‘Are you sure you don’t hate me?’
‘Why would you think that?’
‘Maybe because I hate myself a lot of the time.’ There, she’d said it. Given voice to the darkness within.
He stroked her cheek, his eyes looking deep into hers. A sob rose up. He kissed her tears and enfolded her in his arms. ‘Darling Fern,’ he said between kisses. ‘I love you so much and I’d give anything for you to love me in return. But you can’t do that, can you?’
‘I wish I could. I really do.’
‘You need to love Fern first. Don’t you see that?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Accept yourself for who you are. The good, the bad, and everything in between.’
She nuzzled against him. Why hadn’t her therapist picked up on this? Then she remembered she hadn’t told her therapist about losing her baby.
‘One step at a time, Fern,’ Luca said. ‘You’ve taken that first step tonight, I think.’
‘I hope so.’ She kissed his cheek, catching the scent of his after-shave. ‘Will I see you tomorrow?’
‘There’s a rehearsal, don’t forget.’
‘Of course.’
Standing at the front door, she watched him drive off. Already, she felt bereft. How was she going to feel when she went back to London?
The house was quiet; Aunt Susan must have already gone to bed. Fern cleaned her teeth and put on her nightie. She slipped between the cool sheets and closed her eyes.
I study my husband eating, his jaws chomping like a lizard’s while he chews his meat. ‘I received a letter from the Duke today,’ he says, taking a swig of wine. ‘He wishes me to purchase a painting by Zorzone.’
Hearing my true love’s name spoken by Lodovico cuts me to the core, and my hands tremble with the effort of not showing any reaction. Zorzo is a part of me I have learned to keep hidden from the world, however. I haven’t seen him these past five months, since he came upon me at the castle. Whenever I think about him, these days, I find it hard to reconcile myself with the carefree girl who threw herself at him without a thought for the consequences.
‘Oh.’ I keep my voice nonchalant. ‘How interesting. Which painting?’
‘There’s a rumour of an un-commissioned work in his studio. A lute-player serenading a woman as night falls.’
Fear grips me. If Lodovico should see the painting, he’ll recognise me. ‘Will you go to Venice, then?’
‘Momentarily.’
We finish our meal in silence, as usual. Conversation between us has always been sparse. Hard to believe we’ve been man and wife nigh on two years. Years filled with sorrow at being apart from Zorzo and, at the same time, the happiness of my Lorenza.
Lodovico gets to his feet. ‘I shall visit you tonight, Cecilia. Be ready for me!’
I drop into a curtsey to hide my consternation. What has brought this on? Perhaps he no longer has a woman in Ferrara? It’s been months since he and I lay together. As if reading my thoughts, Lodovico says, ‘Time you gave me a son, wife.’
When he comes to my bed, I lie still with my legs apart and he lowers himself on top of me. I turn my face away from his slobbering. Grabbing my arms so hard I’m sure he leaves bruises, Lodovico thrusts into me; I’m dry and it hurts. He finishes quickly and gets up from the bed. ‘It’s like sticking my prick into a wooden doll. Have you no passion, Cecilia?’
Not for you, husband. ‘’Tis not in my nature,’ I lie.
He leaves me and I wash my nether parts in the bowl of water I keep by the bed. I have to get rid of his seed. Then I go to check on Lorenza, who sleeps with her nursemaid in the room next to mine. She’s lying on her side, with her thumb in her mouth. I stroke her soft cheek, and whisper, ‘Heart of my heart. I’ll do anything for you, to keep you safe. Sleep well, bambina mia, and in the morning we’ll visit my lady.’
Lorenza’s nursemaid lets out a snore while I tiptoe out of the room. My daughter is weaned now, and so lively that Lodovico insisted we take on a bambinaia for her. Granted, I’m able to spend more time painting, yet I wish I could keep my child with me every hour of the day.
The next morning, I feel battered and sore. This is the last time I’ll put up with Lodovico’s brutish advances, I swear to myself. I have some dried valerian herbs in my medicine chest, given to me by Fiammetta. ‘I use them with Rambaldo,’ she said. ‘If I don’t feel in the mood for “you know what”, I stir them into his night-time wine and he sleeps until midday.’ She’d handed them to me with a knowing look.
