The Rossetti Letter (v5)

by Phillips, Christi

  She skimmed a report detailing recent appointments to the Great Council, and one about the Doge’s failing health and the most likely candidates for his successor, then read Bedmar’s portrayals of other diplomats in Venice. He went on at length about the English ambassador (“Sir Henry Wotton is at heart a heretic who hopes to persuade Venice to adopt his impious beliefs and has at his embassy both books and men to support him in this aim”). There were tidbits about Venetian customs, with an emphasis on recent crimes and the punishments meted out by the state, and some rather more tedious accounts of the management of the Spanish embassy and its expenses. Following that were a few reports of events he had attended, detailing social customs and conversations he’d had with people he’d met. Exhaustive, almost, but no mention of Ossuna anywhere. Claire began skimming faster, pausing only when her eye was caught by a familiar name.

  “…a midnight party and a sumptuous feast, again at Ca’ Aragona.” Ca’ Aragona—where had she seen that before? In Fazzini, she remembered, in his anecdote about the courtesan La Celestia. So Bedmar was an intimate of this courtesan. She checked the date of Bedmar’s report: June 10, 1617, and made a note to look up the date in the account by Fazzini about the debut of the new cortigiana onestà. What if they were writing about the same event? Claire’s mind whirled. Lorenzo Liberti had died in the spring of 1617, and Alessandra had become a courtesan soon after. Could it be possible that she was the courtesan whose debut was made that night? That she was La Sirena? If she was, and if Claire could place Bedmar in the same place at the same time as Alessandra, it would help make her case for her version of the Spanish Conspiracy.

  Claire almost laughed out loud. Numerous historians before her had tried to establish a relationship between Alessandra Rossetti and the Spanish ambassador, without success. If it was that easy, she reasoned, surely it would have been done already. She leaned back in her chair and massaged her temples as footsteps sounded at the other end of the reading room. They stopped in front of the librarian’s desk and a familiar voice began speaking.

  Andrew Kent’s English accent was evident even when he spoke Italian. His voice was very deep, Claire realized. She wouldn’t have thought, looking at him, that he had such a low-pitched voice. But even from across the room, even when he was talking softly, she could feel it resonate in her solar plexus, in the same spot where she would feel the vibrations of a bass drum.

  With a sideways glance, Claire looked over at the library counter as Andrew Kent picked up his books, then walked to an empty table near the center of the room. He sat down, took a pair of glasses from his shirt pocket, opened Alessandra’s other diary, and started reading, without any additional preparation. He didn’t have any reference books with him; apparently he didn’t need an Italian dictionary.

  She sensed that he wasn’t going to give up that diary too easily, in spite of Francesca’s belief in the efficacy of feminine persuasion. Honestly, though, he didn’t look as if he was all that receptive to feminine persuasion. Of course, he seemed to like Gabriella, but what man wouldn’t? She was beautiful, intelligent, successful, and if last night was any indication, she flattered him almost incessantly. From his point of view, that would be pretty hard to dislike, Claire admitted. That Gabriella was also self-absorbed and vain was no doubt a minor issue, considering the whole package. Men would forgive a lot worse in a woman who was so beautiful. The real question was, what did Gabriella see in Andrew Kent?

  Claire was in a good position to study the professor without being observed, and he seemed too engrossed in his work to notice much of anything, anyway. His hair was a little too unkempt to be considered stylish. His glasses sat askew on his face, courtesy of a broken earpiece that was precariously stuck back on with a thick wrapping of Scotch tape. He was wearing that unfortunate blue shirt/brown pants combo again. Granted, Claire was focusing on the least attractive things about him, but it was pretty evident that Andrew Kent was not exactly a romantic fantasy man. Why was Gabriella acting like she’d just caught the biggest trout in the stream?

  Maybe he was obscenely rich. Maybe he was a titled aristocrat, like Gabriella—maybe Andrew Kent was really Sir Andrew or Lord Muckety-Muck, with a big country estate and an entire village of domestic servants. That would appeal to a countess, wouldn’t it?

