Venice in the Moonlight (3 page)

Perhaps fearing she intended to join her paintings, Fredo took a quick step toward her. In his haste, he tripped over the spikes of his rake and landed on the ground with a thud. He scuttled on all fours trying to reach her. “No, no, Signora!”

With a final cry, she threw the heavy dress on top of the remains of her landscapes. The wool quickly burned as the fire raced across the coarse fabric. She shivered in her undergarments, listening to the fire crackle and pop, until all that remained were burning embers, and then the world went black.

hen Marietta’s eyes opened, she was in her own bed. The smell of smoke on her shift and in her hair confirmed that the bonfire hadn’t been a terrible nightmare. She covered her face with her soot-stained hands and blew out a long anguished breath. Her paintings were gone.

Overcome with fury, she pounded the bed with her fists, but it didn’t ease her rage. Her mother-in-law’s words sounded in her head, and she shot up. Three trunks stood in a row at the foot of her bed, as if standing guard while she slept. A wave of nausea swept over her. She clamped a hand over her mouth and tried to swallow the burning liquid forcing its way up her throat.

“Zeta! I’m going to be sick!”

Before the maid could help, Marietta grabbed a porcelain bowl from the bedside table and retched up the meager remains of her last meal. She fell back against the pillows and wiped her mouth with the corner of the sheet. Her eyes found the trunks again. “Are they packed?”

Zeta’s face reflected a mixture of guilt and misery. “La Signora ordered me.”

Marietta gave her a weak smile. “I understand.”

“Shall I help you get dressed? The carriage is waiting. La Signora said it will take you to Verona but no farther.”

Marietta held up her soiled hands. “Do I have time to wash before I’m exiled?”

While she waited for Zeta to clean the bowl, Marietta examined her face in the mirror. If it weren’t for the dark circles around her eyes and the splotches of soot, her bloodless complexion could have passed for one of the popular, white carnival masks everyone would wear in a few weeks. When she ran a brush through her blond hair, ash floated to the floor. Maybe Zeta could perform a small miracle. Marietta preferred departing the villa with some dignity instead of looking like the riffraff her mother-in-law claimed she was.

Her mind raced to form some sort of plan. She needed to buy passage on a coach from Verona to Venice. Though she never had to handle such arrangements, it couldn’t be too difficult to do. Then, she needed to find suitable lodgings. She could try where her father and she had last lived, but she remembered it as a dilapidated place. Her father had been a successful painter of portraits and frescos, but after her mother’s death, he had lost his passion. When he agreed to Marietta’s marriage, they were at the end of their savings, scrimping to get by each day. Maybe she should find rooms elsewhere and then approach her father—if she could find him.

Take one day at a time. How many times had she told herself that since her marriage to Dario?

Zeta returned with another plain dress made of black muslin. Marietta shook her head at it. “No, I will wear the blue silk with gold trim.”

The young woman gave her a conspirator’s grin and tossed the rejected dress on the bed. An hour later, Marietta stood fully dressed with hair curled and powdered. The French dress was one of her favorites, as it brought out the color of her sapphire blue eyes and made her smallish bosom look exceptional. She adjusted the mass of ruffles that fell from her elbows and then thanked Zeta. “I feel better already.”

The maid nipped the extra material at the sides of the dress with her fingers. “Forgive me for saying, but you’re losing too much weight. You must promise to eat more.”

“Maybe once I’m away from La Signora I’ll regain my appetite.”

Zeta frowned. “It’s not right—her turning you out like this. Where will you go?”

Marietta gazed out the window at the Verona countryside she had grown to love through her painting. “I’m going home to Venice.”

“What if you don’t find your father? Who will take care of you?”

Marietta reached for her friend’s hands. “Zeta, I couldn’t have survived living here without you, but now I must take care of myself.” It sounded braver than she felt. She had no desire to remain at the villa, but she also remembered how it felt to be hungry and poor.

A sharp rap on the door silenced them.

“It’s time,” her friend whispered, tears pooling in her eyes.

Marietta gathered Zeta in her arms and gave her one last hug. “I’m ready.”

he Gatti’s coachman deposited Marietta and her belongings outside the Cardinal’s Hat Inn in the center of Verona. As the family carriage pulled away, the urge to run after it overtook her. Instead, she squared her shoulders and forced her feet to move toward the entrance of the inn.

When she opened the door, the building belched the smell of sour wine in her face. On the far side of the smoky room, a short elderly man stood behind a counter, engrossed in a game of piquet. From the foul language coming out of his opponent’s mouth, the cards were running in the innkeeper’s favor.

