I strolled over to gaze on its enameled face and the charming moonlit scene depicted in the lunette above. As a man who prided himself on his powers of observation, it piqued me that I couldn’t say if it had been chiming the hours that morning or not.
“Is the old girl keeping good time?” asked a wheezy voice.
It was Alphonso, Vincenzo’s valet, creeping along the strip of carpet that bisected the corridor to the east wing. I’d seen him in the halls of the villa but had not yet engaged him in conversation. He was elderly, but spry, with skin like vellum softened for binding and hooded dark eyes.
I consulted my watch. “Ten of one. Yes, we match.”
He nodded appreciatively.
“Who fixed it?” I asked.
“Eh?”
I repeated my question more loudly.
“Oh, I did, Signore. This morning, while the master was busy in the vineyard. Not much to do really. The movement hadn’t been harmed.”
I smiled. “When did you turn from clockmaking to valeting?”
Alphonso cackled at that. “I was footman at twelve and valet at twenty-four. Never been a clockmaker but I did serve one. Andrea Cametti, in town, on the Mercerie. Do you know his shop?”
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
He shook his head. “You’re too young to remember it, of course. Signor Cametti died twenty years back and had no son to carry on.”
“Have you been with Signor Dolfini since then?”
“Si, Signore. And what I don’t know about anchors and ships’ fittings could be written on the head of a pin.” He nodded slowly. “You pick things up, can’t help not to. Anchors and clocks—that’s what I know.”
“Are you in charge of the clock, then? Winding it as well as repairing it?”
His eyes rolled under their bulging lids. “I very well could. This old girl’s a thirty-hour clock. I could wind her up every morning tight as a drum, but Ernesto claims that job by right.”
From my first dinner at the villa, I remembered Octavia’s diatribe on the ritual of the shutters.
“Let me guess,” I said, “Ernesto winds the clock because he’s always wound the clock. Ernesto’s father wound it, and his father before him.”
Alphonso gave a wheezy chuckle and shot me a jab of his elbow. Somehow, he managed to turn that gesture into a very proper bow as he caught sight of Grisella.
She had changed her dress. Her silk morning gown had perhaps been too flimsy for the cooler weather, even if covered by a shawl, but I couldn’t stop myself noticing how the scarlet riding habit she’d exchanged it for showed off her figure to even better advantage. She had also contained her curls in a low, netted chignon. A small velvet tricorne balanced at a fetching angle completed her headgear.
As we descended to the foyer, I noticed one other thing. A purple smudge lined her upper lip. “Here.” I paused at the bottom of the stairs and took out my handkerchief. “There’s something on your lip, let me get it.”
Grisella stood very still while I completed my operation, then turned her attention to drawing on a pair of kidskin gloves. A manufactured sneeze allowed me to turn away and take a good whiff of the purple stain before I returned my handkerchief to its pocket. I knew that smell. How could I ever forget it? When we were still all together in our house on the Campo dei Polli, I had taken many turns at spooning Grisella’s elixir into her unwilling little mouth. I’d always turned up my nose at the peculiar smell, somehow sweet and acrid at the same time.
At least the medicine was doing its job. Grisella’s shoulder had relaxed, and her mouth turned up only when she smiled, which she was doing now, in a languid way. Her mood seemed to have changed completely, the tensions of rehearsal conquered. My sister and I chatted about the coming concert until we had left the house, crossed the porch, and started down the drive. Then her smile took on an air of entreaty.
“So, Tito,” she said. “Are you going to tell me how you found out about Louis Chevrier?”
Chapter Nine
The day was growing fair. The sun had gained enough strength to warm my cheeks, and above us, drifting clouds made an ever-changing backdrop of white on vivid cornflower blue. I paused and leaned on my stick. In the middle of the drive, with the columned façade of the villa rising behind us, I pondered how to respond to Grisella’s question. Alessandro would probably advise caution, but he wasn’t standing in my shoes, facing our little sister with her upturned gaze begging for an answer.
