The Girl Behind the Mask (9 page)

By all means, you must come back to the palazzo and continue your research. How could I stand in history’s way? My housekeeper will be happy to let you into the library at ten o’clock each weekday. I ask only one thing of you: that you tell me more about your research. I would like to know about the contents of Luciana’s diary and letters and their significance. I have always meant to read them myself, but never seem able to find the time. Also, how does a woman from the United Kingdom come to be so interested in an obscure Venetian merchant’s daughter in any case? I would like to know.
You may email your response. Your handwriting gives me a headache.

Oh. I was delighted to receive such a letter but I was shocked by the bluntness of Donato’s last comment. I had to agree, however, that he had a fair point. Handwriting had never been my strong suit. Even with my grandfather’s pen. But he had also said he wanted to know more. That was the real surprise. I had to indulge him, so I emailed my response right away. I confirmed I would be delighted to take Donato up on his offer and would present myself at the library the following day. Then I offered him his due. I told him a little about the diary entries I had read so far and – somewhat shyly – about myself.

I became interested in history thanks to an enthusiastic teacher at school. A woman who truly made the past come alive for the time I was in her lessons. She encouraged me to study history at university and that is where I met the tutor who brought my attention to eighteenth-century Europe. She was a specialist in ‘self-representation’: history directly recounted by the people who were living through it. Letters and diaries. Novels, too. Back when it wasn’t the done thing for women to have their say about anything but what they would be making for dinner, an anonymous novel was one way for a woman to tell her truth.

A little later I came across
The Lover’s Lessons
and was fascinated at once. Not just by the scandalous aspect of the content, but also by how very real the narrator seemed. I knew that for years people had assumed the author was a man, but I found it hard to imagine any man of that period capturing the thoughts and feelings of a young girl quite so delicately and well. The more I read, the more I became convinced I was reading the writing of a real woman. Of course, the book was always touted as having been written by a real woman, but I don’t think anyone really believed it even at the time. After all, what kind of Venetian girl would have had the education and the freedom to even imagine such a thing as writing an erotic memoir? Despite the widespread debauch of the Carnevale, most young noblewomen in Venice prior to marriage were every bit as closeted as their counterparts in any other part of Europe.

So, I turned detective and determined to find out the truth behind the scandal. I made a shortlist of possible candidates for the author. There were a couple of courtesans who might have fitted the bill. Certainly, they would have known all about the demi-monde the author describes. But would they have known about life in a less exotic household, such as that of a respectable merchant? And after years in the sex trade, would they have been able to summon up the innocence and naivety that gives the book its unique voice? Would they have had the time to get the words down?

I came across Luciana Giordano when I discovered her letter to a cousin in a book on the voices of Venice. I had read just a couple of sentences when the thought came to me that I was hearing the same voice that narrated
The Lover’s Lessons
. The same phrases. No one is truly anonymous when they write. A sentence written down contains as many hallmarks of the author as a voice or a fingerprint. Luciana’s turn of phrase was so familiar to me. I determined to find out more.

And that is what brings me to Venice and to your beautiful library. How fortunate for me that you have decided to let me inside. I thank you again for your generosity and hope that we will meet in person very soon.

Yours sincerely . . .

I pressed send and immediately worried that I had sent an email that would bore Donato so rigid, he would not only fail to reply, he would withdraw his kind invitation to let me use the library as often as I wished. Bea read the email. She told me I was worrying about nothing. Though she added, to tease me, ‘If that’s the kind of dull note you wrote him in the first place, he must have seen your photo online and fallen in love with you. It’s the only explanation for why he let you into the library and not me.’

I told her I doubted it. To my knowledge, the only photo of me in existence online (apart from a rather blurred one taken at my sister’s wedding) was my official portrait on the university website, in which I looked like I’d been arrested for shoplifting. I was rather embarrassed about it. Because of that, I told myself Bea was being facetious. Subconsciously, however, the idea worked upon me. Why was I the first person to gain access to the library in so long? Was it just that Donato was interested in getting a free translation of the diaries?

Later that day, I found myself typing his name into the Google search bar again. The search turned up the same pictures I had already seen, and goodness knows I had already studied them closely. But this time, I felt I could start to put a voice to the man in the photographs. We had shared just a handful of exchanges but he had already teased me a couple of times: first about responding to his email granting me permission to visit the library so quickly. Secondly about my appalling handwriting. Were those teases delivered with a sneer or a smile? His interest in my research certainly didn’t fit with my image of the playboy prince. Perhaps he was just being polite.

I studied Donato’s face in a particular couple of photographs again. He was ridiculously handsome. He didn’t seem to have a bad angle. If he hadn’t been the scion of a wealthy family, he might easily have made a fortune by his looks alone. He was so much at ease in his body and his confidence was incredibly sexy. It radiated even from the still images on my screen. Combine that body with a family fortune? It hardly seemed fair that one person could be so very blessed. Perhaps that was why I had been so keen to jump to the conclusion that Marco Donato couldn’t possibly be intelligent, too.

But what if all those party pictures represented just a small part of his existence and Donato was frustrated at being portrayed as a playboy? Was it possible that he might really be interested in my academic research and – an inner voice so quiet I could barely hear it whispered the thought – by extension, in somebody like me?

Chapter 14

13th November, 1752

I was sick with fear the whole of the following day. I tried my best to hide it but even Maria seemed concerned. She laid her hand on my forehead and suggested she call the doctor. I insisted I was fine but perhaps I should be allowed to stay home from church? To my surprise, Maria agreed. Then she added she would still attend church herself and make arrangements for the priest to visit the house later that evening. She knew I would not want to miss the opportunity to say mass altogether. Crafty witch. Still, for at least a few moments, she seemed to love me for having given her an excuse to have her holy man visit without waiting for darkness to fall.

