Venetian Mask

by Rosalind Laker

  “Here we are,” Sister Giaccomina said as the gondolier brought them alongside the water entrance. “I’ll tell Sister Sylvia later about your seeing Elena. She would only cross-question you and I can see you are in no state for that.”

  Bianca was relieved to escape to her room without making a report. She needed time on her own to think and to adjust to her new state as a woman. When Filippo had held her in his arms after making love to her, stroking her hair and her arms and kissing her hands, he said they would marry when the time was right. She had felt no shame that he should talk of marriage to her. For after what she had seen, he was to her, in all senses but one, a widower already. In no way, despite the likeness of hair and eyes, could she think of that poor soul in the bed as a living wife.

  Dressing that night for an evening at the casinos, Filippo was in high spirits. Minerva had excelled herself in that little scene. The whitened face and the hissed words he had suggested were masterly touches. What he had not expected was Bianca’s abandoning of herself to him in her shock and distress. That delicious girl with her spun gold hair and beautiful body had revealed an unexpected passion. There would be no more food for Elena, only a little water. She was sick enough now to drift away, and it consoled him to know he had been so merciful. He had been reminded uncannily of Elena as a bride, when he held Bianca in his arms, except that where there had been rigidness and hate he had found only willingness and love. If only he could get Bianca installed in the palace on a permanent basis prior to their marriage. He wondered if the Pietà would agree to her staying here with the nun to finish their library work more quickly. Maybe the nun would not want to move out of the Pietà even for a while? That could be the only stumbling block, but a generous donation to the Pietà would make it impossible for the governors to refuse. He would sound out Sister Giaccomina next time she came. Everyone had his or her price, and he believed the nun’s would be the promised gift of a second volume of her choice from the library when the work was done.

  Filippo had not whistled since he was a boy, but he broke into an involuntary tune as he left his bedchamber. It was the effect Bianca had on him, making him feel young again. Then he saw a servant look askance at him, and he was reminded of the “invalid” in Elena’s bedchamber. He let his features settle into a more serious expression and went with dignity from the palace.

  WHEN BIANCA AND the nuns arrived on a visit, Marietta sensed immediately the hostility in her goddaughter. Clearly the girl had not forgotten what passed between them at their last meeting. It was noticeable how Bianca stood back and allowed Sister Giaccomina to be first with the news that by rights should have been hers to tell.

  “Bianca has seen Elena! After all these weeks she gained admittance!”

  Marietta turned quickly to Bianca. “How was she?”

  The girl answered quietly. “Her melancholia has destroyed her. It was exactly as we had been told. She is very ill indeed.”

  “Did Elena speak?”

  Bianca nodded. “She said very little. Only that she should be left alone. I could tell by her expression and her voice that she did not want me there.”

  “How long were you with her?”

  Irritably Bianca jerked her shoulders. “So many questions! I can’t be sure. The curtains were drawn and the bedchamber gloomy. I wouldn’t have noticed a clock even if I had looked for one.”

  Sister Giaccomina gave her a smile. “I can answer that for you. I noted by the clock in the library that you were with her for almost an hour.”

  “An hour?” Marietta repeated, looking keenly at Bianca. “You stayed all that time, although Elena said she wanted to be alone?”

  “She didn’t say that immediately,” Bianca gave back on a note of defiance. “I sang a little of our Columbina song to her.”

  “That was a good idea. How did she react?”

  “I don’t think she remembered it. It didn’t reach her anyhow. I’ve told you how ill she is. What do you expect?”

  “I can see how distressed you are, Bianca,” Marietta said gently, “but let me ask you one more thing and please give full thought to it before you answer. Did you feel you were once again with the Elena we knew and who was our good friend?”

  “I don’t have to think about that,” Bianca replied without hesitation. “She has gone from us into a world of her own and what is left doesn’t look or sound anything like the Elena we once knew.”

  “I thank you for being patient with me. You’ve told me all I wanted to know.”

  With the questions at an end, Bianca became more relaxed and the visit proceeded as usual. When Marietta mentioned the startling new masks that had been made for the Carnival, Bianca asked to see them. Sister Giaccomina went with her into the workshop, giving Marietta the chance to put a question to Sister Sylvia.

  “If I gave you a pen and paper would you draw a plan for me of the route you take for prayers at Elena’s door?”

  The nun looked very seriously at her. “Very well. I would do anything to help Elena in her sickness.”

  When she had drawn the plan Marietta studied it. She would have to cross a hall into a salon that led to another, which in turn opened into the library. It was out of another door from there that the nuns went into a hallway with stairs that led to a corridor. The second door on the right led to Elena’s apartment. Marietta folded the plan and put it away in a drawer.

  “I thank you,” she said gratefully.

  Again the nun gave her a long look, “I don’t know what you have in mind, Marietta,” she advised, “but I beg you to think of yourself too. Your children are dependent on you.”

  “I’ll not forget that.”

  For the first time in Marietta’s life Sister Sylvia kissed her on both cheeks. “God be with you in your venture.”

