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Casanova's Secret Wife

Page 9

by Barbara Lynn-Davis


  “It is all so long ago, Zulietta, I hardly remember!” she lied. “And I enjoy Leda’s company. Sometimes . . . with Bastiano away so much, I am lonely.”

  Zulietta nodded with warm, caring eyes, but Caterina knew her cousin had never been lonely in her life. She had gone from girl to wife to mother exactly—well, almost exactly—as society expected.

  “Your old friend has done you a favor, then,” Zulietta observed. “Caterina? You seem a thousand miles away right now.”

  “Do I? Oh—forgive me!” Caterina reached out to clasp her cousin’s hand. She gave her a generous smile that reflected all of their years together.

  Maybe Zulietta did not know her as well as she believed she did. But Caterina was grateful all the same, that this true old friend was the one constant thread in her life.

  * * *

  “What happened yesterday?” Caterina asked Leda the next morning. They sat together for tea and biscotti, the weak sun of a cloudy day warming them through the windows. Leda’s appetite was back and she ate every cookie on the table.

  “I felt sick,” she said, some crumbs sticking to her lower lip. “Did you have a good time with your cousin?”

  “Yes—not completely, no. I was disappointed you did not join us. She came here especially to meet you.”

  “Why? We would probably not get along.”

  “Why not?” Caterina felt stung.

  “Your cousin—forgive me—is a sweet fool who was so manipulated by her father she couldn’t even tell when she’d been matched up with an idiot. You had to tell her!”

  “You don’t know anything about her,” Caterina snapped. She regretted now certain details she had shared about Zulietta. “No one is more kind and brave than she is! She—”

  “Oh, I know the type,” Leda interrupted her. “No will of their own, mindlessly following their fathers.” Her voice was uncharacteristically sharp. “Fathers are all tyrants!”

  Leda’s cheeks had grown bright pink and hot. It was clear she was not even talking about Zulietta anymore.

  “Do you consider your father to be a tyrant?” Caterina asked her, gently.

  “You be the judge,” Leda shot back. “When Filippo learned I was pregnant, he went immediately to my father. Filippo explained he wanted to marry me—only said he needed a few months to earn enough money for us to live on.” Her hands started to tremble. “What did my father do? He handed Filippo a purse full of money and told him to disappear. The coward took it and ran out of Italy!”

  Leda picked up her cup to drink some tea, but much of it splashed into her saucer and onto the tablecloth. After she had set down the cup, Caterina reached over to hold her hands.

  “Can you imagine—” Leda asked, more calmly now, but in a haunted voice that seemed to fill the room, “a father who would do such a thing? Put every obstacle in the way of the man who loves his daughter so that the love goes away?”

  Caterina felt a strong urge to run away from the demons Leda’s words were bringing back. But she steadied herself, for Leda.

  “I can well imagine it,” she said. “In fact . . . I lived it.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Venice, 1753

  “Caterina—where have you been?” my father demanded. He sat behind the huge mahogany desk in his study, gripping the clawed ends of his armchair. His gray beard had grown tangled and his fingernails were dirty. Too much time spent on a merchant ship.

  “I—I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you came home,” I said, staying several paces away. “I was running an errand for Mama. She needed something mended.” The air in the room felt heavy, as if I were suffocating inside the wool carpet. I was suddenly nauseated.

  “I come home to a fair welcome,” he said. “My son is in prison and my daughter running all over the city—”

  “I was in the ghetto—”

  “—oh, even better. The ghetto. A fine place. Did you stop to pray at one of their temples for good measure?”

  I thought of Elia and hated him.

  “Come,” he said. I felt my whole body stiffen as he beckoned me forward. “I missed you. I brought you a present.”

  My heart beat faster in desire—I couldn’t help it. You can always find a little affection for someone who brings you presents. I slowly approached.

  He pulled out a small leather pouch and shook it onto the desk. Two extraordinary gold earrings shone in the afternoon light.

  “They are from Crete,” my father said. “The merchant who sold them to me says they are over a thousand years old.”

