As he finished putting his signature to several letters that had been drawn up for him, he lifted his head sharply, his quill pen spattering ink as he heard doors being flung open and the sound of running feet. The letters went flying as he leapt up from his desk and made for the door. As he threw it open he heard, but refused to accept, what a maidservant was crying out to him. He rushed for the stairs.
Bursting into his wife’s boudoir, he saw that Angela had risen up from her cushions and then collapsed back on them, her joyous little bird-heart overly strained by all she had been through. He dashed to her bedside and was in time to catch her in his arms before the last breath went from her and her head fell back.
Chapter Eight
THE TORRISI BARNABOTTI SLIT THE THROATS OF THE CULPRITS they considered responsible for Angela’s death and their bodies ended up in the Grand Canal as rough justice demanded. Their act resulted in such violent skirmishes with the dead men’s kin that all the barnabotti hurled themselves eagerly into the fighting, which lasted until the Doge sent in his own guard to restore order. He then threatened them all with eviction from their houses and the cancellation of the allowances made for each man’s mistress if they did not keep the peace. Yet these were idle threats, as everyone knew, for the barnabotti were trouble enough already with their jealous resentment of their richer kin and the established regime in which they themselves played no part. At the slightest provocation they would be swift to form into a dangerous and hostile force that neither the Doge nor the Great Council wished to unleash.
Domenico, grave-faced, received a full account of the vengeance that had been taken. Although honor was satisfied, he thought only of how distressed Angela would have been that still more lives had been lost in what she had always seen as a senseless quarrel.
ON A SUNDAY in Santa Maria della Pietà the marriage of Adrianna and Leonardo was celebrated. Afterward it was inevitable that Marietta should wonder more than ever when her own marriage would take place. Although she had reasoned sensibly that there was little likelihood of her seeing Alix again before a year had passed, it did not stop her from looking quickly if she caught sight of a young man resembling him in height and form. Occasionally when singing in the gilded galleries of Santa Maria della Pietà she would look down on a smoothly groomed dark head, but then always an upward glance from the man revealed an unfamiliar face and disappointment would grip her once more.
She kept as busy as she could, spending many hours in practice, writing and composing her own songs, giving extra teaching to promising pupils, and spending time with Bianca. Elena kept her promise to visit, and although she always arrived in a new gown, ribbons fluttering from her hat, she was greatly changed. Her old sometimes childlike exuberance had been totally snuffed out like a candle-flame. One morning when she and Marietta had sought some shade under a tree in the garden, she said she had good news.
“The Signora is moving out of the Palazzo at last! Normally she would have retreated from the city to her country house long ago, even as we would have been at one of the villas if Filippo hadn’t so much to do in his new position. Filippo thinks she stayed on to give him unwanted advice, but I think she had another reason.”
“What was that?”
“I can’t be sure, but she has watched me all the time. Her eyes raked my figure continuously. I’ve come to the conclusion she was hoping that by some faint chance I would be with child by Marco.” Elena noticed Marietta’s glance of surprise and sighed. “No. We had no opportunity.”
“Has the Signora said anything to you about a baby?”
“Only constant hints about heirs, which she conveys to me through Lavinia, because she still avoids speaking to me directly whenever she can. If she hated me before, she must hate me twice as much now that I have disappointed her. She will hold it against me until the end of her days. I don’t think there is anyone in the Celano family who knows how to forgive except good-natured Lavinia, who I shall miss very much. The Signora treats her so badly. I can understand why the vendetta with the Torrisis continues if that family is as implacable as the one I have married into.”
“Have you heard any news of how Domenico Torrisi fares in his bereavement?”
“Only that he has gone on a voyage somewhere in one of his merchant ships.”
They talked on undisturbed by anyone. Marietta had left a message that Bianca should join them when her lesson was finished. After a while they saw the five-year-old running across the lawn toward them and Elena sprang up to throw out her arms for an embrace.
“Here you are, Bianca! You have brought your flute. I am so pleased! Now you shall play for me.”
It was the usual procedure on these visits, for Elena wanted to be sure that the child, who had begun to play quite well, should continue to make progress.
