The Stargazer (20 page)

Too spent to return to their rooms, they lay together later on the table in the middle of the laboratory. Bianca had dozed off, but Ian, overfull of a feeling that, though unfamiliar, he could only describe as joy, was unable to sleep. For a while he had watched the sleeping figure next to him, struck by how familiar and comfortable it was to have her there, but then his eyes had strayed toward the sky. He was looking up, wondering what was happening to him and what was going to happen to the two of them, when something incredible occurred.

Ian was too stunned to move, but his cry of astonishment woke Bianca. She followed his eyes up toward the ceiling, and then gave her own cry. It was as if the heavens had opened up in celebration. Star after star after star was taking flight, trailing across the sky with long white tails of light.

“Don’t touch it, don’t touch it,” Nilo was shouting as he bounded for the window.

“It is just scared. It will be fine,” Francesco huffed, stopping to get his breath where Bianca stood. “It was quite a shock. We did not know they could fly.”

Bianca nodded solemnly. “Will there be other animals? Tigers? Can we use the second ballroom as a zoo?”

“Signorina Salva,” Francesco spoke formally, puffing himself up as if offended, “you do not know the first thing about throwing a gala party. There must always be peacocks.”

He marched away from her and approached the distraught and still shrieking bird on her balcony. When Bianca left her apartment a short while later, he and Nilo were deep in serious consultation about how to return the animal to the floors below and keep him there.

The shrieking was less audible outside her bedroom, but the house was by no means tranquil. The staff appeared to have been tripled in size, and there were serving men draping every banister, dusting every corner, spreading new rugs over every floor. Bianca had to dodge an armoire that seemed to have grown legs, a tray of newly blown glasses, and a large orange tree that appeared intent on filling the entire staircase, to make her way to the dining room.

When she arrived, relief washed over her for two reasons. First, none of the furniture in the room seemed inclined to move of its own accord, nor was there anything even remotely out of place. Second, seated at the table, alone, was Crispin. He was the person she most wanted to see, but she had been worried that she would have to risk antagonizing Luca and the new plant by going up to the plant rooms to seek him.

He greeted her warmly as she plopped herself down on a chair.

“Tell me, my lord, is it always necessary to have peacocks at a gala party?”

Crispin’s expression was grave. “Why, certainly. The more birds, the more gala. Typically, Ian won’t attend anything with under ten peacocks, but I am less stuffy than he is.” He leaned forward to confide in her. “I once went to a two-peacock ball, but I admit it only under duress.”

“I promise to keep this information like a sacred trust in my bosom.” Bianca bowed her head slightly.

“Of course, I would expect nothing less. Tell me, is that the question you came to the plant rooms to ask me yesterday, or was it something more trivial?”

“I am sorry. I must have annoyed Luca beyond bearing.”

Crispin smiled and waved her apology aside. “Think nothing of it. It’s good for him.”

Bianca had taken a large bite of the pastry in front of her and chewed it slowly to give herself time to think. When she had swallowed it, she addressed Crispin.

“I guess you also heard about my encounter with your new plant. I asked Luca where it came from, but he did not know.”

“It was very strange.” Crispin looked thoughtful as he spoke. “It arrived yesterday, beautifully wrapped and addressed to me, but there was no signature. It puts me in a bit of a spot because I don’t know to whom I am beholden, nor where the plant came from.”

“Does that happen often?”

Crispin laughed. “Usually when people give you expensive things, they want to make sure you know exactly where it came from so you will know exactly where to direct your gratitude.”

Bianca wanted to work around to her next question as subtly as possible. “Has anyone ever sent you anything dangerous?”

“Me? A dangerous plant? Why would someone do that?”

She feigned nonchalance. “Maybe if someone were envious of your plant rooms? Or if they did not like the Arboretti.”

Crispin was suddenly paying more attention. Had Ian, still suspicious, put her up to interviewing him after their heated discussion the day before? He had suspected Ian’s apology had concealed some dark motivation. “We Arboretti certainly have our share of enemies, but I—”

“Like whom?” Bianca threw caution to the wind.

