Masquerade (24 page)

Rain lashed at the windows of Orelia’s bedroom, drops running down the length of the glass like uncontrolled tears. The walls shook with the constant thunder and it seemed to Orelia that all the paintings and mirrors on the walls would crash to the ground. And if they did not, Orelia certainly felt capable of doing it herself.

Orelia didn’t think she’d ever been this angry. And she didn’t want the anger to go away like the storm eventually would. She wanted to hold onto it and use it. She rolled over in bed, kicking her legs in frustration. To think, if she hadn’t decided to try and talk with Bastian she would be none the wiser about his wickedness.

It was a day ago now when she had discovered the shocking truth. She had been reading over the letter her father had written to her mother and realised what a precious thing love was. She thought of her poor mother who had lost the man she loved in the most tragic way and the pain she had kept hidden all those years. Though Orelia would not admit it aloud, she loved Bastian – a crazy, unexplainable love – and she had needed to know if he loved her back.

And so yesterday at noon, she had stood outside the Palazzo Ducale, appearing to be no different to those meandering about in the Piazzetta. She had considered sending a note with a messenger asking Bastian to meet with her, but she wasn’t sure if words on paper would be strong enough to reach him through the fog that must surround him.

She had come to accept that Angelique’s love potion had truly worked. It was not something she would have been able to believe before coming to Venice, but this city had taught her that some things, like the love potion or her mother’s past, could not be explained, they just had to be accepted. Orelia was not very well informed on the workings of love potions, but she hoped that if Bastian saw her
and
if he truly loved her, the spell would break.

Wearing a black veil to hide her hair, she had found a spot along the Riva delgi Schiavoni, the popular promenade between the Palazzo Ducale and the Canal Grande from where she could watch the entrance. She hadn’t known if Bastian was inside or even if he would use this exit when there were probably other, more private, ways in and out.

She tried not to take her eyes off the entrance but had found it hard not to examine each person that passed as if they might recognise her and cry ‘witch’. But none had and a short time before darkness fell she had seen Bastian walking down the promenade. He did not see her, or if so, he did not stop. Something had told Orelia to follow him, which is how she had come to see him slip into the tavern.

At that moment, she had put aside the idea of meeting with him, overwhelmed instead by wanting to know whom he was meeting there. The first thought that had come to her was that she needed a disguise (proof, she realised sadly, of how much she had taken on the mind of a true Venetian).

As she wandered the calli looking for inspiration, she spied a young women walking with a basket of washing. The woman had not been able to take her eyes off Orelia’s pet-en-l’air jacket and petticoat, both in a printed cotton with a gold polka-dot overlay. According to Angelique, it was supremely fashionable. In another typically Venetian move, Orelia had offered to trade her jacket and petticoat for a disguise. The woman had done better than a disguise; she made Orelia into a man – breeches, stockings, cloak, hood, bauta mask and tricorne hat.

It was the first time Orelia had worn the bautu mask, the full-face mask with the projecting chin. She had then understood what it fully meant to walk about in absolute freedom. Completely unrecognisable, Orelia had gone back to the tavern. It was what happened there, or more precisely what she heard there, that was responsible for this storm.

Had it not been for her shock and disbelief at the first mention of Bastian’s bet, she would have left immediately. Then the more she had heard, the worse it had become. She would never have believed the story if it hadn’t come from Bastian’s own lips.

Lightning cracked across the dark sky. The girl Orelia had once been would have somehow blamed herself for being foolish enough to love such a man, but that was not who she was now. Bastian was to blame. He was responsible for a web of deceit.

And to think, if it were not for the guilt she had felt for betraying Angelique, she might have given herself fully to Bastian on the night of their kiss at the Ridotto. Perhaps she should have, then he would have won his bet and been gone before she’d had a chance to fall in love with him. But that love was as dead as ashes now.

