Venice in the Moonlight (2 page)

The priest paused in his prayers, confusion clouding his face. Before he could object, Marietta spun around and grabbed Dario’s hand.

“Dario,” she said again. “It’s me, Marietta.”

Her husband struggled to focus on her face.

She forced a smile. “You’re looking better.”

His lips moved soundlessly.

“What’s that, my love?” She brushed back a lock of his sticky hair, hoping the gesture looked affectionate to the priest. She had a feeling she’d need him in her corner should Dario actually die.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Do not worry. Father Calvino has already absolved you.”

His head moved fitfully from side to side. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re upsetting him.” La Signora pointed toward the door. “Leave.”

“No, no,” Dario said in a feeble voice.

Marietta lifted her husband’s hand to her chest and gave her mother-in-law a smug smile. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’m sorry I never got to love you, my sweet Violetta.” Dario closed his eyes with a sigh. “You would have enjoyed it.”

Marietta’s mouth twisted at his words.

“Who’s Violetta?” Father Calvino asked, looking around the room.

Over the now lifeless body, La Signora’s cold eyes met Marietta’s. “Our maid.”

ith the arrival of relatives and visitations from neighbors, the villa had been a blur of motion the past several days. Marietta ignored it all, though, preferring to stay in her bedroom. She rubbed at the tightness in her chest and forced herself to breathe. Today’s funeral would be the first time she appeared in public as a widow.

In the mirror above the dressing table, Zeta fussed with Marietta’s black hat and veil. The maid clicked her tongue whenever Marietta fidgeted, which occurred every few seconds. When Marietta reached up to pull the veil lower, Zeta slapped her hand away. “Let me do my job.”

Despite what the day held, Marietta smiled. If only her friend could be by her side at the funeral mass. “What time are the carriages leaving for the church?”

Zeta glanced at the clock on the fireplace mantel. “La Signora told me one o’clock. Do you need anything else?”

“No, I’m fine. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

Zeta patted Marietta’s shoulder before leaving the room.

Marietta remained at the dressing table, staring at her pale reflection. She never imagined that at twenty years old she’d already be a widow in black. On the bright side, she was no longer married to Dario, but her future still looked grim. She wished La Signora would at least say one way or the other whether Marietta could continue living at the family villa. The last words they exchanged were over Dario’s body.

She closed her eyes and clasped her hands tightly in her lap. Take one day at a time. That’s all she needed to do. She had almost calmed her fluttering stomach when the bedroom door banged open. Zeta rushed into the room. Her cheeks were flushed and her cap was askew.

“The carriages have left!” The maid hurried to the window facing the front lane.

“What? Without me? But it isn’t time yet.” Marietta peered over Zeta’s shoulder.

“Cook said everyone left at least fifteen minutes ago. Oh, I don’t see them anymore.” Zeta opened the window and leaned out, trying for a better view.

“Have Mario saddle my horse.”

Marietta waited until Zeta flew from the room and then sank onto the bed. So this was how it would be. At least when Dario lived, La Signora had to pretend Marietta was part of the family. Now, she was no one, left behind like a servant. She stared at the floral wallpaper until the roses blurred from her tears. Then she wiped away the wetness with shaking hands and pulled on her riding gloves.

She paused at the door and clenched her fists to still the tremors. As first a daughter, then a wife, and now a widow, she possessed few financial rights in her lifetime. It was a man’s world in all respects, but maybe she could gain the sympathy of Dario’s father. Though La Signora controlled the household, if Signor Gatti commanded it, Marietta could stay on at the villa. On her way to the stables, she pondered the best way to approach the old man.

Mario, the stable boy, shook his head as he helped her mount her horse. “
Scusimi,
Signora, you shouldn’t ride today. The rains have ruined the roads.”

“I have no choice.” She dug her heels into the horse’s side and headed toward Verona and the Catholic church the family attended.

When she arrived at San Giorgio, a footman from one of the many coaches lining the narrow street took her reins and helped her down. Except for the brief expression of shock that crossed his face, he averted his eyes and ignored the state of her widow’s weeds. Grimacing, she lifted her skirt and shook off the larger clumps of mud. At least the damage ended at her thighs.

A quick glance inside confirmed most of the townspeople had come to pay their respects and, for once, she was grateful for the church’s customary gloom. With head bowed, she made her way to the Gatti family pew only to find it filled with Dario’s parents and relatives. Marietta waited for room to be made, but La Signora
,
sitting closest to the aisle, simply pressed her petite hands together in prayer and looked straight ahead. Several of the more unrefined cousins shifted in their seats and craned their necks to see what would happen next, while the others studied their hymnals in earnest.

A low murmur rippled through the other mourners. Marietta’s cheeks burned in embarrassment, but she held her ground. She would attend her husband’s funeral from the aisle if need be. An elderly woman three rows back took pity on Marietta—or perhaps vengeance on La Signora. She tapped the man next to her with her fan and then beckoned to Marietta. With a final bitter look at her mother-in-law, Marietta grasped her soiled skirt and slid in beside the elderly woman and her family.

A few moments later, the priest and his boys filed in, while a trio of young castrati, dressed as cherubs, sang a hymn in their high soprano voices. Marietta shut out the rest of the funeral mass. Dario had sinned so often, whatever kind words Father Calvino spoke couldn’t save her husband’s soul. If anyone needed help now, it was she.

