Venice in the Moonlight (13 page)

The lines in Rosina’s face deepened. “You could have been caught and then what? Jail? What would your father think?”

“My father gave up his rights when he married me off to Signor Dario Gatti.”

“Child, he couldn’t afford to feed you. He did what he had to do so you’d survive.”

“He could have painted!” Marietta pointed an accusing finger at the painting she stole from Signor Palladino’s bedroom. “He was painting, while I suffered alone with a monster for a husband. Night after night, I never knew if he would beat me or force himself on me—or both. And then there was his witch of a mother, the most cold-hearted woman I’ve ever known. If it weren’t against God’s will, I would have taken my own life to be out of theirs.”

“Had Bernardo known, I’m sure he would have come for you. He grieved for your mother. He didn’t start painting again until . . . until we became lovers,” Rosina said in a quiet voice.

Marietta rested her head on her knees. For so long she had hated her father, but now she didn’t know what to feel.

Rosina held the painting up to catch the light from the window. “I remember when he finished this one. He cried like a baby.”

“It was a special place for him.”

Rosina picked up a pile of clothes from the floor and held them to her nose. “You wore your father’s clothes?”

“It’s hard to climb trellises in a gown,” Marietta replied, hoping to lighten the mood in the room. She wanted to share the details of her adventure, but the grief on the innkeeper’s face made her hold her tongue.

Rosina carefully hung the clothes over a chair and then changed the subject. “I found some more of your father’s paint supplies.” She opened the door and dragged a wooden box from the hallway. “It’s the strangest thing. I found it buried under some crates in the kitchen. How it got there, I have no idea.”

Marietta eyed the box, but then flopped down into the bed pillows.

“Aren’t you painting today?”

“I think I need more sleep. It takes a lot of strength to banter with Signor Foscari.”

Rosina placed a hand on her forehead and then her cheeks. “You are too warm. Do you feel ill?”

“Just tired. I’m fine.”

The innkeeper pressed her lips together. “You must rest today. No arguments.”

Marietta laughed weakly at the one thing upon which they agreed. She did not intend to move from her bed. Nico’s portrait would have to wait.

ico paced the floor of his apartment. His irritation grew with every step. Marietta was late, which was odd because she didn’t strike him as someone who would keep another waiting. When he heard the melancholy bells of Santa Maria dei Miracoli sound three times, he called out to Raul. “Go find my kitty.”

To fill the time until Raul’s return, he dropped onto the bed and let his mind wander. He didn’t do this often since it created a foul mood, but Marietta’s absence already soured him, so he gave in to his desire.

In his fantasy, his vision was as sharp as a hawk’s, with no need for a wretched cane or guide. From his family’s opera box, he and Marietta watched Vivaldi, or perhaps Albinoni, though he preferred the former. They held hands and every so often, he squeezed lightly to show he was thinking only of her. When she gazed up at him, a playful smile formed on her lips. He didn’t know where to look: her sparkling blue eyes that reflected her good humor and wit; her soft, rose-colored lips that welcomed the touch of his own; or her delicious bosom that his fingers begged to caress and his tongue to taste.

Upon the conclusion of Act I and the audience’s enthusiastic applause, he pulled the box curtains closed and drew Marietta against him. Encouraged by her soft moans, he laid a trail of kisses along her slim neck. She slipped her hands under his coat and dug her fingers into the muscles of his back. He pulled her hips against his so she could feel his hardness. They would wait until properly alone, so that nothing interrupted their passion, but he needed her to know the extent of his desire.

After the opera, while others went gaming, they hurried to his apartment and stripped off their evening clothes before the fireplace. First, his eyes explored every inch of her shivering body, and then his hands, and finally his mouth. They took their time before consummating their passion. Anything worthwhile deserved to be done with care, and he wanted to savor every minute with her.

Later, as she dozed in his arms, one hand laid possessively across his chest, he watched the firelight dance across her skin. To pass the time until she awoke, he counted her freckles and moles, content with holding her shapely body against his. When his impatience got the best of him, he sought out her lips. Her eyes fluttered open, and after a seductive stretch, she straddled his hips—

“She’s not coming.”

Nico’s eyes shot open. “What? Why?”

“According to the innkeeper, she’s ill.”

He jumped up. “Is it serious? Should we send for a physician?”

“I don’t know. The innkeeper wouldn’t let me in.”

Nico sank into the French wingback chair by the fireplace. Staring into the glowing ball of fog that mocked his daydream, he dismissed Raul with a wave of his hand.

Raul ignored the command. “Is there something else you would like to do now?”

“No. Leave me.”

“How will you get home?”

“I’m not a blasted invalid!” Nico rubbed a hand across his eyes and tried to even his temper. “Casanova will be by later. We are to dine with Consul Smith tonight. He can see me home.”

The door opened, but he didn’t hear Raul leave. Guilt rattled him to speak. “Raul?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know you are. Will you be all right?”

The question was so absurd that the sudden urge to laugh hysterically filled his chest. With considerable effort, he reined it in and replied, “Yes.”

t a crowded Faro table in Il Ridotto, Nico’s dark mood still lingered. He hadn’t wanted to go gaming after dinner, but Casanova could be a relentless bully.

“My good friend, I can’t bear your melancholy. Let’s find some women,” Casanova said. “A bit of frolicking between the sheets will return a smile to your handsome face.”

Nico crossed his arms over his chest. “Not tonight, Cas.”

“But why? This isn’t like you.”

Nico sighed in response.

“There’s only one reason a man would sigh so heavily. What’s her name?”

He hesitated. Casanova wasn’t above poaching another man’s woman, but she wasn’t his—yet. “Signora Gatti.”

