The Rossetti Letter (v5) (30 page)

C
LAIRE WAS AWAKE
before sunrise. Working at the alcove desk by the light of a small lamp, she looked over her notes from the day before.

Alessandra’s second diary, which they’d “liberated” from Andrew Kent the previous afternoon, hadn’t yielded the sort of material she’d hoped for. What she needed more than anything else was some kind of link between Alessandra and one of the conspirators named in the Rossetti Letter, but every source she’d found so far led to a dead end. If only that Italian edition of Fazzini’s
Diary
hadn’t been destroyed. She was fairly certain that she could procure a copy of it through the Harvard Library once she got home, but that wasn’t going to help her now. Yesterday, Claire had read the English edition once more and checked the dates of Fazzini’s report of the courtesan’s debut and Bedmar’s mention of a party at La Celestia’s, and deduced that they had both occurred sometime in June 1617. An interesting coincidence, but still it was a long, long leap to make from that to a connection between Bedmar and Alessandra, especially since Claire didn’t have any evidence that La Sirena and Alessandra were one and the same.

And Alessandra herself wasn’t helping at all. Her dairies were remarkably unrevealing, almost pointedly so. Alessandra’s second diary seemed very much a continuation of the first, filled with the prosaic details of her daily life.

Had a pleasant visit from the charming Signora Bognolo,
Claire read.
She asked for a donation to help educate the orphans of Santa Maria dei Dereletti; she hopes to begin a
sala
di
musica
there. I gave of a few ducats and two dresses…

Claire hadn’t had enough time to translate the entire diary but, knowing she was on borrowed time, she’d skipped through it and selected passages from throughout the book. Even in the days preceding the conspiracy’s exposure and demise, there was nothing that referred to Bedmar, his cohorts, or to any suspicious activities. How could the conspiracy transpire right under Alessandra’s nose and she not write about it? It was as if it hadn’t even happened.

As if it hadn’t happened.
Claire sighed. Maybe Andrew Kent was right after all. Clearly he’d spent time in Venice before this, digging around and finding nothing that could be considered definitive evidence of a Spanish conspiracy. What had he said in his lecture, that history would tell lies? Perhaps he was right, and the historians who had previously related the tale of the Spanish Conspiracy were propagating a fiction, knowingly or not. It was a relatively commonplace occurrence: theories and even facts that had once been considered incontrovertible were found to be false, unfounded, and history was rewritten; that’s what kept historians in business.

But hadn’t Andrew Kent admitted that he was having trouble writing his book? Actually, he’d said the
outline
of his book—which meant he was a long way from finishing it, or even from coming up with a solid hypothesis. Claire remembered the frustration in his voice, but the glimmer of hopefulness that memory inspired was short-lived. If she couldn’t find the evidence she needed to support her own telling of the Spanish Conspiracy, she’d have to revise her dissertation, and whether or not Andrew Kent wrote a book would be beside the point. Revising would mean another year of work, perhaps two, and unless she got a generous grant or yet another student loan, she wasn’t sure that she could afford to keep going. She’d have to get a job before her Ph.D. was completed—what were the chances that she’d then be able to finish it?

Claire stretched, tried to push such depressing thoughts from her mind, and absently picked a postcard up from off the desk. It had a photo of the Lido’s long, golden beach on the front, Gwen’s handwriting on the back:

Claire placed the postcard writing side down again, as she had found it, and tried to remember being fourteen, when meeting a boy on a beach was just about the most exciting thing that could happen. Or maybe telling it to your best friend later was the best part.
Your best friend.
Claire had always had a best friend; ever since grade school, she’d had someone to tell “everything” to. Come to think of it, every woman she knew had someone to whom she told most of her secrets. Yes, of course. Every woman had someone.

It felt odd to be without Gwen, Claire thought as she climbed the gilded staircase to the Marciana. Funny how she’d so quickly become accustomed to having the girl loping along at her side. But this worked out best for both of them, as she still had a lot of work to do and Gwen hadn’t been especially thrilled to spend another day in the library.

They were just about to go downstairs to breakfast when Stefania had called and asked if Gwen would like to come over for the day, explaining that she was grounded for getting home past her curfew the night before. Gwen was enormously relieved that Stefania didn’t hold her responsible for her temporary loss of freedom, and was eager to rejoin her friend, no doubt to rehash the dramatic events of the previous evening. Before they left to go to the Baldessaris’, Claire created a mini survival kit—a hotel business card, a map of Venice, a phone card, a guidebook, and a list of the police and emergency phone numbers—that she insisted Gwen keep with her.

“Stefania says her mom isn’t letting us out of the house,” Gwen protested. “I’m not pinning this to my shirt.” She waved the small, safety-pinned slip of paper on which Claire had written the
biblioteca
’s phone number. “I’m not eight.”