“I’ve had another letter from Alessandro,” I replied. “He’s been doing some digging. A servant who used to work for your Russian count mentioned Chevrier.”
“I see.” Her tone took on a hint of tartness. “Don’t you mean that you and Signor Rumbolt had a letter?”
“Well…” Suddenly on the defensive, I stirred up the gravel of the drive with my stick. “Yes. Gussie is family, and also my closest friend. I would as soon keep anything from him as Annetta or Alessandro. You’ve felt him staring, I take it.”
She nodded. “I’m accustomed to male gazes of a certain type, but your… Gussie… he’s been studying me in quite a different way. Oh, Tito!” Her hand darted out to squeeze my arm. “Is he a good husband to Annetta? Is she happy? Are there children? There is so much I want to know.”
I covered her softly gloved hand with my own. “Gussie is the finest husband and papa I know. He and Annetta have three children. The latest, Isabella, is still a babe in arms. Her birth was rather difficult and laid Annetta low, but she’s rallying. Slowly. At least she has plenty of help at home.”
Grisella’s grasp tightened on my forearm. “Are you speaking of Berta?”
I looked away and found my gaze focusing on the iron gates at the bottom of the drive. My shoulders slumped as though the weight of passing years was accumulating one by one. To me, it seemed like Grisella’s childhood nurse had been gone for ages, but of course, my sister had no way of knowing.
“Berta died the winter after you went away,” I told her gently. “Inflammation of the lungs. She didn’t suffer, if that’s any comfort.”
“I see,” she replied dully. “I shouldn’t be surprised. Berta was quite old, wasn’t she?”
I nodded.
“I did hear about Papa.”
“How?”
“Domenico kept some ties with Venice. He heard the news of Papa’s death from one of his cronies—I don’t know who—and he reported it to me with glee. Domenico never had any use for Papa.” Now it was Grisella’s turn to stare into the middle distance.
I shook my head dolefully as I recalled several very specific ways in which Domenico Viviani had used my father, but I kept my mouth shut. Sometimes old hurts are best not mentioned.
“What about Alessandro?” Grisella continued on a sharper note. “Did he marry or is he still the carefree sailor?”
“Alessandro surprised us all. He found a most unlikely patron, a merchant of status in Constantinople. Yusuf Ali not only took our brother into his business, but also married him to his daughter.”
She dropped my arm, wide-eyed. “Alessandro turned Turk?”
“Yes. It’s taken quite some getting used to, especially for Annetta. She still refuses to speak about it with anyone outside the family.”
“And Alessandro has been living in Constantinople?”
I nodded. “For several years, now.”
A series of emotions flashed across Grisella’s countenance: doubt, puzzlement, regret, and finally annoyance.
I continued, “He used his new family’s circle of acquaintances to find your grave… which in reality is someone else’s grave, I suppose.”
“No, I told you.” She shook her head adamantly. “My grave is empty. It was meant for show only.”
I stepped close and tipped her chin back so I could look directly i
nto her eyes. This was one question that needed an answer. “Then where is the red-haired woman who died in the fire buried?”
She twisted away and began to stride toward the gates. Moving quickly, I went around her and planted myself in her path.
“I truly want to help you, Grisella, but in return, I must have your full honesty.”
“Who says I want your help?”
“It’s obvious. You’re the only reason I’m here. You refused to join the company unless Maestro Weber hired me, as well.”
She stood still a moment, breathing hard and cheeks flushing. Then she said quietly, “Yes, you’re right—I could never lie to you, Tito. I brought you here for a purpose.”
At least she admitted it. Somewhat mollified, I spotted a bench farther down the drive, under a stand of bronzing shade trees. “Come. Let’s sit. Explain what you want of me.”
