by Louise Allen
The magnificence of her chamber stunned her with its cool, high ceiling adorned with cherubs and gods disporting on swirling clouds. The walls were lined with painted and gilded panelling interspersed with vast, cloudy mirrors and the bed was piled high with silk-covered pillows and hung with billowing draperies.
Cassandra caught a glimpse of herself in the glass and shuddered. Her hair was dark with dust and perspiration and her skin was dirty, too. Under the grime she suspected that she was not only tanned, but freckled also. She tore off the restricting waistcoat with a sigh of relief and threw off the rest of her clothing. The wide boards were cool under the soles of her feet and she wandered naked across the room to peer more closely at her reflection.
Her shoulders and breasts were milk white in contrast to the golden tan of her face and hands. The poor food and the strains of the journey had honed her already slender body and the unaccustomed freedom of striding around in breeches had sculpted her leg muscles, chasing away all traces of girlish plumpness.
Suddenly self-conscious, Cassandra crossed to the door onto the landing and turned the key. The major domo would not be inclined to knock before entering the room of a mere valet. Doubtfully, she contemplated the tall double doors connecting her chamber with Nicholas’s. There was no key in this escutcheon.
Need she worry? Nicholas had always been scrupulous in respecting her privacy, even when they were sharing a room. But yet, she felt uneasy. Perhaps it was the opulent femininity of the room, the air of decadence hanging over the whole city. She carried the painted and gilded chair from the dressing table and wedged it as best she could under the door handles.
The bath was deep and hot and, when she had washed all over once, she unlocked the door, retreated behind a screen and rang for more water. Clean at last, she let her mind drift as she luxuriated in the scented warmth. It was remarkable how quickly being clean lifted her spirits and improved her temper. Why, she felt quite in charity with Nicholas again.
Unbidden, the memory came back of lying against his long body, safe in the shelter of his arms, and more disturbing, the recollection of that kiss in Paris, the response it had kindled in her…
Idly, she squeezed out the sponge and saw how wrinkled her fingertips had become. It was time to get out before she resembled a prune. A pile of large linen towels were heaped on a chest and Cassandra draped one around herself under her armpits, tucking it in at the front. She found a smaller one and began to rub her wet hair, so much easier to dry now in its boyish crop.
Glancing up, she gazed at the ceiling once more, the painted scene suddenly making sense, revealing itself not as an innocent pastoral scene as she had thought but as a naughty playground where gods and satyrs chased naked nymphs through wooded glades. And when they caught them…
Her mouth dropped open at the explicitness of what was depicted there. Did men and women truly do that, like that? And, if they did, was it as pleasurable as it was depicted here?
Fascinated, Cassandra walked slowly backwards, her head tipped right back as she followed the unfolding scene.
‘Cassandra?’ Nicholas’s voice called, but she was scarcely aware of it. The next second there was a crash, a curse and Nicholas was lying on top of her, inexplicably entangled in a chair.
‘What the devil?’ he gasped. ‘Why was that chair there? Are you hurt?’
Cassandra pushed the wet towel from her mouth and the hair from her eyes. He had knocked the wind out of her as they had fallen together and for a moment she couldn’t speak.
‘Cassandra?’ His green eyes, full of concern, were very close and her damp limbs were entwined with his.
‘I’m all right,’ she managed to say. ‘You squashed the breath out of me. Why didn’t you knock?’
‘I did, but there was no reply. I was worried about you, thinking you might have fallen asleep in the bath and drowned yourself.’
It seemed to Cassandra that indeed Nicholas was concerned for her. He was pale, his breath uncertain and he held her to him strongly. He was stroking her bare shoulder, almost as though he was unaware he was doing so, and his gaze was on her mouth.
‘Nicholas…’
‘Yes?’ His voice was husky, his face so close that his breath fanned her cheek.
‘I wanted to ask you something, but I think you will be shocked.’
He brushed the wet hair away from her temples and smiled down at her. ‘You can ask me anything, Cassandra.’