“A fine choice, but why should your interest in the lady affect your mood so?” His friend paused. “Oh, I see. She resists you.”

“She resists everyone. She’s recently widowed, you know.”

“I’ve made love to women at their husband’s funerals. That is no excuse. Either you are doing something wrong or she’s crazy to refuse such a laudable lover. Maybe she takes after her father.”

“You are not the first to think that.” An insane Marietta would certainly heal his pride, but he didn’t think it was true.

Casanova swore as the dealer called out the winning and losing cards. “Well, I suppose it’s possible she isn’t attracted to you. She did go off with that pig Palladino, you may recall. Did you know her husband?”

“Not well,” Nico replied. “He visited Venice often but without Marietta.”

“Ah, I see. Maybe you remind her too much of her late husband.”

“That’s what I don’t understand. How did they even come to be married? She had to have been barely fifteen, but there are no children and she’s not of high standing. Socially, it is not a good match. What possessed Signor Gatti to take her as a wife?”

“Perhaps he was just as smitten as you are.”

He snorted in disgust. “Signor Gatti was smitten with all young girls.”

“Maybe she was with child and then lost it after they were married.”

Nico disagreed. “He would have settled that problem with some coins and a nunnery. There would be no need for marriage.”

“Yes, that is always the more prudent thing to do,” his friend said with a twist of his lips. “Either way, is she worthy of all this angst? She’s attractive, but so are over half the women in Il Ridotto tonight. If she will not cooperate, I say you must move on.”

“No.”

“But why?”

Casanova wouldn’t understand but he answered anyway. “I like how she smells.”

There was awkward silence and then his friend asked, “And how is that?”

Nico closed his eyes and thought about the times he had been close to Marietta. “She smells of paint and turpentine . . . and sometimes lavender. She smells of goodness, kindness, and decency . . . and sometimes sadness.”

“You can smell all that? For God’s sake, what do you smell when I’m around? No, wait, don’t tell me.” Casanova clapped a hand on Nico’s shoulder. “I wish you luck, my friend, and if there is anything I can do to help you in this quest, just ask.”

Nico nodded grimly. His attraction for Marietta went beyond her stirring scent. She had suffered through a marriage to a scoundrel, lost her parents, and now, instead of throwing herself at the nearest nobleman, was determined to support herself as an artist. He admired her independent nature. However, she had made it clear that he was unworthy of her affections, and he had to agree. He hadn’t done anything in his drunken life to deserve a woman like her.

hree days later, Marietta dragged herself out of bed and sent a note to Nico saying she was ready to continue their painting sessions.

“Are you sure you’re well enough? You barely broke your fast.” Zeta held out Marietta’s tray as proof.

“Hmmm?” She looked up from the box of painting supplies that Rosina had left a few days ago. She grabbed a piece of bread and stuffed it in her mouth. “Satisfied?” she asked between chews.

“I’m telling Rosina,” her friend said with a toss of her head before she left the room.

Marietta ignored the threat and continued her rummaging. The man must have had more charcoal. No competent artist would have only one stub. She gave the box a hard shake and then started her search again, though this time she removed each object. When she reached the bottom without finding any, she groaned. Now she would have to stop on her way to Nico’s apartment, and she would be late.

When she placed a bottle of turpentine into the box, the bottom piece of wood rocked so that it lay unevenly. She pushed down on the wood with her fingers, but it remained unbalanced. Puzzled, she removed the bottle and pried at a corner until the wood popped out to reveal a second bottom and a book bound in worn leather. She sat back on her heels and slowly turned the book’s pages. Rough sketches of future paintings filled most of them; however some pages held writing. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she read an early entry.

Today, I say goodbye to my baby as she becomes a wife. God forgive me if I am wrong in what I do. I wish her mother were here to guide my decision. She was always better at reading people’s true character. All I know is Marietta will now have a grand home and food every day. It is more than I can give her. Maybe someday, when she has children of her own, she will understand.

Toward the end of the journal, hastily scribbled words covered every inch of the thin paper. Some entries were plainly reminders for a scatterbrained mind, while others revealed her father’s intimate thoughts. When she read the poems about Rosina and their lovemaking, she almost shut the book in embarrassment, but the need to know the father she lost kept her going. She gasped in distress at the last few pages.

Was it real or a dream? I know not what to believe. It was after midnight when I arrived at F’s villa, filled with drink from La Mascareta. My pockets were empty and in my drunken state, I believed I had the courage to demand the payment due to me. I pounded on the door and woke a servant, who boxed my ears in punishment and chased me away. Nevertheless, I would not be dismissed so easily. I made my way back and slipped in through an open window.

I stumbled through the dark house, looking for the man—no, the thief—who offended me. I was almost giddy with the thought of confronting him. No longer would he laugh at me. No, he would give me the respect I deserved.

Reaching the main staircase, I was about to ascend when I heard voices coming from behind a nearby closed door. Good, I thought, he is still awake. I listened at the door to discern how many might be in the room with the master of the house, but it was impossible to tell. The voices rose and fell in unison like the chanting monks of San Bonaventura, but if they said prayers, they were unfamiliar to me.

I gripped the knob and flung open the door. I bellowed for F to receive me, but then I froze, confused by what I saw in that room. To my wine-soaked mind, it made no sense. A dozen or so men dressed in white robes with hoods pulled low over their faces stood in a circle. An array of candles—too many even for a church—cast flickering shadows on the walls. A few of these hooded figures broke the ring to see what my commotion was about. That is when I saw the painted symbols on the floor. This scared me most of all, for only witches and devil worshipers used such cryptic language.