“Shall we just walk, then?” Caterina offered.
“Walk—and talk,” Leda said, with a sideways glance at her. “I want to know . . . why are you Signora Marsigli, and not Signora Casanova?”
“Oh!” said Caterina, surprised. And strangely pleased. Signora Casanova. How she had wished. How they had tried.
CHAPTER 20
Venice, 1753
It is an odd feeling when someone you ought to love by blood—but do not love that much—goes away. You miss them in a sharp, shallow way. So it was with my brother. He was arrested one morning soon after I had taken my secret marriage vows.
The pounding came at our waterside door at daybreak. My mother was the first one downstairs. I followed close behind, standing at the top of the steps in my nightgown. When she opened the door, about fifteen policemen flooded in. It is well-known in Venice that ridiculous numbers of police are used for any arrest—which is amusing, since most Venetians are cowards. Certainly, my brother was. He let my mother handle the situation, while he hid in the rooms above us. I could hear Amor barking wildly across the whole house.
“Buon giorno—Signora Capreta?” the chief officer said.
“Sì,” my mother answered. Her face had the pallor of marble dust.
“Is your son Pier Antonio Capreta? Does he live here with you?”
“Sì—non. Only sometimes. He is—I do not know if he is here now.” She glanced up at me, terrified.
“Signora Capreta, we are here to arrest your son for nonpayment of debts.” He waved a pile of promissory notes in the air.
“Oh—that is not possible,” my mother insisted. “I gave him money to pay his creditors just last week. His accounts are settled.” Lord, she would have given him her last pair of shoes if he had asked. “Pier Antonio can explain all of this to you.”
“Good. Then he is at home.” The officer managed to outwit my mother quickly enough. He motioned for some officers to go to our land doors to prevent any escape. Others pushed past me and inside to the main floor of the house. Doors banged until they found him in the area of my bedroom. I would find out soon enough that he had taken all the money I had gotten by selling the fan.
They brought him downstairs, still in his dressing gown. My mother cried at the sight of him. I turned away.
“Signora, he will be in the New Prisons,” the same officer reassured her. She heaved her relief. At least he would not be in the Wells of the Doge’s Palace, where everyone knew stinking lagoon water lapped all around the prisoners. Or in the Leads above, with its sweltering lead roof. The New Prisons had been built in another building, reached by a high stone bridge. The cells all faced a central courtyard that offered fresh air and light.
“You can bring him furniture and a few necessary things later today,” the officer said, continuing to try to calm her. But her crying told me she wasn’t taking anything in.
“Caterina!” I heard my brother’s voice yell up to me. “Send me a bed, shirts, stockings, slippers, razors . . .”
“No razors! They are not allowed!” The officers pushed him toward the open door to the canal.
“. . . handkerchiefs, combs, a mirror . . .”
His list was still echoing up to me as a gondola took him away.
CHAPTER 21
The truth was, Pier Antonio’s arrest was good news for me. Suddenly his room was empty and I could use it for myself. It was located in a corner on the top floor of the house. He had chosen this room for himself, and now I saw the wisdom in it. It lay well away from the ears of my mother and father.
My father. I knew he would start for home any day, once he got news from my mother about my brother’s arrest. I had to act quickly. I could risk sneaking Giacomo into Pier Antonio’s room with just my mother at home—but not my father. I did not dare.
I sent Giacomo a message. Our washing girl delivered it for me. I told him to come at midnight, when I was fairly sure my mother would be asleep. Still, we had to be careful. She was a poor sleeper, especially in the days after my brother’s arrest, when she would wander the house at strange hours and drop off to sleep on the sofas.
As dusk descended over the city, I took a bath scented with jasmine oil and sprinkled more on a clean linen chemise, trimmed with needle lace. I combed and curled my hair. Powder and rouge were out of the question. If my mother came in to say good night, it would look too suspicious.
To pass the time, I reread Zulietta’s first letter from Asolo to me, which had arrived that morning. She was terribly excited to tell me that her father had arranged for her to meet Giorgio Contarini, eldest son of one of the oldest noble families in Venice, in just a few days. He was staying at a nearby villa on the mainland near Vicenza.
The Contarini are rich in houses and villas, I’m sure, but they probably don’t have enough money to live the lavish lifestyle they require. A match with my family solves this problem. I’m not fooling myself that our union would be based on much more than this, but still, I am confident love between us could grow richly in time.
I folded the letter back into its envelope, shaking my head. Oh, I did not agree! Love did not grow slowly in time . . . love seized your senses immediately. What you wanted, what was right for you—these two were surely the same, and your heart led you strongly to it. No one else could find love for you. Certainly not a clueless father.
Once the stars rose high, I slipped downstairs to unlatch the land door for Giacomo. Of course, I trotted to the back garden door to see if he had left me any secret message. He had. It was written on a single sheet, pushed into the crack of the wood. The paper was curled, as if it had once been wet.
My beautiful angel, C.—
I am in ecstasy with the sweet pleasure of waiting for you! I have eaten nothing today but a salad dressed with vinegar and the whites of six fresh eggs. Why eggs? So you can collect the whites from me in your hand tonight. Oh . . . thinking of your delicate hand relieving me . . . I cannot resist . . . one white I have just collected into my own impatient hand. I rub it here as proof of my immortal love for you!