DURING THE SCORCHING hot weeks of summer even the stones of Venice seemed to radiate heat, and people held scented handkerchiefs or posies to their noses when near some of the canals. Marietta received relentless teaching from the Maestro. His intention was that she should be Adrianna’s successor as the prima donna of the Pietà.
“But my voice cannot compare with hers!” she had exclaimed when he first informed her of his decision.
He had smiled. “Comparisons do not come into this. Not all flowers are the same hue, but each blossoms in its own way. Now let us take that last aria from the beginning again.”
When autumn came, the Maestro ordered that Marietta receive the same priorities and privileges as had been granted to Adrianna. She was given the apartment that her predecessor had occupied and when going to a performance she was never crowded into a gondola with the other choristers, but traveled either with the Maestro or on her own with the two nuns. She was even allowed to visit Adrianna from time to time, either at the shop or at her home. Adrianna had become pregnant almost on her wedding night and was contentedly preparing for what she hoped would be the first of several children.
In October Filippo found that he would have to travel to one of the Venetian colonies to look after Celano interests there. When he told Elena, it seemed as if he might be thinking of going without her. The prospect of having her bed to herself and being entirely free for a little while of her humorless, demanding, and unlikeable husband was almost too wonderful to contemplate. But it was not to be.
“You shall come with me,” he said. “It will interest you.”
He saw it brought no response from her. Nothing did if it was connected with him in any way. Yet he could not have enough of her lovely body and mass of golden hair, which he liked to feel spread across him when she performed some marital duty for his immense pleasure. Neither in bed nor out of it could he really find fault with her, for she did all that was expected to fulfill her role as his wife. She was a delightful hostess, managed every social occasion whether large or small with attention to every detail, and he knew himself to be the envy of many men for possessing such a beauty. Yet Marco still haunted her. He himself was not a sentimentalist and whether she cared for him or not was immaterial, but he could not endure that she should be the one reminder that Marco still retained a hold over what he had inherited.
“Could I not go away with you next time?” Elena ventured. “I should like to be in Venice when Adrianna has her baby.”
“No.” He never argued. Several times Elena had tried to differ with him, and each time he had struck her so hard that her bruised face had kept her masked in public for some while afterward. It was a test now whether she would still persist. She did not. So he had cured that trait in her. Last time his blow had loosened one of her teeth and she was fearful of losing it, but fortunately it had settled down again. As he had supposed, she would not risk the loss of it from the force of his hand through being argumentative another time.
They were away from Venice for the whole winter. It happened that the State’s representative in the Venetian colony was a weak man, not fit to be in charge in time of trouble. Filippo, as a senator, reported bac
k to the Great Council, who in their turn appointed him in the other man’s place. It was a temporary appointment, but Filippo thrived on conflict and exerting power over others. He would thoroughly enjoy his stint of office there.
While he was busy from morning to night, Elena pined for Venice. She was never without fear of Filippo’s temper, which was always short when he had some difficult matter to deal with. He was not a heavy drinker, but there were times when wine made his mood worse. Since masks were not worn among the Venetian community in the colony, she often had to stay out of sight when he had blackened her eye or bruised her in his lust, making it impossible for her to reveal her cleavage in a low-cut gown. Her life was an utter misery, so her relief when they sailed for home in the early spring was overwhelming. She wept for joy when the ship anchored in the lagoon.
One of their first engagements was in response to an invitation from the Doge to a Pietà concert in the vast golden hall of the Great Council at the Ducal Palace. It was to be Marietta’s first performance as the Pietà’s new prima donna. The audience was seated facing the carpeted dais beneath Tintoretto’s painting of Paradise, and in a high frieze the portraits of the previous Doges looked down to where thirteen hundred noblemen of Venice would assemble to discuss affairs of state. When Marietta’s turn came to sing, she stepped forward with a ripple of her white silk gown to face the Doge in his splendid robes and corno. Then, without accompaniment, her rich, full tones rose and fell purely in a Vivaldi aria, all her joy of singing in her voice. When she came to the end of this first solo there was such a hush that momentarily she was gripped by panic, thinking she must have sung a wrong note or chosen a song that had given offense. Then an ovation burst forth that soared to the paintings on the ceiling overhead and to every corner of the enormous hall. She was overwhelmed, and the response proved to be the same throughout the performance whether she sang with or without accompaniment.
