As our gondola carried us up the Grand Canal to Ca’ Foscari, I peered through the curtains of the felze, which created a sheltered space in the gondola and protected us from the elements. It was an uncommonly mild night for late November, and I would just as soon have ridden out in the open air, that I might gaze upon the bright, cold stars.
A liveried footman was waiting on the dock just outside Ca’ Foscari. He assisted me in stepping out of the gondola, then I took my father’s arm and allowed him to lead me into the brightly lit palazzo. Another footman was waiting to lead us through the entrance hall and up the stairs to the piano nobile, serving this evening as a ballroom, with an orchestra in one corner and an enormous table laden with food at the other end of the room. Yet another table held wine and spirits, manned by a veritable legion of servants. None of the guests would have to lift a finger for anything.
Waiting just inside the tall mahogany doors to welcome us was our hostess, Donna Foscari. A woman of perhaps fifty or so, she was dressed in a festive red gown trimmed with gold lace, and diamonds dripped from her throat, ears, and fingers. On any other woman, such a display would have looked excessive and vulgar; however, Donna Foscari’s regal bearing—aided by her rather tall height—made it look natural, stunning.
“Don d’Amato,” she purred as we drew nearer. She held out her hand for my father to kiss. “Benvenuto.”
“My dear Donna Foscari,” he said, bowing, oozing charm and warmth. “You are dazzling, this evening and always.”
She laughed. “You are too kind, signore.”
“May I present my daughter,” my father said, drawing me forward. “Adriana.”
I inclined my head in a respectful nod. “It is an honor, Donna Foscari.”
“Likewise, my dear,” she said. “My, but you are a beauty, child.”
I felt my face flush. “Grazie, madonna. And I thank you for inviting us into your home.”
She waved a heavily ringed hand. “Not at all. I trust you will enjoy yourselves this evening. There are a great many handsome young men who will no doubt be in a fever to make your acquaintance in particular, Donna Adriana. I would introduce you about myself, if my duties as hostess permitted, but alas.” She sighed. “When I see my husband, I shall send him to introduce you to a few eligible young men.” She glanced at my father, raising her eyebrows inquisitively. “If that is agreeable to you, Don d’Amato.”
He bowed again. “Perfectly agreeable.”
“Benissimo,” she said. “Now do enjoy la festa, you two.”
“What a boon it would be, if Don Foscari were to introduce you to some of his acquaintances,” my father whispered in my ear as we walked in. “The Foscaris also have a younger son who is about your age. His parents are no doubt hoping for a girl of noble birth for him, but perhaps for a second son a girl of impeccable breeding with a very generous dowry will suit.”
I wanted to laugh at this, but restrained myself. “Do you truly believe that the Foscari family would make an offer for my hand?”
For once, my insolent tone did not bother him. “And why not? We are much wealthier than most noble families in Venice; that is all that matters. There is no reason why you could not marry into this family.”
I shook my head. Surely now my father was aiming too high. It was hardly a secret that most of the noble families were burning through their wealth at an alarming rate, and that the preferred method of replenishing the coffers was through marriage to a girl who would bring a sizable dowry; however, the Foscari family fortune was in no need of replenishing, and all of Venice knew it.
Suddenly I became aware that I was attracting glances from many of the young men in attendance. They pretended not to be looking; I caught the eye of several and smiled politely, only to have them quickly turn away and whisper to a companion, perhaps to inquire who I was.
“Ah, now, there is an acquaintance of ours,” my father said, steering me toward Senator Baldovino, bedecked in his purple senator’s robes and looking as aged and portly as ever.
“Enrico!” the senator cried jovially. “Good to see you!”
“And you, Senator,” my father said. “You remember my daughter, Adriana, surely?”
The senator’s eyes darted very quickly up my person, from the hem of my gown to my waist, then lingering just momentarily upon my décolletage before moving on to my face. His smile widened as he took my hand, bending to kiss it. “A pleasure to see you again, Donna Adriana. You look more beautiful than ever.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Senator,” I replied, although I did not mean it.