  I picked them up and admired them in my palm. They were irresistible, in the shape of crescent moons and covered with hundreds of tiny gold beads. My father noticed my pleasure.

  “Bene—it is not so terrible to have me home.”

  I flushed. How easily I had been bought.

  “You know you are your father’s favorite girl, Caterina.”

  I was his only girl. How then could I be his favorite? But it was the closest he ever came to telling me that he loved me. I knew that was what he meant whenever he said it.

  “And when I am ready, I will pay your brother’s debts and let him come home,” he continued. “We will all be together again.”

  “I am happy to hear it.” I was. I didn’t want to be alone with my father for long. Who needed that scrutiny? Let Pier Antonio be the bad child.

  “Happy? I don’t see what there is to be happy about.” He sneered. “I have to redeem him from prison like some blackened silver from a Jew’s pawnshop.”

  At those last words I felt dizzy. Could he somehow see through me? Know where I had just been?

  “Oh—my brother is worth more than some old silver!” I stammered. What an idiotic thing to say. I turned to go, terrified of being exposed.

  “Will you hand me my tray of mail?” he asked. It sat on a side table by the door. “I started opening it as soon as I got home, but the pile is endless.”

  “Of course.” I went to get the large oval tray. On one side was a stack of sealed, unopened envelopes, and on the other, the laid-out sheets of letters he had already read. On top of the laid-out pile, I saw the signature of a man whose name I knew well: Matteo Bragadin. My heart jumped at the sight of it.

  “Oh—I can’t wait another minute to put on my new earrings!” I exclaimed, peering into the small circular mirror on the wall. It was from Flanders, a prized possession of my father’s, the glass surrounded by miniature scenes of Christ’s Passion painted on wood. “But I have to unfasten these pearls first—oh, it is stuck!”

  While I fumbled with my earrings, I scanned the note on the tray below me as quickly as I could.

  Most excellent Signor Capreta,

  Will you honor me with a meeting on Tuesday at my house, at 16:00? There is a matter of great importance I wish to discuss with you. A sort of business arrangement between us. It will be of mutual financial benefit, I assure you.

  Your most devoted and humble servant,

  N.H. Signor Matteo Bragadin

  By the time I walked over and handed my father the tray, my heart was beating so hard I thought I might faint.

  Our plan had been launched.

  CHAPTER 29

  That night, while everyone slept, I snuck down to the garden. I figured Giacomo would leave me a message in our special place. It was our only way to communicate. My father was guarding me like a Turkish sultan might watch his favorite harem girl. I needed news—what had Signor Bragadin agreed to do for us?

  I saw the deep red of a wax seal shining in the starlight as I approached the old back door. My heart soared, but I also felt terror. Giacomo had never sealed any message to me before. I knew this one must contain dangerous secrets. I pulled it from its hiding place and ran back inside and up the stairs. I dropped into a dark corner of my bedroom with the stub of a candle and started to read.

  My waiting angel—

  The letter from Signor B. to your father has been sent. How did I do it? With a little magic in numbers. Si
gnor B. has agreed to guarantee your dowry—and more. He will give us an annual income to live on.

  How can we fail now, my angel? The Oracle—speaking through the mysteries of the cabbala—has shown our love to be worthy of great gifts.

  I love you with all my heart, my beautiful C.

  Your G.

  Maybe I did not believe in the magic, but I believed in my Giacomo. Was he not brilliant, and bewitching? I saw no way we could fail. I was going to marry him, my dowry would be safe, and we would even be given an income to live on. My dreams, once as fragile as blown glass, were all coming true.

  There was nothing to do now, but wait.

  CHAPTER 30

  I hid in my bedroom most of the next day, alternately daydreaming about my future and wringing my hands raw.

  Actually, though my own fears and fantasies preoccupied me, I was increasingly worried about Zulietta. A letter from her had arrived while I had been out in the ghetto. I picked it up from my desk to read again.

  Oh, Caterina, the more time I spend with Giorgio Contarini, the more frightened I am about my future.

