“Only time will tell, lass. Only time will tell.”
As Zina stepped out of the embrace, she swiped a tear from her cheek. “Well, I won’t say goodbye anyway. Farewell.”
“Farewell, lassies.” And with that she vanished.
Sara looked at Zina. “Wait a minute, did you call her an angel?”
“Yes.”
“So, she’s an angel? A real angel?”
Zina shrugged. “She says she’s called lots of things. None of them encompass her true being, but the word ‘angel’ works as well as any other.”
Chapter 12 - Nothing to Lose
Benedict had been on edge all day, so the relief he felt when he saw her waiting for him by the tower was profound.
When she saw him, she practically skipped to him. “Ben, I have so much to tell you.”
He wanted to wrap his arms around her and not let go, but he couldn’t. “I can’t wait to hear all about it, but perhaps you should wait until we are on our way.”
She nodded. “That’s probably best.”
But the instant they were into the lagoon and out of earshot, she launched into her tale.
“Holy mother of God. A man accosted you? Even disguised as a boy? Thank God Gertrude was there to save you.”
He shouldn’t have been shocked by her explanation. He knew Venice had an underbelly that didn’t match its outer beauty. “Well, that does it. You aren’t going into Venice alone again.”
“There’s more to the story, Ben.”
She went on to tell him about the courtesan named Zina who Gertrude introduced her to.
“She says the best way for me to get a real understanding of Venice is to spend some time with her.”
“Gertrude thinks that’s a good idea?”
“Yes. Zina suggested I pose as a servant or English tutor a few days a week.”
Benedict frowned.
“I spent the day with her. Honestly, she knows so much about Venetian culture, I couldn’t possibly find a better source for the information I need.”
After much discussion, and once again against his better judgement, Benedict agreed that she could spend two days a week with Zina, the courtesan.
Sara wheedled three.
~ * ~
By Sunday night, Benedict was convinced he had entered one of the circles of hell. He’d nearly rather have the punishment the gods gave Sisyphus, perpetually rolling a boulder uphill only for it to roll back down. The frustration he felt being so near Sara, finding her so desirable on every level, and knowing she couldn’t be his, might just kill him. Still, he’d rather have this time with her than none at all.
They didn’t go into Venice that day. Since she would have the opportunity to spend so much time there over the next few weeks, she said she wanted to stay on the Lido and give him a taste of her culture.
“I want to take you on a picnic in the afternoon.”
He wasn’t sure what a picnic was, but he agreed and while he worked on Saturday, she prepared.
He went to Mass in the village. She would have liked to have accompanied him, but they both felt it better to keep her presence on the Lido as quiet as possible.
“I’ll finish getting everything ready while you’re gone,” she promised. And true to her word, after he had returned she was ready to go. She had a basket packed with fried chicken, tomato and cucumber salad, fresh bread and cherry crumble. On top of it all was a tablecloth and napkins. He wasn’t sure where she thought the table would be, but he didn’t comment.
She had another basket containing plates, utensils, cups, and three wine bottles.
“Don’t you think that’s a tad too much wine for one afternoon?”
“Only one of the bottles has wine in it. I filled one empty wine bottle with water and another with sweet tea.”
“Sweet tea? I thought you took your tea black. Besides, it’ll be cold in no time.”
“I generally do drink hot tea black and the sweet tea is already cold. Since we don’t have any ice, I chilled it in the well.”
He frowned. “Why would you do that?”
“Because I like it. It’s something we drink, especially in the summer. It is an absolute must for a picnic. We call it iced tea and if it’s sweetened it’s called sweet tea. Although strictly speaking, this isn’t exactly sweet tea. Sweet tea is loaded with sugar. I like my tea just a little sweet.”
Benedict had carried the baskets and Sara carried a linen sheet and some towels as they walked together to the edge of the sandy beach on the Adriatic side of the Lido. She spread the sheet in the shade under the trees, then arranged the tablecloth on the sheet and laid out their meal.
He’d had no clue what to expect from fried chicken, but it was delicious. The tomato and cucumber salad was cool and refreshing. Even the sweet tea wasn’t bad. But the cherry crumble defied words.
When he couldn’t eat another bite, he lay back with his hands under his head. “Sara, I think I like picnics. No, I love them. The meal was maybe the best I’ve ever eaten.”
“Well, I was always told, ‘the way to a man’s heart is through is stomach.’”
“What?”
She laughed. “You know the old saying—no I guess you don’t. The woman who first said that hasn’t been born yet. But it means that if you feed a man well, he’ll fall in love.”
“Well it worked on me.” Christ, almighty, he’d said it. Just keep going and maybe she won’t notice. “Tell me about her.”
She cocked her head to one side as if she hadn’t quite worked out what he’d just said.
“I mean the woman who first said that.”
“Oh. She was, or I guess will be, a newspaper columnist and author a hundred years from now. It was still really hard for women to be in the literary field then. She was a pioneer in many respects. She supported women’s right to vote and she started the first club for women who were authors and artists.”
“You really admire her.”
Sara smiled. It was warm and wistful. Happy and sad at the same time. “I do admire her. My mother really admired her, too. She named me after her.”
