Venice in the Moonlight (5 page)

fter dinner, the group retired to the salon once more. Mr. Brown had drunk freely of the dinner wine and made the walk on unsteady legs. He swung an arm around Raul’s shoulder and asked, “Do you Italians ever drink anything harder than that colored water?”

The older man cringed under Mr. Brown’s touch. “I’m sure we can find something more to your liking,” he replied with a strained smile.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with your grape juice, but sometimes a man needs a good gulp of whisky to fire up his belly—or other unmentionables.” He patted his generous midsection and laughed until he struggled for breath.

Mrs. Brown’s face paled, and then bright red spots appeared on her cheeks. “Mr. Brown, you forget your manners!”

In his liquefied state of mind, the Englishman gave his wife a blank look. “What? Did I say something wrong?”

Mrs. Brown’s teeth clicked together. She perched stiff-backed on the nearest settee and crossed her arms. Though she stared icily at her husband, he seemed oblivious to her foul mood.

Mr. Brown took a crystal glass filled with amber liquid from Raul and sniffed it hopefully. “Now, that’s more like it. So, who’s up for a game of piquet? Mr. Foscari? Mr. Orlando? No? Well, then, it looks like it will have to be you, Georgie, my boy.”

Across the room, George muttered something the others couldn’t hear but dutifully sat down at the gaming table with his father. Marietta joined Mrs. Brown and Zeta, but lost in their own thoughts, no one spoke. Away from the others, Nico and Raul stood in front of the fireplace, with Raul doing most of the talking. Occasionally, Nico would raise a finger or nod in agreement, but mostly he looked ill-humored at whatever they were discussing.

Marietta stared at her father’s painting. There were so many things she wanted to say when she saw him in a few days. She was still furious, but she was also thrilled that he had regained his inspiration. The painting showed his genius was as strong as it had ever been. When he saw how her own talent had developed in the past five years, she knew he would be proud. Perhaps they could even paint together if a patron commissioned a fresco.

Finally, unable to contain herself any longer, Marietta interrupted her hosts. “Excuse me, Signor Foscari, I was wondering if you had any other paintings by Bernardo Orsini. You see, I’m his daughter.”

“Really? And now fate has brought you to my door. The gods are certainly smiling down on me.” Nico reached for her hand and bent to kiss it but stopped when Raul coughed quietly. He once again deferred to the elder man. “Signor Orsini painted mother’s portrait a few summers ago, didn’t he?”

“Yes, there’s a miniature of Signora Foscari in the upstairs study, which was done shortly before the larger painting here, and there’s a fresco in the house in Venice.”

Marietta’s stomach did a little flip. “If it’s not too much trouble, could I see it, please?”

Nico’s smile stopped short of a leer. “I would love to take you upstairs . . .”

This time Raul cleared his throat loudly.

“To see it,” Nico finished, offering her his arm to lead her from the room.

Without a full staff of servants, the villa was unnaturally quiet. The sound of their footsteps on the marble grand staircase seemed too loud and added to Marietta’s nervousness. For the first time in years, she was alone with a man who wasn’t her husband or father. She struggled for something witty to say but could only come up with, “Did you enjoy your time in Padua?”

What a stupid question. Of course, he did. Signor Ragno’s rage over his youngest daughter’s reputation proved that easily enough.

Nico laughed beside her. “It was most pleasant, but I’m ready to move on. I always find the beginning of carnival season in Venice the best time of the year. Do you agree?”

Before her mother died, when life was still good, Marietta had loved the yearly carnival, which lasted from October until Lent. The residents of Venice wore masks day and night, giving an air of secrecy to routine—and not-so-routine—activities. Music and laughter floated from one piazza to the next as revelers filled the streets to dance and celebrate in colorful costumes. Marietta dreamed of the age when she could parade about in a fine gown and mask and flirt with potential suitors. Carnival was a time of excitement, romance, and love, everything a young woman yearned for, and it was during this time she had met her late husband. Unfortunately, Dario concealed more than his face and pretended to be an honorable man when he was really a conceited scoundrel.

She couldn’t tell Nico all that, though. Instead, she said, “It’s been quite some time since I’ve enjoyed the festivities.”

“Well, once you put on your mask, it will seem like yesterday.” At the top of the stairs, he faced her and continued in a soft voice. “It’s the mystery of it all that I like. No one knows who anyone is. You could be making hard, passionate love to a princess or a shop girl. It doesn’t matter. Everyone is equal.”