  Claire looked at Alessandra’s diary, filled with page after page of four-hundred-year-old Italian script, which would take more time to translate than she had left in Venice. The task before her suddenly seemed overwhelming. She couldn’t concentrate anymore, not with Andrew Kent in the room. Perhaps it was time to go out and do some of the things she’d thought about that morning: she decided on a gelato and a boat ride along the Grand Canal. Better to forget about her adversary for a while. Hadn’t she made up her mind to avoid him, anyway? Except that she needed to find out about his book, and find a way to persuade him to give up that diary. She wondered what Francesca would do.

  Probably not this, she thought, as she walked to the library counter by the least conspicuous route, left her books with an assistant, and escaped from the Marciana before Andrew Kent could realize she was there.

  Womanly wiles. Good lord.

  Chapter Sixteen

  AS THE FINAL bars of the first act of La Traviata swelled and filled the theater, Claire decided that listening to Verdi in La Fenice was about as close to a vision of heaven as she’d ever been able to conjure up.

  She and Gwen occupied a box, or pepiano, in the fourth tier of the round, five-tiered gallery, and the view of the stage and the theater was dazzling. With its ornate rows of gilded tiers, its celestial blue domed ceiling, its numerous crystal sconces and sparkling chandelier, it was rather like being inside a jeweled Fabergé egg.

  What appeared to Claire as astonishing excess, a venue designed to host women in rustling silk and men in powdered wigs, was in fact a theater meant to embody republican values and symbolize the Enlightenment. Completed in 1792, the 175 boxes of the theater originally known as La Fantine were deliberately egalitarian in design; this lasted until 1807, when an impending visit from Emperor Napoleon had prompted the destruction of six of the pepiani to make way for the Imperial Box, which still faced the stage from its commanding position on the second tier. La Fantine had twice risen from the ashes, the first time in 1836, when its reconstruction had inspired its present cognomen, The Phoenix. In 1996, La Fenice had been gutted by fire once again, but years of renovation had resulted in a spectacular restoration.

  Claire would have been content to remain in her seat during intermission, but as the houselights came up, Gwen complained of a severe thirst that could only be slaked by a trip to the lobby and the purchase of a soda that would probably cost ten times its usual price. They left the pepiano and joined the rest of the audience, who unhurriedly made their way to the Sala de Appollonia. As they slipped into the line at the refreshment counter, Claire spotted Andrew Kent at the opposite end of the room. He stood with Gabriella Griseri and a few people Claire recognized from the conference. To her enormous surprise, Andrew caught her eye, then briefly whispered something in Gabriella’s ear and began making his way through the crowded lobby toward her.

  “And I was having such a perfectly nice evening,” Claire grumbled. “Come on, we’re going back.”

  “What are you doing?” Gwen protested as Claire steered her out of the line.

  “Avoiding Andrew Kent.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s one of my few pleasures in life.”

  “But you’re not supposed to be hiding. You’re supposed to be in the lobby.”

  “There’s no rule that says you have to go to the lobby during intermission.”

  “But I want a soda. I’m really, really thirsty.”

  “We passed a water fountain in the hallway just a moment ago.” They hurried through the lobby’s red-velvet-draped door and ran into Hoddy Humphries-Todd.

  “Hello,” he said pleasantly. “Going back to your seats so soon?”

&nb
sp; “We’re hiding from the English guy,” Gwen said glumly.

  “I do hope you don’t mean me.”

  “Oh, no,” Gwen said. “The other one.”

  “You’re hiding from Andy?”

  “Not hiding, exactly, just avoiding,” Claire said.

  “I’m sure there’s a difference, but in case there isn’t, why don’t you both stand behind this curtain and I’ll keep a lookout,” Hoddy said. He craned his neck and peered into the lobby. “He’s heading this way…now he’s stopping…looking around…appears confused. Ahhh…excellent. That git Nigel Carothers just started chatting him up. Fat chance Andy will get out of that in less than twenty minutes. He still looks bewildered, but I think he’s given up the chase. You’re safe, at least for the moment.”

