Venetian Mask

by Rosalind Laker

  “I never thought you would survive my mother’s tuition,” he said with cynical amusement as they danced on, “but I have been told by Lavinia that you stood up to it all extremely well. That is not easy to do. I salute you. I shall look forward to getting to know you better.”

  “I also heard from Lavinia that you are not a frequent visitor unless your mother is in residence, and so I expect our acquaintanceship will always be a distant one.” They had come to the end of the dance.

  “Don’t count on that, Elena.”

  She was thankful to get away from him. She had seen lust often enough in men’s eyes, but never before spiked with such malevolence. It made her wonder just how jealous of Marco’s position he might be. Fortunately Marco claimed her then, and for the rest of that gloriously dance-swirling, musical and magical night they were never apart.

  The next evening they were able to talk about the ball when Marco came to dine, permitted at last by his mother to come to his own table. Elena thought he looked a little tired, but then so was she after dancing until dawn.

  After hearing that Elena had not yet been into every remote nook and cranny of the palace, Marco took the excuse of a tour to get her away on his own. The Signora sent Lavinia along as chaperone, but at his persuasion, she followed along at some distance. Marco kissed and embraced Elena passionately in each alcove and behind every pillar. Now and again when they turned a corner they broke into a run, laughing as they went, to rush into a room well ahead of Lavinia and share a few intimate moments.

  The tour was to end in the secret treasure room. Before reaching it Marco would have branched off in another direction if Lavinia had not intervened.

  “Not there, Marco.”

  Before he could reply Elena raised her eyebrows inquiringly. “What is it? Some mystery?”

  Marco nodded to Lavinia to show he had accepted her advice and then put his arm around Elena’s waist to lead her on to the treasure room. “No mystery. It’s a hidden salon that has been kept locked since a murder was committed there a long time ago.”

  Elena shivered. “I never want to see it. Don’t ever tell me where it is.”

  “I won’t,” he promised. “Neither will my brothers nor Lavinia. Nobody else except my mother knows of it.”

  Elena thought uneasily that the Palazzo Celano was like the other palaces on the Grand Canal in being a blend of the beautiful and the sinister. From all she had heard, there were few, if any, that were free of dark deeds in their history.

  In the treasure room Elena tried on some of the jewelry from the many caskets stored there and Marco placed on her head a bridal coronet of gold and precious stones. Lavinia, seated on a stool watching, felt a pang of apprehension. No bride-to-be should wear that coronet before her wedding day, but it was too late to say anything. In a moment she forgot her misgiving and laughed along with the happy couple. She had never seen two people more in love.

  Elena felt as if she were wrapped in a cocoon of bliss as she waited the following evening to see Marco again. She went so many times to the window that the Signora ordered her to sit down and learn not to show unmannerly impatience. When footsteps finally approached, Elena sprang up from her chair in joy but it was Alvise, looking grave.

  “Marco is not well,” he explained. “This morning he complained of a severe headache and by midafternoon he showed signs of fever.”

  Elena was frantic. “I must go to him!”

  The Signora snapped at her. “Don’t be ridiculous! Marco’s place is here in his own bed if he is unwell. Fetch him at once, Alvise.”

  When Marco appeared, he was swaying on his feet and supported by his brother. Elena ran to him, concerned about his high color and the sweat glistening on his temples. He managed a smile for her.

  “I shall be all right tomorrow, my sweeting. You’ll see.”

  When Alvise had helped Marco into bed the Signora tried to bar Elena from entering the bedchamber. “Marco is my son and not your husband yet,” she stated with fierce possessiveness. “Keep away!”

  Elena took a deep breath and defied the woman for the first time. “Step aside and let me go to him. Don’t make me thrust you out of the way.”

  The Signora was astonished by this change from docile obedience to defiance, but realized Elena meant what she said. Turning swiftly, she entered the bedroom first.

  “I’ve come to take care of you, my dear son,” she said soothingly. But Marco was looking eagerly toward Elena.

  “I want you here with me,” he said, lifting his hand for Elena to take into hers, “but you might catch my fever.”

  “I’m immune,” she reassured him, her heart contracting with fear at how ill he looked, “and I know exactly how to care for you. I’ve done it all before at the Pietà.”

  “Did the patients survive?” he jested.

  She smiled. “Naturally.”

  “That’s good.” He closed his eyes, still holding her hand. His fever was rising.

  AT THE PIETÀ, Marietta waited anxiously for news of Marco’s recovery. There were a number of cases of the same fever at the ospedale, including some of the girls in the principal choir, and all engagements had been canceled. She was feeling cheered by promising signs of recovery in three of the worst cases when she met Sister Giaccomina on the landing. The nun’s gentle face was crumpled with distress.

  “What’s happened?” Marietta demanded in alarm. “Has one of the sick children—?”

  “Word has just come from the Palazzo Celano.” The nun wrung her hands. “There will be no wedding for Elena. Her betrothed has died.”

