The Rossetti Letter (v5)

by Phillips, Christi

  The church bell rang again, and Claire was reminded of the time. “I’m sorry, I’ve got to be going.”

  “Are you on your way to Ca’ Rezzonico?”

  “Ca’ Rezzonico?” she repeated.

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  “I thought because of your…the way you’re…the red…I mean to say, there’s a program of chamber music there tonight. Not quite as majestic as La Fenice, but impressive nonetheless.”

  “No, I’m going out to dinner.”

  “Oh. I see.” His brow furrowed. “With Giancarlo Baldessari?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of course.” His mouth resolved into a little smirk, and it annoyed her. Why was her dating life any business of Andrew Kent’s? Was he smirking because he thought she was too old for Giancarlo? Because he didn’t like Giancarlo? Because he didn’t like her?

  “I really must go,” said Claire, backing away. “Good night.”

  “Did you notice anything odd about the Rossetti Letter?” Andrew asked suddenly.

  Claire stopped. She was going to be late, but curiosity compelled her to retrace her steps. “You know what it is, don’t you?”

  “The letter is dated March, but in it she writes that she knew about the conspiracy much earlier, in January. That thing about the letters between Ossuna and Bedmar. That’s a two-month discrepancy.”

  “I knew there was something strange about it. I should have caught that.”

  “If she suspected something in January, why did she wait two months before informing the Great Council? If she was a patriot, as is commonly believed, why didn’t she expose the conspiracy right away?”

  “Maybe she wanted to be sure of the facts before turning them in.”

  “You think that she was spying on the mercenaries.”

  “It’s possible.”

  “No one in their right mind would put themselves at such risk. If they had discovered her spying, they would have killed her.”

  “Perhaps she was willing to take that risk in order to keep Venice free of Spanish tyranny. And for all we know, they did kill her. No one knows what happened to her after the conspiracy ended.”

  “If anyone killed her, there’s no evidence of it. As for risking her life to fight Spanish tyranny, it’s rather unlikely, don’t you think? People are rarely that altruistic.”

  “I agree with you that people don’t usually put their lives in jeopardy for the greater good. But sometimes they do. History is filled with stories of people who stood up for what was right simply because it was right, even if it meant great personal sacrifice.”

  “I can see that you’d like to believe this conspiracy is all about her heroism, but that’s a naive—”

  “What do you think it’s about?”

  “The Venetians were threatened by Ossuna, and they wanted Bedmar out of Venice. The Council of Ten did what was politically expedient.”

  “You think the letter is manufactured evidence.”

  “I’d say it’s the seventeenth-century equivalent of planting drugs in the glove box.”

  “And Alessandra was just a pawn in a plot hatched by the Ten?”

  “The letter is proof of it.”

  “And how do you jump to that conclusion?”

  “Girolamo Silvia was embroiled in a political battle with Dario Contarini, his hated rival. Contarini was one of Alessandra Rossetti’s lovers. By choosing Alessandra Rossetti to write that letter, Silvia killed a number of birds with one stone. Not only does he slander Bedmar and Ossuna, but Contarini is tainted as well, by the implication that his mistress is involved with the conspirators. Contarini’s political fortunes fell dramatically after this episode. He was dismissed from the Signory, and lost all chance of ever becoming Doge.”

  “I still don’t understand how the letter can be proof of all that.”

  “Because the only possible explanation for this letter is that Silvia used Alessandra Rossetti for his own ends, to slander Bedmar and to taint Contarini’s reputation by association. Otherwise, why have her write the letter? There’s no evidence linking Alessandra to any of the conspirators.”

  “Perhaps all the evidence has been destroyed. You know, the other possible explanation is that the letter is exactly what it seems, a warning from a concerned citizen about a possible attack on Venice.”

  “And how in the world did she learn of it? Divine inspiration?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s entirely possible that she saw or heard something. She wasn’t sequestered, after all. She had eyes and ears and a brain. I really do take umbrage—”

  “Take umbrage?”