“What is her name?”
“She was published under the name Fanny Fern. But mom feared if she named me either one, kids would make fun of me. Those were really old fashioned names when I was born and the word ‘fanny’ had become slang for backside or even in some places, a woman’s private parts.”
He laughed and she smiled and blushed.
“Fanny Fern’s real name was Sara Willis, so my parents named me Sara Fern Wells.”
After that, Sara had looked away, out towards the sea. A quiet melancholy slipped over her.
After a moment, Benedict sat up and reached for her hand. “I’m sorry.”
Taking his hand, she smiled. “For what?”
“For reminding you of your loss.”
“It’s all right. I like remembering them, even if it makes me a little sad. My mom was a really strong woman and she wanted me to be one, too. She named me after a strong woman whom she admired. I think I wanted to be an author because of the things mom told me about Fanny Fern.”
“You are a strong woman. I’ve never met anyone like you. If you are a product of your time, I think I would like it there.”
She sighed. “I’d love to take you with me.”
And there it was, the reminder that she was leaving. He needed to change the subject. “So tell me, Sara, what else to people do on picnics?”
She grinned. “Play games, or if they are at a beach like this, go swimming.”
“Do you want to go swimming?”
“I’d love to go swimming, but I can’t very well go in the water fully dressed.”
“You could take off a few layers.”
“No, that would be scandalous. What if someone saw me? I can’t go swimming.” But the look of yearning on her face told him she wanted to whether it was scandalous or not.
“No one will see you. This beach is always deserted. I’ll keep
watch. If I see anyone in the distance, you can run back here and be dressed long before they’re near enough to see.”
She laughed. “You’d be near enough to see.”
“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’ve already seen you in a wet shift.”
“I guess you have. And honestly, it covers more than my bathing suit at home does.” She glanced back at the sea longingly. “Will you go with me?”
By all that was holy, would anyone say no to that? “Of course, I will.”
Her face split into a grin. “All right. Let’s do it.”
He’d stripped down to only his breeches and she to her shift. Then he spent possibly the most delightful hour of his life swimming and playing in the water with her. His sea nymph, the girl from nowhere was back and he adored her. It was a blessing that the water was pleasantly cool. Otherwise, seeing her wet shift cling to her beautiful curves would have made him unpleasantly hard.
Now, hours later, he lay alone in his bed thinking of her and cursing himself for being a fool.
~ * ~
That afternoon was the first time Sara had seen Ben with his shirt off. When he walked across the sand in nothing but those tight-fitting breeches, she almost drooled. Then he waded into the sea, dove under the water, and surfaced again, pushing his wet hair back. The water on his pecs and washboard abs glistened in the sun. In her opinion, he was the epitome of male perfection and she could happily stare at him all day.
But when he walked back towards the shallower water, his breeches having slipped low on his hips, something stirred her? inside that wasn’t remotely sisterly. Raw desire swept over her, taking her breath away. She imagined herself naked, in his arms, in his bed—no, Sara, channel this. Kyra is the one who gets to jump his—that is Rafe’s—sexy bones.
But as she lay in bed that night and sleep finally claimed her, it was not Kyra and Rafe she dreamed about.
Chapter 13 - Nothing to Lose
Sara’s dreams did nothing to ease her carnal cravings. The next morning Ben took her across the lagoon in the gondola. Although Sara said she could walk from the Arsenale, Ben vetoed that.
“I will take you to Signora Peretti’s house. You said it’s on Rio de San Luca and that she has a porta d’acqua, a water door. I can take you directly there in the gondola and it will be much more discreet. If I’m seen sailing across the lagoon three days a week with the same woman, there will be talk. Furthermore, because Ceres’s father is a merchant, he is well known among the owners of the shipyards. Someone could piece things together.”
Inside the gondola’s felze, she couldn’t be easily seen.
But she could watch beautiful Ben as he rowed. Stop this Sara. Put Kyra in this gondola and let her swoon over Rafe.
When they arrived at the house, Ben helped her out and onto the steps of the water door, continuing to hold her hand for a moment. “I’ll return for you between half-past five and six.”
How could such casual contact be so seductive? Her mouth went dry. He’d said something to her.
“Is something wrong, Sara? Should I come later?”
Oh, right, the time he’ll pick me up. “No, that’ll be fine. I’ll see you then.”
He kissed her fingertips before stepping back and pushing away from the wall.
She watched him row away for a moment before knocking on the door.
The same manservant who had admitted them the previous day answered the door. “The signora is in her chamber. She asked that I send you up as soon as you arrived.”
And so, it started.
The first thing Zina did was clear up Sara’s misconceptions about exactly what a courtesan was. Sara had thought of courtesans as…well, call-girls, high-priced prostitutes, but Zina explained that it wasn’t quite that simple.
“Prostitutes walk the street or work in a brothel, most often because they have no choice. It’s a last resort—sell themselves or starve. Courtesans choose the lifestyle and to be honest, sex is only a small part of it.”
“The lifestyle?”
“Yes. Sara, in this time, unless you are born into the nobility, life is often drudgery. There are rules about what you are allowed to wear, what you are allowed to possess, and where you are allowed to go.”