She couldn’t entirely blame the poor country girl for giving in. He was by far the handsomest man she had ever met. For the briefest moment, she wondered how his lips might feel against her skin, but she knew he was a rake with morals no better than her dead husband’s. She quickly stomped out the spark of desire he had ignited.

“If you are trying to shock me, it will take more than colorful words. I may be young, but I assure you, I am not unworldly.”

Nico placed a hand over his heart. “Ah, I have offended you. Please forgive me. My mouth is always getting me in trouble.”

She stared at him with narrowed eyes and tight lips. His body swayed from the dinner wine, and he smiled back at her. When it became obvious her disapproval had no effect on him, she said, “You were going to show me a portrait?”

Entering the study, Nico apologized. “I’m afraid I don’t know where it is. Please feel free to look around.” He didn’t help with the search but instead leaned against the doorjamb and twirled his cane in one hand.

She saw it immediately on a large, polished desk in the middle of the room. The family resemblance was undeniable. Nico shared his mother’s mouth, nose, and wavy hair, though Marietta didn’t know about the eyes for he still wore his unusual dark glasses.

The portrait was painted on an oval piece of ivory about the size of her palm. She picked it up to examine it more closely. Signora Foscari’s off-the-shoulder gown was lavender blue, which contrasted nicely with her raven-colored hair and milky-white skin. Her expression was agreeable, if not a bit proud.

“Your mother is beautiful. Was she pleased with the likeness?”

“What woman is ever pleased?” Nico replied with a shrug of his shoulders.

Marietta laughed. “Well, anyway, I think my father did a wonderful job. I can’t wait to tell him so.”

Nico brought the cane to an abrupt stop. “
Scusimi
?”

“Since your family has had business with him recently, you can tell me where he is living in Venice.” She kept her eyes on the portrait as heat flared in her cheeks. “It’s been a few years since we’ve spoken.”

“Signora.”

The gentleness of his tone made her look up.

Nico bowed his head. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

What loss? The coldness that swept over her body knew the answer, but her brain refused to listen. Marietta’s hands shook as they tightened on his mother’s smiling face. “You must be mistaken. I will see my father as soon as I reach Venice.”

He shook his head slowly in disagreement. “Signor Orsini died a few months ago.”

Her body hit the floor and a second later, the exquisite miniature of Signora Foscari joined it. When her eyes fluttered open, Nico’s blurred face hovered too close above her. The smell of amber, oranges, and sweet wine filled her nose. Pain radiated from the spot where her head had met the wooden floor planks. It was her typical luck not to have landed on the thick carpet two feet away.

Footsteps sounded in the hall and then Raul’s voice. “For God’s sake, get off her. Haven’t you caused enough trouble today?”

“She fainted, you idiot. Bring her some wine.”

The footsteps retreated faster than they came.

Marietta pushed herself up into a sitting position and tugged on her gown to straighten it. She felt the back of her head and found an egg-sized lump had already formed. “Forgive me. I seem to be doing that a lot lately.”

Nico sat back on his heels. “You did not know your father had passed?”

“No, but are you sure? Orsini is a common enough name. Perhaps it was someone else and not my father?”

“No, Signora, it was your father.”

Regret replaced the excitement that had been growing inside her. All those years without her father, and now, she would never see him again. She squeezed her eyes shut to stop the tears and held her breath. She would bury the sorrow. She had done it many times before.

“Here, let’s get you off the floor.” He stood and extended his hand.

When Raul returned with a glass of wine, she had moved from the floor to a chair. Nico stood by fidgeting, unsure of what to do next.

“Well?” Nico said in a low voice.

Raul peered into her face. “She’s pale.” He handed Marietta the wine. “How do you feel?”

Marietta looked from one man to the other and finally understood the reason for the dark glasses. “You can’t see me.”

Nico’s mouth contorted, as if he had eaten something bitter. “Well guessed, Signora.”

Marietta shook her head. “But you move so well. How can you be blind?”

“He’s not completely blind.” Raul cast a disapproving look in Nico’s direction. “He just likes to pretend he is when it serves his purposes.”

“Oh, it’s only a matter of time, and then I will be fully useless, as my father likes to say,” Nico replied in a cheery voice that didn’t match the seriousness of the statement.

Raul sighed. Obviously, this was a well-worn topic. “Would you like to lie down? I can show you to a bedroom.”

Nico hit Raul in the back of the leg with his cane. “And you call me a scoundrel.”

The men’s banter wasn’t helping the pain in her head or her heart. “If you would be so kind as to get Zeta, she can assist me.”