  “To assume a feeling of pique or resentment.”

  “I know what it means. It’s just that one seldom hears anyone say that anymore.”

  “One seldom hears anyone refer to themselves as ‘one’ anymore.”

  “I wasn’t specifically referring to myself,” said Andrew huffily, “I was using the indefinite singular pronoun, as is grammatically correct.”

  “As I was saying,” Claire continued, “I take umbrage with your assumption that she had no will of her own and that she could not have brought down the conspiracy by her own actions. Why is that so difficult to believe?”

  “I don’t believe that there was a Spanish conspiracy in the first place, so it’s not possible for her to—”

  “You don’t believe there was a Spanish conspiracy because you’re married to this belief that all of her actions were directed and controlled by men—”

  “I’m not married to any—for god’s sake, we’re talking about four hundred years ago, when women’s lives were remarkably different from what they are now. You can’t take today’s beliefs and feminist principles and wantonly apply—”

  “Wantonly? I’m not wantonly doing any—”

  “Wantonly apply them”—Andrew’s voice rose to match Claire’s—“just because you wish it so. The worst mistake a historian can make is to take modern assumptions and retroactively apply them to the past.”

  “But what you’re doing is equally wrong. You’re blindly following a tradition that says because women didn’t leave behind voluminous records of their thoughts and deeds, then they didn’t have any thoughts and deeds—they were just standing on the sidelines while history was made by men. Just because a woman didn’t have a vote doesn’t mean that she didn’t have an informed opinion. It doesn’t mean she was incapable of thinking or acting.”

  “I never said anything like that. You’re twisting my meaning in a completely idiotic manner.”

  “So now you’re calling me an idiot?”

  “I was not, I was only saying—”

  “That you think I’m an idiot.”

  “No, that is not what I think. I think you’re the most argumentative, obstinate, infuriating, exciting, and fascinating woman I’ve ever met.”

  His words seemed to hang in the still air for a moment, a moment of abrupt and embarrassed silence. What a strange thing for Andrew Kent to say. There’d been nothing premeditated about it; it had come out in a rush, as if he’d been thinking aloud. They stared at each other, both at a loss for words. The fading light made a thin, golden halo at the edge of his hair. His eyes were a soft, deep, velvety brown, she noticed, and had lost their usual judgmental glare; instead, he looked abashed with the realization of what he’d just said and his obvious wish that he hadn’t just said it. Andrew took a breath, as if he were about to speak again, and then the church bell began chiming the hour.

  “I have to go,” Claire said, not waiting for Andrew’s good-bye before hurrying off down the lane, relieved to be away from him. She was already a few narrow, nameless streets farther on before she realized that if Andrew Kent’s short but impassioned speech had been spoken by anyone else, it would have been very romantic.

  Chapter Nineteen

  CLAIRE AND GIANCARLO dined on the terrace of the Ristorante alle Beccherie, which overlooked a small canal and the ancient palazzo on the opposite sid
e. Tiny white lights entwined within the branches of the terrace’s sheltering tree glimmered on the water’s surface, and reticulated golden reflections shimmered and rippled on the palazzo’s ochre-colored exterior. The restaurant itself, with its arched stone walls and dim pools of light, made her think of a secret cavern, perhaps the hiding place of saints or thieves, and when she had commented on their evocative surroundings, Giancarlo told her that it was formerly the catacombs of a church.

  “Isn’t there a Venetian word for those reflections?” Claire asked.

  “El sbarlusego,” Giancarlo said. “It simply means ‘the shining.’ Or el sbarlusega, for ‘something that shines.’”

  “It’s magical.”

  “I remember lying awake at night when I was a boy, watching the light on the ceiling. Sometimes it was so bright, I couldn’t sleep. The full moon on the Grand Canal can be almost as dazzling as the sun.” Giancarlo speared another forkful of fararona con la Peverada and gave her one of his heart-palpitating smiles; Claire took refuge in a sip of light, crisp Bardolino.

