Bianca

by Small Bertrice

  “Ahh,” the servingwoman said, understanding. “I see! I see!”

  “Now escort your grieving mistress back into the palazzo. It is a hot day, and I must take a nap before I have to face my suitor this day,” Bianca said.

  Alessandro Venier had scolded his younger granddaughter over what became known as the incident in the garden. He had not heard Francesca’s voice and words himself, but his servants had reported her outburst to him. He was astounded by both of his granddaughters. This particular generation seemed to have no respect for authority and tradition. All of his daughters, and he had had five of them by his four wives, had been biddable. Even Orianna, when faced with the reality of her situation, had done what she knew she must do without complaint.

  But Francesca had been, until her sister’s arrival, a delight. She had learned her lessons without complaint, attended Mass with him when he bothered to go, and been a delightful companion at the dinner table. She pleased him by playing her lute and singing to him in the evenings. She had been perfect in every way until now. But with Bianca’s arrival, everything had changed. He hoped that with Bianca’s new marriage, his dear little Francesca would return to her formerly charming and obedient self.

  Francesca’s infatuation with Enzo Ziani, while charming and amusing, had now become as tiresome as Bianca’s insistence that she would not remarry. He could not believe his oldest granddaughter was so stupid as not to understand her situation, especially as she had no calling for the church. But if she was not stupid, then she was wretchedly stubborn. He wished Enzo Ziana good fortune with the wench. Despite Bianca’s constant refusals to be courted properly, young Ziani wanted her anyway. Alessandro Venier shook his head wearily. He believed after four wives that he knew women reasonably well. A woman who constantly refused a man was not a woman he would have chosen to share his life or his bed.

  But suddenly Bianca seemed a trifle more amenable to her suitor. Rather than having to send two sturdy footmen to fetch her, she came willingly when called to greet her visitor. She flirted slightly but not enough to give him great hope. Still, it was a pleasant change for Enzo not to have to do all the talking as they strolled in the garden. She wasn’t even averse to sitting while he held her hand and recited florid love poems he had written to her, although Bianca found it difficult to restrain her laughter sometimes, especially when he compared her to a perfect summer’s afternoon or a distant and elusive evening star sparkling just out of his mortal reach.

  When he wanted a more intimate moment with Bianca it was difficult for her, but in order to continue the ruse that she was becoming more accepting of her fate she had to allow him certain liberties. His kisses were seductive, and frankly they made her head spin. Bianca was very confused by it. She had no feelings for Enzo Ziani at all. He aroused no lust in her and yet she found his kisses were quite exciting.

  His hands knew just how to caress her so that she could not control the frisson of chill that raced down her spine when she allowed him to touch her. Bianca knew that she had to keep his kisses and his touches to a minimum. Enough so that he believed he was winning her over, but not so much that he would think her loose and untrustworthy. It was difficult. She had discovered to her surprise, or was it her shock, that a woman could respond to the lovemaking of an attractive man even if she wasn’t in love with him. Did such emotions make her wanton? There was no one of whom she could ask the question.

  But her small effort at appeasing Enzo’s lustful appetites seemed to reassure him that once they were wed she would melt into his arms and he could fill her with passion.

  “You are adorable!” he told her one afternoon. “I adore you, Bianca!”

  “You are charming, I will admit,” Bianca told him, “but you do not love me, Enzo. You want to marry me because our families believe it is the proper thing to do. And I certainly do not love you, cara.”

  “But you will love me!” he assured her. “Once we have married I will teach you to love me, Bianca, and you will.”

  “You are a dreamer, Enzo. You should marry a girl who loves you, and not a widow who longs for another man.”

  “I will make you forget this infidel, Bianca!” he swore.

  “How young you sound,” she said, laughing at him.

  He laughed then also, realizing she was correct. He did sound like a boy. “I married Carolina when I was seventeen,” he told her. “She was chosen specifically for me, a distant cousin brought from one of the islands for me. There was never anyone else, Bianca. I kept no mistress, for in the beginning we were both children playing at marriage. We could not get enough of each other. When she first told me she was with child, I was overjoyed. But then she lost the child. She lost them all. I could not betray her with another woman, for with each loss Carolina needed more and more reassurance that I continued to love her despite her failure to give my family an heir.