“Of course. Nico, take the signora to the guest room two doors down on the left. I’ll meet you there.”

Nico extended an elbow. “Can you walk?”

“Yes.” She rose from the chair and hooked her arm through his. “I’m sorry to be so much trouble. You must regret opening your home to us.”

Nico patted her hand. “Not at all. I’m used to women swooning around me. It happens more often than you would think.”

Marietta managed to smile at his quip. Considering his unfortunate disability, he seemed to have a good sense of humor.

When they reached the guest bedroom, Nico ran a hand through his loose hair and frowned. “I’m sorry for the manner in which you found out about your father. I hope I didn’t appear insensitive.”

“There is no gentle way to deliver such news.” Marietta studied her host whose disposition seemed to change like the wind, one moment an uncaring rake and the next a well-mannered gentleman. With his strong Roman features, high cheekbones, and full lips, he was well suited to play either part. She had been silent too long, so she quickly said, “I appreciate you sharing my father’s paintings with me. It has eased my grief.”

“I am told they are beautiful.”

She shifted uncomfortably at the hint of bitterness in his voice. Unsure of how to respond, Marietta welcomed the interruption of Zeta and Raul hurrying down the hall toward them.

“Are you all right?” asked Zeta, her face lined with worry.

“Yes, but I would like to retire for the evening.” She turned to the men and thanked them again. “You have been most gracious with your hospitality.”

“The pleasure is ours,” Nico replied with a bow.

Once inside the room, Marietta collapsed on the bed. “Zeta, my father is dead. Why didn’t someone tell me?” The question was a waste of words for she knew who to blame. “Signora Gatti. This reeks of her doing. Just when I think I’m out of her clutches, she slaps me back into place.”

Zeta sank down next to her, her fingers knotted together. “What will we do now? Where will we go?”

Marietta sat up and took her friend’s hands in her own. “Don’t worry. We’ll be fine for a while. The Gattis gave me 6,000 ducats, and if they are true to their word, next year they will give me 6,000 more. I’ll start painting again, and maybe someday we won’t need their money.” She shook her head and allowed her grief to surface for the briefest moment. “I can’t believe I’ll never see him again.”

“This isn’t good for your health.” Zeta stood and pulled back the blankets. “You must rest.”

Sleeping for a few hours to escape her sorrow sounded like a good idea. Marietta crawled under the covers, but before closing her eyes, she said, “Don’t leave me, Zeta. You’re all I have left now. You’re my only friend.”

Zeta settled beside her and gave her a sad smile. “Tomorrow will be a better day. We must believe that.”

Marietta nodded. It had to be. She couldn’t think of how things could get any worse.

he next morning, the repaired coach arrived at the Foscari villa to take the travelers the rest of the way to Venice. Despite their troubles, they were still on schedule to arrive in the city by late afternoon. Though Marietta’s heart lay heavy in her chest, she tried to look forward to a new life in her hometown. Barely fifteen when she left, she wondered how much the city had changed in her absence.

Before she could board, Nico took her arm and pulled her aside from the rest of the group. “I’ll be in Venice on the morrow. Perhaps I could accompany you to the opera? Goldoni has promised several new comedies this carnival season.”

Marietta shifted out of his grasp. “Thank you, but it’ll take time for me to get settled. Merriment will have to wait.”

“Well, Venice is small. You won’t be able to hide from me for very long.” He leaned in and inhaled deeply.

Taken aback, Marietta asked, “Did you just smell me?”

Nico tapped his nose with one finger. “It works better than my eyes. Now I’ll always be able to find you in a room, with or without Raul.”

Leading her back to the coach, he placed his hand lightly on her buttocks.

Though her eyes widened at the intimate touch, she whispered so as not to embarrass him. “Signore, that is not my back.”

“Please forgive me. Bad eyes.” He pointed to his dark glasses and then gave her a dazzling smile.

Her lips pursed in disapproval. How many times had he tried that trick on other unsuspecting women?

Once settled in her seat inside the coach, she fanned herself briskly to cool her heated cheeks. Then a distressing thought stopped her fan in mid-motion. She discreetly dropped her nose to her underarm and sniffed. When she didn’t smell any foul aromas, she chided herself for her foolishness and forced Signor Nico Foscari out of her mind.

