“It’s me, Elena! Why do we never see you?”
Elena reacted as if she had been shot, snatching her hand away and turning swiftly to burrow her face in Filippo’s shoulder for protection. He, recognizing both child and mother, gave a roar of rage.
“Get that Torrisi scum away from my wife!”
One of his servants rushed to obey him, grabbing Elizabetta by the arm and flinging her aside. She fell, but her burst of sobbing was from her hurt feelings and not from the graze on her hand. Marietta stooped swiftly to gather the child into her arms.
“Elena doesn’t like me anymore!” Elizabetta sobbed.
“Hush! Of course she does. You startled her, that’s all. She’s been very ill and I fear she is still a long way from recovery.”
It took quite a time to console the child, and she was subdued for the rest of the walk and the delivery of the mask. Yet when they arrived home, one of the Savoni girls was waiting to play with her and the two of them were soon happy with their dolls. Marietta believed the child had recovered from the incident, but when Adrianna, after hearing what had happened, went off to the Palazzo Celano the next day, Elizabetta made a concise comment.
“Adrianna shouldn’t go. Elena doesn’t want to be with any of us ever again.”
It was clear that nothing would shake the child’s conviction, and when Adrianna’s visit proved to be as futile as the rest, Marietta thought how easy it would be to accept Elizabetta’s view. Still, she was determined to remain convinced it was only melancholia that had laid a dark spell on Elena, and beneath it she would still be the same as she had ever been.
When the nuns brought Bianca on a visit to the Savoni household a few days later, they reported having been no more fortunate in getting to see Elena, although Filippo allowed the sisters to pray aloud for her outside her bedchamber. Marietta was not pleased when Sister Giaccomina innocently remarked on their host’s kindness in taking Bianca to a salon where coffee and cakes awaited and talking to the girl until she and Sister Sylvia rejoined them.
“Did Elena take part in the prayers?” Marietta asked Sister Sylvia.
“She said them at first, but now she rarely responds.”
Bianca was playing with the children in order not to be drawn into the conversation. She was afraid she would give herself away if Marietta should ask her again about her relationship with Filippo. On their most recent visit he had kissed her a second time, and she had been so distressed by his grief over Elena, who had long ceased to be a wife to him, that she had been unable to resist. When he had caressed her breasts, a liberty she should never have allowed, she thought she would melt away in his arms. He had also spoken such loving words that she would easily have been lost if her conscience had not awakened in time to prevent what she could only guess at in both fear and yearning. She felt she should have rushed to Elena and begged her forgiveness, but that had been impossible. Although loving Filippo was both wonderful and agonizing to her, it would be best if she never went to the Palazzo Celano again. But the nuns went more often now that they were saying prayers, and out of custom they took her with them, encouraging her to play her flute outside Elena’s door.
“Bianca.”
It was Marietta who had spoken. Bianca started uneasily. “Yes?”
“Next time you are at Elena’s home, speak through the door to her when you are by yourself. She might let you in when she will receive nobody else.”
Bianca felt shame that her first reaction to this request was that this would give her less time with Filippo, but she dismissed the notion sternly. “I will. Perhaps after Elena has been to the opera she will begin to take an interest in everything again.”
“Did you say the opera?” Marietta asked in disbelief. Adrianna was equally astonished.
“Yes, Filippo—I mean Signor Celano—told me that he is taking her to a gala performance next week. It’s a last throw. The doctor says if this doesn’t work there’s nothing more he can do. Elena will remain a recluse for the rest of her life.” Bianca’s voice cracked. “Oh, I do want her well again!”
Her cry was genuine. Apart from a heartfelt wish to see Elena restored to health, Bianca knew there was no other way she could put her own life in order.
As it happened, Marietta did not have to buy herself a seat for the gala performance in order to see Elena again. Sebastiano and his wife had already invited her, as they often did to such events as well as to occasions in their own home. Marietta felt that if Elena was well enough to attend the opera she should be able to reply in their sign language this time.
