Death in the Floating City

by Tasha Alexander

  My heart sank at the news, and I fought tears. “I’m so sorry, Donata. I liked your father very much.”

  “It’s probably better this way,” she said. “It would have been awful for him to live through my trial.”

  “Do you need any help with arrangements?” I asked.

  “No, thank you,” she said. “I have a lawyer, and he is taking care of everything. Everything that he can, that is.”

  “Is there something else?”

  “Yes.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath before continuing. “My child, Emily. Obviously I will not be able to care for it. Angelo has already refused to have anything to do with it. If I cannot find a suitable guardian, the baby will be named a ward of the state and put in an orphanage.”

  I did not reply.

  “Emily, I have let down every person who ever mattered in my life. I don’t want to do the same to my child. I want him—or her—to have the education and the love of reading that my father gave me. That you could give, too.”

  “Donata, I don’t know that I—”

  “There’s no need to answer now,” she said. “I understand the enormity of the burden, and I will never fault you should you decline. All I ask is that you consider taking in my child. My father had some money. You would have all of that. As well as all of the books in the shop. I’d want them to be given to the child.”

  “Donata, I don’t think it’s wise at this juncture to be planning so far in advance.”

  “My solicitor has drawn up papers that would give you and your husband guardianship of the child. You don’t have to sign them now or ever. Just read through them and speak to Colin. There’s no rush to make a decision. It will be another five months before the matter comes to the forefront.”

  “We will discuss it,” I said. “That is all I can promise you.”

  “That is all I can ask. Thank you.”

  I rose from my seat and started for the door. “Good-bye, Donata. I’m terribly, terribly sorry about your father.”

  When I returned to the Danieli, I hardly knew what to say to my husband. The transcription complete, Brother Giovanni had gone to mass at St. Mark’s, so Colin and I were alone. We went to the terrace on the roof of the hotel, where not so long ago Donata had met us over breakfast.

  “This is a conversation I never thought I would have,” I said, unsure of where to begin.

  “Easiest then to dive straight in,” Colin said. “What did Donata want? For us to raise her unfortunate and abandoned child?”

  “How did you know?”

  “It wasn’t a difficult guess.”

  “Her father died last night,” I said, looking at the boats streaming past us, making their way to the Grand Canal.

  “I am sorry. He was a good man.”

  “He was.”

  “He had a terrible daughter, though,” Colin said.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you suppose terrible skips a generation?”

  “Skips a generation?” I repeated. “Are you suggesting … Can you mean? Would you consider taking in the child?”

  “How could we not?” he asked. “What is the other option? Letting the poor thing languish in an orphanage?”

  I did not reply.

  “It is a lot to consider,” he said, “but my initial reaction is to say yes. If there’s a little bit of good we can squeeze out of an otherwise diabolical situation, I don’t see how we can refuse.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” I said. “It won’t be simple, you know.”

  “It won’t. Still, if anyone can force the dragon-like matrons of London society to embrace the innocent child of a murderess, it is you, my dear—and I can think of nothing I’d like better than seeing you rise to such a challenge.”

  27

  Still somewhat dumbfounded by what we’d just agreed to do, we set off for Ca’ Barozzi so that we would arrive in advance of Zaneta. This time, I hardly noticed the shimmering beauty of the Grand Canal. I was preoccupied with thoughts of Donata’s child. When we reached the house, Emma and Paolo were aflutter with excitement, going so far as to wait for us at their water entrance.

  “Do you think we’ll get enough money from them to restore the palazzo?” Emma asked.

  “Do you think they’ll really agree to give us something?” Paolo’s question was not only more within the bounds of taste, it was more realistic. “It seems too much to hope.”

  “It’s impossible to guess,” Colin said, “and there’s no reason to try. You’ll know the answers soon enough.”

  Emma had organized a lovely spread of traditional English pastries and tea along with a cold pitcher of lemonade to be waiting for her guests. She’d also chosen a gown that was demure and verging on elegant. Not at all her usual style.