Staring up at the ceiling above her bed, Orelia heard a quiet knock and her bedroom door opened. She sat up as Angelique slipped into her room and closed the door. She was wearing a thin chemise and her eyes were big and wide. ‘Can I share your bed?’ she asked.

Orelia nodded and shifted over. Angelique scurried across the room, flinching when another flash lit up the bedroom. She dove into the bed and wriggled close to Orelia until their arms were pressed against each other. ‘I hate storms,’ whispered Angelique, pulling the blanket up to her chin. ‘I’ve never seen one this bad before.’

Angelique appeared so delicate and so vulnerable; Orelia felt the urge to wrap her arms around her. How could Bastian pretend to be in love with Angelique just to escape his responsibilities? And how could he sleep at night when he had no intention of honouring the engagement?

True, Angelique was not innocent either. In that way, maybe they deserved each other, their trickery bringing them a lifetime of unhappiness together. But as Angelique gripped Orelia’s arm through another clash of thunder, Orelia knew her cousin’s only crime was love, the love that fooled people into doing irrational things.

The kindest act – and probably the only revenge she was capable of – would be to confess the truth to Angelique, though Veronica would be more apt for the task. But before Orelia could formulate what she wanted to say, Angelique rested her head on Orelia’s shoulder and spoke. ‘I want to thank you for being so supportive. It seems that no one wants Bastian and me to be together, not Veronica, not Papa. Even Aunt Portia disapproves. You’re the only person who has not opposed me. I’m so glad you’re here.’

Orelia sank further down into the bed, heavy with that realisation that Angelique would not believe the truth about Bastian if it came from Orelia’s lips. She needed proof.

‘Please,’ begged Angelique. ‘I’ll never ask you for another thing, as long as I live.’

Veronica rolled her eyes, reluctantly sitting up in bed.

‘If you don’t, I’ll never speak another word to you,’ said Angelique, running around to the side of the bed so that she could fling her words directly at her sister.

‘Is that a promise?’ said Veronica.

Angelique gave out a frustrated scream. ‘What fault do you find with him?’

‘Which devil are you speaking about? Bastian or Luca?’

‘Since you brought it up; both of them.’

‘Since you asked, Bastian is an immature and arrogant boy. He will use you, then toss you aside.’

‘Then why would he bother marrying me?’

Veronica had no immediate answer. ‘Something is not quite right and I will endeavour to find out what that is.’

‘Oh no, you won’t! You stay out of it,’ said Angelique, slapping her hands down on the bed and leaning forward. ‘Worry about your own love affairs. Pray, what fault is there with Luca?’

Veronica crossed her arms. ‘He wants to marry me.’

‘And the problem with that is?’

‘He does not love me! How could he? He hardly knows me and when we meet it is to battle wits.’

‘Oh, but he does love you! I overheard him the other night speaking with Signor Cello about how deeply in love he is with you. He said he loved you to the moon and back.’ Angelique pressed her hands to her heart. ‘He has even written you a sonnet!’

‘Just to the moon? Perhaps if he had said to the sun and back . . .’

‘Stop jesting.’

‘But you are the one jesting. Did anyone else hear these wild claims? Orelia?’

‘No . . . she was still in the dining room.’

‘How convenient. Regardless of how Luca feels, I do not love him.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ said Angelique. ‘You say that with as much conviction as you say you hate peacock, but I know you sneak down to the kitchen for leftovers.’

‘I do not!’

Angelique ignored Veronica’s outburst. ‘I beg you, just go to Luca alone and see if you do not feel anything. My happiness depends on you.’ Angelique’s eyes had taken on a watery sheen.

Veronica sighed. This would not end until she gave in. Maybe it would be easier to concede. Her painting had failed catastrophically. Maybe Luca really did love her? Maybe she really did love him? Where does hate end and love begin?

‘I’ll think about it,’ said Veronica. ‘Now would you please leave my room?’

Veronica applied a smear of rouge to her lips and then, just as swiftly, wiped it off with the back of her hand. This was not her. She did not paint her face or apply patches, unless it was at the corner of her nose to convey boldness.