I held the crinkled note in my hands, astounded by his desire smeared at the bottom of the page. It made me long to be filled with all of him, to be possessed and to possess him entirely.
CHAPTER 22
The first of his egg whites that night I did collect in my hand. But for the next ones to come, I had new and different ideas.
We lay in my brother’s bed, calmed from the initial furies of love. Even though Pier Antonio was gone, the room still smelled of bad wine. Drafts of his worthless contracts lay in piles on the desk and on several chairs. But no matter to us. Our love made the place the happiest one on earth.
“Giacomo—my husband,” I said, lighting a candle on the nightstand, “I want to ask . . . will you do something for me?”
“Anything. I have four egg whites left.” His tone was light, and teasing.
“I only need one.” I did not know how he would react to my surprising request, and so I buried my face in his chest, which was loosely covered by his unbuttoned linen shirt.
“What is it you need from me?” he asked. I felt his heartbeat quicken against my cheek before I raised my head.
“I want you to make me pregnant,” I declared. A hot blush spread across my face, but I tried to appear sure of myself by steadily holding his stare.
He sat up against the pillows and let out a deep exhale. “Caterina, do you think that is wise?”
“Wise?” I repeated, sitting up, as well, and covering myself with a sheet. Was anything I had done since I met him wise?
“Well, think of it,” I urged. What had begun as a deep longing—a desire to give him something, to create something together—did, in fact, make some sense as a plan. “If my father refuses to let me marry you, saying I am too young, or you are not a rich merchant, he will surely change his mind when he sees me with a big belly!”
Giacomo laughed out loud. “I can only imagine his reaction when he learns his son
is in prison and his daughter has a child on the way. He will be dragging us to the priest.”
“True!” I cried out, giggling and elated. “I am a genius.”
“Yes—you are. A beautiful, irresistible genius.” His voice was full of admiration. “But, Caterina—are you sure you want to do this?”
“I am,” I said, without hesitating. Any caution I ever had fell away as I dreamed of the child I wanted to bring into the world. A son—whose dark, joy-filled eyes would tell all Venice of our union.
Giacomo put his hands behind his head and regarded me closely. His black, lively eyes gleamed in the candlelight.
“Do you imagine . . .” he asked after a while, “that your father will give us your dowry money? Is it possible he would withhold it to be vengeful?”
“Of course he will give it to us!” I promised, having no idea what my father might actually do. And I wondered, my mind racing, how important is my money to you? Is this what Zulietta had warned me about? What is he after? An innocent girl—and her sizable dowry?
“Money is not important to me,” I said, watching his face.
“Ah,” he said, chuckling without any humor. “Only the rich have the luxury of saying that.”
“Giacomo!” I burst out, hurt he was dividing us. I waited for him to explain himself.
“No matter, my angel,” he said, quickly assuaging my troubled mind. He took both my hands and kissed them softly, one, then the other. “I promise to provide you—and our child—with every comfort we shall ever need.”
I smiled and embraced him. I buried the panic I had briefly felt over the dowry. Talking about money, and my father, made me feel as if he was in the room with us. And I did not want him there.
“Do you understand,” Giacomo asked me now, changing the uncomfortable subject between us, “that your becoming a mother may take some weeks or even months to accomplish?”
“What do you mean?” My surprised pleasure at hearing myself called a “mother” for the first time was followed by immediate confusion. “Without your sheath to protect me—won’t I become pregnant tonight?”
He laughed gently, tracing each of my dimples with his thumb. “No, it can take many acts for this miracle to happen.” He pulled me down to kiss him.
“All the better,” I said, returning his kiss.
He leaned to snuff out the candle. I moved to sit astride him, a novel position. Where had I gotten this idea? Oh yes—my brother’s mistress at the tavern. I had not forgotten.
CHAPTER 23
One night, lying in his arms in our secret room, I asked him, “Giacomo, has there ever been anyone else you called your wife before me?”
I felt his arm muscles tighten beneath me before he spoke. “Why do you ask, my angel? Are you becoming jealous?”
“No—no!” I insisted. Actually, I was lying to him, for the first time. “I only want to know,” I continued, creeping again toward the information I badly wanted, “have you ever loved anyone else enough to ask her to be your wife?”
“Caterina,” he said, his voice sounding tense as he adjusted himself to sit upright on the pillows, “I make it a rule never to speak to one lover about another. Each is perfect in herself, and brings me complete happiness in the time we are together.”
He reached for his watch on the night table, noted the time, and started to get dressed. As he was pulling on his black stockings, I slid behind him, my arms around his back.
“But, my husband,” I said, my voice playful, kissing his neck, his ear, “you have not answered my question.”
“Caterina,” he replied, unable to resist smiling, “am I to be a fool and break my own rule for you?”
“Of course you are,” I teased, taking his hand and pulling him back onto the bed. “Tell me . . . about her.”