  “I want to make a good impression,” she told me. “Put my best foot forward, as they say. Not that I suppose it will make any difference. Those Vendelinos are notoriously difficult, I’m told.”

  “Emma, the entire point of Nicolò’s will was to put an end to the feud,” I said. “Frankly, if you’re bent on continuing it, you don’t deserve any of his family’s money.”

  “What about Lorenzo?” Paolo asked. “Did he keep his part of the bargain?”

  “He did,” Colin said. “He named Tomaso Rosso as his heir. The decision raised no eyebrows because Lorenzo had no children of his own. Sometime after Uberto Rosso died, Tomaso took the name Barozzi as his own. Hence you’re having it.”

  Paolo nodded but said nothing. The room was thick with tension. Zaneta and Angelo’s arrival did not improve the atmosphere. Not, that is, until Zaneta graciously accepted a glass of lemonade from Emma and began to speak.

  “I have read Nicolò’s will,” she said, “and I have read Besina’s story. There can be no doubt of what my ancestor’s intentions were, and they were intentions of the noblest sort. I have consulted with my solicitor, not to seek advice as to how I should proceed but because I wanted to know what happened after Nicolò died. As we already are aware, Tomaso Rosso did not inherit any money from the Vendelinos. Instead, Nicolò’s nephew, Vitturi, who witnessed the new will, became the head of the family. So far as we can tell, no effort was made by the family to honor Nicolò’s wishes. Giulio Zorzi, the solicitor who oversaw the codicil, also oversaw Nicolò’s estate. We can only imagine that this nephew of very dubious ethics paid the solicitor enough money that he was happy to forget about the codicil. I find this reprehensible.”

  “It is, Signora Vendelino,” Paolo said. “However, if I may be so bold as to suggest, not an excuse for Vitturi’s actions, but an explanation for them. Our two families have despised each other for hundreds of years. And why? Because something tragic happened during a storm after the sacking of Constantinople? The ensuing animosity would have made it almost impossible for the nephew to act in any other way. He’d been taught nothing but hate. Nor is it only the Vendelinos who are to blame. The Barozzis are just as culpable for having prolonged this feud. Today, as head of the Barozzi family, I would like to extend my apology to the Vendelino family for any and all offenses given to you in our name.”

  “Signor Barozzi, I am both impressed and grateful for your kind words,” Zaneta said. “They make what I am about to tell you easier to say. I have decided to give you half of my fortune—and you shall have it now, not after I am dead, because we have seen too well how a person’s final wishes may be disregarded.” Angelo’s face darkened as he listened to his mother speak. “I know it is impossible to gauge the precise amount your family would now possess had Tomaso received his rightful inheritance, but I hope you will agree that this amount”—she passed him a folded piece of paper on which I can only presume a figure was written—“will satisfy your desire to see justice done. To argue over it seems pointless. Tomaso and his descendants might have made more or might have lost it all. I hope you see I am trying to be fair.”

  “Signora.” Paolo thumped his hand against his heart. “This is more than generous. I c
annot thank you enough.”

  “I am only sorry that your father is not alive to see this resolution,” Zaneta said.

  “As am I,” Paolo said. Emma had sidled closer to him, trying to get a look at the piece of paper. Paolo folded it and slid it into his jacket pocket. Angelo, sullen and silent, refused all refreshment and conversation.

  I pulled Besina’s ring off my finger, where it had been for the duration of our investigation, and held it out in front of me. What a journey it had taken over the centuries, from the Vendelino family treasury to the hand of Nicolò’s forbidden love. His sister must have hidden it, along with Besina’s letters, in the wall of her house. I wondered if she had done so after her brother’s death. Had she ever intended to pull them out again? Or had she let them be lost, hoping that someone, someday, would stumble upon them? Caterina had been clever to discover them, and when she’d given them to the old conte, she had very nearly brought to a close the sad story of Nicolò and Besina.