Crispin did likewise. If Ian was going to send her to interrogate him, he wanted to make sure she got an earful. “Anyone whose prices we have undercut or whose shipments we have beaten, people such as the Bartolini family, who will never forgive us for cornering the market on cardamom. Envy is a powerful motive too, and there are dozens of people, like Oswaldo Cresci or Fillipo Nonte, with whom we’ve never had dealings but who envy our size and success and would probably go out of their way to damage our prestige if they could. That is speaking only of the company in general. There are also more personal animosities, like Morgana da Gigio’s grudge against Ian or L.N.’s ongoing feud with the prince of Navarre.”

Crispin sat back, satisfied by the effect of his words on Bianca. Her surprise had quickly given way and he saw the dawning of her comprehension.

“Santa Dorotea’s throat,
she
is the woman! The woman from two years ago!” Bianca was almost stuttering. If Ian and the young, rich widow had been lovers, it was no wonder Bianca had seemed unappealing to him. When Morgana da Gigio was in a room, no other woman existed. Not only on account of her magnificent beauty; it was more than that. She seemed to emanate something that put people under her spell. Bianca had only seen her from a distance, at other balls and gatherings, but she had always been fascinated by her.

“Mora lived here in the palace for several years. She and Ian were very good friends. Yes, she had definitely bewitched Ian.” Crispin was nodding his head to keep from licking his lips in anticipation of the beautiful fit his brother would throw when Bianca reported back to him.

“What happened? Why does she harbor a grudge against Ian?” Bianca’s voice was almost steady.

Crispin shrugged and pushed his chair back from the table. “You will have to ask Ian about that, when you report to him later. Be sure to tell him that I refrained from mentioning the putative Foscari heir.”

As Crispin walked from the room, Bianca’s world fell apart. She was too stunned to ask what he meant about reporting to Ian, too shaken by the news that Ian and Morgana da Gigio had been lovers. And perhaps also parents. In her mind she imagined herself next to Morgana da Gigio, plain, hideously unsophisticated, horribly boring. She cringed at the comparison, and again at the thought of the effort it must have been costing Ian to lie with someone as untutored as she was after the raptures he had experienced with Morgana. For it was obvious just from looking at her that a night with the wealthy widow was a night one would not soon forget.

If he had known the effect of his words, Crispin would never have spoken them. Bianca would certainly not be repeating them to Ian, in large part because she knew she could never face him again. What did she have to offer him that could compare to the delights he had already sampled with others? She should have known better, should have seen it from the start, or at least that day at Tullia’s. She cursed herself and the desire for knowledge—or even just the plain desire—that had propelled her headlong into this mire of questions and emotions.

The clocks in the house chimed ten, a brutal reminder of the depth of that mire and the hard work in front of her if she was to stand a chance of proving her innocence. She had only seventy-four hours left to catch a murderer, and she still did not have the faintest idea how to begin.

Guests began arriving as the clocks struck eight, first in a trickle, soon in a flood, with a line of gondolas that clogged the Grand Canal. Invitations had been issued to every prominent family, and it appeared that they had all decided to accept. Some arrived out of friendship or loyalty, but most came out of curiosity, to see Ian betrothed at long last. Of as great interest as the stony count, however, was his betrothed. Bianca had turned enough heads at the few balls she had attended to earn her the disapproval of the bulk of the patrician mamas, not only because she was young, beautiful, rich competition for their daughters, but more because she was, as one matron described her, “so heedless of what is proper.” As the guests congregated throughout the palace, sipping prosecco and admiring the elaborate decorations, most of the talk was speculation about the nature of Bianca’s inevitable social gaffs that night.

Custom dictated that the betrothal couple remain out of sight until all the guests had gathered, but the other Arboretti were in plain view, gallantly entertaining the available females, while Francesco and Roberto ensured the older members of the patriciate were not neglected. Jugglers and acrobats moved through the crowd, stealing sips of drinks, telling jokes, and making gold ducats appear from ears. The peacocks were also there, milling about in gilded splendor, the light of the candles on the ground floor making them look like beasts from a fairy story.

Women’s gowns in all colors of the rainbow—this one woven with gold, that one edged with pearls—presented a riot of color almost as impressive as that in Crispin’s glass room. Their wearers eyed one another expertly, gathering in groups to comment on the neglected modesty of necklines (“She looks like a wet nurse, ready to suckle”), the overpadding of shoulders (“I suppose when you have been bedding your gondolier for years, you lose perspective”), the role of hemlines (“If I had wanted to see the ankles of a donkey, I would have gone to my place in the country”), and whether Signora Ricco had managed to buy back her diamonds after her gambling losses or if she was still wearing paste. Even before the feasting and the dancing had commenced, everyone was ready to agree that the party was a smash.

