The Contessa's Vendetta

by Sichirollo Patzer, Mirella

  “That is exactly right,” she said with a smile. “We women must guard our reputations and avoid scandal. A man’s reputation, however, is not so easily tarnished. Before he marries, and after he marries, he is totally free. He can take a dozen lovers if he likes, and if he manages them well, his wife need never be the wiser. She has her lovers, too of course. Why not? When an injured wife learns the truth about her husband’s infidelities, there is a devil of an argument, a moral one, the worst kind. But a clever man can always steer clear of scandal and gossip if he likes.”

  Contemptible bitch! I glanced at her pretty face and figure with unveiled disdain. With all the advantages I had given her, she was a bitch to the core. “I see you have a comprehensive understanding of the world and its ways. I admire your views. From what you told me, you have no sympathy with marital sins, do you?”

  “Not in the least. They are far too widespread and absurd. To me, the wronged wife always cuts such a pathetic figure.”

  “Always?” I raised an eyebrow.

  “Well, usually, she does. What can she do to resolve the problem if her husband refuses to relinquish his affair?

  “Very true,” I said with a forced laugh, exasperated by her despicable flippancy. She met my gaze with merriment and fearless candor. Her opinions did not shame her, rather she seemed to glory in them. The warm sunlight played upon her youthful features, yet the sight of her sickened me. The sooner I could crush her the better, for I would rid the world of one less traitor. The thought of my dreadful but justified vendetta swept through me like an ill wind A shiver ran through me.

  I must have displayed some outward sign of discomfort, for Beatrice frowned. “You look tired, contessa. Are you ill?” She reached out her hand to grasp mine.

  I waved it firmly away. “It is nothing. I only felt a little faint, likely due to a recent illness I am recovering from.” I glanced out at the window. The afternoon was fading fast into evening. “You must excuse me. I should return home. I will send a servant to collect the pictures to save you the trouble of sending them to me.”

  “It is no trouble—” began Beatrice.

  “Please do not worry,” I interrupted. “I am perfectly capable of arranging things to my own preference. As you know, I am quite independent and wilful.”

  She nodded and smiled; the smile of a toady; a smile I hated.

  “At least allow me to accompany you back home,” she offered.

  “Grazie, but no. It is not far and I look forward to a few moments of pleasant quiet.” The truth was that I could not stomach another moment with her. My strained nerves could take no more. I yearned to be alone. If I remained with her a moment longer, I feared I would be tempted to wrap my hands around her neck and strangle the life out of her. It took my entire will to wish her farewell with friendly, but forced courtesy.

  She extended copious thanks for purchasing her pictures.

  “Please, there is no need to thank me. I am proud to own such beautiful art.” My false compliment seemed to flatter her. I turned and left the room.

  She accompanied me down the stairs and watched me from the doorway as I walked away with the slow and careful step of an elderly woman. The moment I knew I was out of her sight, I quickened my pace, a tempest of conflicting emotions roiling inside me.

  When I passed through the front doors of my home, the first thing that met my eyes was a large gilded bowl filled with fresh fruit placed prominently on the entrance hall’s center-table.

  “Santina,” I called out. “Who sent this?”

  She removed the attached letter and handed it to me.

  It was written in my husband’s own firm penmanship:

  To remind the contessa of her promised visit tomorrow

  Fury ran through my body like fire. I crumpled the parchment and flung it to the floor. The sweet aroma from the ripened peaches, lemons, grapes, and figs offended my senses. “Take these away at once,” I said to Santina. “Take them to the Convento della Carita. The orphans there will appreciate them.”

  Santina took the basket and carried it out of the room. I breathed with relief the moment its fragrance and color left my sight. How cruel to receive a gift from my own orchards. Vexed and heartsick, I fell into an easy chair. Within moments, however, the irony of the gift made me laugh.