  “I’m not sure to whom I should give this,” I said holding the ring out in front of me. “It seems you both have a valid claim to it.”

  “No,” Zaneta said. “I now understand the Barozzis did not come to have it through underhanded means and recognize it does not belong to my family, but it must be yours, Emily. This peace could not have come without your intervention. Keep it.”

  “Yes,” Paolo agreed. “Besina would want it.”

  Emma scowled and started to speak but was silenced by a glare from her husband.

  “Thank you,” I said. “Truly. It means more to me than I can say. I feel such a deep connection to Besina.” Tears filled my eyes. “I only wish the peace between your families now could have happened at a time when it might have saved her from so much misery.”

  “That connection, Emily, is why you must have the ring,” Zaneta said. “There could be no other outcome.”

  “We do have one other thing that belongs to you, Signora Vendelino,” Colin said, passing her the page torn from The Inferno that Paolo had found in his father’s pocket. “The rest of the book is in the library across from the Doge’s Palace. So far as we can tell, the volume originally belonged to Nicolò, who must have removed it and added the message to Besina before donating the rest of the book to the library. According to library records, someone in the mid-seventeenth century reported the missing page.”

  “How did Signor Barozzi come to find it?” Zaneta asked.

  “Someone—possibly Marco Grissoni—placed it inside the palimpsest that was to be given to Tomaso after his mother died. Unfortunately, Tomaso never knew the book contained anything beyond the text of The Divine Comedy.”

  “I feel stupid not to have made the connection sooner,” Paolo said. “I’d always known there was a loose page in the book, but it never occurred to me that it didn’t belong with that particular volume. When we gave it to Brother Giovanni while he was working to reveal the hidden text under our Dante, he recognized that it was not the same handwriting as the rest of the book and belonged with another one entirely.”

  “He took it upon himself to search out the original volume in the library,” Colin said.

  “That was good of him,” Zaneta said. “I would like to keep the page, if you don’t mind. Surely the library won’t object, as it hadn’t been given to them in the first place?”

  “They’ve gone without it this long,” Colin said, “and you’re right, it wasn’t part of Nicolò’s original donation.”

  “I will trouble you no longer,” Zaneta said, “but I expect both of you Barozzis at Ca’ Vendelino for dinner Sunday after mass.” With that she stood, pulled on her gloves, and left, Angelo trailing behind her.

  “Well?” Emma asked after we’d watched their boat pull away from the house. “What did she give us?”

  “What a disgraceful question, cara.” Paolo frowned. “Suffice it to say we will never worry about money again.”

  I could see, in his eyes, what was unsaid. That they’d never worry about money, but that there also would never be another Barozzi. He was the last male in the line. He and Emma began to bicker, but in a good-natured sort of way.

  “Do you think they’ll be happy?” I asked as our gondolier pushed away from Ca’ Barozzi and I watched the elegant Gothic facade fade behind us.

  “In their way,” Colin said. “I’m more interested in your happiness, my dear. How are you feeling about the decision we made this morning?”

  “Better and better,” I said. “Terrified, too, but I think that’s rather a good sign.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.” He put his arm around my shoulder and looked at the scene around us. “This is a beautiful city. Almost like magic, isn’t it? Hasn’t any business even being here and yet here it is, balanced on a forest of petrified trees pounded into the silt below the lagoon.”

  “I adore it,” I said.

  “As do I,” he said. “I’ve sent the papers Donata gave you to our solicitor. He’ll look them over and suggest any necessary changes. Now that we’re done with our work, I think we should stay on until we hear back from him. Have a holiday. Travel by gondola and drink too much prosecco and wander in the narrow streets. What do you say?”

  “It sounds like heaven.”

  “Then, when the solicitor replies, we can tie up any loose ends regarding the child, sign what needs to be signed, and go home.”

