“She’ll never wear them!”
“How can you be sure?”
He shook his head with regret. “The Signora is on her last days. Her new personal maid, Giovanna, doesn’t have much contact with the rest of us, but she has kept us informed of how swiftly the poor lady has gone downhill. I never had a cross word from Signora Celano. We all liked and respected her.”
“I believe most people felt that way from all I’ve heard. It sounds as if I should have left her masks behind.”
He gave a cynical snort. “Oh, they’ll be worn. No fear of that!”
“Oh? By whom?”
But he had gone ahead into a great reception hall with a huge fireplace that was flanked at a distance by double doorways. Marietta had memorized Sister Sylvia’s plan, but the nun had not warned her that it showed only half this area. The footman was leading her to the other set of double doors, not the ones used by the nuns. Then Marietta paused to listen, hearing the faint but unmistakable sounds of Bianca’s flute. This was another unexpected complication. She certainly did not want to run into Bianca! And it was not the day when the girl usually came with the nuns.
“Who is that playing?” she inquired casually as she drew level with the footman again.
“A girl from the Pietà. She and a nun are staying here.”
“Do you mean for the day?” Marietta asked as they went through the door he held open.
“No, they moved in yesterday for a few weeks or months, depending on how long it takes them to catalogue a new section of the Celano library.”
Marietta was alarmed for the girl’s sake. To be under the same roof with Filippo day and night could only spell trouble for Bianca. But there were other matters to deal with at the present time.
“Doesn’t the music disturb the sick Signora?”
“No. The girl plays outside her door sometimes.”
“Is she doing that now?” Marietta sounded guileless.
He shook his head. “The Pietà girl is at practice in the salon next to the library. The Signora’s room is on the floor above. You can wait here.”
They had passed from one salon to another, which was paneled with ivory damask, and he put her boxes on a chair.
“I shall unpack the masks,” she said, “and display them ready for Signor Celano’s return, whenever that should be. So please don’t let anyone come in here. Just show Signor Savoni up when he arrives.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll see to that.”
When the footman had left her, he went to where the Pietà girl was playing her flute. She stopped as he entered and the sudden expectant look on her face vanished. He was no fool and knew whom she had been hoping to see.
“Your pardon for disturbing you, signorina, but I have a request. Some masks have been brought from the Savoni workshop and they’ll be on private display in the Ivory Salon, which means that nobody is to see them before the Signor.”
“Has Signor Savoni brought them? He could wait here. I know him well.”
“No. It’s a woman assistant in charge. He’s coming later.”
The footman left again and Bianca resumed her flute playing. It had been foolish of her to expect Filippo back as yet, but he had promised to get away as soon as he had made his speech at the debate. She had scarcely seen him since she arrived the day before with Sister Giaccomina. They had dined with him, and although the nun had done most of the talking, Bianca had been aware of his eyes fixed burningly on her face, her hair, and her cleavage until she felt quite naked. There had been something a little frightening about such intensity of gaze. She realized now that he had reminded her of a leashed lion straining to get its claws into her and there were enough stone lions of St. Mark all over Venice for her to compare him with the most ferocious of them. Instinct told her that marriage would release that ferocity. But she had only to remember his tenderness and those stroking, intoxicating caresses to know that he would always cherish her. Shy color tinted her cheeks. She was so possessed by love for him that she would sacrifice her life and all she had ever known or cared about in the past on his behalf if ever such a need arose.
How badly she was playing her flute! She had too much else on her mind. All the sweet things Filippo had said and promised when he had kissed and embraced her before going to the Doge’s Palace seemed to dance in place of the notes on the music sheet in front of her. She would not practice any more today.
She put her flute away in its case and folded the sheets of music on the stand. Then she wandered through to the library where Sister Giaccomina sat reading a massive volume written in Latin.
“What work do you want me to do now?” Bianca asked.
The nun flapped a hand without looking up from the page. “Sit down, child. I’ll tell you in a minute when I get to the end of this paragraph.”