Dry foliage crunched under our feet as we stepped onto the lawn. I swept curling leaves from the flat stone of the bench only to find it pitted and covered with scales of ash-colored lichen. Grisella flinched away, but I took off my jacket and folded it into a cushion to protect her skirt. “Where do you want me to start?” she asked, sinking down with a ramrod straight back.
“Let’s start with your husband. Is Jean-Louis actually Louis Chevrier?”
“Yes, he was born a Chevrier, in a little town in Burgundy a few miles from Dijon. You see, I’m giving you all the details. I don’t want to hide anything. When my husband smuggled me out of Turkey, he thought it prudent to revert to the surname of his mother’s family.”
“This was necessary,” I put in, “because of this Turk you told me about, the influential pasha who thinks you belong to him?”
She nodded solemnly. “Jean-Louis already had plans to put me on the stage. If my career took off as he expected, my name would become known far and wide. Using Viviani, the name I went by then, was unthinkable. Even performing as Madame Chevrier might attract some dangerous attention. Jean-Louis thought it best that we start absolutely fresh. Given all I had suffered, he wanted to make certain I would not be subjected to any further… complications.”
“He thinks ahead, your Jean-Louis.”
“Yes. It was he who suggested telling people I hailed from the south of France. I’d picked up some French from one of Domenico’s other girls, and later, since I had no Russian, Vladimir and I spoke French almost all the time. But still, Jean-Louis insisted that the fastidious Parisians would find my command of the language lacking. If asked, I’m to say that my father was French, my mother Italian, and I grew up speaking the one tongue over the other.”
“Clever as he is, Jean-Louis must be giving you some problems.”
She lowered her eyes. “Have you spotted some of my bruises, then? I thought I’d covered them rather well.”
“No, cara. Our first evening at the villa, Gussie and I overheard a couple in a violent quarrel. Since they were arguing in Italian rather than French, I thought it must be Romeo and Carmela. But now I see it must have been you and Jean-Louis. When did he turn from rescuer to tyrant?”
Her face crumpled into a mask of tragedy. “Oh, Tito, at first Jean-Louis seemed like an agent of the divinity I had practically given up praying to. Seclusion is such cruel torment. You who are free to do as you please have no idea. Time scarcely seems to move at all, and each day seems like a month. When I was with Vladimir, he at least allowed me to have music lessons and took me to European gatherings on occasion, but I knew that once I was shut up in a Turk’s household, I could well spend the rest of my life behind the same four walls.” She held a fist to her brow as if to drive away the very thought.
“And once you had escaped…”
“I’ve learned that Jean-Louis never takes a step or utters a word which will not bring him profit. Since he risked his neck to get me out of Constantinople, he is determined that my voice will make his fortune. He seems to forget that I am flesh and blood. He’s become a demon who controls my every move—a greedy, insatiable demon. If it were possible, he’d have me singing every hour of the day and night.”
“Your freedom was dearly bought.”
She nodded, and then leaned so close that I could feel the heat from her body. Her shadowed eyes seemed to take over her pale face. “Do you remember the fits that plagued my childhood?”
“Yes. I’ve noticed your shoulder twitching. It doesn’t seem to happen while you’re singing.”
“No, music is my release. When I’m well-rested and able to focus, it sinks into my skin and my sinews and limbs like a magical balm. Only then am I at peace.”
I nodded, understanding. For singer and audience alike, music is a potent charm. It has cured me of despair many a time.
She continued, “Otherwise, if I’m to keep the fits in bounds, I need my elixir. And to sing well, I need to take proper care of my voice. But Jean-Louis won’t allow it. In Paris, he arranged subscription concerts for every night I wasn’t performing at the Opera. In the afternoons he dragged me to fashionable salons where he hoped my songs would be rewarded with nice presents—which he promptly sold.”
“I’m surprised he allowed you to come to the villa.”
