Masquerade (2 page)

‘What is your name?’ he asked.

‘Orelia Rossetti.’

Signor Contarini smiled. ‘Orelia was the name of my grandmother. You have the same green eyes . . . How old are you?’

For a moment, Orelia could only marvel at the small delight this gave her. Finally she blinked and answered, ‘Eighteen.’

‘Eighteen . . .’ He seemed to be considering this for a moment. ‘That makes you very close in age to my daughters. My eldest daughter, Veronica, is nineteen and my younger daughter, Angelique, is seventeen.’

Another marvel. ‘I’ve never known cousins or siblings, only rabbits and goats,’ said Orelia.

Her uncle nodded and laughed. The sound of his laughter reminded Orelia of her mother, who had often been accused of waking the village with her unbecoming laugh. ‘Si, and you may find your cousins equally as extraordinary and difficult when you meet them.’ He leant forward. ‘Tell me, where is your mother? How is she?’

Orelia closed her eyes to stop the tears from coming. ‘There was a fire,’ she whispered. A minute passed, then another. When she felt composed enough to open her eyes, she saw her uncle with his hands clasped together as if in prayer. He stared straight ahead with a glazed expression. ‘Forgive me,’ he said finally. ‘Mi dispiace for your loss . . . our loss. What about your father?’

‘I do not know my father,’ replied Orelia, instinctively touching her lips that were so unlike her mother’s. ‘My mother never spoke of him . . . It was one of the many things she never spoke of.’

‘I see. Do you know much about your mother’s life in Venice?’

‘No, nothing at all.’ Orelia waited hopefully for her uncle to tell her something, anything about her mother, but instead he asked, ‘Where have you been living this whole time?’

‘In Montepulciano, a small village in Tuscany.’

‘Was your mother happy?’

‘Si,’ answered Orelia, truthfully.

‘Bene,’ he said, imparting so much emotion in one word.

‘I do not want to burden you,’ said Orelia. ‘But I did not know where else to go.’

Reaching over, her uncle took her hands and held them gently. ‘Nonsense, I’m glad you’re here. This is your home now. I have lost my sister. I will not lose you too.’

Orelia felt her anxiety lift like the fog that had covered the city. ‘Grazie.’

Her uncle, however, did not look as relieved as Orelia. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘There is something very important that you must understand,’ he said. ‘You cannot tell anyone that you are the daughter of Isabella Contarini, or that you are my niece.’

The room felt as if it were closing in on Orelia.

‘Instead, we must tell people that you are my goddaughter. From this point on, your mother and father were Roman bankers who died from smallpox when abroad. Rome is a big city and lots of people die from smallpox.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Orelia. ‘Why would I lie about who I am or where I’m from?’

Her uncle sighed sadly. ‘I cannot explain why, not at this time, but it is crucial you do as I ask. You must follow my story exactly. You must call me Signor Contarini, not uncle. Not even my daughters can know who you really are.’

‘Does this concern why my mother left so long ago?’

‘Your future is in Venice now, but for that to be so, we must not dig up the past. Promise me that you will do as I ask.’

Without realising, Orelia was shaking her head. She had played out this scene many times in her head, but it had never ended like this.

‘Promise me,’ her uncle repeated.

‘I can’t,’ said Orelia, her voice breaking.

Her uncle squeezed her hands. ‘Venice is a stage, Orelia. Pretend for no other reason than to act like everybody else.’

Orelia did not withdraw her hands. If Venice was a stage, then the question was, would this play become a comedy or a tragedy? But then she heard her mother’s voice inside her head.
Be brave, mi cara
.

Closing her eyes, she tried desperately to hold onto that voice, but it was gone. When she opened her eyes again, Orelia whispered, ‘All right. I promise. I will tell people I am Orelia Rossetti, the daughter of Roman bankers.’

‘Bene,’ said her uncle, his face softening with relief. ‘I’ll take you to your room now, so you can rest. You must be tired.’

Orelia nodded. ‘What shall I say when people ask
why
I’m in Venice?’ she asked, as she stood.

‘You will answer in the same way everyone does; you’ll say you’re here to
find
yourself in the city of masks.’

For all of Angelique’s life, the far bedroom on the northern side of Ca’ Contarini had been forbidden. Once a month, Maria unlocked the door to clean the room, and then locked it back up again. Guests were always placed in one of the many other bedrooms their palazzo boasted. Angelique’s father would never answer why, it just was. And yet now, all these years later, the bedroom was being occupied.

Angelique stood outside the bedroom door and glanced around the portego to check that no one was about to witness her misdoing. At seventeen, she was the younger of Signor Contarini’s two daughters. Her real name was Angelica but at the age of ten, she had decided that Angelique sounded far more sophisticated and reflected her love of all things French. Now there was not a person in Venice who did not know her as Angelique.

She turned the glass handle and carefully inched open the door without a sound. Her short life thus far had provided few opportunities for spying and so it was with great delight that she poked her head inside the bedroom.