He sighed deeply, surrendering to me. “There has only been one other I have ever loved—almost”—he caught himself—“as much as you. Her name was Henriette. I lived with her for a short time in Parma. She was French, and had run away from her husband. Henriette charmed me with her gentle nature, and when she played the cello for me—as she did every day—the human voice of that passionate instrument captured my heart.” His voice trailed off, as if he were still hearing her play.
“Go on,” I prompted, though his words were as painful to me as knives would have been.
“It was necessary to keep Henriette hidden—no one could know who she was. But after a few months, we were tempted to go to a concert at a Frenchman’s house in Parma. On a whim, Henriette took the cello between her knees and played for everyone. The applause for her deafened the orchestra.” He paused, looked at me with a wistful smile. “Do you know, I was so overcome with her talent that night, I wept in the garden?”
I was startled to see his eyes were shining with tears.
“After that, we grew reckless. In the end, she was recognized by a count—Count d’Antoine”—Giacomo practically spat out his name—“at another party outside Parma. He forced her to return to her husband in France.” He stared at the wall, lost in the past. “I traveled with her as far as Geneva and—miserable—said good-bye.”
“You never saw her again?” I pressed.
“No.” Giacomo turned back to look at me. His face was slack. “At the time, I told myself our separation would be brief. But she knew better. When I got back to our room at the inn in Geneva, I found a message from her etched into one of the windowpanes. She must have used the point of her diamond ring. It read: You will forget Henriette, too.”
“And—have you?” I asked, my voice strangled.
“The wound has healed with time, as is only natural. Still—you see I have not forgotten her.” He changed course then, melting my anxiety with a disarming smile. “To answer your question, my curious angel. I never called Henriette my wife. You are my only one.”
He pulled me onto his lap and covered me in kisses, whispering into my ear, “Je suis a vous de tout mon coeur.”
Whereas I had always adored his French before, now it made me burn with envy to hear it. I asked myself, Who is he really thinking about when he says he belongs to me with all his heart?
CHAPTER 24
A few days later, I received a most upsetting letter from Zulietta, sent from the villa where she had gone with her family to visit her possible match, Giorgio Contarini. They planned to stay there a few weeks, in the airy hills around Vicenza; the whole summer had no doubt been planned by Zulietta’s father to put Giorgio within reach. As I said, he was always grasping.
Zulietta reported that Giorgio Contarini was unexpectedly handsome. She had assumed she would have to marry someone who looked like a goat in order to gain entrance into the noble class. But Giorgio was fair, with neatly curled light blond hair and green eyes. His mother was the daughter of a German merchant who had settled in Venice at the beginning of the century. Clearly, marrying into the merchant class for money was something the Contarini family had been doing for a while.
So, Giorgio was acceptably handsome. He was also shy, not saying much to her during their first meal together—a long family pranzo eaten in the frescoed dining room of the villa. I sat on my own bed rereading her letter, the foul summer smells of the canal beneath my window drifting into my room. Her description of the villa felt like the fresh breeze I craved:
The pòrtego is the best part, painted as if the walls are transparent and look out onto a real landscape. Painted columns appear to hold up the vaulted ceiling, and between them are scenes of peasants herding their flocks, lakes, waterfalls, ruins, harbors—all giving the room a delightful, open-window effect.
I looked at my own four walls, clothed in deep pink damask. In the darkness, the pattern of the rich fabric looked like black, climbing serpents. Mosquitoes lurked on the ceiling, drawn in by the burning lamp. Not such a delightful scene.
But after her promising beginning, Zulietta’s letter took a bizarre turn. Giorgio had surprised her by asking her up to his bedroom:
“I have some special possessions to show you,” he whispered in my ear after our meal.
I expected someone might try to stop us from going upstairs alone, but our fathers were off hunting for the rest of the afternoon, and our mothers had gone outside to the terrace. I decided I should show interest in his collection. I agreed to slip upstairs with him.
Once inside his bedroom—he shut the door, which made me very uneasy, so I stayed by it—Giorgio threw himself down on the enormous bed at the center of his room. He lay on his stomach and lifted the cover off a chest at the foot of the bed. Inside were folded linens. But he dug his hand in deeper and with infinite tenderness, pulled out a doll.
It was from Naples, he explained, once used in a crèche. It was maybe half an arm in length, dressed in a white lace smock, with painted blue eyes and a mass of yellow hair. I thought, as I stood there dumbfounded, how eerie it is, that this doll is trapped in a chest day and night, smothered by linens, eyes wide awake and staring.
Giorgio showed me a whole collection of crèche figurines—exotic kings and ragged shepherds, sheep and oxen and camels—until they were strewn across the bed. Then, once he had assembled them all, he forgot I was in the room, and went about playing with his toys. He talked to them, he had them act out little scenes. I tiptoed toward the door and silently released the latch. I wonder how long it was before he realized I had gone.
Oh, I did not like the sound of this. Zulietta had been worried about me, about my taking risks and going behind my father’s back—but who was this idiot her father had picked out for her?
I folded the letter and went straight to my desk. The hour was getting late, but I wrote furiously in the flickering lamplight.
Zulietta—Giorgio Contarini is clearly soft in the head.
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