He took her into bed without removing the rest of her underclothing and then got up to blow out the candle. When he came back into bed, he was naked and pressed against her the unimaginably large thing she had been told would break the seal of her virginity and make her officially and completely his wife. It took some coaxing for her to relax enough to let him push between her legs, and then, as he whispered reassurances through her whimpers of fear, he pressed harder until she cried out and felt him burning inside her. It was less painful than she had been warned about—more of a shock than anything else—and when he began to moan, she was terrified that something inside her was hurting him. When he stiffened and then fell down next to her with a groan, she thought for a moment he might be dead, until he reached over and wiped his forehead on the sheet.
“Are you all right?” she asked, to which he burst out laughing. “I’m the one who should be asking,” he said. “Did I hurt you too much?” She told him he hadn’t, but then, unexpectedly, she started to cry, and though he wanted to know why, she could not explain.
He held her in his arms until she fell asleep. And then, when she woke up, he was gone. Chiaretta had no idea what she was supposed to do next. She went to the prie-dieu and knelt. Blessed Mother of God, please forgive me if I don’t pray properly today. I don’t really feel like me. She pressed her palms against her face and let their coolness seep into her flushed skin. “Please help me to be a good wife to Claudio,” she whispered. “And help me understand this world I chose to live in.”
Next to the prie-dieu was a large gilded cassone. Its lid was open, and she could see the small bag containing the pieces of ivory comb resting on top of a pile of linens. She picked the bag up and held it for a moment, feeling the two shapes inside, before kissing it and secreting it near the bottom, away from other eyes.
Despite her promise, Chiaretta would have given her sister her piece when she left the Pietà, but Maddalena did not ask for it. When Chiaretta first showed her the bits of ivory, Maddalena looked at them for a long time before handing them back, saying she didn’t want to see them again. “They’ll just get me thinking,” she said. “I’d rather not be reminded.” But Chiaretta wanted to be reminded. She felt like enough of an oddity among the Morosinis. It helped a little to know that her past was as populated with real human beings as anyone else’s. She just didn’t know who they were.
As she buried the pieces of comb in the cassone, her other hand rested on top of a set of lace-trimmed pillowcases Maddalena had made for her as a wedding gift. Seeing them, Chiaretta felt a rush of fear at how leaving the Pietà would change her relationship with her sister. But still, as she looked around the room, the future didn’t seem bleak, just unknown. Her bed was so big and comfortable it felt like sleeping on a cloud, and the adjoining sitting room, which Claudio had told her was hers also, was larger than the room she and Maddalena had shared until the day before. Claudio had his own rooms on the same floor, and because his parents lived on the floor below, the portego onto which their rooms opened would be theirs alone. And Claudio? She would have to learn to deal with a life in which everything, including her husband’s habits, was new. Nevertheless, she had thought he would be there when she woke up.
In the way Antonia had taught her was required of patrician brides, she pinned up the back of her hair, sliding a thin gold band from her hairline to the crown of her head. “Chiaretta Morosini,” she said aloud to herself in the mirror. I have a last name. “Chiaretta Morosini,” she said again, trying to smile the way she would when she greeted the world.
She put on a plain dress she had been told would be suitable for days when she would not be venturing from the house. Its scoop neck was trimmed with a ribbon woven from gold thread and accented with tiny glass beads. From just below her breasts, a voluminous silk skirt dropped to the floor, and the tight sleeves, in a matching blue chosen to accent her eyes, ballooned out at the elbows to enable her to move her arms. When she had laced on a pair of soft-soled shoes, she opened the door.
The portego was silent. The natural light had been almost extinguished by the deepening gloom of a rainy day. “Claudio?” she called. The echo died without a reply. She knocked on the door of his study, and when she got no answer, she pushed it open to see that the lamps were unlit.
Drawn toward the light of the window at the end of the portego, Chiaretta went out onto the loggia overlooking the Grand Canal. Gondoliers passed by, not appearing to notice the raindrops falling into the water, as they called out to one another. She took in a deep breath and felt the strange sensation of being outside alone.
“What are you doing out there?” Giustina Morosini stood in the portego, motioning Chiaretta to come back inside. “You’re shivering,” she said, in a way that for a change sounded more concerned than critical. “Claudio is away on business for the day,” she said, anticipating her new daughter-in-law’s question. “You are all right?”
“Yes,” Chiaretta said quickly. Then, realizing Giustina was referring to what had occurred between her and Claudio on their wedding night, she blushed.
“Now that I know you’re up, I will instruct the servants to change the sheets,” Giustina said, motioning toward the staircase leading down to the piano nobile. “You will come with me and listen, so you will know how to speak to them yourself in the future.”
She rang a bell. “Zuana will be here in a minute. Our servants stay out of sight, but you’ll find they are not far away and they come promptly.
“The sheets in the signora’s bedroom need changing,” she said to the young servant who had hurried into the room. “And make sure it is done properly so there will be no stain.”