The remainder of their road trip was uneventful and quiet due to Mr. Brown’s sour stomach, courtesy of the previous night’s refreshments. Whenever the coach hit a bump, the big man groaned like a sick dog and everyone scooted as far away from him as possible in the cramped interior. A mud-splattered dress was one thing, but Marietta did not intend to arrive in Venice smelling like vomit. However, that would be one way to discourage a certain rakish gentleman. She closed her eyes and sighed. Maybe she looked young and eligible, but she felt as old as the ancient villages they passed.

When they reached the town of Mestre, the driver stopped at the local inn. The last part of their journey would be via gondola. As Zeta, Mrs. Brown, and George negotiated the cost of the short boat trip to Venice, Mr. Brown sat on a trunk with his head in his hands, and Marietta paced the docks. Across the water, the city’s buildings stood bathed in the evening light. She wished she could fly like the water birds diving for their supper. No gondolier could row fast enough to satisfy her impatience. She wanted their travels to be over so her new life could truly begin.

At last, with their capes wrapped around them, Marietta and Zeta took their seats in the lead gondola, while the Browns followed in another boat. They glided over the smooth water toward Venice’s shore, barely swaying with each pull of the gondolier’s pole.

When they entered the Grand Canal and the buildings rose on either side of them, Zeta asked, “How does it look? Is it like you remembered?”

Marietta’s eyes moved over the colorful stone structures sliding by. “It looks . . . different, yet the same.”

Zeta frowned at her description but didn’t ask anything more.

The gondolas passed under the dozen miniature arches of the Rialto Bridge before bumping up against an empty spot on the public dock. Marietta let out a relieved breath. Finally.

While they separated the baggage into two carts, Mrs. Brown asked where they were staying. Marietta had been pondering that since leaving the Gatti’s villa in Verona. Before her marriage, she had lived with her father in a small lodging near the Piazza San Marco. Though run-down, she remembered it as fairly clean, safe, and cheap—all important qualities right now. “I think we will try the Minerva Inn. And yourself?”

“The Regina d’Inghilterra. We’re told it’s one of the better inns.” Mrs. Brown cast a quick glance at her son, who was doing his best to remove a listless Mr. Brown off the last trunk to be loaded. “Send word as soon as you are settled. We’re so glad to have friends in the city.”

After exchanging promises to see each other soon, Marietta and Zeta waved goodbye to the Browns and set off toward the Piazza San Marco. As they approached the Minerva Inn, Marietta was pleased to find that some things had changed for the better. No longer looking shabby, the outside of the inn was painted a poppy red with white trim, while inside the dark, gleaming woodwork contrasted against clean, white walls.

A buxom woman with streaks of gray through her unruly, black hair sat behind the counter arranging pink asters in a glass pitcher. This was different as well. Marietta remembered an ill-tempered man in that spot, often yelling at her to stop running or laughing.

“
Buona sera
.” The innkeeper greeted them with a warm smile. “Do you need a room for the night?”

“Yes.” Marietta looked around and quickly made a decision. “But we actually need lodgings for several weeks, maybe more.”

“For just the two of you?” The innkeeper’s brow creased. Her eyes moved over Marietta’s fine gown before her face switched back to smiling. She seemed as puzzled as the old man in Verona but at least she tried to hide it. “I have a small suite available. Will that do?”

Marietta nodded. “Perfect.”

“Sign the register, and I’ll have Angelo take your trunks up.” She took a large brass key off the wall behind her and then glanced at the book. “My name is Rosina. Please follow me, Signora Gatti.”

The innkeeper led them up a steep flight of stairs and down a long hall to the back of the building. She unlocked the last door and then moved to the side of the bed to light the oil lamp. “The sheets are clean.” She smoothed out a nonexistent wrinkle on the bedcover. “You’ll find no complaints with my housekeeping.”

Rosina had not lied when she said the suite was small, but during the day, the large windows would let in an abundance of natural light. There was space for an easel and paint supplies and a smaller room for Zeta. It would do for now.

“I’m sure we’ll be most satisfied.” Marietta smiled at Zeta, who was already making herself at home.

“I’ll let you get settled then. Please let me know if you need anything.”

“I’m sorry.” Marietta called out to stop the innkeeper before she closed the door. “There is one thing. Did you know a man by the name of Bernardo Orsini? He might have lived here.”

At the name, Rosina’s eyes filled with tears. She bit her bottom lip and glanced heavenward. “Yes, until he died. Why?”

“He was my . . . father.” The word came out awkward. She had buried her love for him for so long, and now he was the one in the ground.

“Marietta.” Rosina spoke the name almost in reverence.

Surprised at the woman’s response, she asked, “You know of me?”