For Angelique, this forbidden room had always held such mystery and now, lit with dappled golden light filtering in from between the drapes, it did not disappoint.

Angelique noticed with a hint of envy that it was larger than any other bedroom in the palazzo and had the most windows. The walls were decorated with gold stucco and green brocatelle flecked with gold. Above the entrance to the bed alcove, sculptured cupids hovered carrying garlands of flowers. The marquetry floor, with its intricate design of flowers and vines, gleamed like glass. Even the dust motes that danced through the air had a magical quality.

Angelique closed the door behind her and tiptoed across the antechamber towards the alcove, a small extension to the larger room just big enough for the bed in which the girl lay sleeping. Angelique’s father had been very insistent that they let her rest. Angelique knew she would be in severe trouble if she was caught in here, but that was half the fun.

Over dinner last night, her father had told them about their unexpected visitor who was now asleep in this room. She had arrived earlier that day while Angelique and Veronica had been out at the tailor, viewing the newest selection of French fabrics. When they had arrived back, Orelia had been asleep, even though it was barely past midday, and she had not awoken since. Apparently, Orelia had travelled very far but Angelique could not quite understand how she could spend so much time asleep. During the five months of Carnevale, Angelique barely slept at all.

Angelique’s sister, Veronica, had found the news of Orelia’s arrival surprising, and questioned why their father had never mentioned having a goddaughter and why she had never visited until now, or at least written to them. Angelique, on the other hand, had found the news thrilling. Orelia had come just at the right time. It was the first Sunday of October, the first day of Carnevale. They were going to have so much fun together in the season of masquerade balls, midnight banquets, gambling till daybreak, and theatre performances where the audience’s spyglasses were trained on each other, not the stage.

If only Orelia would wake up, so they could begin Carnevale in the right and proper way – with a visit to Signor Zafoni’s mask shop. By the look of the plain olive-coloured dress draped over a chair, she would also need to visit the tailor, but that could not be done right away. In the meantime, Angelique could lend Orelia some of her gowns.

But masks, they were not something you shared. It was terribly bad luck. This was not the general opinion in Venice; masks often exchanged hands at balls, making things even more confusing. But Angelique was more superstitious than the average seventeen-year-old Venetian.

There was another, more important reason Angelique had for wanting to visit Signor Zafoni. For weeks he had been working on a special mask, just for her. He promised to have it ready for the first night of Carnevale.

Angelique could hardly wait for the sun to go down. The first night of Carnevale was her favourite night of the year. The masks went on and with them everyone came out to play. She was going to make this Carnevale season hers, beginning tonight at the masquerade ball that everyone was talking about. Bastian Donato would be there, son of the Doge, the highest elected leader of Venice. Angelique had the perfect costume – a secret costume – and soon she would have the perfect mask. Bastian would not be able to resist her.

A delirious feeling came over Angelique at this thought. It wasn’t until she heard the bed sheets rustle that she recalled where she was. Angelique covered her mouth and crept into the alcove in which sat the bed, a confection of peach and cream brocade and scrolling woodwork.

It was difficult to get a good look at the girl with her face pressed into the pillow and her hair fanned out around her, but Angelique assessed from her slender neck and long auburn locks that she would indeed turn heads. Though, not as many heads as Angelique turned. She was proud of her golden hair, heart-shaped face and ‘eyes the colour of the Canal Grande on a sunlit day’, as one suitor would have her believe. She was often described as one of the young beauties of Serenissima.

Angelique froze as Orelia stirred, finally settling back to sleep with a soft moan. A sudden rush of sympathy washed over her. She had learnt from her father that Orelia had only recently lost both her parents to smallpox. Angelique’s fingers touched the heart-shaped pendant hanging from a chain around her neck. Her own mother had died when she was only two. She couldn’t imagine the pain of losing both parents.

With that sad thought, Angelique decided to let Orelia sleep as long as she needed. If she weren’t awake after lunch, Angelique would take her sister Veronica to Signor Zafoni’s before they had to begin getting ready for the ball.

Angelique stepped quietly back across the antechamber, opened the door and looked out into the portego. It was clear. She closed the door gently and slipped away.

‘How did you sleep?’ Signor Contarini asked Orelia as she arrived finally at the table, the sudden sight of her reflected in the mirrored walls of the dining room.

Angelique smiled mischievously. She had seen with her own eyes that Orelia had slept blissfully.

‘Very well, grazie,’ answered Orelia, taking a seat at the table next to Angelique. She was wearing the same green dress that Angelique had seen in her bedroom that morning. Her hair hung loose in waves around her shoulders. She was even more beautiful than Angelique had imagined.

‘How long was I asleep for?’ asked Orelia.

She had the softest voice Angelique had ever heard and she had to pay close attention just to hear what Orelia was saying.

‘Almost an entire day,’ answered her father.

‘You must think me so rude.’

‘No, no, not at all. You needed rest after your long journey.’