“Oh dear,” she said when the servant hurried off and she turned and saw Chiaretta’s scarlet face. “I’ve embarrassed you. Well, you will learn there is no way to avoid having servants know your business. The important thing is that they keep your secrets. Will you have breakfast in your quarters today?”
Chiaretta had no idea what the answer should be. “I don’t know,” she said. “Is that what—?” What we do?
Giustina cut her off. “Do whatever you wish,” she said with a forced smile.
“I”—Chiaretta stammered—“I’m sorry, but I don’t know what to wish.”
“All right.” Giustina’s clipped tone implied that Chiaretta was wasting her time. “Today I will ask Zuana to bring breakfast to you in your chambers. After that you can decide about dinner.”
“Zuana?”
“The servant girl who was just here. She is yours. Quite young, but I think you’ll find her adequate.”
Giustina said nothing more, and in the silence that followed Chiaretta heard a quick murmured interchange between two servants on the floor below them and the squeaky hinge of a cabinet as something was put away. Somewhere outside the house a church bell pealed.
“Will Claudio be here for dinner?” Chiaretta broke into the quiet as pleasantly as she could manage.
“I doubt it, although he might surprise us. It is the day after his wedding after all. He often takes his dinner elsewhere, though, and you shouldn’t count on him.”
Chiaretta thought she saw the hint of a smirk on Giustina’s face, as if knowing more about her son than Chiaretta did was a weapon her mother-in-law intended to keep polished and ready. What had Antonia called her mother? A she-wolf. Claudio and Antonia had probably done their best to help, but if Giustina did not have it in her to be any kinder than this, Chiaretta would have to learn to deal with her mother-in-law on her own.
Though she had been up only a short while, suddenly she felt exhausted and excused herself to go back to her room. She lay down on her bed, her eyes burning so intensely it hurt to shut them. Then she heard a soft tapping on her door.
“Madonna?” a small voice said.
She opened the door to see Zuana, holding a tray. “Your breakfast,” she said as if it were a question. Noticing Chiaretta’s red eyes, she asked, “Madonna is all right?”
&n
bsp; “Yes,” she said. “Do I take the tray?”
Zuana gave her a bemused grin. “No, Madonna, I put it down for you.” She set up a place for Chiaretta to eat and then disappeared with no more than a nod.
Overwhelmed by even the simplest things she did not know, Chiaretta stared at the plate in front of her. She chewed without tasting, then put her napkin down and crawled into bed, noticing that the sheets were clean. When she awoke, the food had been removed without her having heard a thing.
By nightfall Claudio was still not home. Chiaretta put on a shawl she had found in the cassone and went out onto the loggia to watch the last of the rain clouds drifting over the moon. A boat with a group of musicians trailed behind a gondola in which Chiaretta could make out the silhouette of a couple embracing.
As another gondola passed the loggia, she heard the melody of one of her solos at the Pietà. She began to sing, at first almost in a whisper, but her voice soon rose unaware. The gondolier came back into a position just under the balcony. The light from his lantern danced on the dark waters of the canal as he began to harmonize. A night heron added its cry to the music as it flew by.
“What are you doing?” Claudio’s voice reverberated in the portego and his boots clicked against the marble floor as he strode toward her. “Get away from there! Don’t you understand?” He pulled so hard on her arm she cried out. “I told you never to sing in public!”
He dragged her away from the loggia and shut the door behind him, his brow knit in anger. “Sing inside for me, for my family. Sing if I say you can. But until then, keep your mouth shut!”
Chiaretta’s face, white with terror in the dim light of the portego, caused him to release his grip. He lowered his voice and tried to explain. “I took out a bond. I signed an oath. Do you know what that means?”
She squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head.
“Chiaretta, a denunciation is a terrible thing. I could spend my life in prison. I could lose my business. People even lose their lives—”
Choking on a sob that exploded from deep within her, Chiaretta broke away from him. She ran into her chamber and flung the door shut behind her.
The day before, after Chiaretta’s gondola disappeared among the other boats near the Doge’s Palace, Maddalena went back inside the church. The candles around the altar had already been blown out, and as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, they were drawn to the balcony, where a single oil lamp was burning. A lone figure was silhouetted against the dim light.
“Anna Maria?” Maddalena whispered. “Is that you?”
“Maddalena? Where are you? I can’t see anything.”
“I’m sitting on one of the benches. I’ll stand up. Can you see me now?”
“Barely. What are you doing?”
“Just sitting here thinking.”
“I came to practice on the organ. Do you mind?”
“No.” Maddalena sighed and sat back down. By rote, she crossed herself, but no prayers came, only a blankness as dark as the chapel itself.
Maddalena heard the bench scrape as Anna Maria sat down, and then the first wheezy notes broke through the silence. She rested her elbows on her knees and put her face in her hands. The oppressive sound of the organ grated on her nerves like a tongue exploring a toothache.
She got up and stole out of the church. Night was falling, and fog was settling into the courtyard. It looked like this the first time I saw it, she thought, shutting her eyes and remembering. Inside the chapel, the organ fell silent. For a moment, time stopped and there was no future to concern herself about, no life without Chiaretta to contemplate. Then the music started up again. Her feet moved unbidden, telling her it was time to go on.