Soon after this evening it reached her ears that she was being talked about as the Flame of the Pietà. She did not doubt that Elena had used the phrase in the hearing of others. When challenged, Elena did not deny it.
“It describes you so well, Marietta. You sang as I have never heard you sing before. So much feeling! So much heart,” she enthused. Then she added in a joke, “It is just as well that I’m not at the Pietà anymore. I could never have become its Rose as I had always hoped, in the face of such competition!”
Marietta laughed. “Who can say? You must remember that the Maestro has coaxed and encouraged and bullied my voice into shape over a long time now.”
Elena became serious. “I think it is more than that.”
Marietta understood her meaning and gave a nod. Since that first meeting with Alix, she had experienced peaks of joy and depths of despair in entirely new dimensions. She had left her girlhood behind and her experience of life had broadened and deepened, bringing forth qualities in her voice that had been lying dormant.
“Have you heard nothing from Alix?” Elena asked.
Marietta shook her head. “When he left, he knew he could not write here. Now that I hold the position I do at the Pietà it would be possible for me to receive an unopened letter if I wished, but there is no way of letting him know.”
“Why not write to him?”
“I have written.” Marietta gave a sigh. “I believe my letters have been intercepted by the comte or perhaps by Alix’s father. You can imagine the effect the comte’s report would have had on Alix’s parents. If they had shown themselves to be tolerant, Alix would have been back in Venice by now.”
Elena could not disagree with this conclusion.
UNBEKNOWNST TO ANYONE else, a letter from Lyon had been delivered to the Savoni mask-shop. Leonardo, seeing it was addressed to his wife, supposed it to be from some persistent foreign admirer and frowned when he received it. He was a jealous and possessive man, and he disliked intensely the attention she still received from the public whenever she was recognized. With her sweet nature, she obeyed him in all matters and to please him when she went out she wore a veil as in her Pietà days or a mask.
Although he was tempted to destroy the foreign letter unread, it occurred to him that another might follow if the correspondence was not nipped in the bud. He broke the seal and unfolded it. When he had read it through he sat for a while mulling over the contents and deciding what he should do. The letter, written in passable Italian by a Frenchman, Alix Desgrange, was an urgent appeal to Adrianna, as Marietta’s trusted friend, to pass on secretly letters he would send her for the girl he declared was betrothed to him. The plea would have melted Adrianna’s soft heart, but he himself was made of different stuff. He did not trust any foreigners, and if this Frenchman was not free to come openly to Venice as an honest suitor, then Marietta was better off without him. On this thought Leonardo stood to light a candle and hold the letter to the flame. As it began to curl and blacken, he thought about the name Desgrange. At first it had meant nothing to him. So many foreigners came to his shop. When the letter was burnt he went to his ledger and looked back through the pages. When he found the name it still did not summon up a face and he closed the ledger impatiently. He had no time to waste on trivial matters. There were several more letters during the months that followed, and each was put to the candle-flame.
AT THE PIETÀ, notification came from the ducal palace that Maestra Marietta had been granted the honor of singing on the Bucintoro, the Doge’s state barge, on Ascension Day when, as it had for the past six centuries, the ceremony of the “Marriage of the Sea” would be celebrated. Marietta’s hands flew to her flushing cheeks when she was told.
“Can it be true?” she exclaimed.
It meant she was upholding the Pietà reputation of having the best soloists as well as the prime choir. Adrianna, who had recently given birth to a son, had enjoyed the privilege of singing five times on the Bucintoro. If it had not been considered obligatory by the Doge that the singers of the other three ospedali should also have their chance, there was no doubt that Adrianna would have been his choice every year. Now she welcomed the chance to talk over the forthcoming ceremony with Marietta and give her whatever advice she could about the great day.