But the end of the paragraph was reached and still the nun read on, lost to the world. When she turned the page and still continued reading, Bianca, toying with a pen in readiness, heaved a sigh. How tedious it was to be sitting here doing nothing. It made the time she had to wait for Filippo’s return seem all the longer. Her thoughts drifted to the masks in the Ivory Salon and her curiosity stirred. She knew about the secrecy surrounding special orders for important patrons. The element of surprise was important at Carnival balls quite apart from the complete anonymity that a new mask, never seen before, could give to the wearer.
In the past she had been like all the Pietà girls in viewing Carnival from the outside, but in future she would be part of it all—the wild rejoicing, the candlelit suppers in a gondola while serenades were sung, the dancing in St. Mark’s Square, and all the laughter and snatched kisses. She would watch the fireworks not from a window but in the open, as the night sky filled with thousands of colored stars.
Filippo wouldn’t mind her seeing his new masks. She would go along to the Ivory Salon and take a peep. She might even put on one of the masks and be wearing it when he returned. He had said that she, his little swan, could only make him happy whatever she did, and this would amuse him.
“I’m going along to the Ivory Salon,” she said.
Sister Giaccomina answered absently, “How nice.”
Bianca sighed. It was like talking to someone totally deaf when the nun was reading. She left the library and made her way to the Ivory Salon. When she went in she found the room empty, but facing her, propped on a chair, was a glittering mask that struck home the notion she had had earlier. It was a jeweled face of the snarling lion of Venice. The fangs were silver and the mane, which would go over Filippo’s head and down to his shoulders, was made up of short lengths of gilt cord that gleamed and shone. It was breathtaking. The other, on another chair, was no less dramatic, a sinister face painted a vivid scarlet from which wings of feathers dyed to the same brilliant hue soared upward. She could only begin to guess at the magnificence of the costumes he would wear with each of these masterpieces.
Then Bianca saw ranged on a sofa three very feminine masks, one eye-mask of soft blue, another of sapphire, and a third that was a more delicate replica of the scarlet winged mask. All three were for her! She darted forward and picked up the first to hold it to her eyes before a mirror. Blue to match her eyes and sewn with pearls. How extravagant of Filippo! The darker blue was equally enhancing, with a soft veil of Burano lace gathered to form a wispy cloud over the lower half of the face. But oh, the scarlet one! It was wicked and exciting and when she wore it she and Filippo would complement each other perfectly.
As she turned to try the first one on again, she noticed a faint crackle in the red mask that sounded like paper. She was curious. Surely a perfectionist like Signor Savoni would not have let any loose paper remain within the lining. She turned to the others but these did not have that same crackle of paper when she pressed the linings with her fingertips. Then she saw there was a tiny embroidered emblem on the red mask. She had her library knife in her pocket for slitting uncut pages, and the stitches gave before its blade. Drawing out the thin sheet of pape
r, she recognized her godmother’s handwriting. The message was brief. It was to Elena, assuring her that Marietta and other friends were anxious about her condition and working toward discovering her whereabouts. It closed by imploring her to keep up her courage.
Bianca felt wrath explode inside her. How dare Marietta persist in this campaign against Filippo as if he were Elena’s jailer instead of a husband who had done all in his power to restore his poor wife to health! It was so unjust! So vindictive! Then she began to wonder about the woman assistant who was supposed to be in charge of these masks until Leonardo came. Where was she? Suppose the assistant was Marietta! Had she gone upstairs to try to see Elena? Foolish Marietta if that should be the case! Giovanna would never let her in and if Elena heard her voice it would only cause her to be more upset. It was cruel to invade Elena’s privacy. The time to bring her back from her melancholia had long since passed.
Bianca ran from the Ivory Salon to the staircase that rose on this side of the palace as did the other near the library. Reaching the floor above she hastened to a spot where she could see the door of Elena’s apartment. A bauta-masked woman was listening with her ear to a panel.
“You’ll hear nothing, Marietta,” Bianca said coldly, keeping her voice low in order not to disturb the sick woman within.