She approached the counter and waited to be noticed, but when it became obvious the game was more important, she tapped her fan on the well-worn wood. “Excuse me, Signore. I need a ticket to Venice.”

The old man scowled at the interruption but put down his cards. His hooked nose bobbed like a chicken’s as he took in the cut of her clothes and then peered over her shoulders. “How many in your party, Signora?”

“One,” she replied with a lift of her chin.

The innkeeper arched a gray bushy eyebrow at her. From his surprised expression, she could tell he expected her to have at least a few servants in attendance. Her mother-in-law knew traveling alone would draw attention. It was her final insult. But Marietta refused to be embarrassed, so she calmly stared back at the old man.

The man scratched at the few strands of hair left on his head and then shrugged. “There’s a coach early on the morrow. It’s a full day’s ride to Padua. You’ll stop there for the night. You should arrive in Venice by late afternoon the next day.”

“Then I’ll also need a room for tonight.”

After handing over the necessary coins, Marietta debated on whether or not to order something to eat but doubted even soup would make it past the lump in her throat. She turned a slow circle in the middle of the room and grimaced when a middle-aged man and woman sitting with a younger man about Marietta’s age eyed her with curiosity from a nearby table. With a snap of her fan, she covered her face and chose an empty table in the shadows.

She leaned back in her chair with a sigh, satisfied she’d made it through the first step of her plan without a hitch. She might have had servants at her disposal the past five years, but before that she had to fend for herself. When her father stopped painting after her mother’s death, there had been no money for luxuries. The few servants the family employed were the first to go. She could do this. People took care of themselves all of the time.

Her stomach rumbled at the savory aroma of the food being served to a family of three at the next table. When the serving girl placed a bowl of stew in front of the little boy, he clapped excitedly and shouted his thanks.

Marietta’s hand dropped to her belly, which no longer growled for food. Today she left behind the cruel Gattis but also the graves of her two babies that she would never visit again. She laid her head in her hands and fought back the tears. The self-confidence she felt only a moment ago drained from her body and left her weak.

A short time later, a slim, hooded figure approached Marietta’s table.

“Zeta!” Marietta’s hand flew to her mouth. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m coming with you.” A worried look crossed her former maid’s face. “If you’ll have me.”

Marietta shook her head and then smiled to soften the refusal. “I don’t need your help getting to Venice. I’m fine.”

“I . . . I meant forever. I can be your maid again.”

“But I don’t even know where I’m going to live,” Marietta replied with a lift of her shoulders. “You don’t want to give up your home at the villa.”

Zeta crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t have a home anymore. I was dismissed.”

Marietta closed her eyes and sighed. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I should have known La Signora would punish you too.”

“I didn’t want to stay there without you anyway.”

“Maybe you should go home to your family,” Marietta suggested gently. “I’m sure they miss you.”

“I’d just be another mouth to feed.” Zeta studied the inn’s scarred floorboards, her hands twisting the fabric of her cloak.

Marietta hesitated. Her future was so uncertain, yet it was her fault Zeta lost her position. She couldn’t turn her friend away. “I’d love to have your company, but not as my maid.”

When Zeta raised her eyes, there was hope in them, but her brow creased. “But that’s what I am.”

Marietta reached for the young woman’s hands and gave them a gentle squeeze. “No, you’re my friend.”

t departure time the next morning, Marietta and Zeta took their places on one of the coach’s hard wooden benches. A few minutes later, agitated English voices mixed with thuds and grunts, followed by the inquisitive group from the inn rocking the coach as they climbed aboard. The older man had the shape of a bullfrog, all stomach and jowls, while the woman looked like she might blow away in a stiff wind. The younger man took after the woman in form and had the added burden of a pockmarked face.

The older man took charge of the introductions. “Do you speak French or perhaps English? My Italian is horrible.” He barreled on in French before either Marietta or Zeta could respond. “The name’s William Brown, of B&B Shipping in Bristol, England. This here’s my wife, Penelope, and my son, George.”

Marietta smiled and replied in French, “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Are you traveling to Venice?”

“That we are, young lady. We’re on the Grand Tour.” Mr. Brown waved his meaty hands at the scenery outside the coach’s window. “We’ve been to Paris, Rome, Florence, and Naples, and now on to Venice.”

Since Marietta grew up in Venice, she had met others on the Grand Tour; however, they were men in their twenties having illicit fun before marriage trapped them. They always had a tutor or guide to show them the way and keep them out of too much trouble. A whole family confused her.

“How nice for you, but where is your guide?”

Mr. Brown briskly rubbed the inside of his ear with his pinky before he replied, “The gentleman became ill in Rome and was unable to continue, but I told Mrs. Brown we could do fine by ourselves.”