“Of course,” Rosina held out her hands to Marietta. “Bernardo told me all about you.”

“I don’t know why. I haven’t heard from him since my wedding.”

“He wrote you all the time,” Rosina said with a shake of her head.

“There were no letters.” Marietta looked at Zeta for confirmation.

Her friend shrugged. “The post was always given to La Signora.”

Marietta closed her eyes and sighed. “I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

“He said you didn’t leave on good terms, but he never stopped hoping you’d forgive him.”

Marietta almost choked on her own saliva. “Forgive him? For making me live with that beastly family? If you had any idea what I’ve been through, you’d realize how ridiculous that notion is. How could I forgive—” She stopped. Only yesterday she’d hoped her father would forgive her nasty behavior. She dropped into a nearby wooden chair, and her shoulders sagged. “Never mind, it doesn’t matter now. It’s too late.”

Rosina hunkered down in front of Marietta and took her hand. “I’m sorry, child. I don’t know what you’ve been through, but I do know Bernardo loved you dearly.”

Questions about her father raced through her head. Was he happy? When did he start painting again? Did he eat well? Did he take care of his health? She let out a long breath and asked the most important one. “How did he die? Did he suffer?”

Rosina stared at the floor for a moment before she answered in a flat, emotionless voice. “They say he fell and hit his head.”

Over the innkeeper’s shoulder, Marietta exchanged a puzzled look with Zeta. “Who are ‘they’?”

“The authorities.” Rosina spit out the word as if it were bitter. “Not that they bothered to look into the matter.”

“I don’t understand. Was he painting? Did he fall off a ladder?”

Rosina ignored her question and instead said, “Maybe it is best you don’t know everything. Your father was a good man. Remember him that way.”

Though a tingling of dread began in Marietta’s stomach, she had to know what this woman didn’t want to say. “Tell me what happened.”

They locked eyes until Rosina finally nodded. She moved to the window and fussed with the curtains until she was ready to begin her story. “I took over the inn from my brother about three years ago. Bernardo—your father—was a mess. He drank. Alot. I could see he was suffering, though at the time I didn’t know why. Eventually, we became friends.”

Marietta’s eyes narrowed. “And then lovers?”

Across the room, Zeta gasped at her forwardness.

Unconcerned, Marietta waved a hand at her. “This is Venice. There’s something horribly wrong with you if you don’t have a lover.”

Rosina managed a laugh. “You’re right on both accounts. Anyway, I learned he used to be a painter, and I nagged him until he took up his brush again. When he painted, he didn’t drink and almost seemed happy. Eventually, he told me about you and your mother. It didn’t take a genius to figure out why he drank so much.”

Marietta squeezed her eyes shut and fisted the fabric of her skirt in one hand. Listening to the innkeeper’s words was like pouring salt on an open wound. All those years she hated him while he suffered also. The grief burned her heart.

When she could speak, she said, “I saw two of his recent paintings. They were beautiful.”

Rosina nodded and gave her a sad smile. “The last few weeks of his life, your father was acting strange. He started drinking heavily again.”

Marietta straightened in her chair. “So he was drunk and fell.”

Unable to meet her eye, the older woman stared at a crucifix above Marietta’s head. “He’d been drinking at La Mascareta, a tavern that sells very cheap wine. Some men found him in the back alley after closing time. His head was bloody, and he was dead.”

Rosina’s last words hung in the silence of the room. Marietta wanted to scream at the top of her lungs. Why? Why did he have to drink? And now he was gone forever.

She frowned as she went over the story again in her mind. “Why do you think the authorities should have looked into his death?”

The older woman smoothed her hands over her apron and sighed. “He . . . he seemed scared. He wasn’t in his right mind.”

“Most people aren’t when they’ve had too much wine.” It was hard to keep the disgust out of her voice. Thanks to her late husband, Marietta had plenty of experience with drunkards.

“Yes, but this was different,” Rosina said. “He asked me to leave Venice with him because
they
were everywhere. He kept saying it was only a matter of time before
they
acted.”

“Who was he talking about?”

“I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me.” Rosina began to pace in the small room. Her fingers twisted the sole ring she wore. “But maybe whoever it was . . .”

“Killed him?” Marietta finished what the innkeeper seemed reluctant to say.

The innkeeper’s face clouded. “All I know is the authorities didn’t look into any other explanation but a drunken fall.”

Marietta dropped her head into her hands. She didn’t know what to think. Rosina may have been her father’s lover, but the woman sounded crazy. She felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up to see Zeta’s concerned face.