There were always nostalgic memories for Marietta when she wore one of her grand gowns again. Having kept abreast of fashion, she was not out of style even though it had been five or six years since her newest gown was made. Skirts still relied on petticoats for an abundant silhouette, fichus continued to drape necklines by day, and a scooped display of cleavage was the mode by night. In flame silk looped with silver ribbons, Marietta took her place between Sebastiano and his wife among the other guests in their box. As always her blood was stirred by the prospect of great music and splendid singing, but it saddened her to see strangers in the box where she and Domenico had sat so often and which, prior to his imprisonment, had been exclusive to the Torrisi family since the opera house was built.
As usual there was a huge buzz of conversation in the auditorium and every box glowed with candlelight and sparkled with the jewels of those chatting within. The Celano box was empty. Then, just as Marietta was beginning to fear her friend had been unable to come, Filippo appeared in the box with Elena and assisted her into a chair. She was wearing one of her favorite eye-masks studded with diamonds and a gown of oyster satin. Slowly her gaze began to travel over the faces in the boxes and she acknowledged those nodding or bowing to her with a slight dip of her head.
Marietta was certain Elena was looking for her, and she took up the little ivory and gold opera spy-glass that Domenico had once given her and put it to her eye. Elena leapt into focus, but it was impossible to read her expression for the eye-mask she wore had a frill of lace that hid the lower half of her face. Her hair was dressed in the latest style, soft and full with a single love-lock resting on her shoulder. There was a roundness to her neck, arms, and bosom that showed that if she had lost weight during her deep melancholia she was beginning to put it back on again. Yet there was a listlessness in the way she held herself and in the droop of her hand holding a fan that indicated all was still far from well.
Lowering the spy-glass, Marietta waited eagerly for Elena’s eyes to find hers. When it happened, Marietta’s folded fan changed directions in a call for attention and her fingers flicked a plea for a meeting. But Elena’s gaze passed on without the briefest acknowledgement. Marietta was overwhelmed by disappointment. Was the doctor giving her some potion that made her less alert, or had her curious illness severed a friendship that had seemed destined to last a lifetime?
The overture ended and the curtain was going up on an elaborate set with a castle and mountains, knights in armor on every rocky ledge. Marietta tried to concentrate on the performance, for the singing was magnificent, but her attention strayed constantly to the Celano box. Elena was slumping more in her chair all the time, as if whatever energy she had was ebbing fast. Marietta gave an involuntary cry as she saw her finally tilt forward in her chair and disappear from sight. Filippo sprang up with such haste that a program resting on the velvet-covered ledge went fluttering down like a white bird into the pit, causing many in the audience to shift their gaze from the singers to the Celano box. Filippo stooped to gather Elena in his arms and carried her out of the box. It was like seeing a smaller drama enacted in unison with that on the stage.
Marietta was already on her feet, her cry having alerted those with her, who moved their chairs to let her pass. Sebastiano caught her by the wrist.
“Is it wise to go to Elena now?”
“I must!”
He followed as Marietta ran, her skirts b
illowing, down the narrow red-walled corridor to the stairs that descended in two flights to the foyer. They reached it before Filippo, with Elena seemingly in a swoon, came rushing from the opposite stairway preceded by a Celano servant with another following behind. Marietta ran forward.
“In mercy’s name, let me come with you, Signor Celano! Elena has always been as close as a sister to me.”
He looked at her with such blazing fury that she believed he would have struck her to the ground if he had not been carrying Elena. “Keep away! My wife is dying day by day! No Torrisi by name shall ever come near her.” Both servants paused belligerently, ready to deal with any attempt by Marietta or Sebastiano to hinder their master’s progress. Doors swung wide for him as he carried Elena out to the steps and his waiting gondola. Then the servants ran out after him. Something odd registered at the back of Marietta’s mind, but for the present she was too upset to think what it might be. Sebastiano was sympathetic.