Marietta stifled a laugh. The Browns seemed pleasant enough, but she imagined the guide preferred a different type of company. “Have you been enjoying yourself?”

“Yes, of course. How could we not? The food here is delicious.” Mr. Brown brushed several crumbs from his coat to prove his point. “But Venice is our last chance, I’m afraid.”

“Your last chance for what?” Marietta asked politely.

When Mr. Brown leaned forward, his protruding stomach pressed against Marietta’s knees. He gave her an exaggerated wink. “Why, to find my son a wife!”

Mrs. Brown clicked her tongue at her husband while poor George stared out the window, his mouth pinched tight. At his son’s discomfort, Mr. Brown slapped George’s knee and roared with laughter. His belly and chins jiggled from the exertion.

“You see, despite my money, none of the ladies back home fancy Georgie.” Mr. Brown pursed his lips and wrinkled his brow at such an inconceivable notion. Then he shrugged his round shoulders. “So, we’ve had to come abroad to try our luck.”

Marietta’s heart went out to the young man. He obviously had more than his unappealing looks to overcome to find a mate. She smiled at George, making his face turn a mottled shade of light red. “Venice is a romantic city. I’m sure you’ll have success there.”

Mr. Brown laced his fingers over his stomach and nodded. “Well, we probably should have let him have a go at it on his own, but Mrs. Brown doesn’t like to let Georgie out of her sight. So here we all are. Say, you wouldn’t happen to be—”

Marietta assumed Mr. Brown was about to ask her marital status and for a moment she regretted the absence of her widow’s weeds. Thankfully, the jolt of the coach getting underway interrupted his question.

The group settled into a comfortable silence, with the exception of Mr. Brown, who had an unlimited supply of stories. Marietta kept a smile on her face and nodded occasionally, but her gaze stayed on the passing countryside and her thoughts on what awaited her in Venice.

For the past five years, she had not seen or received any letters from her father. At first, this satisfied her, but as time passed, she missed him dearly. She had finally written, but when the correspondence went unanswered, she gave up. She could hardly blame her father, though. From the day the wedding announcements went out, she had been a beast to him. First, she begged him to cancel the wedding. When that didn’t work, she called him every hurtful name her young mind could invent. When he had still refused to change his mind, her temper went from fiery hot to ice-cold, and she punished him with her silence. It was the last time they had spoken. She hoped time had healed his heart for if he didn’t welcome them, she didn’t know where they would go.

The coach stopped with a lurch, breaking Marietta out of her musings. The driver cracked his whip to urge the horses forward. They whinnied in protest but could do no more. The coach was stuck in mud.

“Everybody out!” The coach rocked as the driver swung down from his bench.

The men climbed out first and immediately sank ankle deep into the road. Mr. Brown bellowed a long string of curses in his native English that even Zeta understood. Using unexpected strength for such a thin man, George swung his mother over the muck and placed her on a drier patch of road. He waved his hands uncertainly over Zeta’s midsection before he settled on her waist and deposited her safely next to his mother.

Though Marietta didn’t think it possible, when she appeared in the doorway, George’s cheeks deepened to the color of a garden beet. In his haste to finish the deed, he didn’t account for Marietta’s fuller dress. Halfway out of the coach, her skirts snagged and she teetered in midair until with a grunt, he pulled her loose. With the shift in weight, George fought for balance until they landed at his mother’s feet in a heap with Marietta on top.

“Oh, my!” Marietta pushed off George’s chest and scrambled to her feet. “Did I hurt you?”

George mumbled something incoherent before he stumbled through the mud to where his father conferred with the driver. Mr. Brown, as usual, seemed to be doing most of the talking, but whatever he said was not agreeable to the driver who kept shaking his head.

After a few minutes, George came back to them. His shoes made a sucking noise with each step. “We’ll need everyone to push.”

They took up positions behind the coach and waited for the driver’s signal. At the crack of his whip, Marietta shoved with all her might. Her legs pumped while her slippers fought for a foothold. On the third push, the wheels turned a few notches, and then the coach bucked forward, shooting mud in every direction. Another crack sounded, but this time it came from the axle and not the driver’s whip. The coach came to an abrupt stop.

Marietta groaned at their failure. She didn’t know much about coaches, but she knew they needed four attached wheels, and now this one had only three. She pulled out a lace handkerchief and wiped the dirt from her face. Her fingers brushed at the mud spots scattered across her favorite dress, but the effort only made the blotches grow. With a disgusted sigh, she gave up and surveyed the others. Mr. Brown seemed to have received the brunt of the mud spray. His previously white stockings and olive-green silk breeches were now an earthy shade of brown.