  Most of the time, he acts like a child, and wants to play cards or other games with me. But when he’s had too much wine—which, in truth, is most days—he grows cruel. Today, after losing at checkers, he threw the pieces across the room and stormed out to the kennels. Foolishly, I followed, thinking I could calm him, but not before he had let all the dogs out of their cages. Then, when they began to bark and run wild—confused, and overexcited, poor things—Giorgio began to kick them into submission.

  “No, Giorgio! Stop!” I screamed. Their howling was heartbreaking. The kennel master came running, grabbed Giorgio, and twisted his arms roughly behind his back to restrain him. All the while Giorgio was shouting, “Release me, you ass!” and “Hands off me, fool!”

  I ran to the stables, weeping uncontrollably. I went to the lower barn, thinking no one would find me there. At first, I saw nothing in the darkness—but soon, the smell of fresh hay and the sound of buzzing flies began to soothe me. I heard soft clomping and chewing in a far stall. I slowly approached and came upon a big brown mare with gentle black eyes shining.

  “Hello! Are you all alone down here?” I whispered. I let her sniff my hand, then petted her nose, very softly, so as not to scare her. “What’s your name?” I asked. “Do you want to tell me?”

  “That’s Farfalle,” I heard a man’s voice answer from somewhere behind me. I gasped and jumped away, but the horse did not startle.

  “Oh—I’m sorry—I should not be in here!” I squinted to see who it was who had come down the stairs. Somehow, in my preoccupation, I had not heard anyone.

  “It’s perfectly alright,” he said, in a voice that immediately set me at ease. “She could use the company. Isn’t that right, old girl?” He approached the horse and gave her a pat on the neck. He shooed off a fly that tried to settle on her forelock.

  “Welcome—Zulietta, is it?” I was surprised he knew my name. “I am Stefano Cavallini, the farrier.”

  “The farrier?” I asked. I couldn’t help admiring his muscled forearms, and the way he stood—as graceful as a gondolier on the prow of a boat.

  “I forgot, Venetians know nothing about horses!” He laughed. “A farrier shoes the horses, but also takes care of them—almost like a physician. Farfalle here is my old friend, twenty-two years old.”

  The farrier appeared to be about the same age. “Have you looked after her all your life?” I asked.

  “Almost.” He smiled. “I was three years old, working with my father in this same barn, when she was born—I still remember.” He paused. “Well—you don’t want to know all about barn life, I’m sure. Here you are in your silk dress and slippers.”

  “Yes, here I am,” I said, unable to take my eyes off him. Oh, goodness, Caterina, he is handsome. Not in the way of a nobleman. No fine clothes—of course. Not tall and refined. But short, compact, and strong. Broad, ruddy face, with a square jaw.

  “Are you . . . hiding from someone?” he asked, cocking his head in the direction of the kennels. And I knew then, he knew. I did not even need to answer.

  “Is this horse sick?” I asked him instead. “Why is she kept alone down here?”

  “She’s not sick, it’s more that”—he stepped away from Farfalle and pretended to whisper to me, so the horse did not hear—“nobody in the family is interested in her anymore. She’s slow. I worry they’ll want me to do away with her, so I keep her down here. Out of sight. They forget she’s even here.” He stepped back to Farfalle and stroked her smooth withers. “Isn’t that right, love? This way, you get Stefano’s special care.” He winked at me.

  “Zulietta!” I heard yelling above us, in the main barn. Giorgio. My whole body went rigid, and I saw Stefano’s eyes widen. “Zulietta—don’t tell me you’re in here!” Sounds of boots on the floorboards, and then clattering down the stairs.

  “Here I am!” I called out, sounding ridiculously lighthearted. “I—I felt hot, so I came in for some shade.” Didn’t you once tell me, Caterina, I don’t even know how to lie? True! I’m terrible at it. Luckily, Giorgio is a fool.

  He approached us, scowling. My chest was rising and falling in fear, and I put my hand onto the stall door to steady myself.

  “You like horses?” he asked me, but with a strange edge to his voice that was terrifying. I noticed he ignored Stefano, as if he were invisible.