The room where she had slept with her sister was drained of life. Maddalena herself would be leaving, having been told to return to the quarters where the maestre lived. Best to do this quickly, she thought, going to the cassone to collect her things. Inside, left behind in the rush, was Chiaretta’s sketchbook. Maddalena sat on the bed and caressed the cover before opening it.
I saw Antonia today and she is comming to the party. She says there will be games and more food than I have ever sen.
I walked along this cannal and saw kinfishers.
I didn’t know what some of the foods were.
Maddalena leafed back a few pages, knowing what she would find. “Susana cracked her bow,” she had written, “and Luciana gave the one I use to her. She told her to leave it in the cabinet so I could use it too, but she didn’t look like she cared if she did or not.”
She turned the page. “Luciana is a devvil from hell.”
Maddalena traced the dent that Chiaretta had made in the book with those words. Then she got up and wiped her eyes. Smoothing out the blanket where she had been sitting, she noticed a golden hair. She tucked it into the pages of the sketchbook and kissed the cover before closing the door behind her.
The stone walls of the room where the maestre and sotto maestre lived were covered by threadbare tapestries that kept out some of the cold, and the room was small enough for the coal stove to do the rest. In the middle was a carpet, on top of which were several chairs and a table. Anna Maria was sitting on Maddalena’s bed and jumped up to greet her. “Where did you go today?” she said, putting her arm around her and leading her to one of the chairs. “I called out when I was finished playing, but nobody was there.”
“I’ve been packing up, and”—Maddalena sat down and winced, although she hadn’t felt any pain—“I guess, here I am.”
She got up and gave Anna Maria a wan smile as she put Chiaretta’s sketchbook in the cassone by her bed. As she shut the lid, a sudden rush of memories forced her down on her bed as hard as if she had been pushed. She put her hands over her face and began to cry.
Chiaretta knelt at the prie-dieu until her candle went out. Then, feeling her way around the unfamiliar room, she found her bed and lay in it, staring into the darkness. I don’t belong here, she thought. I will never belong here. But what could be done about it now? Was her mistake enough for Claudio to annul their marriage? He had as much as said she was a danger to him. And if he did annul the marriage, where would she go? Not back to the Pietà, not after what had happened the night before. Perhaps I could move away, go someplace where I could sing. I could support myself somehow, maybe find work singing opera. I have savings at the Pietà. I can go tell them to give me my money and leave Venice.
For the first time since she had woken up that morning, she felt something other than fear. But the plan would not work, and she knew it. The Pietà would not turn over her savings to let her do anything like that. And even if they did, what would she do then?
Do I just walk up to a gondolier and tell him to take me— where? Out of town? She had never walked around Venice alone, never once held coins in her hand. And even if she got out of the city, where would she go? She knew the names of a few other places—Rome, Milan, Florence—but not where they were. She lay in bed, punishing herself for everything she did not know, until she fell asleep.
A few hours later, she woke up to find Claudio sitting in a chair beside her bed.
“I was watching you sleep,” he said. “And feeling like an ass.” He held out his hand, inviting her to sit up. “You are the first person I’ve ever known who wasn’t raised just as I was,” he said. “I’ll have to stop assuming you understand things you don’t know anything about.”
Chiaretta sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
Claudio pulled her to her feet. “Come to my room,” he said. “Zuana couldn’t stoke your fire because she was afraid to go in when you wouldn’t answer.” Putting his arm around her, he guided her toward the door. “It’s warmer there, and the lamps are lit.”
Claudio’s study was paneled in wood ornamented with designs in scarlet and gold. A bookshelf covered one wall, and a window with heavy velvet curtains took up another. A small fireplace gave off enough light to illuminate a portrait of a stern-looking
man hanging above the mantel.
“My great-uncle Francesco,” Claudio said when he saw Chiaretta looking at the painting. “Commander of the Venetian fleet when he wasn’t busy being the doge.” He gestured toward a chair. “This is the most comfortable place to sit. I can call for some tea if you’d like.”
Chiaretta shook her head, sitting and arranging her robe around her, as Claudio continued. “I keep this portrait here to remind me who I am. Being part of one of the old families of Venice makes me a little of everyone else before me.” He sat down, pulling his chair closer to her. “Every Morosini at least—good or bad.”
“Claudio, I—”
He took her hand. “You don’t have to say anything. I was not a gentleman. I’ve acted disgracefully, and it is you who are owed an apology. I’d just like to make a better start now.”
“I just don’t know...” Chiaretta’s voice trailed off.
“Don’t know what?”
The words tumbled out. “Whether you think you made a mistake. Whether you want me. Whether I can do this.”
Claudio stood up and walked behind her chair, leaning forward to put his arms around her. “I wouldn’t have asked to marry you if I wasn’t sure you could do it in grand style.” He put his head down and buried his face in her neck. “You are as strong as you are beautiful,” he said, kissing her again and again until she slapped his hand and told him to stop tickling her.
The Four Seasons: A Novel of Vivaldi's Venice Page 20