  Arriving late had had its benefits. When she walked into the restaurant, she’d seen Giancarlo checking his watch and looking worried, and it had bolstered her confidence tremendously to know that he would have been sincerely disappointed if she hadn’t shown up. Then he’d spotted her and smiled. With the way he had of seeming to focus on her absolutely, he walked from the bar where he sat and met her at the door, greeting her warmly with a kiss on the cheek and touching her back lightly as they followed the maitre d’ to their table. He’d pulled out her chair, held her hand as she sat down, then ordered a bottle of wine to be brought right away. Claire remembered something Meredith had said, about how Italian men made you feel like a woman, and she’d thought, Okay, I get it now.

  But that feeling had its drawbacks: it made her self-conscious about the whole dateness of the evening, her new dress, her strange sense of anticipation, the unspoken promise of shared intimacies. Suddenly it was all vastly discomforting, like standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon. She felt like a woman, like a woman was supposed to feel with a man—but for the first time in eight years, the man wasn’t Michael. It had been two years since they’d split up, but still she felt odd, as if the feelings Giancarlo inspired were a betrayal of Michael, of her own emotions, or of marriage itself. Which she recognized was stupid, incredibly stupid, but she couldn’t quite shake it off.

  And underneath that was a simple, elemental fear. This is how it all starts, isn’t it? she thought. First, you’re attracted, then you let yourself like someone, you tell them all your secrets, they tell you theirs, you start trusting them, and before you know it, you’re in love, and god help you!

  “I must tell you how sorry I am about the other night,” Giancarlo said.

  “You don’t have to explain.” It would be better if they didn’t get too personal, she decided. Really, why begin anything more than a simple, uncomplicated friendship? She was leaving in two days, anyway.

  “But I want to,” Giancarlo replied. “Natalie and I are not engaged. We were, but we aren’t any longer. The reason I could say nothing is because I haven’t yet told my family. I didn’t want that to be the way I would break it to them. My mother especially is very fond of Natalie.”

  Claire looked into his eyes. Giancarlo appeared about as guileless as it was possible to be. Just because Michael was untrustworthy doesn’t mean that all men are, Claire reminded herself. It’s entirely possible that Giancarlo’s telling the truth. “You still haven’t told them?”

  “I’m working up to it. It isn’t easy. Our families are very close. Natalie hasn’t told her family yet, either.”

  “So what happened? Why did you break up?”

  “We wanted different things. She was ready to settle down, have a family right away, and I’m not so traditional.”

  “You don’t want to have a family?”

  “Someday, yes, but I don’t want to live the same life as my parents and grandparents. Natalie is happy to always be in Venice, always with the families, doing the same things, seeing the same people. Venice is my home, but I don’t want to live here forever. I don’t even want to be always in Italy. Here, my work concerns only the past. Architecture in Venice is all about history, about restoration, about reconstructing buildings that are centuries old. I am much more interested in the future. In modern architecture. I am in love with the New World.”

  “The New World?”

  “Yes, America, and especially New York. That’s the city for me. Everything’s happening twenty-four hours a day; so much excitement, so much nightlife. I’m what we call a night”—he searched for the word—“bird. No, owl. Do you have that expression? A night owl?”

  “Yes.”

  “There isn’t much for me to do here. But New York! Theaters, art galleries, nightclubs. Didn’t you say that you lived there for a few years?”

  “While I was at Columbia. Now I live near Boston.”

  “But New York was wonderful, yes?”

  “I guess. I was so busy with school…and I didn’t have a lot of money, and plays are really expensive…and I lived way uptown, near the university, which is far from the theater district…”

  “So you did not see many plays.”

  “No. Or go to many nightclubs.”

  “But Boston is very exciting, too, yes?”