  MARIETTA INTENDED TO go ahead at once with her attempt to discover Elena’s true whereabouts. She had Sister Sylvia’s plan of the Palazzo Celano, and her means of entering would be as the deliverer of the masks for Filippo. All that remained was to gain some knowledge as to where Elena was being hidden. Marietta knew she would have limited time at her disposal and it would be useless to prowl about aimlessly when Elena might be on any floor. There was only one person who might be able to enlighten her. That was Filippo’s widowed sister, Lavinia.

  Marietta took a boat to the mainland. There were wagonettes for hire and a driver took her on the half-hour ride to the house that had been the country home of Elena’s mother-in-law before her death. As the driver boasted of knowing the district and everyone who lived there, he was willing enough to tell Marietta what he knew of the woman she had come to see.

  “No, none of her brothers is there at the present time, signora. Since the funeral of the late Signora Celano she has been living alone in that grand house.”

  At the gates Marietta asked him to wait. It was a charming house that came into view as she went up the drive. Its stone walls had been mellowed by time and covered with creeping vines. When a servant answered the door Marietta asked to see the mistress of the house.

  “Your name, signora?”

  “Tell her I’m a friend of Elena’s.”

  The maidservant returned almost immediately to show her through to a salon. Lavinia, pale and gowned in black, rose from a chair, clearly pleased to receive a visitor until uncertainty flooded her face and her smile of welcome faded.

  “I don’t think—I can’t remember—surely we are not acquainted?” she said hesitantly.

  “I am Marietta Torrisi.”

  “Signora Torrisi!” Lavinia gasped in dismay.

  “Please don’t turn me away,” Marietta said firmly. “I’ve come on a mission for Elena’s well-being. She needs your help desperately.”

  Lavinia looked even more puzzled and confused, but she invited Marietta to sit down. “I wanted to go to Venice to nurse Elena,” she said falteringly, “but my brother Filippo didn’t think that necessary.” Hope lifted her voice. “Does she want my care after all?” Then s
he swayed back almost defensively in her chair. “But how would you know what she wants? You and Elena may have been Pietà friends, but Filippo would never have let you be her messenger.”

  “I believe you’re very fond of your sister-in-law.”

  Lavinia nodded, still wanting her question answered. “She is a sweet, kindly woman and was always a friend to me. I worry about her being so deep in her melancholia that she is wasting away. But you haven’t explained anything to me.”

  “I have much to tell you and a great favor to ask. Elena’s life may depend on you.”

  Lavinia, well trained to listen when others were talking, took in every word of the dreadful evidence that was presented to her. The color drained from her face and she clenched her hands in her lap. She did not want to believe Filippo capable of such a terrible deed, but all she knew of his cruelty and his ruthlessness weighed heavily against him. He had always been merciless toward those who stood in the way of anything he wanted, in this case the heir that Elena had failed to give him. She recalled the times in earlier years when he and Marco had quarreled so fiercely that she had been afraid Filippo would one day run his brother through in a duel just to gain headship of the family. When it was finally his, and Elena became part of the prize, Lavinia had been sure that he often punished his lovely little bride for having loved his brother as she could not love him. There were times when Elena’s courageous attempts to be happy, to laugh and chatter while she tried to hide a bruise on her neck or a pain in her side, had torn at Lavinia’s heart, but always her mother had been in the palace to prevent all but the briefest show of friendship.

  Lavinia put a trembling hand to her brow. Marietta had reached the end of what she came to say and was looking at her with such intense appeal that it frightened her. How could she do what she was being asked with her mother screaming in her ears?

  “Please,” Marietta urged again, “tell me how to find the place where Elena might be concealed. You must be able to think of somewhere. Is there a secret room? For mercy’s sake, tell me! Don’t let Elena die!”

  Lavinia’s whole body shook in agitation. She feared her teeth might begin to chatter in fright at the terrible dilemma into which she had been plunged. But she couldn’t let that little butterfly of a girl die. Her head bobbed as if she were a puppet on a string and the words seemed to jump disjointedly out of her mouth as if by their own volition.

  “There’s a cupboard in Filippo’s bedchamber. It conceals the double entrance to a room of ill deeds that hasn’t been opened for many years.” She paused to draw a deep breath and then continued while Marietta sat in silence, absorbing the rest of what Lavinia had to tell her.

  When all was said, Lavinia threw her arms over her head and rocked as if she feared she was about to be beaten for having revealed a Celano secret to a Torrisi. Marietta could see that the woman was at a breaking point, but she had to press one more question on her. Elena had spoken of Filippo’s adjoining room.

  “Is Filippo’s bedchamber next to Elena’s apartment?”

  “Yes.” Lavinia rocked harder than before.

  “I thank you with all my heart!”

  Marietta hurried from the house to run to the transport that was waiting for her.