After breaking my fast, I take Lorenza to see my lady, who is visiting Asolo. We discover huge excitement in the Queen’s castle; the servants are scurrying around, packing coffers. Dorotea grabs my daughter from me and gives her a kiss. ‘We are to go to Venice. You and your husband too. The Queen insists.’
‘Why?’
‘There’s been a battle. My lady’s brother has defeated the Emperor Maximilian. And Giorgio Cornaro has also taken Pordenone and Gorizia for the Republic. Hurry home and pack your travelling chests! We depart on the morrow.’
My heart sings at the thought of going to the city where Zorzo lives; he’ll be part of the celebrations, I’m sure. Yet, also, my belly constricts with worry. If Lodovico finds the painting he seeks for the Duke of Ferrara, all will surely be lost. And how will I fare without Lorenza? The Queen doesn’t allow children to travel with the court to Venice. It will be impossible to take her with us. ‘Where’s my lady?’ I ask, thinking I might request a special permission.
Dorotea hands my daughter back to me. ‘The Queen is the domina of Asolo, isn’t she? There’s famine in the countryside and she has imported grain from Cyprus. She always puts her people first, and is distributing flour to them.’
‘’Tis true. There’s no one as dutiful and kind as my lady; we’re all in her shadow.’ I take my leave of Dorotea and hurry home.
Lodovico is pacing up and down the hallway. He scowls when he catches sight of me. ‘We are commanded to go to Venice.’
‘Does that not please you?’
‘Humph. The Emperor has been humiliated.’
‘A good thing, don’t you think?’ I hand Lorenza to her nursemaid and remember my suspicions about my husband. Surely Lodovico is on the side of the Republic?
I stare at him, but my vision blurs. Then, it is as if I’m gazing down on myself from a great height. A feeling of dread overcomes me and, Maria Santissima, I start to swoon. My legs buckle from beneath me and I crumple to the floor.
Fern opened her eyes. Morning already. She’d been dreaming, hadn’t she? Yes, definitely a dream. What was it about? Her head felt fuzzy and her mouth was dry. Must get a glass of water. She swung her legs from the bed. Her privates were feeling a bit sore. Probably all the riding she’d been doing while staying at the villa.
In the kitchen, Aunt Susan glanced up from her manuscript, a red pen in one hand and a cup of tea in the other, Gucci Cat curled up on the rug by her feet. ‘Sleep well?’
‘Very deeply. I feel a bit woozy now, though.’ She grabbed a glass from the draining board and filled it from the tap.
‘Sit down, my lovely. You look pale. Have you had another funny turn?’
‘No, I don’t think so. Although I did dream about something. Can’t remember what, to be honest.’
‘There’s a packet of brioches in the cupboard.’
‘Thanks.’ Fern poured herself a mug of tea, added milk then placed a brioche onto a plate.
‘Any plans for today?’
Fern gave a start. She put down her mug, the tea souring in her mouth. It was as if a video had started to play in her head. Poor Cecilia! Fern shifted in her seat to ease the discomfort between her legs. She could remember the feel of Lodovico’s weight on top of her, his slavering tongue, his vice-like grip.
A sudden thought, There’s somewhere I need to go.
‘Think I’ll visit Venice again. I’d like to stroll around on my own and do a few sketches.’
‘Fine by
me.’ Aunt Susan settled her glasses on her nose. ‘But I thought you had a rehearsal with Luca tonight? Will you be back in time?’
‘Oh no! I’d forgotten.’
‘Why don’t you give him a ring? I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you cancelled.’
Fern went to the phone and dialled Luca’s number. Before she had a chance to mention the rehearsal, he said, ‘I’m so worried about Chiara. She’s taken a fall from her horse and has badly broken her leg. It’s being operated on now.’
‘Oh my God! I’m coming over straight away.’
‘Ma’s with her and I’m about to go to the hospital. Can we meet up later?’
‘Of course. I was about to visit Venice. I’ll put it on hold.’
‘Has Cecilia gone there?’
‘To celebrate the Venetian victory over Maximilian’s army.’
‘I think you should go. Just be careful to find somewhere safe. Please come to my flat as soon as you get back. I could do with your company tonight.’
‘I’ll be there. So sorry this has happened.’