Marietta gave a start and raised her mask to lodge it against her tricorne as she answered in a whisper. “I was checking that this is the way in to Elena’s apartment.”
“It is and you have no right to be here!” Bianca whispered back.
“I claim that right as a friend. Don’t give me away!” Marietta begged.
“Only if you promise not to call through to her and that you’ll leave.”
“I can promise the first, but I beg you to tell no one that I am here. I give you my word that I shall not try to get into that apartment or make any sound. If Elena is dying, surely you can find enough compassion in your heart to let me spend a little time near my childhood friend.”
Bianca considered the appeal. She knew she could trust Marietta not to break a promise, but there was the question of loyalty to Filippo. “You may stay here, but how long you stay is at your own risk. I shall watch for Filippo’s return. If you haven’t left by the time he comes home from the Doge’s Palace I shall inform him that you’re here.”
“Very well.” Marietta only wanted Bianca to leave her. She was not interested in the apartment where the impostor was kept, but until the girl had confirmed she was at Elena’s door Marietta did not know whether she was in the right corridor. There had been no sound within. “I agree to that.”
“Then I’ll go, but I’ve warned you.” With a toss of her head Bianca went back the way she had come. She did not return to the Ivory Salon but went straight to the library where the nun was still reading. Bianca went to a window and stood there looking down at the Grand Canal. She would see when Marietta left and she would also see when Filippo returned. If he should arrive before Marietta’s departure she would meet him on the main staircase with what she had to tell. Filippo had made her his own and she could never go against the man to whom she belonged.
As soon as Bianca had gone, Marietta went swiftly to the neighboring door, which she knew now to be that of Filippo’s bedchamber. She entered silently and scanned the large and luxurious room. A glance at the communicating door showed her it was bolted on this side and she need not fear discovery from that direction. There was still nothing to be heard from within Elena’s apartment. Perhaps Bianca’s angry outburst had alerted the impostor and her maid, who might well believe she was still keeping silent vigil outside their door. That is, if they were still in there! If they were not, it meant their usefulness to Filippo had come to an end, which was the worst possible indication of what Elena’s condition would be.
There were three richly carved cupboards in the bedchamber, but only one fitted Lavinia’s description. Marietta threw off her cape as well as her mask, mantilla, and tricorne. Having come this far there was no going back, and if she found Elena the time for disguise would be over.
The room was finely paneled in wood with a garlanded ornamentation of flowers and foliage carved on each section. She went to the one at the immediate right of the tall cupboard. Taking hold of the middle flower she turned it twice in a clockwise direction as Lavinia had instructed. There was a click and then a faint rasp as the whole cupboard swung slowly sideways into the room on its massive hinges. Behind it was a small inner lobby with a stout door. An ancient key, too large for any man’s pocket, hung conveniently on a hook.
Quickly Marietta snatched up a poker from the fireplace to wedge it between the hinges and prevent the cupboard from closing back again of its own accord. Then she struck a light from her pocket tinderbox and lit the wicks of a double-branched candlestick on a bedchamber table. After jettisoning the candle and the bunch of keys from her pocket, she took the great key from its hook to insert it in the lobby door. It turned easily, as if it had been recently oiled, and she opened the door. Cold air wafted into her face from the darkness. As she stepped through the doorway the candlelight showed her a rose marble wall at her left-hand side and a rich brocade curtain at her right. Then she gasped as she saw the steepness of the marble stairs sweeping down to the floor below. There was a gilt hand-rope looped to the wall and she held on to it as she began to descend.
“Elena!” she called softly. “It is I, Marietta! Are you there, my dear friend?”
There was only silence. Sharp fear and disappointment struck at her. Had she been wrong after all, or—it was a thought she scarcely knew how to contain—had she come too late? When she reached the bottom of the stairs beyond the side curtain, the whole of the rose-red salon opened up to her. The burnt-out remains of candles in the candelabrum on a table told their own story as did the motionless figure lying on a draped couch. Calling her friend’s name again, Marietta rushed forward. If it had not been for the golden hue of the tangled, unkempt hair, she might have doubted that the thin-faced woman lying there with eyes closed was Elena.