“So you have finally let her out, Enrico,” he said, addressing my father while keeping his eyes fixed on me. “You keep her quite locked away in that palazzo of yours. I know of no one in all of Venetian society who has claimed to have seen her out before tonight!”
My father smiled tightly. “Perhaps I am a bit overprotective,” he said, “however, it is all in the interest of modesty. Young women these days are far too loose and wild—even those who have been bred to know better.”
I smiled inwardly, not daring to let my amusement show. Little did my father know that his crown jewel, the most important item he had on the auction block, was used goods.
“Allora, that is perfectly understandable,” Senator Baldovino replied. He turned his full attention back to me. “Shall I get you a glass of wine, madonna?”
I flashed him a bright, artificial smile. “You are most obliging, Senator,” I said. He bowed and moved off through the crowd.
Before he returned, a man about my father’s age and dressed in the black of a nobleman approached us. “Enrico! I had hoped to see you here! How have you been, my friend?”
“As well as ever, Daniele,” he said. He drew me forward. “May I present my daughter, Adriana.”
“Ah!” the man said, his eyes lighting up at the sight of me. “Charmed, madonna, I assure you.”
“Adriana, this is Daniele Giordano, an old friend of mine,” my father said. “He is one of the governors of the Pietà.”
You are one of the ones who fired Antonio. “An honor, Don Giordano.”
“The honor is all mine, madonna. I must confess that I came over here hoping to be introduced to you, and that I might present my son to you and your esteemed father.” With a wave of his white, aristocratic hand, Don Giordano beckoned forth a tall, lanky boy. “My son, Daniele Giordano the younger. Daniele, meet Don Enrico d’Amato, of whom you have heard me speak, and his lovely daughter, Adriana.”
Daniele bowed politely to my father and me. Although his height and slender frame made him appear somewhat awkward, he moved surprisingly gracefully. His brown hair was shot through with gold, gleaming in the light from the immense chandelier. “A pleasure, Don d’Amato, Donna Adriana.” He turned to me and offered his hand. “Would you do me the honor of dancing with me, madonna?”
I smiled and placed my hand in his. “The honor would be all mine,” I said, wryly wondering how many times I was going to utter that phrase this evening.
As we walked away, I could hear Don Giordano saying to my father, “They strike a fine figure, do they not?” I could not hear my father’s reply, but had no doubt that it was a positive one. Daniele Giordano was just the sort of man my father wanted me to marry: the eldest son of a nobleman who would one day take his father’s place on the Grand Council; a future patron of institutions such as the Pietà; and just wealthy enough to be envied and respected, but not so wealthy that he could not use my dowry.
Joining the other dancers, Don Daniele took my left hand in his right, and placed his other hand on my waist, guiding me seamlessly into the dance.
“You look positively breathtaking this evening, Donna Adriana,” he said after a moment had passed. “A vision. If I may presume to say so.”
I smiled. “Thank you, good signore. I do not believe there is a lady alive who would find such a compliment too presumptuous.”
He laughed, but then did not speak again for the re
st of the dance. He was a fine dancer, and handsome, certainly, but I found myself wishing he was more talkative. It was likely he was one of those men who did not feel that a woman was a worthy partner for conversation.
Once the dance ended, he led me back to our fathers. Don Giordano was conversing animatedly with another man, and my father was speaking to a gentleman on his other side; another acquaintance whose son was waiting patiently beside him. My father drew me away from Don Daniele—who looked rather annoyed at this turn of events—and insisted I meet the illustrious Senator Such-and-such and his son, and so it started all over again.