  So! My husband takes another step on the path of infidelity, bestowing his attentions upon a woman he knows nothing about, except that she is staggeringly rich and alone in the world. Wealth! It forces those swollen with pride to their knees. It makes the determined become submissive. Man is ever at its command. The more wealth Dario possesses, the more caresses and kisses he can aquire.

  I smiled with indignation as I recalled Dario’s languid gaze when he said, you do not seem to be so old. I knew the meaning behind his words and recognized the greed in his eyes. We had been married for so long that I knew him well. My journey towards vengeance appeared smooth, almost too easy. I could see no complications, no hindrances. My betrayers had strolled willingly into my trap.

  Bathed in my own cold blood, questions kept echoing in my mind. Was there any reason for me to be merciful towards them? Had they demonstrated one decent attribute? Was there any honor, any shred of honesty, anything virtuous in either of them to justify my pity? And the answer I came to was always he same. No! Shallow to the heart’s core, they were cheaters and liars. Even the guilty passion they shared between them was hollow, without sincerity except to pursue their own pleasure and suit their own self-indulgence.

  Dario, during that fateful conversation I had so painfully overheard at my villa, had hinted at the possibility of tiring of Beatrice, and she had just finished confessing that it was unreasonable to believe a man could be faithful to one woman all his life.

  No, they were more than worthy of the calamity that fast approached them. Women like Beatrice and men like Dario are common, malicious creatures who deserved to be exterminated. And this I would do, but in my own good time.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Welcome to Villa Mancini!” Dario greeted me with a broad grin.

  His words sounded strange, almost dreamlike. Yet, this was no dream. I stood with him and Beatrice on the lush green lawns of my garden. My beloved veranda with its climbing roses and fragrant jasmine beckoned. My grand villa, my childhood home where I had once been so happy, rose up before me nestled amid lush trees and terraced gardens in all its splendor. Its ethereal beauty swept my breath away. How I missed strolling in the gardens bursting with lemon trees and fragrant flowers. A sharp ache jammed my throat. I wanted to weep. My dear home; how dazzling, yet sad, it appeared. I had expected it to be in ruins; mistreated and uncared for without my loving touch, but thankfully, it was not.

  I glanced at Beatrice and silently promised myself to never allow her to become mistress here.

  My gaze returned to my villa. I noticed subtle changes. Someone had removed my favorite chair from its regular corner on the veranda. The cage that housed my beloved canaries, one orange and one yellow, no longer hung among the roses on the wall. And my dog, the smart little brown and white Lagotto Romagnolo, who excelled at searching out truffles, was nowhere in sight. What had become of poor Tito? He usually sniffed about the house and garden or slept on the lowest veranda step, basking in the sun. Incensed by his disappearance, I fought to contain my feelings in deference to the role I must play.

  Dario waited for me to say something as I continued to look about. “Is something wrong, contessa?”

  It would be wise for me to be as pleasant as possible. “Oh, how could anyone be disappointed when they are beholding Paradise?”

  Dario smiled.

  Beatrice frowned impatiently, but said nothing.

  My husband led the way into the house and the high-ceilinged salotto with its frescoed walls and wide windows that opened out to the gardens. In this room, the marble bust of me as a girl was missing. My virginal harpsichord handcrafted in Venice by Giovanni Celestini, distinguished by its exq
uisite casing ornamented with garlands of flowers and songbirds in magnificent inlay work, sat in its usual spot. My mandolin rested upon a side-table. Fresh flowers and ferns filled every Venetian glass vase in the room.

  I seated myself and remarked on the beauty of the house and its surroundings. “I remember it very well,” I added, quietly.

  “You remember it?” Beatrice questioned as she sat beside me on my favorite damask wing settee.

  “Of course. I used to visit quite regularly when I was a very young girl. Contessa Mancini and I played here together as children. The villa is very familiar to me.”

  Dario settled himself on an armchair across from us. “Did you ever meet my late wife?”

  “Only once; she was little more than a babe in arms. I recall her father seemed greatly enchanted by her, as was her mother.”

  Dario steadied his eyes on me. “What was Carlotta’s mother like?”