  “I am a man, but the truth is my experience with women is not great. After my first wife died, I spent several years mourning her, for with her death came the realization that I had truly loved her. I believe I am coming to love you, Bianca. Who could not love your beauty and your sweetness?”

  “Do not convince yourself that you love me, Enzo,” Bianca told him. “I will take no responsibility for breaking your heart one day, cara, though I will do so.”

  But of course he did not listen to her. She was to be his wife, and this time, given her mother’s record of successful births, he would have a wife who could bring his heir to a live birth. “My wedding clothes will match yours,” he told her. “We will be the most beautiful couple in all of Venice.”

  And if the wedding gown being fashioned for her was any indication, Bianca thought she would certainly be a beautiful bride. It was being made of heavy cream-colored silk that had only recently arrived from the East at her father’s Venetian warehouse. The bodice of the gown would be extremely close-fitting and embroidered with gold threads and small pearls. It would have a wide, square bodice, and the sleeves would be full and puffed and decorated with pearls and gold lace. The skirt would be full and divided to show a gold underskirt embroidered with diamonds and pearls in a seashell pattern. There would be several petticoats beneath. A cape of gold cloth would be attached to each shoulder by a large pearl clasp and would flow into a long train. On her head she would wear a high-crowned cap made of gold cloth with a heavy half-veil, which would hide her face until the ceremony was concluded.

  Bianca stood silently as the gown was fitted to her form each day, and then refitted until it was finally finished. “The veiling is too sheer,” she complained to the dressmaker. “I want a thicker veil for my cap.”

  “I will see what I can find, signora,” the dressmaker said. “But do you not want your handsome bridegroom to be teased by a hint of your face beneath the veiling?”

  “I am Florentine, not Venetian,” Bianca said primly. “It does not matter that this is my second marriage. I will not flaunt myself before all of Venice on my wedding day until after the marriage is celebrated. In Florence, such a thin veiling would be considered immodest. My mother would be very upset with it. You are fortunate she is not here.”

  Agata and Francesca stifled their laughter. Both knew that Bianca told a bald-faced lie, but under the circumstances the dressmaker could not complain or deny her.

  And when the woman and her assistants had departed, Agata locked the door of the bedchamber behind her. Then she and Bianca helped Francesca into the wedding gown to see what alterations would be needed, if any. But to their relief and the younger girl’s delight the gown fit perfectly but for the bosom, which could be easily and quickly fixed.

  Francesca preened before the long glass mirror in her sister’s dressing room.

  “It’s a perfect gown,” she said excitedly. “I shall be the envy of every girl in Venice for it, and for capturing Enzo Ziani as my husband.”

  “You are a very fortunate girl that your sister understands your passion for this young prince, and will help y
ou attain your heart’s desire,” Agata said sternly. “Now let us get you out of this gown before you damage it.”

  “Then go and make a loud fuss above of how ugly I will look,” Bianca teased.

  “Nonno will be very angry when he discovers what we have done,” Francesca said as she stepped out of the gown’s skirts.

  “Yes, he will,” Bianca agreed, “but it will be too late then. Neither he nor the Ziani family will want to be more of a laughingstock than this trick will make them seem. They must laugh with the rest of Venice about it. And Nonno will have a difficult time of seeking another husband for me after this. But, Francesca, are you certain this is what you want to do? Just because I don’t want to marry Enzo Ziani doesn’t mean you have to take my place at the altar.”

  “No,” Francesca replied. “Enzo is the man I want, and now I shall have him. But, Bianca . . . what if your prince doesn’t come for you? What will you do then?”

  “He will come,” Bianca said. But where was he? she wondered. Surely by now he had reached Istanbul and was already preparing his return. He had to be. It was less than a month until the wedding. She wanted to be gone before that day. She didn’t want to put Francesca into the position of becoming a bride at such a young age. Francesca didn’t understand that while marriage was of course the fate of every respectable girl, she had time before she must settle. Time in which to be courted by several suitable men. Time that Bianca hadn’t had. But if Amir didn’t come soon, Francesca would marry Enzo Ziani, and their grandfather would probably send Bianca back to Florence for playing such an incorrigible jest on two families.

