen-going-on-twenty types. That Gwendolyn Fry seemed graceless, awkward, and (in spite of her risqué apparel) wholly unsophisticated did not in the least mitigate Claire’s negative first impression. Although it wasn’t very nice to dislike someone so much younger than herself, was it? It wasn’t very nice at all, she grudgingly admitted, at the same time acknowledging that there didn’t seem to be anything she could do about how she felt.
Claire knocked on the front door of the dormitory and turned to glance back at the girl. She’d been under the impression that Gwen had wanted to go to Europe to be with her dad and new stepmother, but now she wasn’t so sure. The teenager didn’t look like someone who was excited to be going on a trans-Atlantic trip, she looked like a kid who was being trundled off to a distant relative’s house because things were bad at home. Which was, Claire reflected, not far from the truth. For a moment she felt something like sympathy, and thought about the strange event that had precipitated their meeting: Why had Gwen’s mother shot her father? Why in the foot? On the Back Bay Golf Course? On the eleventh hole?
Claire felt a sudden, nagging sense of dread. It settled in her stomach, where she feared it would remain until the moment she handed the kid back to her father.
The seat belt light came on with a muffled, bell-like chime and the airplane’s engines throbbed. Claire looked out the window, where the long, slanted shadows of early evening stretched across the tarmac. Inside the cabin, the passengers were seated, and flight attendants cruised the aisles, checking seat belts and overhead bins in preparation for takeoff.
“I wasn’t going to steal it,” Gwen said for the fifth time.
“You were about to leave the store,” Claire replied, also for the fifth time.
“I was going to pay for it.”
They’d been browsing at an airport boutique when Claire had seen Gwen slip a pair of silver earrin
gs into her backpack. “The next time you’re in a store,” Claire offered, “I suggest that you hold your items in your hands or place them on the counter until you’ve finished shopping.” Her voice sounded even more school-marmish than she had intended. She sighed and tried to lose the judgmental tone; it seemed to inflate Gwen’s sense of being wronged and misunderstood. “If only to stop having this conversation,” Claire continued, “I will accept that you had simply forgotten the jewelry was in your backpack. But if I had let you walk out that door, you would have been apprehended, and we would have missed the flight, and I couldn’t allow that to happen. So can we just drop this now?”
Gwen didn’t answer, but she was pouting so powerfully it charged the atmosphere around them. This was a good example of why she preferred to be alone, Claire thought; other people’s emotions could be so disturbing.
She turned in her seat and peered through the open curtains to coach. The plane was about half full. She and Gwen sat in business class, Claire in the right-side window seat, Gwen on the aisle, a luxuriously short row of two spacious, black leather seats that opened up like Barcaloungers, with small footrests at the bottom. It was clear that Edward Fry was not a parsimonious man. Two business-class seats to Italy purchased a week before the departure date? It must have cost a small fortune.
A female flight attendant stopped and leaned over to speak to Gwen. “All electronics need to be turned off and stowed away until after takeoff,” she said with a smile that included Claire, and a look in her eyes that discreetly assumed and conferred mother/stepmother/aunt status on her. That Claire was technically old enough to be any one of those just made it more objectionable. Gwen switched off her iPod and reached under the seat for her backpack, then sorted through the contents of her pack with the resolve of someone who knew this would be her only salvation from boredom for the next eight hours.
The Rossetti Letter (v5) Page 7