When the clock struck nine, an expectant hush fell over the collected guests. People crowded into the central ballrooms on all three floors in the hope of catching a glimpse of the couple as they made their ritual descent into the crowd. A quartet began to play a slow but lighthearted melody, specially designed to last the duration of their entrance.

Then they played it again.

They were about to commence for the third time, masking the repetition with improvised solos, when a servant arrived with the message to stop. There would be no descent. The bride-to-be was nowhere to be found. Guests nodded knowingly to one another, not even bothering to lower their voices as they commented on this newest example of Bianca’s indecorous morality.

Ian was far less complacent. He was pacing the floor of Crispin’s apartment, from which they were to set out, as though he wanted to test the overstated promises of exceptional wearability given by the merchant who had sold him the rugs. His mind raced ahead of his feet, running through an alphabetical list he had begun two days earlier of ways to torment Bianca. He had only reached
D
, for “dangling over boiling oil,” when Giorgio entered, pushing the woman in question ahead of him.

“I found her in the servants’ quarters with her maid, Marina.” Giorgio had a way of preempting Ian’s questions.

All thoughts of boiling oil, sarcastic retorts, snide remarks, and biting criticisms vanished when Ian saw her.

Her dress was of velvet the same color as the topaz that hung from her slender neck, lined and edged with pure white silk. It was cut to highlight her small, perfect décolleté, in the middle of which the topaz was nestled. Both the dress and the lining were embroidered in gold with flowers of every conceivable size and form, painstakingly copied from originals supplied by Luca. Her hair hung loose around her bared shoulders as was customary for unmarried women, held off her face by an elegant headdress of gold and diamonds. Her remarkable eyes looked even bigger, her lips even more tempting, than usual. Ian felt a lump form in his throat at the possibility that such beauty might one day be his.

“You look marvelous,” Ian meant to say, though what came out was, “Did you plan to escape through the kitchens when no one was looking?” The thought of her leaving him made the words ring out more harshly than he had intended.

Bianca looked grieved. It had not been her intention to displease or upset him, just the opposite. “I needed help with my hair.” Her voice was small. “I did not want to embarrass you.”

The lump in Ian’s throat grew bigger.

“You could never embarrass me,” was on the tip of Ian’s tongue, but what he said was, “As if this delay were not embarrassing enough. Come, we don’t have time to hear any more of your silly excuses.” He took her hand and roughly pulled her toward the door. “Tell them we are finally ready, Giorgio, that my charming betrothed has seen fit to return from the scullery.”

Ian tried to turn a cold eye on her, to let her feel the full force of his wrath, but as soon as he looked in her direction, his anger evaporated. Instead of a cold glare, somehow, he found himself kissing her, crushing her to him with all the strength in his body, holding her as close as he could.

“Bianca,” he breathed when they separated, his tone different from the one he had just been using. “Bianca,” he repeated, softly, almost with reverence. But any words Ian might have spoken were abruptly interrupted. As if on cue, the opening strains of the processional were heard, bringing an end to the betrothal couple’s interview and forcing them out into public to greet their guests.

Giorgio was smiling to himself as he descended the stairs, but his smile did not last long. Just as the quartet struck up their now familiar refrain again, the rumble of voices from below drowned them out. The cause of the disturbance was only briefly a mystery, for Morgana da Gigio in person could be seen ascending the staircase, magnificent in crimson silk. She had timed her arrival to coincide with the descent of the betrothal couple, hoping to embarrass Ian and highlight as much as possible the discrepancy between herself and whatever boring patrician chit he was marrying. She wanted to make it plain to Ian what he had lost through his selfishness. Ideally the girl would burst into tears and require Ian’s unwilling attention, but that was not strictly necessary for Mora to feel her plan had been a success.

It worked admirably at the beginning, her arrival causing a pleasing stir, her admirers flocking around her in support. But when she encountered Ian and the chit on the stairs, something was awry. The girl did not look like one of the plain, dull women who predominated in her class. She simply was not ugly enough. And Ian looked nearer tears than she did. Mora curtsied low, low enough to reveal her nipples over the lace of her bodice to several happily placed young men, and greeted the betrothed pair.