  “Can I please go get a soda?” Gwen asked.

  “Okay, but don’t talk to him, all right?”

  “Why would I talk to him?”

  “Just don’t.”

  “And don’t talk to that Nigel, either,” Hoddy called after her retreating back. He shrugged at Claire. “It’s a bit of advice I feel honor bound to offer: never have anything to do with men named Nigel. They’re always trouble.” He paused. “Are you going to keep me in breathless suspense, or are you going to tell me why you were trying to lose the old boy?”

  “It’s hard to explain. We just don’t hit it off.”

  “You wouldn’t be the first.”

  “Do you know him well?”

  “We were at Cambridge together. Still are, actually. I’ve always found him a nice enough fellow. A bit stuffy, is all. Honestly, I don’t know why some people take an immediate dislike to him.”

  “Because it saves time?” Claire offered.

  A grin stole over Hoddy’s face. “I think I’m going to like you. Even though I didn’t see you at my lecture today, which may be unforgivable.”

  “I spent most of the day in the Marciana. But then,” she admitted, “I played hooky in the afternoon.”

  “Hooky? Is that some sort of game?”

  “No, it’s slang for skipping school. Instead of working, I went for a vaporetto ride on the Grand Canal, then found an empty table on the Riva and simply looked at the lagoon—”

  “For hours,” Hoddy finished the sentence with her. “It’s remarkable, isn’t it? Sort of hypnotic, the way the water shimmers and changes colors with the changing light. Don’t feel guilty. The sudden lack of desire to place nose to grindstone is a common problem here. Researching my thesis took twice as long as I’d planned,” he admitted. “By the end of two years in Venice, I was in a very bad state with my supervisor, quite dissolute, and exceedingly happy.”

  “Except that I have only a few more days left,” said Claire. “I really can’t afford to waste time.” She turned to peek out the doorway. Andrew Kent was still talking to Nigel, and Gwen had moved to the middle of the refreshment line. Oddly, though, she was facing away from the counter and looking around the room expectantly.

  “Last night, you asked me about courtesans,” Hoddy said. “La Celestia and…what was the name of the other one?”

  “La Sirena.”

  “Perhaps it was La Sirena…,” Hoddy mused. “I woke up this morning thinking about something I’d read in Fazzini, a terrible story about a courtesan who was murdered. I think it might have been one of the courtesans you mentioned.”

  “Which one?”

  “I can’t remember. I read this years ago. I only recall that it was a brutal murder, and the murderer was never found.”

  “When did this happen? Do you remember the year?”

  “It was around the time of the Spanish Conspiracy, or just after.”

  “But I just read the volume of Fazzini’s diary that covers those years. There was no mention of a murder.” Claire thought back to her first day at the Marciana, when she had skimmed through the book page by page. “I don’t see how I could have missed it.”

  “I’m not at all surprised you overlooked it. I recall that it was a huge tome. Fazzini was an obsessive diarist who recorded absolutely everything, including what he ate for breakfast every day.”

  “No, in fact it was a very small volume.” Claire paused as the light dawned. “Did you read Fazzini in English or in Italian?”

  “Italian.”

  “The English version must be abridged, then.” With growing excitement, Claire wondered how many other extraordinary bits of information had been left out of the books she’d read. What if Fazzini mentioned who had attended the courtesan’s debut that night? Or La Sirena’s real name? She’d ask Francesca for the Italian edition tomorrow. Maybe there was hope for her dissertation after all, in spite of Andrew Kent’s greater authority and head start. “Do you know much about the book Andrew Kent is writing?” Claire asked.

  “On the Spanish Conspiracy? Obviously there’s some publisher interest already. Not surprising, since his last did so well.”

  “But do you know if it’s finished?”

  “I don’t know for certain, but I should think he’d be close to finishing it, otherwise why reveal his findings in these lectures?”