“Then keep it in your pants pocket.”

Gwen rolled her eyes.

“In case you lose your backpack,” Claire explained.

“I’m not going to lose—”

“In case someone steals your backpack.”

“I don’t think Stefania’s mom is letting us out of her
room.
And by the way, Stefania says her mom doesn’t know that she saw Marco last night, so don’t say anything.”

“How can she be so sure her mom doesn’t know?” Claire didn’t think much got past Renata, especially where her children were concerned.

“Because Stefania said if she knew, she’d be grounded for the rest of her life, not just two days.”

But when they got to the Baldessaris’ house, Claire had the distinct impression that, while Stefania’s mother might be ignorant of the details, she’d come to an accurate conclusion about the general circumstances of the night before. Upon their arrival, the two girls had almost immediately dashed upstairs, leaving her alone with Renata, not a situation she had been anticipating with pleasure.

“Thanks for letting Gwen stay with you for the day,” said Claire, aiming for the fastest conversational route to “good-bye.” “It will make it much easier for me to work.”

“It is nice for me, too. In fact, I encouraged it,” Renata said. She sounded almost friendly; her antipathy toward Claire seemed to have been turned down a notch. Perhaps the problems of her youngest child had made her forget about the problems of her eldest. “I don’t know if you know what it’s like to have a fifteen-year-old moping about the house all day, but I can assure you, it’s very unpleasant. I thought if Gwen came over, it might take Stefania’s mind off the terrible tragedy that is her life,” she said, with gentle sarcasm and a smile.

Claire smiled back. “I guess it’s tough, being fifteen.”

Renata laughed. “Apparently, it is terrible. But don’t worry, they’re not going anywhere, and I will be here as well. So there is no chance of anyone getting lost.”

Oh yeah, she knew, Claire had thought.

After consulting Francesca, who assured Claire that she could have the necessary documents quickly brought from the archives, Claire walked out of the Marciana and to the Riva, and then through the front door of the Hotel Danieli. The second part of her plan would be considerably more difficult than the first.

At the desk, she asked the clerk to ring Andrew Kent. With any luck, he’d be alone and would agree to meet her in the lobby. It was bad enough that she was going to have to swallow some of her pride in order to talk to him. She certainly didn’t want to do it in front of Gabriella.

“I’m sorry, he’s not answering,” the clerk said, hanging up.

“Do you know if he went out jogging, by any chance?”

“I haven’t seen him this morning, but I just came on duty a few minutes ago. Why don’t you try the restaurant?” He pointed to a wide doorway.

In the dining room, Claire found Andrew Kent seated alone, finishing a late breakfast and reading the newspaper, broken glasses set slightly askew on his face. “Good morning,” she said.

“Oh. Hello.” He took off his glasses and hastily put them in his pocket. “What are you doing here?”

“May I sit down?”

“Of course.”

Claire launched in without preamble. “Have you ever thought about reading her letters?”

“Whose letters?”

“Alessandra’s.”

“I’ve read a few, but they don’t seem to be of any consequence.”

“Have you found anything in her diary that explains why she waited two months before revealing the conspiracy?”

“No. In fact, there doesn’t seem to be much of anything at all in either one of them. For a courtesan who had some powerful lovers and who must have been privy to at least a few secrets and intrigues, the diaries are remarkably tedious. It’s like reading the journal of a country wife. ‘Planted squash in the garden on Tuesday.’ ‘Got fitted for a new gown to wear to the marchioness’s party.’ She goes to church every Sunday and always finds something illuminating in the service. But most important, nowhere in it did she write ‘Spaniards plotting to overthrow the Venetian Republic.’”

“Did she write, ‘Today the Council of Ten asked me to write a letter’?”

“No.”

“The diaries don’t support your conclusions at all, do they?”

“Nor yours.”

“What if she didn’t put anything important in them on purpose?”

Andrew downed the last sip of coffee. “I’m not following you.”

“What if she wrote the diaries with the expectation that they would be read by other people? For instance, if she was ever taken to court, those diaries could be important evidence. Only thirty years before, Veronica Franco was charged with witchcraft by a former servant. Obviously it was a lie, but still she had to defend herself before a judge. Even though she was successful, it couldn’t have been easy. Alessandra would have known about that. After all, the government was quite happy to have the courtesans about—they brought in millions of ducats in tax revenue every year—but courtesans didn’t have the same legal protections as other Venetian citizens. Maybe the diaries were Alessandra’s way of creating some protection. Anyone who read them would quickly see that she led a blameless life: no devil worship, no clandestine meetings, no impious thoughts. Even her lovers are never mentioned.”

“So you’re saying that she created a kind of smoke screen—a facade of propriety?”

“Either that, or she’s the most insipid, boring, and abstinent courtesan who ever lived.”