“Sumptuary laws?”
“Exactly. But those rules are ignored where courtesans are concerned. Frankly, there is little difference between a courtesan and a noblewoman except that a courtesan has much more freedom. In fact, it isn’t uncommon for women of wealth who are widowed to become courtesans. There are even a few widowed noblewomen who see the benefits of our life.”
“What are the benefits?”
Zina laughed. “A skilled courtesan is doted on by her noble benefactors. And what is her only responsibility? To be a beautiful and charming companion.”
“What about the whole sex part? Doesn’t that bother you?”
“Why should it. Sara, we are both from the twenty-first century. I knew loads of women there—all in serial monogamous relationships, mind you—who have slept with more men than I have. I enjoy sex and I know how to please a lover and ensure he pleases me. I see nothing wrong with that.”
Sara had to agree with her. “I guess I understand that. I’ve only had a couple of boyfriends, but most of my friends in college had a good few. They’d say ‘you have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find Prince Charming.’ Still, maybe it’s the romance writer in me, but I’d rather settle down with one man.”
“And I can understand that. In fact, I did that. It was wonderful. I loved my husband with everything in me and I was equally adored.”
“What happened?”
A shadow crossed Zina’s face. “He died.”
“Is that when Gertrude offered you the pocket watch?”
Zina shook her head. “She offered me the pocket watch before I was married. I met Alberto here. We fell in love and I stayed. We had a child.” She paused for a moment, a sad smile on her face. “A perfect little boy who was the image of his father.” She paused again, appearing to hold back tears. “Tragically, they both became ill at the same time and I lost them within days of each other. It was some sort of rapidly progressing respiratory infection and fever. That was fifteen years ago.”
Fifteen years. “Oh, my God. Zina, I’m sorry.”
“Thank you. It was a devastating loss.”
“After it happened, did you regret staying?”
“No. Not for an instant. Roberto was the heart of my heart. I could never have left him.”
Perhaps it was too intimate a question, but it had crossed Sara’s lips before she could stop it. “Knowing what you know now, if you could have avoided all of the pain by not accepting the watch, would you have done that?”
“You mean choose never to know that kind of love? Simply to avoid the pain? No. It may be true that if you never say hello, neither will you have to say goodbye, but oh, my dear girl, what you would miss by doing so is almost unthinkable. Roberto was my soulmate. And never to have held my precious little Marco? No. The pain of their loss is a steep price to pay, but I have no regrets. Every moment with them was incomparably more valuable.” She swiped a tear from her cheek. “I will see them again. I am confident of that. If I learned nothing else from the pocket watch it’s that souls are real, unique, and exist beyond the mortal body. That’s a great comfort.”
“Did you leave a family behind? I mean parents and siblings and such.”
Zina smiled. “Gertrude warned us not to go there, and now I think I know why. We could spend hours talking about our lives in the twenty-first century, but you have a limited amount of time and a lot to learn.”
“You’re right. What’s first?”
“First, a courtesan must be beautiful.” She laughed. “And as I get older, it takes longer and longer. Thankfully, the style in Venice is for a more natural look. In France and England, they use white makeup, which, if I remember correctly, contained lead and other heavy metals. Eww.”
“Y
ou’re exaggerating. It can’t possibly take hours.”
But it did. A hairdresser created an elaborate design every day, which never took less than an hour.
Over the next two weeks, Sara learned every detail of a courtesan’s life. And she began to understand the appeal. Zina could go all over Venice, accompanied only by servants and do largely whatever she wished. She had the wherewithal to buy jewels, books, lavish gowns, or coffee at Florian’s. In fact, she went there most afternoons.
Sara looked terribly out of place. She was clean and comparatively well-dressed, but she clearly was neither a woman of society nor another courtesan. If they were rude enough to ask, Zina waived the question off with a laugh. “She’s my new English tutor. We are practicing.”
Sara loved coffee and, while tea was a reasonable substitute, she thoroughly enjoyed Florian’s.
After one of these outings, they wandered through some side streets looking in shops. Sara stopped in front of a mask maker’s shop, staring in awe at the beautiful creations.
“Lovely aren’t they,” commented Zina. “It’s a shame you won’t be here for Carnivale. There is nothing like it on earth.”
“Isn’t it just like Mardi Gras?”
“Yes, but extended for six months.”
“Six months?”
“It starts on the first Sunday in October, along with the new season of plays and operas. It stops for Advent and Christmas, then starts up again after Epiphany and goes on until the bells ring at midnight on Fat Tuesday. Even then, Venetians will use nearly any excuse to start it up again. For example, if a new Doge is elected, Carnivale starts.”
“I would have liked to have seen it.”
Zina’s brows drew together.
“Is something the matter?”
“I was just thinking. It isn’t exactly like Carnivale, but there is a masquerade ball on Saturday and I’m certain I can get an invitation for you.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely. You will need a costume, but I’m bound to have something in my wardrobe that would be perfect for you. Come here on Saturday instead of Friday and we can get you ready.”
The Choice: The Pocket Watch Chronicles Page 10