  That is precisely what we did. For eight weeks we meandered through the effervescent city, enjoying getting lost in its maze of streets as much as we enjoyed finding our way again. We looked at the great paintings of Titian and Tintoretto. We sketched bridges and palazzi both from canal-side cafés and from gondolas. We visited Santa Maria dei Miracoli, where I sat in the back pew and wept for Besina. It was so easy to picture her there, in this beautiful church, a place of hope and love, yet a place that could not alter the tragic course of her sad life. Finally, we returned to Ca’ Vendelino, where Zaneta had invited us to come see a portrait of Nicolò, whose handsome face was uncannily like Angelo’s. Not only did they share a thick crop of dark blond curls, they both had the same bright blue eyes with lashes long enough to be the envy of any girl.

  When the time came to board a steamer back to England, I found myself extremely sentimental as I watched Venice fade in the distance. If the root of nostalgia is pain, I was feeling it then. To leave such beauty is never easy, and I felt as if a piece of my soul were being ripped from me.

  “It’s like you’re leaving your old home, isn’t it?” Colin asked. “You know they say that when a tourist arrives in Venice and La Marangona is ringing in the campanile at St. Mark’s, it is a mark of recognition. Recognition that the new arrival has the soul of some long-dead citizen of the republic. I seem to recall it ringing when we drew close to the city.”

  “How do you know it wasn’t ringing for you?” I asked.

  “Because I’ve been here on four previous occasions, and never once did the same thing happen. No Venetian soul for me.”

  I didn’t reply. I couldn’t take my eyes off the shimmering spot on the horizon where the city had just slipped from my view.

  “We’ll be back, you know,” Colin said. He was standing behind me with his arms wrapped around my waist. “Soon, after Donata’s child is born.”

  “I’m afraid you may have to come alone,” I said.

  “Will it be too hard for you to see her? You wouldn’t have to, you know.”

  “It’s not that,” I said, glad that he couldn’t see my face. “I might not be in a position to travel.”

  “Not in a position to travel?” he asked. “Why on earth not?”

  “Perhaps position isn’t quite the right word,” I said. “Condition would be more accurate.”

  “Condition?”

  I gave him a moment to digest what I’d said before I turned around to face him.

  “Yes, condition. The real question is this: How will you handle the transition to having not only one child but two?”

  “Em
ily, are you sure?” I’d never seen his face color so quickly.

  “Quite. The hotel doctor has confirmed it.”

  “I didn’t think … I never … I wouldn’t even let myself hope.”

  “Neither did I.”

  “Oh, my dear girl, I could not be happier!” He picked me up, spun me around, and covered me with kisses, right there, on the deck, in front of everyone.

  I knew, then, without question, that I was the luckiest girl in the world.

  Acknowledgments

  Myriad thanks to …

  Charlie Spicer, Andy Martin, Sarah Melnyk, April Osborn, Tom Robinson, and Anne Hawkins. A great publishing team.

  Jesse Sheidlower, editor at the OED, for finding me a much-needed fifteenth-century word reference.

  Dean Mayne, a.k.a. Charles Morgandy, for agreeing to show up in the nineteenth century.

  Xander Tyska, for priceless assistance with Medieval and Renaissance research.

  Brett Battles, Rob Browne, Bill Cameron, Christina Chen, Kristy Kiernan, Elizabeth Letts, Carrie Medders, Missy Rightley, Renee Rosen, and Lauren Willig. You guys are the best.

  My parents, for continuing to read. And read. And read.

  Andrew, for everything.

  Also by Tasha Alexander

  And Only to Deceive

  A Poisoned Season

  A Fatal Waltz

  Tears of Pearl

  Dangerous to Know

  A Crimson Warning

  Elizabeth: The Golden Age

  About the Author

  TASHA ALEXANDER attended the University of Notre Dame, where she majored in English and Medieval Studies. She and her husband, novelist Andrew Grant, divide their time between Chicago and the UK.