  I paused a moment. Could I speak of that pure and blessed woman to this foul, though handsome creature? I knew I must. “She was a beautiful woman unconscious of her beauty. All she cared about was to make others happy and to fill her home with a pleasant atmosphere of goodness and virtue. She died far too young.”

  A flash of malevolence flared in Beatrice’s eyes as she looked at me. “How fortunate for her to have died before she could tire of her husband. Otherwise, she might not have been so happy.”

  My blood rose to a shocking heat, but I maintained my composure. “I do not understand you, Signorina Cardano,” I said coldly. “The woman lived and died under the belief that being noble meant one must always behave honorably. She was a woman with great responsibilities and not one to spend her time in idle pursuits like many men and women of our generation. I am not as well versed in modern ideals of morality as you are.”

  Dario swiftly interjected to salvage the conversation from deteriorating. “Oh, my dear contessa, pay no attention to Signorina Cardano! She can be rash and impulsive and often speaks recklessly, but she does not mean what she says. My poor wife used to become very vexed with her, even though she was fond of her.”

  Beatrice’s eyes flamed, but he avoided looking at her.

  “Because you know so much about the Mancini family, would you like to meet my daughter, Chiara?” Dario asked. “Shall I send for her, or are you not interested in children?”

  My heart thudded with both joy and anguish at the thought of seeing my daughter. “I would love to meet my dear old friend’s daughter.”

  My husband rang the bell and Giacomo entered. Giacomo, my old chief steward walked wearily and his aged features bore an injured expression. It saddened me to see him so.

  “Please bring Chiara to me,” Dario said.

  While we waited, Beatrice engaged me in conversation. She tried to make up for her previous callous remark by agreeing to my opinions and nodding at everything I said.

  After a few moments, the room’s door handle turned slightly.

  “Come in Chiara,” Dario called out impatiently. “Do be afraid.”

  The door creaked slowly open and my daughter stepped cautiously into the room. In the short span of time since I had seen her last, she had changed. Her face looked gaunt and she bore a miserable, frightened expression. The sparkle in her eyes no longer existed and it disheartened me to see her stand there with an aura of pained resignation. No smile graced her lips and her chestnut tresses were unbound and uncurled. She wore a yellow satin gown with a long pointed bodice and matching satin petticoat. The many tiny pleats that gathered in her skirt showed wrinkles and several stains. It was obvious she had been neglected. She walked toward us as hesitantly, pausing partway into the room to give Beatrice an apprehensive look.

  Beatrice met my daughter’s gaze with a scornful smirk. “Come, Chiara!” she urged with a wave. “There is no reason to be frightened! I will not scold you unless you are naughty. What a silly girl. You look as if I am about to eat you up for dinner. Come and greet this woman. She knew your mama.”

  At this, Chiara’s eyes brightened. Her steps became more confident as she came to a stop before me and placed her hand in mine.

  The feel of her soft, tentative fingers almost shattered me. I lifted her onto my lap. Under pretence of kissing her, I buried my face in her hair and inhaled the aroma of childhood. Tears pooled in my eyes. Somehow, I managed to quell my emotions.

  My poor, darling. I do not know how I maintained my composure under the power of her serious, but questioning gaze. She did not seem to be afraid of the black spectacles I wore and seemed content to sit on my lap as she studied me intently.

  Dario and Beatrice observed her with indifference, but she ignored them and kept on staring at me. A sweet smile dawned on Chiara’s face. Then she extended her arms, wrapped them around my neck, and kissed me.

  At first, the affectionate peck on my cheek startled me, but intuitively, I pulled her tight to my heart and returned her embrace.

  I stole a quick glance at Dario and Beatrice. Had they become suspicious? I discounted this thought. Beatrice herself had witnessed my burial. Reassured, I gave my child a warm smile. “You are a very charming young lady. I am told your name is Chiara, just like a pretty white star.”

  She became pensive. “Mama always said so too.”

  “Your mama spoiled you!” Dario interrupted. “You were never as naughty to her as you are to me.”