  “I—I do,” I stammered. “Though in Venice, of course, there is not enough open land to keep horses—”

  “Nonsense.” His voice was cutting. “You can keep . . . this horse.” He began to laugh, mocking me. “This old nag can be all yours.”

  “Oh, no—” I cast a desperate glance at Stefano, whose easy, cheerful face had gone pale. “I couldn’t—she belongs here—I have nowhere to keep her in Venice, and I hardly know how to ride!”

  “When you leave the villa, take her with you,” he ordered me. “This one”—he indicated Stefano—“spends too much time on her. Why nurse a horse that is no good anymore? I should just shoot her—”

  “I will gladly take her!” I cried out. I quickly glanced over to Stefano. He looked very sad, but nodded almost imperceptibly in the shadows.

  “Thank you, my lord!” I said to Giorgio. “Thank you! This is the best gift I have ever received.”

  Maybe it was my own nerves as much as her story, but I was shaken and seething as I finished Zulietta’s letter. I considered the awful match made for her by her father, and my perfect one, made without my father knowing about it at all. In the end, neither of us controlled our destinies. To be a daughter was to have decisions taken right out of your hands.

  CHAPTER 31

  Oh, time passed slowly on Tuesday. Or rather, the hours crept by and then suddenly seemed to jump. Was it only ten o’clock? I had been awake since daylight. By God, it’s already two o’clock in the afternoon? Only two hours until the meeting at Ca’ Bragadin!

  I sat at the dining room table with my parents. My father had been unusually cheerful throughout our midday meal. I could tell he imagined Signor Bragadin’s proposed business arrangement was going to bring him wealth.

  “You grew taller while I was away, Caterina,” he remarked. “Shall we have some dresses made? It’s been a while since—what’s his name?—Signor Fazzoli?—came to the house with his books of plates to show you the fashions from Paris.”

  My mouth popped open. My father hated these kinds of frivolities. He usually called the dressmaker Signor Fenocchio behind his back. My brother had explained to me, this was slang for a man who loves other men.

  “I don’t need new dresses,” I said, wanting somehow to save my wishes for the one I truly wanted my father to grant. “But—thank you,” I added, with what I hoped was an angelic smile.

  “As you wish, carissima,” he said, indulgently. “Maddalena,” he addressed my mother now, who sat silently as if awaiting his next command, “I have a meeting this afternoon. With
”—he paused for self-important emphasis—“a nobleman who wants to do business with me.” At the mention of the meeting, I froze in my chair.

  My mother smiled, her face wan. She never smiled broadly, fully, with joy and life in her eyes. “Let me help you get ready,” she offered. “Your red silk suit would be best, I think.” My father eyed her gratefully. For some reason, he only let her dress him. No servants. It was a private ritual between them, an old tenderness.

  Left alone at the table, my worries began to crest. How to keep C.’s father from seeing me as I am, Giacomo had written on the secret slip of paper I had found. Did he plan to even show himself? Or hide behind Signor Bragadin’s noble status, and money?

  If Giacomo did show himself, that might not go well. I was sure my father would not take well to his soft hands, fine silks, and lack of a serious profession. My father was a hard, self-made man. Nothing for him had come easy—not as a sailor, sent to sea to make his own way at just seventeen; or later, when he lost his favorite child, Sebastiano, and my mother became ill with grief. But what if, instead, Giacomo hid from him? Then my father would see him as a coward, unworthy of his daughter’s hand.

  I left the table and returned to my bedroom, not wanting to face my father before he left. My panic would be too plainly visible.

  Sitting down on the bed, I rubbed my sweaty palms on my skirt. I felt a sudden swell of nausea, and gagged into my chamber pot. No food came out, as I had eaten almost nothing at pranzo. Desperate for distraction, I snatched up Zulietta’s letter from the night stand again. Her closing words caught my eye.

  If I had 10,000 zecchini of my own, dearest cousin, I would guarantee your dowry myself. Remember that I believe in you, and in Giacomo Casanova, too.

 

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