“I’m sure you’d like to go home.”
She nodded. “I would. Please give my apologies to Isabella and your guests.”
“They’ll understand.”
Afterward Marietta was not alone in fearing the worst possible news of her friend, but it seemed that Elena continued to linger.
FILIPPO WAS NOT affected in the least by the message from Lavinia that their mother had died, but he went ahead with preparations for a grand funeral. As he had half expected when he arrived at the country house to inform his sister about the arrangements, he found her quite disoriented. Gowned in black, she sat completely at a loss with her hands in her lap.
“I don’t know what to do,” she said tragically. “I’ve looked after Mother for so long I still seem to hear her calling for me all the time. Could I come to the Palazzo Celano after the funeral and nurse Elena?”
“No!” He spoke so sharply that she was startled. “Her doctor says she must have no change in her routine. Her final collapse at the opera house put her beyond all hope of recovery.”
Lavinia wrung her hands. “How tragic! That lovely girl! I remember the first day she came to the palace. She made me think of a beautiful butterfly. So happy! So much in love with Marco!” She realized she had not been tactful. “I’m sorry, Filippo.”
He looked bored. “It’s of no consequence. I’ve done everything possible for Elena, but to no avail. I’m resigned to this dreadful deterioration.”
“Pietro could see her when he comes to the funeral. With his healing hands—”
“He’s not coming. I’m not notifying him of Mother’s death until she has been buried. She never liked him. She resented his visits and I intend to do everything just as she would have wished. However, it is unfortunate that Alessandro cannot be present. I heard from him a short while ago that the Pope was sending him immediately on an important mission to Paris, and he could not possibly receive my letter in time to return for the funeral.”
Lavinia did not argue about Pietro. She had been conditioned over a long period to be obedient to those in authority. “You said once I could live with you at the Palazzo Celano if anything should happen to Mother,” she reminded him timidly. “Does that still apply?”
“In time, but it’s not convenient at present. You can stay overnight at Alvise’s place when you come to Venice for the funeral.”
She read his refusal to let her be accommodated for one night as a negation of his promise. But suddenly it did not matter so much anymore. Without Elena’s sweet company what would the palace offer her? But if she remained in this house she would hear her mother bullying her until the end of her days and would become even more frightened of the Signora dead than when she was alive. Lavinia knew herself to be in a state of limbo, but she had never made a decision for herself in her whole life and did not know how to start now.
“You shall have this house and everything in it,” Filippo continued. “Mother told me long ago that she would be leaving this house and its contents to you in her will. But I will take her antique books. I’m having those from the Celano villa brought to the palace for cataloguing and these can be done at the same time.”
Lavinia sighed inwardly. The books were all she would have chosen to keep if she had been asked. She loved the beautifully illustrated works, and once on the library shelves of the Palazzo Celano they would never be opened by Filippo and would have to wait for another generation to rediscover their marvels.
The acquisition of the extra volumes pleased Filippo since they would extend the work of the nun and Bianca when they began the cataloguing again. The girl had no notion of how he lusted after her or how easily he could take her if he wished. It was regrettable that Elena was taking such a long time to die, but still he could not raise a hand to hasten the end for her. It had to come of its own accord.
ELIZABETTA WAS GROWING fast. Her shoes seemed to last no time at all. She had had two new pairs not long before the birth of the twins and already they were beginning to press on her toes.
“We’ll go to the shoemaker’s later today,” Marietta promised the child. “Then you’ll have a best pair ready for the Festival of the Redentore.”
It was one of Venice’s great feast days, when the whole city joined in the celebration of its delivery from the plague some three centuries before. It would be an outing for Marietta and Elizabetta with Adrianna and Leonardo and their children. The twins would be left with the trustworthy Savoni nursemaid, whose fear of Celano harm to Danilo made her protective on all counts.