Andrew nodded thoughtfully. “That’s very clever.”

“Thank you.”

“I meant of her.”

“I didn’t see you figuring it out,” said Claire, a bit frostily. “Anyway, that’s not what I came to tell you. The Marciana has twenty-eight letters that Alessandra wrote between January and March 1618.”

“What do you expect to find in twenty-eight letters? In those days, people of consequence wrote two or three letters every day. How much do you think you’re going to discover by reading twenty-eight?”

“But all of these letters were written to women.”

“And your point is?”

“Every woman has someone she tells everything to, a confidante, a best friend. It could have been a friend from childhood, or another courtesan—but there’s got to be someone.”

“That may be so, but it doesn’t necessarily follow that Alessandra wrote anything revealing to her confidante. Maybe she saved her secrets for when they were together.”

“But it’s possible. You have to admit that much.”

“Yes, it’s possible. But why are you telling me?”

“I thought you might want to work together on this.”

His eyes narrowed. “Really? Why?”

If there was ever a time for womanly wiles, this was it. “Well, um, because you’re the best,” Claire began. “You’re the expert on the conspiracy. Of course, you don’t believe there was a conspiracy, or at least not a Spanish conspiracy, but you know what I mean. You were nice enough to tell me about the discrepancy in the Rossetti Letter. And I’m sure I could learn so much from working with you—”

“You can’t translate twenty-eight letters in one day by yourself, can you?”

“No.”

Andrew tossed his napkin on the table and stood up. “All right, then. Let’s go.”

C
LAIRE AND
A
NDREW
K
ENT
sat across from each other at a table near the center of the library. Between them was a pile of over two dozen four-hundred-year-old letters, each encased in its own protective plastic sleeve.

Claire looked up from the letter she was translating—she was already certain that it was not the enlightening missive she was looking for—and stole a glance at her colleague. He was lost in concentration, eyes fixed on the document before him, now and then looking away just long enough to check his notebook and the translation that seemed to flow from his pen. He bit his lower lip as he worked, and occasionally, quite unconsciously it seemed, brushed an unruly lock of hair from his eyes or pushed his glasses farther up the bridge of his nose.

He’d put those glasses on with a look of pique, she recalled; she had been amused and even a little touched by this fleeting moment of vanity. Was it simply because they were broken, or did he think they made him seem older? Not that he was old; late thirties at most. His face was actually very nice, she thought as she considered it, even handsome, especially when he was unguarded and wasn’t being pompous or critical. Like the way he’d looked last night, when he’d said…what he’d said. She wondered for a moment if he’d been drinking. Not that he had seemed intoxicated, but for the life of her, she couldn’t imagine the man who was now sitting across from her saying anything like that to her ever again.

Amazing how he could sit only three feet from her and not notice her at all, she thought with growing irritation. She gazed steadily at his forehead and willed him to look up. He didn’t. Well, it really shouldn’t surprise her that he was immune to her silent yet undoubtedly mesmeric influence. They’d already spent half the day together and he hadn’t said a word about why he’d said…what he’d said. In fact, he hadn’t mentioned last night at all, hadn’t even offered a neutral opening sally such as, “It was nice running into you yesterday evening” or “Thought any more about the Rossetti Letter?” or any such thing that might have eventually led to a conversation about his remark. It was as if he’d completely forgotten about it, indeed, as if it had never happened at all. Well, if he wasn’t going to say anything about it, she certainly wasn’t going to say anything about it. Maybe if she stared at him long enough, though, he’d look at her and say—

“You finished with yours yet?” he asked, briefly glancing up and making an impatient gesture toward the letter lying in front of her.

“Almost,” said Claire brusquely, returning her attention to the letter and translating the remaining few words.

“Well?” He rubbed his forehead.

Claire cleared her throat and read from her notebook. “‘Please send the velvet and the brocade over at once. The two muslin dresses are not required until after Lent. Also please advise about matching shoes for the velvet gown. Yours sincerely,’ et cetera, et cetera.” She flipped the letter over to look at the direction. “Simone Montecelli, on the Merceria.”

“Her dressmaker.”

“Apparently so. And yours?”

“‘My dear Isabella,’” Andrew read, “‘Such delight you afforded our grateful party on Tuesday—as you could see, my escort was entranced by the sumptuousness of your arrangements and the exquisite cuisine which you provided.

“‘The program of entertainments was also quite diverting—tell me, where did you find so many talented dwarfs? Their antics were so amusing I thought I would break from laughter…’ shall I go on?”

“No.”

“I thought not. I think we can reasonably assume that this letter to the baronessa di Castiglione was written only to fulfill a social obligation.”

“Still, either of these women could have been a close friend.”

“A dressmaker?”

“Why not? Hairdressers are traditionally women’s confidantes, why not a dressmaker?”

“You think that shopping list of dresses is somehow revealing?”