‘Well… this ceiling.’ She freed an arm and pointed upwards. ‘I… I mean… does that sort of thing really go on between men and women? I thought I knew… you know, what happens. But nothing like that.’ She pointed to a particularly rapacious and inventive satyr.
Nicholas was silent, following her pointing finger. Then he broke into helpless laughter, rolling over and releasing her as he did so. He sat up, hands on knees, and regarded her as she gathered up the folds of towelling.
‘Cassie, my mother would thoroughly approve of your influence on me.’ He ignored her puzzled frown and got to his feet, ruefully rubbing a bruised knee. ‘Hurry up and get dressed, dinner will be ready. And,’ he paused in the doorway, ‘what the blazes was that chair doing there?’
‘I, er, I couldn’t find the key.’
‘For future reference, Cassie, that trick only works when the door opens towards you. Although, if you wish to cripple your would-be ravisher, this method is quite effective.’
‘But Nicholas, what about the ceiling?’
‘Ask my mother. It is a godmother’s duty to explain such matters to a young lady. I am certainly unequal to the task!’
The servants had left clean linen set out on the chair and Cassie dressed swiftly. Nicholas’s sudden eruption into her room had driven everything from her head, even the impropriety of finding herself scarcely-clad in his arms. Now everything she had felt while she sat under the olive tree in Nice and thought of Nicholas came back to her. She felt again the touch of his caressing fingers on her bare skin and a shiver ran through her, bringing with it, inexplicably, a vision of the woman in the green robe. Nicholas might anger and irritate her, make fun of her, but she was still in love with him and she still yearned for his touch.
And it was so improper to feel like this, she scolded herself, as she tied her neckcloth. A well-bred young lady should admire and respect a man she believed she loved, and the warmth of affection was all that should animate her. Surely this desire to be in his arms, to taste his skin again with her lips, to feel his strong body against hers, was shameful and sinful?
She was feeling somewhat shaken when she knocked on the door of his chamber, but outwardly she was composed as Nicholas opened the door to her.
The marble-floored dining salon was even more ornate than the bedchambers. The long table had been laid with two places at one end and candles cast pale shadows on the polished wood. The shutters were still half-closed against the early evening light and the air was warm and heavy.
‘Nicholas,’ she whispered, as servants began to carry in dishes. ‘Is it the Venetian custom for master and valet to dine together like this? And why has the major domo given me such a magnificent bedchamber?’
He waited until the servants had withdrawn to their station against the wall before replying, and even then seemed strangely reluctant to look her in the eye. ‘I suspect that Antonio, the major domo, has penetrated your disguise.’
‘Oh.’ Cassandra was surprised at the man’s perception, but even more puzzled by Nicholas’s diffidence. He was fiddling with the long stem of his wine glass, uncharacteristically ill at ease. ‘Then he knows I’m a… That I am female? Doesn’t he think that’s odd?’
‘I believe he has jumped to the obvious conclusion. Have some turbot.’
‘The obvious conclusion?’ Her brow furrowed in puzzlement, then she dropped the serving forks with a clang onto the silver platter. ‘You mean he believes we’re… that I’m your… But that’s absurd. You must tell him, Nicholas, at once, that I am no such t
hing.’
‘And how do I explain you to him what you are if you are not my mistress?’ he asked drily, finally looking her in the eye. ‘An Englishman with a mistress in Venice is so common-place as to be beyond remark.’
‘Dressed as a boy?’ Cassandra interjected in amazement.
‘Dressed as anything. In fact if you really were a boy he would probably come to a similar conclusion.’ He ignored her shocked gasp and sipped his wine thoughtfully. ‘But a runaway, especially a well-bred female runaway, will be a cause for gossip and rumour. Remember where we are. This is Venice, the home of intrigue. There are many English residents and tourists in the city who would relish the gossip.’
‘But what about my reputation?’ she demanded, then realised how ridiculous she was being. She had abandoned that the moment she had donned breeches and escaped from her home. Too late now to quibble over the precise cause of her disgrace.