  For a matter of seconds Marietta was speechless with shock. Then the words broke from her. “Elena needs me there! She will be out of her mind with grief.”

  “That’s impossible. Neither Sister Sylvia nor I nor anyone else can be spared to go with you now.”

  “Then,” Marietta said firmly, “I must ask you to look the other way for a little while. Please!”

  “Oh, my!” The nun looked nervously about and then, shaking her head at her own action, hurried away, keeping her eyes down, still exclaiming as she went.

  Marietta could not risk being stopped at the main door, so, taking a chance, she took the key to the calle door. With a swift glance to make sure there was no one at any of the windows, she slipped out and locked the door behind her.

  “No visitors are being received today,” she was informed when she arrived at the Palazzo Celano.

  “Signorina Elena will wish to see me,” she said after giving her name. “I’m from the Pietà.”

  She was kept waiting only a few minutes before being shown up the great staircase until eventually she entered Elena’s bedchamber. Elena, already in a black gown, sat staring blindly out the window.

  “I knew you would come,” she said gratefully without turning her head.

  Marietta rushed to her. “Oh, my dear Elena, I share your sorrow to the depths of my heart.”

  Elena looked at her with huge sad eyes. “But I have died too. My life went with Marco. That is why I can’t weep.”

  Marietta had known that Elena would be stricken to utter despair, but tears would have been a natural and helpful release. She drew a chair close and took her friend’s hand. “Let us sit awhile as we are. Maybe later on you would like to talk a little.”

  “How long can you stay?”

  “As long as you wish. It can be arranged, I’m sure.”

  For a long time Elena did not move or speak, letting her hand rest in Marietta’s comforting grasp. Then she said, “I think I should go to the Signora. The poor woman collapsed and was carried away after Marco drew his last breath. I stayed with him on my own until dawn.”

  “Do you want me to come with you?”

  “I had better go alone. She and I have not been friends, but I should like to amend that now. I hope she will feel the same. It would be a help if she and I could console each other. Please wait for me here.”

  When Elena entered the Signora’s sal
on she found that Filippo was there with Maurizio as well as Alvise. Vitale stood by his mother, a glass of wine in his hand. Lavinia was not present. Elena went forward.

  “What do you want?” the Signora demanded icily. Her sons who were seated rose to their feet at Elena’s approach.

  “I came to see you, signora,” Elena replied. “I thought we would have need of each other in our grief.”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Go back to your own quarters. You have no place in this family now. As soon as the funeral is over you shall leave!”

  Filippo watched as Elena covered her face with her hands and rushed from the room. As the door closed after her, he turned to his mother with a placating gesture. “Let us not be hasty, Mother. Elena should stay on here until her future is decided.”

  In the ballroom, Marco was lying in state, his coffin draped in the Celano heraldic colors and set on a platform covered with a cloth of gold. Elena flung herself across it, crying out.

  “Marco! Why did you leave me?” She knew then that she still lived, for nobody who had died could feel such heart-shattering grief or shed such torrential tears.

  As it turned out, Marietta was not able to stay with her bereaved friend, but not because of anyone at the Pietà. She was informed by a spokesman for the Celano family that no strangers were welcome at the palace during this time of mourning, and so Elena, broken and distraught, was left to grieve without anyone close to her.

  ELENA’S GUARDIAN CAME to see her the following day. After offering his condolences he told her that there was no question of her returning to the Pietà.

  “No girl may go back after she has left. It could only be a disruptive influence to have one in the midst of all the rest who had sampled another kind of life. The best that can be done is that the Maestro will speak on your behalf to one of the opera companies, although he warns you never to expect to be a prima donna.”

  “I’m aware of my limitations,” Elena replied quietly.

  “Whether you would be permitted to take employment is another matter.”

  Elena, who had been looking down at her hands folded in the black silk of her lap, raised her head. “What do you mean?”

  “You came here to live only because the governors and I signed over the responsibility for you to Signora Celano. Your future is in her hands now. Even your dowry is under her jurisdiction.”

  “That is monstrous! She wants me gone from here. She told me that.”

  “I have just spoken with her and she is no longer of that mind. The new head of the House of Celano insists that it is not seemly for one who was betrothed to his brother to be cast out upon the world. You are to remain in his mother’s charge until your future can be decided.”

  “Have I no independent right at all?”

  “None.”

  “Are you saying that if she wished I could be married off to whomever she might choose for me?”

  “That is correct. You may count on her to do her best for you, but my personal advice is that you never go against her wishes. Such people as those among whom you are now established have absolute power, and I fear you would soon find yourself incarcerated in some harsh convent should you ever disobey Signora Celano.”

  “The law is very hard on women,” she replied bitterly, “unless they can rise in exceptional circumstances as she has done.”

  “Who is to say that chance might not be yours one day?” He wanted to help her adjust to the restrictions that had been placed on her.