  “That’s what I thought,” said Claire, disheartened.

  “No doubt it will lead to another round of awards and accolades for Andy. Not that I’m jealous, mind you. It’s good to see him so happy and productive.”

  “This is what he’s like when he’s happy?”

  “I guess I should say ‘happier.’ He’s had a difficult few years.”

  Claire recognized gossip when she heard it. She wrestled with her conscience for a moment and lost, something she decided she could feel bad about some other time. “Difficult?” she prompted.

  “Andy’s a widower. His wife died two years ago.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Claire, chagrined. “I had no idea.”

  “No need to be sorry. I don’t recall that anyone liked her very much. ’Cept Andy, I suppose, and I think even he was rather lukewarm toward the end.”

  It was impossible to tell if Hoddy was serious or not. “What was she like?” Claire ventured.

  “She was an archeologist, an expert on Mesopotamian cave dwellings. Brilliant by any standards, but she had an unfortunate, droning sort of voice. That combined with an extensive knowledge of igneous rock formations made her one of the most horrific bores this side of Babylon. Bloody awful at parties—she used to simply stun people into a coma. Once, while she was lecturing, she put an entire class to sleep.”

  “How did she die?”

  “A tragic accident. She was thrown by her horse.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “Yes, it was. They had to shoot the horse.” Hoddy clucked and shook his head. “Seems you can’t let a good horse live, not even a champion, if the damn animal kills somebody.”

  “How long has he been dating Gabriella Griseri?”

  “About four months, I believe.”

  “They seem a rather odd couple.”

  “Not when you look beyond the surface. After that series based on Andy’s book, he’s the current darling at the BBC. They think he’s going to be the next Jonathan Miller—popular history for the masses and all that.”

  “What’s that got to do with Gabriella?”

  “It seems that RAI just pulled the plug on her show. Apparently Italians are as wild for reality shows as Americans, and the highbrow programs are being sacked more viciously than the Goths sacked Rome. After all, who wants to listen to Luciano Pavarotti discuss opera when you can watch a group of attractive young people eat worms? The rumor is that she’s looking for new opportunities and is quite prepared to leave Italy and take her lovely self north to be adored by the British viewing audience.”

  “That explains it, then.”

  “It also occurred to me that she just might be in love with him.”

  “Really?”

  “Just because you don’t fancy him doesn’t mean that no one would. I know any number of students, past and present, who’ve had seriou
s crushes on our poor Andy. And I can’t help but notice that you seem to be awfully interested for someone who saved herself so much time by disliking him right away.”

  “It’s not for the reason you think.”

  “I don’t expect this affair with Gabriella to last, however.”

  “Why not?”

  “Andy has a son. He’s young, eight or nine, I believe, and a real terror. Somehow I can’t imagine Gabriella playing stepmummy.”

  A bell chimed and the houselights dimmed briefly. Gwen rejoined them as everyone began returning to their seats for the second act.

  “Do you ever get up to Cambridge?” Hoddy asked as they walked along the corridor.

  Claire shook her head. “I’ve never been.”

  “That’s too bad. You really should come visit us sometime. It’s a lovely town. And there’s terrific shooting in the countryside.” Claire and Gwen looked at Hoddy quizzically. “Oh, that’s right,” he corrected himself. “In America, you call it hunting. You don’t have ‘shooting’ in America, do you?”

  “Sure we do,” Gwen replied. “In America, people shoot each other all the time.”

  “Look!” Gwen exclaimed as they walked down the steps of La Fenice after the performance. “It’s Stefania and Giancarlo.” The brother and sister were standing near a fountain in the middle of the square adjacent to the opera house. Gwen waved to get their attention.

  “Good evening,” Giancarlo said as the four of them met halfway. “May I talk to you for a minute?” he asked Claire, with a meaningful glance at the two girls. They moved a few feet away for more privacy as the two teenagers watched them with eager interest.

  “About last night…,” he began. “I would like the chance to explain. Will you join me for dinner tomorrow?”

  The Chariot