A servant came behind Orelia and laid a steaming bowl on the table in front of her. Orelia looked down at the midday meal and up again. ‘Is this pea risotto?’

‘Si, risi e bisi was your mother’s favourite,’ said Signor Contarini. ‘That is, your mother displayed a great fondness for it in the spring she and your father visited to ask me to be your godfather. I thought it might be nice for your first meal with us.’

Orelia nodded, her head bowed, appearing to be fighting off tears.

‘Of course, it’s not spring now,’ continued Signor Contarini, ‘but I know a senator who has pea plants regularly shipped from across the world where it is spring. But don’t be alarmed, they are transported with the utmost care and watered en route to ensure they stay fresh.’

Angelique could sense her father was going to continue to ramble about peas, so she coughed delicately and gave him a look.

‘Anyway, Orelia, let me introduce my lovely family to you. To put wisdom before youth, this is my dear Aunt Portia,’ he said, laying his hand on the older woman’s heavily jewelled wrist.

‘I’d prefer to be young than wise,’ she said, finishing off her wine in one mouthful. ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance, Orelia.’

Angelique hid a smile as she watched a servant hurry to refill the glass before her great aunt could unfurl her fingers from the glass’s stem and reprimand the servant for slothfulness.

‘And this is my eldest daughter, the lovely Veronica,’ he said, indicating to her the dark-haired girl who sat on the other side of Orelia. Of the two sisters, she was the one who looked more like their father with her dark brown hair, storm-coloured eyes and square jaw. Angelique resembled their mother, or at least, what she assumed her mother had looked like from the paintings that hung around their palazzo.

Veronica raised her eyes in Orelia’s direction and offered a brief smile. ‘Buongiorno.’

Angelique rose slightly out of her chair. ‘I’m Angelique,’ she said, before her father could introduce her. ‘I’m so delighted that you have come to live with us. We’re going to be like sisters!’

‘It’s lovely to meet you all,’ said Orelia.

‘You have to join us tonight for the masquerade ball at Ca’ D’Este.’

Her father coughed. ‘Maybe Orelia would like to rest a bit more before you immerse her in Carnevale.’

Angelique pouted.

‘I’m happy to attend,’ said Orelia, with a touch of hesitation.

‘Perfect. First, we’ll need to go shopping,’ said Angelique. She turned to the servant who was hovering in the corner. ‘Anna, could you please tell Antonio that we will be going to the Merceria after lunch and ask him to have the gondola ready?’

‘Of course, Signorina Angelique.’

‘Would you please chaperone them?’ said her father, turning to Aunt Portia.

‘Of course,’ she replied, sending Angelique an almost imperceptible wink.

The excitement of shopping made Angelique ravenous. She finished her risotto, every last grain and every last green orb, before the others had eaten more than a few mouthfuls. Orelia ate the slowest of all, seeming to savour every bite.

Angelique pushed her chair out impatiently while her father rattled on about the mechanism used to transport burcheilli and other boats through the shallow parts of the Brenta Canal. She smoothed out the front of her gown. It was pale pink, like the inside of a seashell, and small pearls adorned the bodice. She smiled at her minor violation of the sumptuary laws, which were designed to curb luxury with regulations such as how many pearls were permitted on the yardage of material. Like most women, especially the wives and daughters of the lawmakers, Angelique got away with her crime, but it still made her feel quite rebellious.

Finally, the servants cleared away the plates.

‘We should leave now,’ said Angelique.

Aunt Portia stood slowly. ‘Si, let’s go.’

‘Don’t get up to any mischief,’ Signor Contarini called as they left the dining room.

They took the stairs down to the courtyard, and then walked through the andron, past the kitchen and storage rooms to the water entrance. A gondola was waiting there, bobbing up and down beside the water steps.

‘Grazie, Antonio,’ Angelique said to the man standing on the platform at the back of the gondola, adjusting the oar. He was wearing livery in her family colours of the deepest purple and silver. She gave him a dazzling smile. She liked to practise her flirting on the gondoliers.

Antonio blushed, and then turned his gaze to the three other women standing on the water steps. ‘Would you be more comfortable in two gondolas? I can fetch Zuan. He is only unloading the kitchen supplies.’

‘No, that won’t be necessary. These Signorinas are going to the Merceria, but I am only going over to Ca’ Benzon.’

‘You’re not coming with us?’ said Angelique, feigning surprise.

Aunt Portia shook her head. ‘The Countessa has a delicious piece of gossip waiting for me and I’m sure you don’t want your old aunt following you around. I won’t tell your father, if you won’t.’

Angelique smiled her agreement. Her aunt, whom Angelique was not allowed to call ‘great aunt’, had come to live with them a few months earlier after her husband had died. The alternative would have been to live the rest of her life in a convent which would not have suited Aunt Portia at all. Since her arrival, she had taken over the chaperoning duties from Maria, which had been a huge relief for Angelique.