The same reasoning had obviously occurred to Nicholas. He said nothing, but gave her a hard stare and continued to eat his fish. Finally, after the servants had served a platter of quail, he remarked, ‘And I am not certain what the penalty for abduction is in Venice: breaking on the wheel, probably. They have clung to positively medieval methods of execution.’
Put like that, masquerading as his mistress seemed the lesser of two evils. They finished the meal in virtual silence. both lost in their own thoughts. When at last Nicholas pushed back his chair and stood up, Cassandra asked, ‘What are we going to do now? It’s a lovely evening, can we go to St Mark’s Square?’
‘You are going to bed and I am going out,’ Nicholas said firmly.
‘Where to?’
‘Really, Cassie, you are beginning to sound like a nagging wife. You need a good night’s sleep.’ He sounded out of patience with her. ‘I need a game of cards, some company and perhaps some dancing.’
‘Dancing? Painted women, more like.’
‘What a good idea,’ he said smoothly. ‘Why didn’t I think of that? Some grown up company for a change.’
He was gone before she could think of a suitable retort. Back in her room, she kicked angrily at the flounced drapes around the bed, then threw herself down among the cushions. She complained bitterly out loud about being left behind, suppressing the small voice inside that told her she was being very unfair and that after two weeks of playing the duenna, Nicholas deserved some entertainment.
Her eyes focused on the painted ceiling again. Did gods and goddesses really do that sort of thing? Did anybody do that sort of thing? Was that what the courtesan across the square spent her time doing? Did Nicholas like..? Her hectic thoughts were interrupted by a soft tap at the door.
‘Come in.’ She sat up.
‘Good evening, ma donna. Do you have any commands for the household?’ The major domo seemed quite unperturbed to be addressing a young lady in valet’s clothing as if she were mistress of the household.
‘Yes. Yes, I do.’ Cassandra sat up straight, suddenly full of enthusiasm. ‘I want some new clothes, some nice clothes.’
‘Men’s attire or women’s?’ Antonio enquired calmly.
‘Men’s, I suppose,’ she said gloomily. ‘But some fine fabrics, please, Antonio. Silk and linen.’
‘It will be as you wish, by noon tomorrow. Does ma donna require wine and biscuits now?’
‘No, thank you. I don’t want anything to eat, I want to go out.’
‘But, of course, I will bring you a cloak, and perhaps a mask would be wise.’
So, it seemed that guarding her formed no part of Antonio’s duties. Cassandra threw open both shutters and windows and walked out onto the balcony. Below her the previously quiet canal was now busy with gondolas, each bearing a cargo of richly attired men and women out for the night’s entertainment.
Antonio reappeared with a cloak of dull black silk, a half-mask dangling by its strings from his fingers. ‘Shall I order you a gondola?’
‘No, I will walk. There is a map in this guidebook.’
As she swung the cloak around her shoulders, Antonio pointed from the window. ‘Follow this calle here and eventually it will take you to St Mark’s Square.’ He looked at the map she had opened out. ‘You will be quite safe if you avoid these sestieri – in those areas, the low types inhabit. Stay with the crowds and carry only a few coins secreted in your clothing.’
Cassandra put on the domino and the mask, which covered the upper part of her face. Behind it she felt anonymous and irresponsible, no longer Miss Cassandra Weston of Ware, but a citizen of Venice going out to enjoy the evening like any other.
The narrow calle flanking the canal twisted and turned, sometimes widening into the forecourts of palazzi, sometimes into little squares where several paths met. Several times she had to flatten herself against the brickwork or stand in a doorway to let a group pass noisily on their way to the Opera or to one of the many public balls whose music floated across the water.
Finally, more by good luck than by careful attention to her map, Cassandra reached St Mark’s. The entire square was a confusion of people and a babble of languages. Cassandra spied an elderly gentleman rising from a table outside a coffee house and darted quickly to seize the seat.
‘Uno caffe,’ she ordered, pleased with her few words of Italian gleaned from her father’s books.
Languages she could only guess at filled her ears but, as she sipped her coffee, she began to differentiate one from the other.