‘The doctors reckon she’ll be all right.’
‘Give your mother and sister a hug from me.’
‘What a shame,’ Aunt Susan said when she’d told her about Chiara. ‘But go to Venice, Fern. Might be your last chance before you return to London.’
Fern nodded.
21
She caught the vaporetto to Rialto, then, holding the map she’d bought at the station, made her way to Campo San Polo. She’d read in the book she’d borrowed from her aunt that Giorgio Cornaro, the Queen’s brother, once had a palazzo here.
The square (more oblong than square in shape) was hot and dusty. Almost as large as Saint Mark’s, but not as touristy. She strolled towards a café on the right-hand side, keeping out of the way of a group of boys kicking a football. A man and a woman crossed in front of her, taking their small dogs for a walk. She found an empty table shaded by an umbrella, and pulled out a chair.
The waiter arrived and she ordered a cappuccino. Where was the Cornaro palazzo? She opened her guidebook and read that it had burnt down in 1535. Another fire. She gave a shudder. A new structure had been built in its place, the side entrance in the corner of the square, its façade facing a small canal. She was in the right area.
Was she being reckless coming here and opening herself up to Cecilia? No, the blaze in which Cecilia had died was at the Barco; she was sure of it now. That piece of burnt wood had appeared in Venice, admittedly, and fires were commonplace in the 16th Century, but she hadn’t got to the end of Cecilia’s story yet. The waiter brought Fern’s coffee. She stirred it, sipped, and then waited. Would this work? The last time she’d deliberately tried to contact Cecilia her attempt had failed. She’d been in Murano, though, which had turned out to be the wrong place. Hopefully, this time she’d got it right.
So many guests have been invited; the celebration has spilled over into the campo. My lady’s brother is giving a masquerade ball, not only to celebrate the victory, but also because ’tis the season of Carnevale. Iron braziers, their flames licking the wood, stand at regular intervals to warm us in the cold February night air. There are lanterns strung above us and groups of musicians wander in between us, serenading us with their lutes and viols. The Queen’s dwarf, Zantos, runs between the different groups, animating their songs.
I’m wearing a silver Volto full-faced mask, decorated with a half-moon in the centre and stars sprinkled around the edges. Lodovico has become a peacock, and, Maria Santissima, he’s strutting around like that pompous bird in all his finery. We’re dressed in our best attire; my husband spares no expense in keeping up appearances.
I’m wearing a sleeveless shimmering blue satin gown, laced at the front, over my mother-of-pearl sleeved kirtle. My hair has been plaited into a Coazzone, with topaz and diamonds tied into my plaits. Anticipation fizzes in my chest; I’m sure I’ll see Zorzo soon.
All around us circle the masked faces of the other invitees. No one on this occasion wears the plain white Bauta. Instead, people have become cats, jesters, lions, tigers and columbines. ‘Dolcezza,’ a voice whispers in my ear. I turn and glance from left to right. Where is he? Vanished. I spin around. He’s behind me, in a black doublet and wearing a gold Volto. ‘Fare you well?’ He bows.
I nod, my mouth dry, and I drop into a curtsey. ‘How did you know me?’
‘Ah, dolcezza. Your beautiful tresses, even more so when they’re tied with jewels.’
I blush beneath my mask and try to think of a suitable response. My husband is approaching, however, so I say nothing.
Two rows of people gather on the other side of the campo, and Lodovico claims me for a dance. ‘La Moresca.’ He hands me a set of bells he’s picked up from a basket being handed around, and I tie them to my wrists.
I catch sight of Zorzo bowing to another woman, and jealousy rears up within me. The woman isn’t wearing a mask, which means she’s a courtesan. Courtesans are forbidden to wear masks. I’ve heard rumours of Zorzo consorting with them, but have ignored the gossip until now.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch my painter. Is he watching me? Foolish, Cecilia. You can’t expect him to have kept his cod laced up all this time.
Lodovico and I join a chain of dancers, zigging and zagging, hands raised above our heads, as we shake our bells. I’m facing Zorzo now and we link arms in the dance. ‘Will you come to me tomorrow, dolcezza?’
‘When?’
‘In the early hours. Can you escape from your husband?’