  “If ever it should,” she gave back swiftly, “I would use it with charity and compassion.”

  THE DAY BEFORE the funeral Filippo spoke to his mother about Elena’s future. “Since I have taken over all duties and responsibilities that were Marco’s, I’m willing to put my signature to the marriage contract made with the Pietà and take Elena as my wife.” He made a leisurely gesture. “She shall have time to get over her sorrow. Three or four months should be enough. She is young and resilient and will soon recover, especially if she is allowed to stay on here. From what I’ve seen of her she has quite a taste for the good things of life.”

  He fully expected some spitting-cat reaction from his mother, but he had no intention of letting her rule him as she had Marco for most of his life. It had not suited his aggressive nature to be subordinate to his favored brother, and it was virtually impossible for him to feel any grief when at last he had all that he wanted and that he had always felt should have been his in the first place. It gave him immense satisfaction to claim even the woman whom Marco had chosen as a wife. To make Elena his own would finally erase any trace of his late brother’s rule.

  “So that’s the way of things, is it?” Signora Celano saw through him. Nothing that had been Marco’s was to be left unclaimed. Aware that she was surprising him, she nodded resignedly. “Very well.”

  “I consider it a most suitable arrangement,” he emphasized.

  She ignored his comment. “You mentioned a period of mourning for Elena. I see no need for that. All the time you and she are betrothed I should have to stay on here to chaperone her and you know how much I dislike being in Venice during the hottest time of the year.”

  “It would suit me to marry soon.”

  “Then let the marriage take place ten days after my dear Marco is laid to rest. I can’t mourn him here. I see him wherever I look. Only when I’m in my own house again will I be able to grieve as I should.”

  “I understand, Mother.” He was not capable of pity, but he could comprehend why she would wish to be alone with her memories and her sorrow in the house she liked best.

  “When shall you tell Elena that she is to be your wife? I suggest you go to her now.”

  That had been his intention, but he promptly changed his mind. If he appeared to be following her advice, he would never be free of her interference. “I shall speak to Elena in my own time,” he answered irritably, “and not at anyone else’s bidding.”

  She saw she had overstepped the mark. This son was not Marco, who had been devoted to her and had listened to her every word until that wretched girl caused a rift between them. For that, Elena should never be forgiven. Even though on his sickbed Marco had softened toward her, his loving mother, and their estrangement had been mended, the scar remained for her, never to be forgotten. Filippo would listen to her only when it suited him. Even when he was a boy she had disliked him intensely for his obduracy and his greed.

  “Do whatever you wish,” she said with condescension, irritating him still further by seeming to give him permission. “But leave me now. I’m tired.”

  He kissed her hand and went from the room.

  WHEN THE DAY of the funeral came, Marietta and the two nuns accompanied Elena in the procession by water to the island that was the burial place of all Venetians. The gondola in which the four of them rode was relegated to a position well to the rear of those bearing the chief mourners and minor members of the Celano family. Every gondola had the traditional crimson ribbons of death wafting from its prow, and black velvet drapery trailed in the water from the ornate and beplumed funeral gondola itself in which the coffin, draped in the heraldic colors and bearing the crest of the House of Celano, was being borne to its last resting place.

  Elena, veiled in black as were the other women, bore her grief with dignity. When it was all over Marietta and the nuns had to leave her at the steps of the palace as they had not been invited in. She went alone into the huge andron, all the rest of the mourners well ahead of her upstairs. Only the footmen bowed in sympathy as she went past.

  When she had ascended the marble staircase she found Filippo waiting for her. As always, every instinct made her wary of him.

  “The funeral was a hard ordeal for you, Elena,” he said with unexpected consideration. “I knew what you were going through. Marco would have been proud of you.”

  In her highly emotional state these few kind words, the first she had received in this household since Marco’s death, caught her off guard. When he
took her hand she thought appreciatively that he was going to lead her to the salon where the rest of the funeral party had gathered. But when he took her instead to the door of the small salon next to it, saying he wanted to talk to her, all her fears returned. In the room she backed a few paces away from him.

  “What is it you want to say to me?”

  He was well aware of being a fine figure of a man, immensely attractive to women, and he smiled to put her at ease. Once Elena began to forget about his brother all would be well between them. His guess was that she, having led such a sheltered existence, had been dazzled by what Marco represented more than anything else. He would give her the same and more.

  “We are to marry, Elena,” he said without preamble. “It is my duty in any case to shoulder the responsibility for you in this palace that is now mine, and I also find you extremely beautiful. I’m pleased and proud to be making you my wife. You shall want for nothing. I can be generous, as you will discover.”

  She stood stunned. This shock, coming on the heels of her suffering, was making her whole body tremble, and she realized as if from a distance that her teeth were chattering. One part of her mind told her that this was not uncommon at times of enormous fright, but the rest of her brain did not seem to function. Filippo came toward her and lifted her mourning veil back from her face.