“Oh, my dear Elena! What you must have suffered!” Marietta moaned in utter grief as she took hold of the still hand lying on the coverlet. Then she caught her breath. The hand was cold, but not with the chill of death. There was still a chance! Swiftly Marietta set the candlestick on a table and slid an arm under Elena to bring her to a sitting position. Elena’s lids flickered, but did not open.
“I’ve come for you, Elena!” Marietta cupped her sick friend’s face in her hand. “Look at me! I’m taking you out of here. You’re coming home to Elizabetta and Adrianna and Leonardo and me!”
Elena’s eyes opened blindly. Marietta went on talking and gradually Elena’s gaze began to focus. Her whisper was barely audible. “I thought I was dreaming.”
“It’s no dream.” Marietta felt with one hand for the flask in her pocket and took it out to remove the cork. “This will do you good. Try to sip some. Then I’ll help you to your feet.”
She held it to Elena’s lips and trickled a little of the cognac into her mouth. Elena coughed, but swallowed some more before a full paroxysm of coughing took such possession of her that Marietta feared she would have a hemorrhage. When it began to ease Marietta looked over her shoulder and glanced about to see if there was a flagon of water anywhere. She saw the gleam of a glass and put the last few drops it contained to Elena’s lips. There was no more time to lose. She pushed back the bedclothes and, anguished by her friend’s skeletal form beneath the nightshift, she scooped her thin legs over the edge of the couch and started to put on her slippers.
“I can’t walk,” Elena whispered despairingly as she lolled against Marietta, a tear trickling down her cheek.
“I’ll support you.”
There was a robe at the end of the couch and Marietta helped Elena into it as if dressing a child. Then she took one of Elena’s arms around her neck, gripped the thin wrist, and with her own arm tight about her friend’s waist she brought her from the couch.
Elena’s knees gave and she sagged, but Marietta had been prepared. Even though she staggered momentarily under the sudden dead weight she became stable again almost at once. It helped to lean Elena against her hip as she took her step by step across to the foot of the stairs. There she sat Elena on the bottom tread and propped her against the wall. After swiftly uncoiling the rope from about her waist, Marietta used it to bundle up her own skirts to calf-length, wanting to make sure she did not catch her heel on a hem on the precipitous staircase. Then she stooped behind her friend to put her hands under Elena’s arms and heave her gently onto the next tread. Going slowly backward, Marietta had lifted her a quarter of the way up the stairs when Elena became agitated.
“Don’t be afraid, Elena. I won’t let you fall,” Marietta promised. But Elena refused to be reassured. Marietta crouched down beside her, intending further words of comfort, but Elena was trying to communicate. Marietta leaned closer to catch the words. “Papers? Behind the mirror?”
Then, as if summoning up some last strength in her voice, Elena gave a little cry. “For Domenico!”
Marietta did not hesitate. She had no idea what those papers might be, but she went down again to the marble room and ran to the mirror on the wall. Taking hold of the bottom edge of the frame she raised it slightly away from where it was hanging. Two bundles of papers, one tied with a strip of petticoat lace, fell to the floor at her feet. She snatched them up, thrusting one bundle into her pocket and the other into her sash. Then as she turned back she saw to her dismay that Elena had gently slithered down the stairs again almost to the last tread. Marietta rushed back to her and began once more the process of getting her up the flight. But they had ascended no more than half a dozen treads when Filippo’s wrathful voice boomed down at them, seeming to echo back from every corner.
“What is happening here!”
Although shocked and frightened, Marietta released Elena carefully to let her slump safely against the wall where she could not slip again. Then she whirled about to glare up at Filippo in a blazing rage equal to his. He was a daunting sight, standing rock-like in the doorway high above, his height and breadth silhouetted against the fading daylight in the bedchamber beyond.
Venetian Mask Page 42