She stood and walked to her bedroom window. It was nearing three o’clock in the morning. Traffic on the Canal Grande had decreased to a few ghostly vessels passing by silently. Veronica’s own gondolier was waiting for her downstairs, probably wondering where she was. When her family had returned from the theatre not long ago, Veronica had quietly pulled Antonio aside and requested that he take her to the Rialto when everyone else had gone to bed. He had been reluctant at first, given the trouble he’d been in after ferrying Orelia unchaperoned, but Veronica had persisted and in the end he’d given in. And now she was keeping him waiting.

Earlier that day she had sent a note asking Luca to meet her at three o’clock on the Ponte di Rialto. Luca had sent a reply saying that he was looking forward to it. Veronica was not. She was only doing it for Angelique.

Veronica put down the rouge. Enough stalling. It was time. She picked up her black cloak and columbina mask. Silently, she left her room and went downstairs to the water entrance.

‘Off for a secret tryst?’ asked Antonio, helping her in the gondola.

‘Something like that,’ replied Veronica.

As they approached the Ponte di Rialto, Veronica let her eyes wander up to the middle of the stone structure where a figure was standing. Antonio let her off at the foot of the ponte. The stalls that normally traded beneath the arches had been packed away and there were no other people around.

Veronica walked up the steps slowly. Her heart beat a little faster at the sight of Luca, but she did not know if she wanted to throw her arms around him or throw him into the canal.

‘I thought the next time we met would be to have our chess re-match,’ said Luca with a grin when her saw her. ‘Or have you conceded to the fact that you can’t beat me?’

All Veronica’s undecided feelings took a definite turn towards hate. ‘I’ve come to tell you that, although it makes my heart turn to stone, I consent to marry you.’

Luca’s face twisted. ‘What? You consent to
marry
me?’

‘Do not pour vinegar into my wound by making me repeat those vile words. I take no pleasure –’

‘But I do
not
want to marry you,’ interrupted Luca. ‘I don’t know where you got such an idea.’

Veronica stepped back, blinking rapidly. What was he saying? She searched her memories and realised that her father had never actually said that Luca had wanted to marry her. She had only assumed it because her father spoke of Luca so often in those terms.

The next thought that passed through her head was that she was going to kill Angelique.

‘In fact,’ said Luca, ‘I would rather wear a belt of thorns as sharp as your tongue around my waist that would stab me with every move I make. I’m sorry that your love is unrequited.’

‘My love? I could never love you, just as a cat could never love a flea.’

‘Or a hull could never love a barnacle,’ added Luca.

‘I’m glad we’ve cleared that up.’ Veronica spun around and began walking back down the ponte.

‘Would you like me to return your gift?’ called Luca.

Veronica paused and looked over her shoulder. ‘What gift?

‘The painting you made for me.’

‘That was not a gift, that was a warning.’

Luca laughed. ‘Oh, I understand now. You thought
I
had helped someone escape the Piombi?’

When he said it like that, it did sound ridiculous. Veronica folded her arms. ‘Keep it as a reminder that I do
not
love you,’ she said, venomously.

‘Then I shall hang it on my bedroom wall to help me sleep at night.’ Luca had a playful look on his face, as though he was thoroughly enjoying himself and would happily continue on all night.

Veronica clenched her fists at her sides and let out a cry of frustration. She stormed off into the night. She walked right past her gondola, needing to expel her rage. She was free. She would stay unmarried, at least for the foreseeable future. Wasn’t that what she wanted? Then why did she feel so bad?

The answer hit her, like the blaze of the moon. She did love him! She loved the way he made her feel so alive. She loved his passion and his intellect. She loved his warm brown eyes. And she had gone and made an almighty mess of things.

Veronica looked back at the Ponte di Rialto, but Luca was gone. He didn’t love her and that made her feel as though her heart had indeed turned to stone.