When it was time to say their final goodbyes, La Signora was first in line and Marietta last after the cousins. Staring down at her husband’s serene face, the strength in her legs threatened to fail. Night after night during their first year of marriage, she had lain shaking in her bed. Her heart stopped at every sound. Her ears strained to hear his footfalls at her door. Eventually, her fear turned to numbness and then apathy. She gripped the sides of Dario’s coffin to reassure herself that he was truly dead. Then, she lowered her face and pretended to kiss him but instead let a drop of spittle fall from her lips. As it trickled down his gray cheek, she allowed herself a small smile. Her loathsome husband would never again raise a hand to her.

The pallbearers hoisted the coffin onto their shoulders, signaling to more than a dozen paid mourners to keen and pull at their hair. The spectacle befitted someone who had lived a righteous life, yet it was all a charade. The family money could buy almost anything—anything except a place in heaven. Her husband roasted in hell.

n the fresh morning air, Marietta stood on the terrace and stared out at the villa’s meticulous gardens. Two weeks had passed since Dario’s burial, and she had spent the majority of the time in her bedroom waiting for some indication of what her future held. Today, La Signora broke the uneasy silence and summoned her to the salon.

She clutched her black crepe shawl tighter as the autumn wind tasted her exposed skin. Soon the brilliant orange, red, and green of the late blooming flowers and sculptured bushes would turn a lifeless brown that matched how she felt. With a sigh, she rubbed at the dull throb in her temples.

“What are you doing out here? You were told the salon.”

The voice chilled her more than the wind. When she turned, her mother-in-law stood in the doorway, her mouth set in its usual scowl, and her clothes colored black from head to toe. Zeta had remarked that La Signora’s appearance now resembled her heart. Over the years, the woman had provided plenty of evidence to support the sentiment.

“I was only . . .” Marietta waved a hand at the late September landscape.

“Inside.” The staccato beat of La Signora’s march echoed across the marble floor.

Marietta’s head bowed in submission. She took a few steps into the salon but left the French doors open to the cool air. Across the room, the older woman sat on a damask-covered settee with her ankles crossed and feet dangling above the floor. La Signora pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes, even though no actual tears had fallen since her son’s unexpected passing.

Finally, her mother-in-law spoke. “It was no secret that I was against Dario marrying you, but I’ve never been able to deny him what he wanted. I lived with the disappointment of such a lowly match all these years, doing my best to give you a good home despite your ungratefulness.”

Marietta clenched her teeth to keep silent. Her life was much better than most, but the biting insults and degrading looks her mother-in-law cast her way on a daily basis still cut to the bone.

“All I ever asked from you was an heir, and you couldn’t even do that.” She shook a crooked finger at Marietta. “Now, we have no one to carry on the family name.”

At the callous reminder, Marietta’s hand found her belly. Two babies lay buried under the weeping willow tree, and her heart would forever ache from the losses. Though she had entered the marriage kicking and screaming, she had hoped for children. Fate just wasn’t on her side.

She learned long ago not to show any emotion in front of La Signora
,
so she breathed deeply to control her temper. When an acrid smell filled her nose, she crossed the room to peer out the floor-length windows that ran along the side of the villa. A dozen or so large rectangular objects burned in a pile near the carriage house. When the groundskeeper poked at one of them with a rake, sparks shot high into the air. Her mouth suddenly dry, she asked, “What is Fredo burning?”

La Signora tilted her head. “Your paintings.”

The words hit her like an icy bucket of water and her body jerked backward. Her love of painting was the only thing that kept her sane over the lonely years. To Dario’s credit, he allowed her the best materials the family’s money could buy. She had spent countless hours roaming the countryside for the perfect scene to capture, and now this spiteful old woman had destroyed her treasures. Marietta grabbed the nearest chair and dug her fingernails into its back. “Why . . . why would you do that? How can you be so cruel?”

La Signora ignored the question, her black eyes flashing with hatred. “You are no longer welcome in our home and will leave today. Signor Gatti insists on giving you a yearly stipend of 6,000 ducats.” The old woman flicked her wrist as if her husband’s offer was an offending odor that needed to be dispelled. “If it were up to me, you’d have nothing.”

Marietta silently promised to light a candle for the old man the first chance she got. It was far from a lavish amount of money, but it would ensure a roof over her head and food on the table. After Dario’s death, she had sent her father a letter addressed to the lodgings in Venice where they last stayed before her marriage, but so far, there had been no reply. If the letter reached him, perhaps he would welcome her home.

Another gust of wind entered the salon and brought Marietta to her senses. Hampered by the weight of her widow’s weeds, she hiked up her skirts and ran from the room and her vicious mother-in-law. She headed for her paintings, knowing it was already too late.

When she reached the bonfire, she gave in to the choking sobs welling up inside her. Ashes from the ruined creations swirled up in the air until gravity forced them down and onto her tear-stained cheeks in a sooty goodbye kiss.

Fredo rubbed a sleeve across his eyes and then pulled his hat down low. “
Mi dispiace,
Signora
.
They were pretty.”

Marietta wrapped her arms around herself and nodded at his kind words, but as paper curled and paint melted, her heart hardened. Her life here had ended and so would her false mourning. She grasped the bodice of her black gown and tore it open until the gown slid off her hips.