Marietta was to have a new gown of scarlet silk for the occasion, and she consulted Elena, who knew all about the latest fashions, as to the style. They were both now eighteen and leading very different lives, but they were as united in their friendship as they had always been. Elena was triumphant over her friend’s success. She had long since given up asking for any news of Alix, knowing she would be the first to hear if Marietta had word of him.
Although Marietta rarely spoke of Alix, she had looked for him when Carnival came again. If there was a season above all others when he would return that was it, but Carnival gave way to Lent without a reunion. She let her singing absorb her more and more, giving herself up completely to the glory of music and the songs she had chosen for Ascension Day.
On the morning of her performance, she awoke to a feeling of tremendous excitement. Although the hour was early she flung the shutters wide and saw that it was a sapphire of a day, the facets of sky and water vying for brilliance in the sun that was already beating down on the gathering crowds.
In her vivid gown and with pomegranate blossoms in her hair Marietta left the Pietà to the applause of the girls and the maestri, who were to watch from a roped-off section of the Riva degli Schiavoni. Venice was at its most spectacular on a festival day and never more than on this special date in the calendar year. Tapestries and silken banners in vermilion, purple, emerald, and ochre, threaded through with the glitter of gilt and silver threads, hung interlaced with blossomy garlands as far as the eye could see. The great ducal barge with its red velvet canopy, looking as if it were molded out of gold and enameled in scarlet, lay at the quay by the Doge’s Palace. Waiting to escort it were so many thousands of small boats that it seemed as if an embroidered spread of silken hues had been thrown across the water. People occupied every ava
ilable viewing space, many high up on the Campanile where they perched perilously on ledges hundreds of feet from the ground.
Marietta, taking her place on board with the musicians, smiled to hear all the bells of Venice rejoicing in this annual celebration of a day that was both holy and imperial. More cheering rose from the crowds as the Doge and his entourage came aboard and he sat down in his gilded chair on the highest part of the deck where he could see and be seen. Cannons thundered from ships in the lagoon as the long rows of a hundred oars began to move to and fro in stately rhythm, taking the Bucintoro, the barge of state and symbol of empire, slowly across the flower-strewn water in the direction of the Lido.
Representing the voice of Venice as a bride, Marietta sang to the Adriatic, reminding it and all nations that La Serenissima with her beauty and wealth, her naval power and her military conquests, had always spread her glory across its turbulent waves. Many in the fleet of accompanying boats heard Marietta’s voice carry far across the water. When the barge had passed through the Lido canal, the Doge went to the prow and cast the wedding ring with a gleam of gold into the sea.
“We wed thee, O Sea,” his voice boomed out, “in token of our perpetual dominion.”
Nobody listened to Marietta more attentively or watched her more closely than Domenico Torrisi, who in his senatorial red robes was on board with the ducal entourage, for he had resumed his seat on the Great Council since his return to Venice.
If his eyes appreciated the lovely sight of her in her scarlet gown with the pomegranate blossom in her brilliant hair, his expression was formed by other feelings. It was an odd blend of impatience, anger, exasperation, and—on this particular day—distaste. With her vibrant beauty set against the cloudless sky, the sea-breezes playing with her hair, and the satin of her low-cut bodice revealing clearly the full, sweet shape of her breasts, he was aware now, as he had been since she first caught his glance from a distance, of a fierce attraction that was divorced from any finer feelings. When she saddled him with an obligation not to give her away to the Pietà authorities, he could have throttled her for making him party to her nocturnal trysts. Upon returning from his voyage, he had found waiting for him the continued report on her that had been instigated by Angela and that he had forgotten to cancel. Through it he had learned that the Frenchman he had seen her with was one Alix Desgrange, the son of an elderly silk merchant from Lyon. Further information from France reported that the Desgrange mill had been near bankruptcy and despite the young man’s efforts on his return, and the d’Oinville money that had been invested in the business, the mill was still in difficulty. There was little likelihood of the young man visiting Venice again in the near future, even if he should still wish it, which was not known. Nevertheless, the Frenchman’s actions could not be foretold and Domenico decided that in view of a certain obligation that had been put on him by his late wife, he should make a move to settle Marietta’s future.
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