“No, but maybe there’s another letter.”

“Or, here’s a thought. Perhaps it’s in code,” said Andrew, lowering his voice and leaning closer. “‘Muslin dresses’ actually means ‘armed legions.’”

“That’s very clever.”

“Thank you.”

“I meant of her. And making jokes is not helpful.”

Andrew sighed and put his pen down. “I think we’re wasting our time here.”

“But we’ve only gotten through twelve letters so far.” Claire sorted the stack of documents. “Instead of working on them in chronological order, why don’t we see if one of these looks as though it’s addressed to a friend instead of a tradesperson.” She turned the letters over to study the recipients’ names and addresses. “How’s this sound? ‘Signora Barberigo, Castello.’”

“Could be, I suppose.”

Claire pushed the letter across the table. “How does it start?”

Andrew read through the first sentence, then translated it for her. “‘I require two dozen of your finest confections…’ Signora Barberigo is a baker.”

“What about this one?” Claire took up another letter and read the name of the addressee. “‘Signora Giovanna Donatella.’” She handed it to Andrew.

“But this is addressed to Padua, not Venice.”

Claire thought for a moment. “In the first diary—the one written before the conspiracy—Alessandra mentions a cousin in Padua. Maybe they grew up together in Venice. Maybe they were best friends. Then…they grow up, Alessandra becomes a courtesan, Giovanna gets married and moves away…”

“But they continue to tell each other everything?” Andrew finished for her.

“Yes, exactly!”

“You have a vivid imagination, don’t you?”

“You say that as if there’s something wrong with it.”

“Only because our job is to discover the truth, not make it up.”

“I’m simply putting forth a hypothesis. All we have to do is translate that letter and find out if there’s anything to it.”

Claire skimmed a few other letters while Andrew worked on the one to Padua. After twenty minutes or so, he stopped, looked up at her, and distractedly ran his fingers through his hair.

“Be prepared to be disappointed,” he said, and pushed his notebook with the translation over to her.

She bent her head and read:

“Not exactly gripping, is it?” Claire said.

“No.”

“But it does establish that Giovanna is her cousin.”

“Yes.”

“You’re just dying to say ‘I told you so,’ aren’t you?”

“I wasn’t going to use those words. But I must point out that this letter is dated March 1, 1618…and please turn your attention to the second paragraph, in which she writes—”

“‘I remain safe at home,’” Claire completed the sentence for him. Of course she had noticed it; Alessandra had written that she was “safe” during the very time that the conspiracy was gathering force. “Are you sure your translation’s correct?” she asked, reaching across the table for the original.

“Of course I’m sure,” Andrew replied, slightly offended.

“Perhaps she was lying, so that her cousin wouldn’t worry about her.”

“You’re grasping at straws.”

“There’s another, you know.”

“Another what?”

“Another letter to her cousin.” Claire pushed it over to him. “I think we should translate this one, too.”

“Meaning that I should translate it?”

“You’re faster.”

“You’re not going to give up, are you?”

“No.”

Andrew scanned the document. “This one’s longer than the other. It’s going to take a while.”

Claire worked on a few of the shorter letters—like the others she’d already translated, they were related to the daily needs of the Rossetti household—until Andrew had finished with Alessandra’s second letter to her cousin. He handed his translation to her with a sigh; evidently he wasn’t finding much enjoyment in the courtesan’s epistolary style.

“It’s clear Alessandra was very fond of her,” said Claire.

“Excessively, I’d say.”

“But it doesn’t help at all, does it?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Claire studied the letter. It was dated March 5, 1618, only one day before the date of Alessandra’s letter to the Great Council. Perhaps she should start thinking of that as her
alleged
secret letter; Claire’s search for Alessandra’s confidante had only helped to confirm Andrew Kent’s version of events.

“What’s this?” She pushed the letter across the table, and pointed to a strange mark under Alessandra’s signature.

“I have no idea…blotting the quill, perhaps?” Andrew offered.

“I don’t think so.” Claire picked up the first letter. It was more smudged with time and less defined, but there was a similar dotted squiggle underneath her signature.

“It looks like—,” Claire began.

“Arabic,” Andrew said.

“You know how to translate Arabic, by any chance?”

“No. You?”

“No.” Claire glanced around the library. “Maybe someone else in here knows how.” She stood up.

“What are you going to do? Get up on the table and yell, ‘Is there an Arabic speaker in the house?’”

“No, I’m going to ask Francesca.”

“Who’s Francesca?”

“The librarian.”

“You really think she would know?”

“It can’t hurt to ask.”

Claire popped over to the counter, spent a moment huddling with Francesca, then sauntered back. She took the letters from the table and gestured for Andrew to follow her to the librarian’s desk.

“Don’t tell me, there really is someone?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“Francesca.”