  Chapter Sixteen

  MARIETTA WAS FORCED TO WAIT TWO DAYS FOR THE CONVENING of the Great Council before she could go to the Palazzo Celano. She would get only one chance to save Elena and she dared not risk Filippo’s appearing at an inopportune moment. An important debate, concerning measures to be taken by the Venetian Navy in view of recent developments in the fighting between the French and the Austrians, would be a lengthy affair that all councillors were expected to attend. It was no problem finding out that the debate would start at four o’clock after earlier meetings of the various committees.

  Marietta prepared all she thought she might need. There was a coil of rope to be wound about her waist, a file in case Elena was chained, a sharp knife, a candle and tinderbox, scissors, a small flask of French cognac, a ring of assorted old keys she had borrowed from Leonardo to try if the one for the inner door should be in Filippo’s pocket, and smelling salts. Finally, there was a small ladies’ pistol that would be loaded just before she set out.

  When the day came, it began upsettingly with one of the women mask-makers slipping on the floor of the workshop and breaking her wrist. Even worse, when Marietta was about to return home from the market across the Rialto Bridge she saw a crowd clustered on the Fondamento del Vin, and as she passed she saw the bodies of a gondolier and a woman being lifted from a gondola. She heard someone say they had just been found stabbed to death in the shuttered felze of the man’s own vessel.

  Many times Marietta glanced at the clock as the hours went by. At two o’clock the great bell of the Campanile began summoning all councillors in the city to their meetings. Soon afterward she changed into a plain woolen gown with deep pockets into which she put most of what she had collected to bring. She concealed the rope under her sash, and tucked the loaded pistol into its satin folds. When she had put on a short cape, she slipped the traditional black silk mantilla over her head and fastened it under her chin. Then she donned her white bauta mask and her black tricorne hat.

  From the workshop she collected the beribboned box that held the masks for Elena and slipped it over her arm. Those for Filippo she would pick up from Leonardo’s shop, for they were so elaborate they could not be packed until the last minute.

  When Marietta reached Leonardo’s shop he came out with his boxes to carry them for her to a gondola. These were not heavy but they were large and bulky.

  “I still think I should go to the Palazzo Celano with you,” he said, reviving an argument they had had previously as they walked along side by side.

  “I don’t want you involved in case anything should go wrong.” She smiled to make light of the chances she herself was taking. “My motive is not entirely unselfish. Adrianna has promised that Elizabetta and the twins will always have a home with you both if anything untoward should happen to me. It will be much better that you arrive blamelessly at the Palazzo Celano after I’ve had time to do what has to be done. Then nobody can accuse you of anything.”

  He remained unconvinced, but she was not to be swayed.

  “Good luck!” he said, his voice gruff with concern for her as she boarded the gondola.

  She gave him a little wave of reassurance and took her seat.

  At the water portico of the Palazzo Celano she explained to the young footman on duty that she was the carrier of the Savoni masks and was to wait for Signor Savoni to join her later. The footman did not question her being masked and mantled, as this was suitable for anyone representing a mask-shop in Carnival, but he was reluctant to admit her.

  “Signor Celano won’t be back before the end of the debate in the Hall of the Great Council and that could be a long time yet. You had better go away and come back later.”

  She shook her head and her voice took on a friendly, conspiratorial note. “It will be my good fortune to have a little rest. Delivering masks is a welcome change from serving customers and being in the workshop. I would really appreciate this chance to sit down and enjoy a little leisure before Signor Savoni arrives to supervise the trying on of the masks.”

  He nodded amiably. “Very well. I know the feeling. I don’t often get the chance of a rest myself.” He took the two large boxes she handed to him and stood aside to let her enter. “Why were you sent ahead so early?”

  “My employer is elsewhere at the present time and uncertain as to when he will arrive. My being in charge temporarily means he can come straight here without having to carry the wares around with him.”

  The footman began leading the way to the main staircase. “What masks are selling best this season?” He was as interested as any other Venetian, rich or poor, in the latest novelty. New masks rarely made a reappearance the following year, whereas nothing could replace the popularity of old favorites.

  “T
here are some curiously patterned ones that people seem to like,” Marietta said as they ascended the stairs. “I don’t care for them much myself. But the other Savoni shop in the Calle della Madonna has some really spectacular ones that are in constant demand.”

  “I always go for a red Pulcinella mask myself.”

  She approved his traditional choice. “With the tall cone hat, the padded hump between the shoulders, and the white costume?”

  “Of course. To have any mask without the rest of the outfit makes a poor show.” He winked at her mischievously. “Pulcinella is expected to take liberties at Carnival and I always have a good time. I could tell you some tales, but I expect in the mask business you hear a lot.”

  She gave a little laugh. “I do.”

  The footman enjoyed chatting with tradespeople. With the nobility it was all silent bowing and scraping. Yet at Carnival time he’d upended any number of those haughty patrician women, who in their masks neither knew nor cared who he was in his disguise. There was no place in all the world to match Venice at Carnival for adventure.

  “What has the Savoni workshop produced for the Signor in these boxes?” he inquired inquisitively.

  “Two truly splendid creations! But I’m not allowed to describe them, because Signor Celano will want to surprise everyone when the time comes. Those were my instructions. I can tell you about those for his wife. They’re—”