I danced with several more young men, all with noble and prominent fathers, until I laughingly begged to be excused from dancing in order to catch my breath. At some point, Senator Baldovino made his way back with the promised glass of wine, but was quickly shunted to one side by the small crowd growing around me. It was slowly becoming clear to me that I had just as sizable an entourage as any other eligible lady in the ballroom—perhaps more so. That Don Foscari had never appeared to make the hoped-for introductions did not matter. There were the young men I had already danced with—some of whom sought to keep my attention by telling jokes and relating stories of their exploits—and still others who sought to secure an introduction. It seemed that with every other breath one of them was offering to fetch me wine, champagne, fruit, or chocolates, to lead me to dance again, or to find me a chair if I wished to rest. No service, it seemed, was too much for the young lady who had apparently become, within the hour, Venice’s most desirable prize.
The air of mystery was part of my allure; it seemed the entire republic knew that I had been essentially locked away in my family’s palazzo until this evening. The d’Amato wealth was equally to thank for such attention. Yet no woman is immune to handsome suitors telling her she is beautiful, and whispering poetry in her ear.
Every so often I would catch a glimpse of my father, and though his expression in no way betrayed him—he was too good a businessman for that—I knew that he was delighted at the way the evening was unfolding.
Surely somewhere in this crush is a suitor he will find acceptable. My future husband is here, among the finest Venice has to offer. The wine dulled the despair I would normally have felt; instead, it became a game: I would attempt to imagine myself as this one’s wife, or that one’s, and found I simply could not imagine any of it.
“Adriana.” My father’s voice at my elbow roused me from my perverse pastime. I looked up to see he had another familiar face in tow. “You remember Don Lorenzo Morosini?”
It was my distasteful dinner partner of some nights ago. He bowed, a sickly smile on his angular face. “It is a delight to see you again, Donna Adriana. I have wanted very much to call on you these weeks past, but my father keeps me very busy assisting him with his business interests.”
“Indeed,” I said. “It is lovely to see you again, Don Lorenzo.”
He offered me his arm. “Would you take a turn about the room with me, madonna?” he asked, just loudly enough for the rest of my entourage to hear. “It is quite crowded in this particular spot.”
I reluctantly obliged. “Why, thank you, good signore.”
We began to circle the outer perimeter of the great room. “I have mentioned you to my father, madonna,” he said. I was slightly startled to note a slight slur that I had not heard before. “Of course, he met you at the dinner your father so kindly hosted, but I have brought your name up to him since then.”
“Oh?” I asked. “Surely a member of our most noble Signoria can have no interest in a simple merchant’s daughter.”
He smiled indulgently at what he took to be my inability to comprehend his statement. “He remembers you as being a most gracious young woman, and so encouraged me to seek further intercourse—that is, discourse—with you.”
I started slightly at his slip of the tongue. “I am flattered,” I said, making no effort to sound as though I meant it.
“Yes, well,” he said. He stopped and drew me into a quiet corner of the room, stumbling slightly as he did so. “I am planning to come to call on you, Madonna Adriana. I shall speak to your father before this night is over, to make sure he is agreeable—”
“Yes,” I said distractedly, my spine stiffening as he moved closer to me. I stepped back, only to find myself with my back against the wall. “Perhaps, signore, you might consider whether your actions at the present moment are likely to endear you to him—or to me.”
He smiled again and reached out to take my arm, his hand brushing against my breast as he did so. “I flatter myself that my suit will be very well received—”
I slapped his hand away, horrified. “Then you deceive yourself,” I snapped. He took a step closer to me. “How dare you—”
“Don Lorenzo Morosini, is it not?”
I looked up and beheld the handsomest man I had seen all evening. He was about my age, perhaps a few years older; tall, with a head of neatly tamed chestnut curls and light brown eyes that seemed made to hold laughter and warmth. They were rather hard just then, though, as they regarded Don Lorenzo.
“Why, yes,” Don Lorenzo said, turning to size up the intruder. “I would have expected you to know ’tis not gentlemanly to interrupt a private conversation, Don Tommaso.”
“I would have expected you to know it is not gentlemanly to accost a lady in the corner of a ballroom,” he returned sharply. “I would not wish to put words in the lady’s mouth, of course, but I would hazard a guess that you are making her quite uncomfortable.”