‘I’ve brought valerian herbs. I’ll give them to him, and he’ll sleep late. Wait for me here at first light.’ We twirl away from each other and join the circle.
Supper is served on long tables down the side of the campo. Sugar models of the cities of Gorizia and Pordenone. The emblem of the Cornaro family on myriad cakes. ‘The Republic is drunk with success,’ my husband says. ‘Don’t forget that pride comes before a fall.’
What is this dread that twists my belly? I think back to the feeling of foreboding I’d experienced after Lorenza’s baptism. I tell myself not to be foolish. The Serenissima has endured for over 700 years; nothing will ever destroy it.
After eating, we watch a commedia, Plauto’s Menecmi. A stage has been erected on the far side of the square, and has been covered in green velvet. There are over 100 actors dressed in the classical style, wearing tunics of fine silk with threads of gold. I find it hard to concentrate on the performance; my thoughts are filled with anticipation of my visit to Zorzo.
When the time comes to retire, Lodovico and I go to the chamber allocated to us, a small room (much to my husband’s chagrin) at the back of the palazzo. ‘There are far more important guests than us,’ I remind him as I pour his bedtime Vin Santo. Surreptitiously, I slip ground valerian into the goblet, stir it, and hand it to him. ‘Your health, husband.’
He quaffs the drink in one gulp and starts to undress. ‘Come, wife!’
I slip into the bed next to him, dreading his touch. What will I do if the herbs don’t work? Lodovico places his hand on my breast, and gives my nipple a rough squeeze. Then, praise the Holy Virgin, all of a sudden, he’s snoring under the blankets. I dare not risk sleep, for I might not wake in time. So I get out of bed, put my dress back on, and sit on the ledge by the window. Picking at the skin around my fingernails, I wait for dawn’s light.
After about an hour, Lodovico clambers out of bed and lets out a grunt. My heart drops; I’ll never get away now. He goes to the chamber pot and pisses, letting out a fart at the same time, and the bitter stench of urine and bodily odours assails my nostrils. Then, after giving me a bleary glance, he’s snoring in bed again and I pray to all the saints that he’ll stay there.
Will the sky never lighten? I yawn and stretch. Perhaps I can sleep awhile? Shutting my eyes, I feel myself drifting off. No, Cecilia. Stay awake! I get up from my seat and pace the floor, my soft-soled shoes quiet on the stone flagging. Finally, weak sunlight filt
ers through the panes and I grab my Bauta, cloak, and hood.
Zorzo is wearing a mask as well. ‘It’s only a short way,’ he says, taking my hand. Walking beside him, I’m aware of how tall and broad he is compared with me. I practically have to run to match his stride. He notices, and apologises. ‘I don’t wish to waste a moment of our time together.’
In his studio I free myself of my disguise and walk towards the canvas placed on an easel in the corner. I can see my likeness, suckling Lorenza in the middle of the most forbidding landscape. There’s another figure, a woman, who’s also naked, watching me. She looks just like me, but her eyes are green. Between us, in the centre of the painting, are two broken pillars. I know what they signify: death. A shiver passes through me.
The background shows a town, above which a storm gathers. The use of the greens and blues in this brooding sky projects an ominous feeling. Lightning streaks the clouds and, even though shivers pass through my body, at the same time I’m filled with admiration at Zorzo’s skill.
There’s a small white bird on the roof of the building on the right-hand side. I peer at it: a heron, warning of fire. My skin prickles with fear, but I tell myself not to be fanciful, and admire instead the wondrously detailed landscape of trees, bushes, flowers and a stream. The palette of soft greens, subdued blues and silver emphasises the mood of the gathering tempest above the bridge and the tranquillity below it, where I’m suckling Lorenza watched by the woman with green eyes.
‘Who is she?’ I ask, pointing to the lady watching me, although I’m sure that I have seen her before.
‘Came to me in a dream. I saw her hover around you, dolcezza. But I shall have to paint her out. The man who commissioned the painting has requested a male figure, so I shall drop myself into the canvas instead.’
‘I do believe this is your masterpiece, amore mio. There’s a feeling of menace, though. What does it mean?’
‘Did you know that the Republic has resisted the demands of the Pope for the restitution of the Papal lands?’
Lady of Asolo Page 17