  Chiara’s bottom lip quivered, but she said nothing.

  “Oh, goodness, naughty? You? I do not believe it,” I exclaimed. “All little stars are good and brilliant and serene, aren’t they?

  She said not a word, but a deep sigh heaved from her tiny breast. Leaning her head against my arm, she raised her big round eyes to me. “Have you seen my mama? Will she come home soon?”

  Stunned, I could not answer, but Beatrice did, and roughly. “Don’t be foolish. You know your mama has gone away forever. You were too naughty, so she will never come back again. Now she no longer has to endure your aggravating disobedience.”

  What nasty words! At once, I comprehended the dire anguish my daughter must be suffering. They had convinced her that I had abandoned her because of her behavior. Poor Chiara must have taken this to heart; brooding upon it in childish innocence, blaming herself, confused. Yet, whatever Chiara was thinking or feeling, she did not give vent to it by tears or words. Instead, she looked at Beatrice and gave her a haughty, scornful look – the Mancini look; a look I had often seen in my father’s eyes, and I knew were visible in my own from time to time.

  Beatrice noticed it too and burst out laughing. “There! Now she looks exactly like her mother. It is positively astounding – completely Carlotta! She only needs one thing to make the resemblance perfect.” Approaching Chiara, Beatrice snatched her dishevilled curls and twisted them up on top of her head.

  Chiara’s face reddened and she tried to escape Beatrice’s touch, hiding her face against me. The more she struggled, the more Beatrice tormented her. Her father did not interfere. All he did was laugh.

  I sheltered her in my embrace, and stifled my indignation. “You must play gently and fairly, signorina!” I said to Beatrice. “An adult’s strength turns into bullying against a child’s innocence.”

  Beatrice emitted a nervous, uncomfortable laugh, ceased her mischief, and walked to the window. I smoothed Chiara’s tumbled hair. “This bimba will have her revenge when she grows up one day. She will remember how she was teased, and in return, may tease back. Do you not agree with me, Signore Gismondi?”

  Dario shrugged. “I do not agree, contessa. Si, she will remember the woman who teased her, but she will also remember the other who was kind to her – yourself.”

  Unused to being flattered by my own husband, I acknowledged the subtle compliment with an agreeable nod. Married couples are like candid friends, unafraid of speaking blatant truths to each other and avoiding the smallest morsel of flattery.

  At that moment, Giacomo, my father’s chief steward and mine, stepped into the ro
om to announce dinner.

  I set my daughter down from my lap. “I will come and see you again soon,” I whispered into her ear.

  She beamed and then obeyed her father’s gesture to leave the room.

  I watched her every step as she strode from the room. “What a charming child,” I praised as soon as she disappeared from sight. “As beautiful and as lovely as her mother was at the same age.”

  My admiring comments received only a cold glare and no response from either my husband or his lover.

  We all went in to dinner. As the guest, I had the privilege of being escorted by my spouse.

  When we reached the dining room, Dario paused. “You are such an old friend of the family, contessa, perhaps you will do me the honor of sitting at the head of the table.”

  “You pay me a great compliment, signore!” I responded as I sat in Dario’s place at the head of my own table. Beatrice sat on my right and Dario on my left. Giacomo stood as always behind my chair, and I noticed that each time he poured my wine, he studied me with nervous curiosity, but I wanted to believe it was my odd appearance that accounted for his curiosity.

  On the wall directly facing me, hung my father’s portrait. My disguise permitted me to look at it intently and give vent to the deep sigh that broke from my heart. My father’s eyes seemed to gaze into mine with heartbreaking compassion. I could envision his lips trembling in response to my sigh.

  “Is that a good likeness?” Beatrice asked.

  Her question startled me and I quickly collected myself. “The resemblance is so accurate that it arouses many memories in my mind, both bitter and sweet. Ah! The man was very proud.”

  “Carlotta was also very proud,” Dario said. “Indifferent and haughty, too.”