The priest came right after celebrating mass. Maria stood at the door to my bedroom, wringing her hands and looking convincingly worried. Of course the priest was not a doctor, he said, but he could see God would not be requiring me soon. We said a couple of prayers together and he let me have a swig from his travelling sacrament. I wished I could have had the whole bottle. Anything to blot out my worries.

Maria, generous as ever with my father’s money, told the priest she would like to give him lunch for his troubles. Perhaps it was best away from my sickroom, however. The priest agreed. He blessed me, twice, then followed Maria down the corridor. Their progress was stately for two or three steps before I heard them chasing along like a couple of children in their haste to be private together.

Once again, I wondered why religion seems to outlaw everything that brings people happiness. Or perhaps it is because something is forbidden that it brings so much joy? Maria spent a lot of time sneering at all the poor, decent men who might have married her (for she certainly claimed to have her suitors). Had the priest been a respectable fishmonger instead of a fisher of men, I do not think she would have been even slightly interested.

Anyway, I didn’t care about Maria and her soul. Leading a man of God astray had to be worth several lifetimes in purgatory. I cared about
my
soul, which was right then teetering on the edge of Hell itself. What had happened to my letter? Would I ever know?

All day long I counted the bells. Maria, thank goodness, didn’t bother me all afternoon. She and the priest looked in on me together just before he went to celebrate evening mass. The priest kindly said he would return later on so we could pray together before bedtime.

I didn’t need any prompting to pray that day. I prayed
all
day. I prayed that my correspondent would have read my letter in the spirit in which it was intended. I prayed he would understand I had not written to him lightly, but in trust and in confidence. I prayed he would be a gentleman and keep my secrets safe.

I dared not wait at the window that evening, for fear that if the gondola appeared, it would be crammed with young men come to laugh at me, but at half past midnight came a rap on my shutters. I pulled the covers up to my ears as a battle raged inside me. Answer the rap and risk humiliation? Ignore it and risk losing my one chance for freedom? My visitor was persistent. I took my chance. The visitor was my gondolier and he came bearing another letter.

Sad Madonna of the Open Window,

I read your letter with a sorrowful and heavy heart. How is it possible that a beauty such as yours should be hidden away? Not only your physical beauty, but your intellect too? For that is the far greater crime. To be allowed only to read the Bible – that book of contradictions – is a criminal waste of your young mind. How fortunate then that God, perhaps, has sent you the perfect correspondent . . .

You say you are burning for a proper education. You want to know about science, philosophy and commerce. I can help you with all of this. I myself was educated at the University of Padua. I benefitted from being taught by the very best minds in all of Europe. In addition, I have a fine selection of books in my house and I would be only too happy to tell you everything I know. But of course, the question is how we will arrange for you to have your lessons. If the only contact we are to have is an exchange of letters via gondoliere then it will take me many centuries to pass my knowledge on. You have already explained to me that your father disapproves of education in a girl, so it would not work for me to approach him directly and tell him he is allowing a fine mind to go to waste. Of course, I could still tell him exactly that, but I fear it would not be in your best interests to enrage your father now.

I will think of something, believe me. I have received your call and from this moment on, your education will be my vocation. I understand you are a member of the congregation of Santa Maria dei Carmini. I shall be there for mass tomorrow morning. Please be sure to take communion.

14th November, 1752

Maria was delighted at my insistence on going to church this morning. Ordinarily, she would have had to drag me. I would have done anything – sewn a thousand nightshirts – to avoid a turgid sermon from the priest she loved so much. But I told her I was keen to thank God for having delivered me from sickness.

‘Be sure to take communion,’ my new friend had told me.

My mind raced with possibilities. What would happen next? While Maria ducked her head and began her prayers, I scoured the faces of the congregation for someone I hadn’t seen before – my correspondent must be a stranger. There were very few people and I saw no one I didn’t already know. It struck me then, for one horrible moment, that my correspondent was in fact someone I already knew. Old Giorgio Cavatelli caught me looking at him and returned my look with a most horrible smile. Not him! Surely! I offered up a prayer of my own. His initials were right. As he gurned in my direction, I felt my whole body flush hot and cold with horror.

But then the organ struck up and the priest processed down the aisle. He was followed by his two assistants. The cross-eyed one with the slight limp I had known for many years. The other . . .

I could barely concentrate on the service. There was only one person I didn’t know in the whole congregation and that was the priest’s new assistant. ‘Be sure to take communion.’ Was that him? Had I been writing to a man of the Church?

I followed Maria up to the altar to take communion. First the terrible bread, then the wine to choke it down. The new assistant was offering the wine. As I sipped, he told me, ‘As soon as mass is over, tell your chaperone you need to confess.’

And I did. Once again my body felt hot and cold but this time it was not from horror. Though my correspondent was a man of God, one look into his face had filled me with the most unholy ideas. He was handsome beyond my most hopeful imaginings, with his dark hair and long-lashed eyes. He was tall and broad-shouldered. When he looked at me, I could tell he was trying hard not to laugh, as was I. Though my urge to laugh was more from a strange nervousness than hilarity. To make things worse, he licked his lips and I felt a flutter deep inside me as I imagined the large hands that held the chalice somewhere altogether less holy. I told him I would be first in line to admit my sins. I had the feeling I would be first in line to commit them too, if he only asked.