“This is none of your affair, Foscari,” Don Lorenzo slurred, roughly grabbing my arm. “I am courting this lady—”
“I knew not that courtship involved such insults and untoward actions,” I said, pulling away from his grip. “If this is the case, then may our good Lord preserve me from all suitors! I shall take myself to a convent at first light.”
At this, Don Tommaso—Don Tommaso Foscari, if I had heard correctly—smiled broadly, and I felt a strange lightness in my heart at the sight. “Come, madonna,” he said, offering me his arm. “If you are willing, I shall endeavor to change your negative opinion of my sex, though I quite understand that this may prove to be an insurmountable task.”
I smiled back at him and took his arm.
“This—this is an outrage,” Don Lorenzo sputtered behind us as we moved away, all but forgetting him.
“I owe you my thanks,” I began, but Don Tommaso waved my words aside.
“Not at all. I could not turn away from a lady in distress—though I do not doubt that you would have extricated yourself from the situation admirably without my help,” he said.
“I thank you just the same,” I said. “He was dreadful.”
“Then perhaps I may persuade you to favor me with a dance, as my reward,” he said, turning the full force of his smile and his warm brown eyes on me. My traitorous heart fluttered again.
“It would be only fair,” I agreed, and Don Tommaso led me smoothly into the circle of dancers as the musicians began a new tune.
“I suppose that I should formally introduce myself,” he said as we began to dance. “I am Tommaso Foscari, the youngest son of the family.”
So this was the second son my father had spoken of so covetously. “I am Adriana d’Amato,” I said. “My father is Enrico d’Amato.”
“I have heard your name spoken often tonight,” Don Tommaso said. “I had planned to seek a formal introduction, but I hope your father will forgive me for securing one in a rather unconventional manner.”
I laughed. “And now I see your true aim in rescuing me, Don Tommaso. You sought to play the role of the knight in a fairy story, and thus secure the maiden’s favor.”
To my surprise, he blushed and grinned sheepishly. “If only I were so clever as that! Truly, I wished only to help, and yet if my good deed does win me the favor of so fair a maiden, then I can hardly complain.”
Now it was my turn to blush, but just then Don Tommaso cha
nged the subject, as though fearing he was making me uncomfortable. “You are here with your father, then?”
“Yes,” I said. “My father was speaking with some friends just that way,” I said, nodding in the direction of where I had last seen him.
Don Tommaso smiled. “We shall trust that he is enjoying himself.” He lowered his voice just slightly. “Though he cannot be enjoying himself as much as I am, for I have the privilege of dancing with the most beautiful woman in Venice.”
I was thrown off by the earnestness in his gaze. I knew the fashionable thing to do would be to reply with some witty, self-deprecating comment, thus forcing him to counter with even loftier comments. Yet in the face of his sincerity, I merely blushed again and looked away.
Just then I caught sight of my father watching us from across the piano nobile. His face held surprise and even bewilderment, but they were both overshadowed by a look of triumph. Then another couple stepped in front of my line of sight, and I could no longer see him.
“The orchestra is exquisite,” I ventured after a few moments. Personally, I felt them to be merely adequate—their rhythm was impeccable, but they had no sense of phrasing—yet I was curious to learn the young Foscari’s thoughts on music.
He glanced briefly at them over his shoulder. “They are well enough, though not of the quality that my parents could perhaps have procured had they taken more care.” He smiled. “Though you must forgive me for being rude enough to contradict a lady.”
I could not stop a wide grin from spreading over my face.
Don Tommaso smiled slightly in response. “What have I said to so amuse, Donna Adriana?”
For some reason, I found myself telling him the truth. “It is just that I don’t truly think the orchestra is ‘exquisite,’” I confessed. “I simply wanted to see what you would say.”
He looked quite surprised for a moment, then threw back his head and laughed. “I think you and I will get on quite well, Donna Adriana,” he said. “You enjoy music, then?”
The Violinist of Venice Page 9