“Il Gran Tamerlano fits perfectly into Jean-Louis’ plans. It is only the luck of the wretched that it fits into mine. Jean-Louis is determined to keep on the move. He believes Paris will eventually grow tired of me. He plans to conquer Venice, Milan, Naples. Then on to London. But, Tito, I’ll never make it.” She touched her throat with the tips of her fingers. “The more exhausted I become, the harder it is to control my spasms. And my voice will never hold up under this wear and tear. There’ve been times already when I’ve strained my vocal cords and can’t sing a note. Jean-Louis’ answer to that is to beat me with his cane and lock me in our bedroom until I’m fit to go back to the stage.”
I’d seen it many times: young singers and dancers forced to perform by stage-mad mothers, women driven by husband-managers whose greed knew no bounds. If you wanted to avoid rifts with your fellow singers, you learned to ignore it. But this was my sister who was being abused.
“What do you want me to do?” I asked quietly.
Pretty head cocked to one side, my sister studied me in silence for several minutes. A breeze rustled the dying foliage above us, and leaves began to float down. Some traveled in pairs, others alone. As they hit ground, they mimicked the sound of a light rain.
All at once Grisella threw herself onto my chest. On a sob, she murmured, “Take me home, Tito.”
I heard her words, but I made her repeat them.
“Home, Tito.” She took my hand and bathed it with her tears. “More than anything in the world, I want us all to be together in Venice like we used to be.”
Women’s tears have always cast a spell on me. Sitting on that bench with the breeze ruffling my hair and Grisella’s French fragrance in my nostrils, I had only to close my eyes to be transported to our sitting room in Venice.
In my beautiful vision, both our wanderers were home. Annetta, Alessandro, Grisella and I talked happily before the crackling stove. Our mother’s kind smile beamed down on us from the portrait above the harpsichord, and in the background, Liya and Gussie stood together nodding.
Though my doubts on certain matters were by no means assuaged, I returned my sister’s hug. “There now,” I whispered. “Everything will be all right. Trust yourself to me. I’ll find a way to bring you home.”
She pushed away, and a smile fought its way through her tears. “I have your word?”
“You may depend on it,” I replied, placing my hand on my heart. “Consider me your champion.”
“You’ll stand up to Jean-Louis?”
I sighed. Considering the difficulties that lay ahead, I’d uttered brave words. Though Grisella had left Venice almost ten years ago, the scandal that surrounded her a
nd Domenico Viviani had not been forgotten. But first things first. “As far as Jean-Louis is concerned,” I finally replied, “he is your husband and the law gives him certain rights.”
“Not really.” She gave me a perky glance.
“What are you saying?”
“Jean-Louis and I never married. We intended to, but after leaving Turkey we kept on the move for several months. Once we reached Paris, the proper occasion never seemed to present itself. Though I call him husband, I’m not really a wife, merely a mistress. So—” she finished lightly, “there’s another secret I’m asking you to keep. At least for now.”
I nodded unhappily. Grisella’s secrets were piling up almost as quickly as my questions about her recent past. I glanced around. As we were still quite alone in the far-reaching autumn landscape, it seemed like a good time to return to those questions. But my sister had grown restless. She stood up and shook the leaves from her skirts, saying, “I must get back to the house. Jean-Louis will be returning soon.”
“Where did he go?”
“He went into Molina Mori to conduct some business.”
I cocked an eyebrow. What business could he have in such an insignificant, out-of-the-way village where he knew no one?
Grisella took my meaning and shrugged. “I don’t know, but he’ll have my head if he sees me walking out in the cool air.” Then she flashed a smile that could have lit up the top tier of the San Marco opera house. “But not for long. You’ll soon send him packing, won’t you, Tito? Today, I’ve gone from the most wretched to the happiest of women. I knew I did right by coming here. I knew my wonderful brother would save me.”
I stood up, too. “You can surely make time to answer one question, Grisella.”
She retrieved my folded jacket, wiped away the bits of debris, and handed it to me with a sidelong glance. “Of course,” she said. “Ask it while we walk.”
4 - The Iron Tongue of Midnight Page 13