  “Yes, it is. It’s my hometown, so I probably take it for granted a bit, but it’s got a lot of the same stuff New York has—just not nearly so much of it. But I don’t actually live in Boston, I live in a little town about an hour away.”

  “It’s still America.”

  “I don’t think it’s the America you have in mind. It’s very quiet.”

  “And you like that?”

  “Most of the time.” She glanced around. “Honestly, though, I like this much better. I guess you could say I’m in love with the Old World.”

  They shared a smile at their incompatibility. “Maybe we can teach each other about the things we take for granted,” Giancarlo said.

  “Yes, we could.”

  “So if I come to America, you will let me take you out to plays?”

  “Even nightclubs, if you’re so inclined.”

  “And while you are here?” Giancarlo asked. “What is it that you would show me?”

  “We’re sitting in one of the loveliest spots in all of Venice. All you have to do is look around.”

  The waiter came over and Giancarlo convinced her to share a dessert with him. While he was ordering, she tried to imagine Giancarlo in New York, in Boston, in Harriot; tried to imagine him walking through her front door, standing in her kitchen, sleeping in her bed. It was difficult to picture him shut in on a dreary winter afternoon, or walking through a few feet of snow to the General Store. But there was summer, too, with sailing and hiking, and of course Boston and Providence offered restaurants and nightlife and cultural events. Giancarlo would like that, certainly.

  “And you?” he asked when the waiter had left.

  “Me?”

  “Do you have a boyfriend in this little town where you live?”

  “No.”

  “Really? And you’ve never married?”

  Oh god, here it was, what she’d been dreading. It crossed her mind that she could simply say, “No,” and not have to answer any more questions; but no doubt Giancarlo had heard his mother’s disquisition about the strong possibility of terrorist attacks on never-married, thirty-plus women, and for reasons surpassing her own understanding, she could not allow herself to be lumped in with that group.

  “I’m divorced. We split up two years ago.”

  “I’m sorry. How did it happen?”

  “We just grew apart, I guess. My mom was seriously ill, and I spent a lot of time away from New York taking care of her.”

  “Your father wasn’t there to help?”

  “My dad died when I was still a baby. So it had always been just the two of us, me and my mom. I think Michael
felt I was choosing her over him. I don’t know, maybe that was true, but in a situation like that—she was dying—you don’t think about it in those terms. You just do what you have to do. And so we…grew apart.”

  Giancarlo looked at her sympathetically. Claire was silent for a moment; then inhaled sharply and let her breath out slowly.

  “That’s not exactly true. I mean, the part about my mom is true, but the growing apart part isn’t. The truth is, my…Michael, my husband…he fell in love with someone else.” She laughed softly and shook her head. “I’ve never said that out loud before.” She tried it out once again. “He fell in love with someone else. There it is.”

  “I find that very hard to believe.”

  “It’s true. Although I suppose you could say that we wanted different things. I wanted to stay married, and he wanted to go off to Florence with Renaissance studies Laura.”

  “Renaissance studies Laura?”

  “The day of my mom’s funeral, Michael was there, of course, and after it was all over and everyone had gone home, we were in the kitchen trying to figure out what to do with the three thousand casseroles my mom’s friends had brought over, and he said, real casually, like it was no big deal, ‘You remember Laura? In Renaissance studies?’ and I knew. I just knew.”

  “You knew he was in love with her?”

  “Well, I knew he had slept with her. And then he said, ‘She got a Fulbright to study in Florence and I’m going to go with her.’ Just like that. And by the way, I want a divorce and you can move your stuff out of the apartment while I’m gone. He didn’t say it like that, but that was pretty much the gist of it.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “I didn’t say anything. I punched him in the nose.”

  “You hit him?”

  “Yes.” Claire couldn’t tell if Giancarlo was impressed, appalled, or amused. Perhaps he was a bit of all three.

  “Do you have a history of violence?” He sounded serious, but he was grinning.

  “No! I’d never hit anyone in my life until then.”

  “And since?”