A group of naval officers, swarthy and dark-haired, must be Greek and she recognised a few words close to the classical form. Two tall men, deep in a business discussion must be Jews judging their long ringlets and fur-trimmed hats, and to her delight a group of turbanned and be-robed Turks strolled across looking arrogantly about them.
There was a multitude of fortune-tellers, minstrels and conjurors, even a man with a dancing bear, all soliciting for money in loud voices and with extravagant gestures. Cassandra pushed the purse containing her money more securely into her inner garments. Pickpockets were the same the world over from Ware market to Venice, and, as she watched, she saw an embroidered handkerchief vanish into a voluminous sleeve without the owner being any the wiser.
As the night became darker the flares and lamps lighting the piazza shone more brilliantly. Cassandra ordered more coffee, then nearly dropped the cup in shock as a courtesan swept into sight, a small black page at her heels. There was no mistaking her trade, for her hair fell loose, dyed an improbable array of colours, plumes topping a silk turban. Heavy earrings brushed her shoulders, but the most shocking thing was her gown, cut so low in the bodice that her breasts were totally exposed, the nipples painted gold.
Respectable people passed her with scarcely a glance, then Cassandra saw others like her, drawn like moths from the darkness into the illumination of the piazza.
With a start, she found someone bending over her, whispering in her ear. Her Italian could not cope with the rapid words, but the tone of invitation was unmistakable in any language. The man’s garlic-laden breath was hot on her face and lacking the words she pushed him roughly away. He fell against another table and wandered off laughing, quite unperturbed by her rejection. In alarm, Cassandra doubted her disguise: even behind the concealing mask had he realised she was a woman?
At that moment a youth strolled past with an older man, the latter openly fondling his shoulder, and she realised that being a boy was no protection here. The next rake who wandered in her direction was met with a scowl so ferocious that he veered away at once, and Cassandra relaxed slightly.
The crowd fell back and a group of men wearing strange silken togas strolled across the square. Her reading of the guidebook told her that these were some of the senators who governed La Serenissima under the Doge.
The clock in the tower struck twelve and Cassandra knew she should retrace her steps and be safely home before Nicholas returned. But her feet were aching now and the darkened lanes beyond the Square were subtly threatening. She would hire a gondola
and glide home in style.
She was hesitating on the water-steps, unsure of how to hail one of the many gondoliers when a man and a woman passed her so close that the silk of the woman’s gown swished against her cloak. Cassandra stepped back, a word of apology on her lips, then froze as she realised the man was Nicholas.
He handed his companion down into the narrow craft and waited until she was settled on the heaped cushions before joining her. Cassandra had ample time to take in the woman’s appearance. She was undoubtedly a courtesan but young and beautiful, her fresh skin subtly tinted, her hair loose on her shoulders, confined only by a twist of silk scarf. Her gown was as outrageous as the others and Cassandra realised she must be wearing tight stays to thrust forward her small, naked breasts. Her nipples had been rouged a deep ruby and a single red stone quivered on a gold chain between them.
As soon as Nicholas joined her she insinuated herself into his arms, long ruby-red fingernails scoring lightly down his thigh. Cassandra watched, mesmerised, until he bent to nuzzle the courtesan’s white throat, then she turned with a small, choking sob and stumbled away into the shadows.
Chapter Fourteen
Cassandra was hardly conscious of the journey back, but some instinct must have guided her footsteps for, at last, she found herself standing under the awning of the wine seller’s booth at the head of the calle leading to their palazzo.
‘Signore?’ The man was proffering a horn beaker brimming with red wine. Unheeding, Cassie took it and drained it in three gulps then made no protest as he filled it again. This time she sipped the wine slowly, her mind full of dark thoughts of how she would like to deposit that courtesan in the deepest, dirtiest canal in Venice – then pitch Nicholas in after her.
So much for his fine talk of reform and responsible behaviour. Why, he had just abandoned her in his eagerness to go out – she groped for a word and came up with the ugliest she could remember – whoring.
Images of the painted ceiling flashed through her mind, but it was Nicholas’s face on the satyr’s body, the painted breasts of the courtesan on the nymphs.