It was as the shoemaker was taking measurements and commenting on the length of Elizabetta’s toes that it occurred to Marietta that the child must be like her father in that respect. Elena had such small feet and dainty toes, and was always more than a little conceited about them. Something stirred again at the back of Marietta’s mind but just then the shoemaker produced swatches of colored leathers for selection, and the thought did not surface. Marietta allowed the child’s choice of bright red, but dissuaded her from a courtesan’s purple.
The main excitement for the children at the festival was to see the bridge of boats thrown across the Guidecca Canal, which the Doge would pass over on his way to attend the celebration of High Mass at the Church of the Redentore. Marietta and her friends set out early to ensure a good view of the proceedings. On the way she had glanced in the direction of the prison, for her thoughts were constantly with Domenico and never more than on a special day such as this. On this day in years past she had crossed the bridge with him in his senator’s scarlet robes as members of the Doge’s procession.
“The Doge is coming!” Elizabetta exclaimed, dancing with excitement. A fanfare of trumpets was heralding his approach. He was a dazzling sight in his corno and cloth of gold robes, jewels sparkling as he advanced with great dignity under a tasseled canopy. It was a day of such tremendous heat that there was a shimmer to everything and the whole procession resembled figures woven in tapestry, with those at the end almost lost in the haze. Not only was every inch of space crowded with spectators, but hundreds more had taken to gondolas and other vessels to watch the event from the flower-strewn water. When the Doge stepped onto the first of the boats that formed the bridge, a thunderous cheer went up to blend with the church bells. Marietta thought how Domenico would hear them and be picturing the splendor of this day.
From the position she and her party had secured they were able to see the first steps that each member of the procession took onto the bridge, and it was a constant flash of gold and silver and jeweled buckles. All thirteen hundred members of the Great Council in their brilliant robes were already forming a ribbon of color across the canal in the wake of the Doge. Filippo was easy to pick out with his scarred face and his height, which rivaled Domenico’s. Elena should have been with the wives on this great occasion. Marietta observed the ruby glitter of his shoe buckle as he went onto the bridge and that momentary glimpse jarred violently at her memory, making her catch her breath.
Before she could think it through, Adrianna p
lucked at her sleeve to introduce her to a woman in the crowd. “This is Maria Fondi, who was Elena’s lady’s maid. I’ve told her who you are.”
Marietta addressed her eagerly. “What good fortune meeting you here, Signora Fondi. I want so much to talk to you about Signora Celano.”
Maria looked doubtful. “I know you and my former mistress were good friends over many years, Signora Torrisi, but I’m still bound by her confidence even if I’m no longer in her employ.”
“I want none of Elena’s secrets, although I doubt she kept many from me before she became melancholic. It’s the circumstances of your dismissal I’m interested in, and anything you could tell me about how I might save the Signora from the results of her illness, even at this late hour.”
“Then, signora, you may count on my trying to help you in any way I can. When shall I call on you?”
“Let’s waste no time. Would this evening be convenient?”
It suited Maria and an hour was fixed just in time, for they were soon separated as people began surging forward to cross the bridge as soon as the last of the dignitaries and their wives were past the first boat. Marietta and her friends kept the children close in case they should be swept away in the crush, but everything went smoothly. It was as they reached the other side and were going up the steps of the great church for the service of thanksgiving that Marietta comprehended fully why the sight of Filippo’s shoe buckle should finally have fired her memory. She recalled clearly the image of the unconscious Elena being borne out of the opera house in his arms. Amid the lace petticoats, Elena’s feet had been visible in white satin shoes with sparkling diamond buckles—but the shoes were much larger than the size she normally wore.
That evening, when there was music and celebrating everywhere on the Grand Canal, Maria arrived to see Marietta. Upstairs in the salon they sat down.
“There are so many questions I want to ask,” Marietta began, “but I’ll ask only one or two and then let you tell me all you can about your last days in the Celano employ and how your dismissal came about.”
Venetian Mask Page 37