  The doge himself was coming to the ceremony. He had invited the families to have the ceremony performed in one of the chapels at San Marco’s. It was an honor that could not be refused. Alessandro Venier purchased a new gondola, and commissioned two artists to decorate the vessel that would carry the bride to the ceremony and bring the newlywed pair back to his palazzo for a magnificent wedding feast. The gondola, while black, had a cabin that was gilded in gold and had stained-glass windows. The inside of the cabin was upholstered in velvet and silk brocade. On the wedding day it would be filled with flowers, along with the bridal couple.

  “You had nothing like this at your first wedding,” their grandfather said to Bianca.

  “No, Nonno, I did not,” Bianca agreed. “Nor was my gown as fine as the one being finished for me. I thank you for it.”

  “You will not be unhappy with Enzo Ziani, Bianca,” Alessandro Venier said, speaking to her for the first time in kindly tones. “He is the perfect husband for you. I have had luck when choosing husbands for my daughters and granddaughters,” he told her proudly. “Your own mother, though reluctant, has been happy with your father.”

  “Oh, she is, Nonno,” Bianca agreed. Of course she is, the young woman thought. He allows her to have her way in just about everything. But you will not get your way in this, Madre. I will have the man I love, even if you could not.

  August ended and the September days seemed to fly by. Suddenly it was the day before her wedding, and Amir had not come for her, nor had she heard any news of him at all. Bianca was struggling with herself not to panic. Francesca was almost sick with excitement, especially as she dared not show it to anyone. Even her own maidservant, Grazia, had not been included in Bianca’s plot, for Grazia was one of the Venier servants. She had not come from Florence with Francesca. Her first loyalty was to her master, so Grazia could not know what would happen tomorrow, for fear she would expose their carefully laid plans.

  “Go home and visit your sister’s new baby,” Francesca told her servant. “And you might as well remain for a day or two. I shall want no company tomorrow when my sister marries the man I love. I shall probably lie abed the whole day.”

  Grazia was delighted to accept her young mistress’s offer. Francesca had not been good company ever since Bianca’s betrothal had been announced. Tomorrow she would probably be a horror, weeping and bemoaning an unkind fate. Grazia was grateful to escape the scenes that were sure to follow over the next few hours and days. She was unaware that the plotters needed her out of the house so they might dye Francesca’s glorious red-gold hair dark so the ruse would not be so easily discovered. The younger girl did resemble her older sibling enough that with dark hair she could easily fool even her family for a short time.

  Bianca had given strict orders that no one but Agata was to serve her on her wedding day. When her grandfather tried to interfere, she pretended to have a tantrum so he would let her have her own way. Then together she and Agata dressed Francesca in Bianca’s wedding finery. The younger girl was faint with her excitement.

  “Are you certain you want to do this?” Bianca asked Francesca once again. “I can always simply refuse to dress and get in the gondola.”

  “No! No!” Francesca replied. “I want to marry Enzo!”

  “So be it,” Bianca said, drawing down the heavy half-veil that would shield her sister’s features from early recognition.

  Agata peeped out the window. “Your grandfather has just gotten into his gondola. He looks quite elegant today in his deep blue velvet robe. It is trimmed with gold and pearls like your gown. Ahh, here is the bridal gondola come up to the palazzo quay. ’Tis a good thing neither of you is sensitive to flowers, for I have never seen so many before.”

  Bianca hugged her sister gently. “Thank you for helping me,” she said.

  “Helping you?” Francesca laughed softly. “You are helping me, dear sister, and I shall be forever grateful.”

  “I will escort the bride downstairs,” Agata said. “Stay hidden here, mistress, until I return, and the wedding party is gone.” Then she opened the door to the apartment that the two sisters shared, and leading the bridal figure, she descended the stairs into the beautiful circular entrance hall. Agata was dabbing at her eyes with a scrap of linen, and the other servants who gathered to see the bride nodded to one another, touched by her devotion to her mistress. Agata, they knew, would be going to Enzo Ziani’s palazzo in another day to serve her mistress in her newly wedded state.

  Once the bride and her servant were outside the palazzo and on the quay, gloved and liveried footmen helped the bride into her flower-bedecked transport, spreading the skirts of her gown so they would not wrinkle. The big gondola pulled away from the quay, and led by her grandfather’s vessel, glided down the small canal and into the Grand Canal. Francesca looked out the glass windows, enchanted by the beautiful sunny September morning, made even more beautiful by the colored glass. The cityscape on either side of the water appeared magical. Since her arrival in Venice a year and a half ago, she had hardly been out of her grandfather’s palazzo and garden except for a few important and formal events at which Prince Alessandro wished to display his soon-to-be-marriageable granddaughter.

  Francesca’s heart was beating with excitement. In less than an hour she would be married to the man of her dreams. If he was disappointed at first, her love for him would erase that disappointment quickly enough; she was absolutely certain of it. She would be Enzo’s wife, and she would devote herself to making him happy, bearing his children, and raising them beautifully, as her own mother had done. Bianca was a fool to throw away such a wonderful future by waiting for a man who would probably never return for her. Her older sister would probably be sent back to Florence to mitigate the brief scandal that would arise from this day’s events. Heaven only knew what their mother would do to her. Francesca giggled, quite pleased with herself.

  Suddenly outside there was shouting, and her gondola was bumped several times by another craft. Francesca peered through the windows to see what was happening. A number of large barges filled with cargo had cut off her vessel from her grandfather’s gondola. And it seemed she was surrounded on all sides. How inconvenient, Francesca thought, irritated. She didn’t want to be late for her wedding. And then the velvet curtain shielding the opening to the cabin was roughly pulled aside by a bald-headed, black-bearded man with one gold
earring in his nose and another in his left ear. Reaching in, he caught her lace-gloved hand and yanked her forward.

  Francesca screamed, pulling back. “What are you doing?” she demanded of him. “Let me go! Let me go!” She attempted to pull her hand from his, to no avail.

  The villain ignored her demands and instead yanked harder, unseating Francesca, which caused her to lose her balance entirely. Pulling her from the cabin, her attacker tossed her over his broad shoulder as if she were a sack of meal. He leapt from the bridal gondola into a smaller gondola hidden between her vessel and the barges. To those watching, it was an amazing feat of balance. He could have just as easily fallen into the water with his burden, but the large man was light on his feet.

  Roughly pushing his captive down into the boat, he pulled a dark cloth over her head. Francesca was still screaming for help that didn’t come. The truth was her voice wasn’t even heard over the shouting of the bargemen, Alessandro Venier’s servants, and her own gondoliers, now splashing about in the waters of the canal where they had been tossed. What was happening to her? Who was this man dragging her from the wonderful life she had planned? Francesca began to cry. She was suddenly very frightened, finding it difficult to breathe, and her belly was roiling in her cramped, overheated position. Without warning, she fainted.

  When she opened her eyes again she found herself suspended in the air between the little gondola below and a larger vessel above. Beneath her, she saw the oars of a galley. Francesca shrieked as her body, still sheathed in the wedding gown, swayed. She was being winched up, she realized, as a ship’s rail appeared just beneath her. Several men ran to bring her on board, gently swinging her over the rail, lowering her to the deck, and unfastening her from the device that had held her. Freed, Francesca found her legs were somehow managing to keep her upright despite her terror.

  “Beloved!” A tall, handsome man hurried forward. He was dressed in full white pants sashed in dark green and a white shirt open at the neckline, which displayed in part a bronzed chest. His face was clean-shaven but for a well-barbered dark goatee, and his eyes were a gorgeous shade of dark blue. “Did I not say I would come for you, Bianca?” He lifted the veil covering her face, looked at her, and stepped back in surprise. “Who in Allah’s name are you?” he demanded. He whirled about, roaring, “You have taken the wrong woman, you fools!”