The buildings towered high over the canals. It seemed to Becky, craning her neck, that the narrower the strip of water that separated them, the taller they were built, as if reaching desperately for the remote sky. The bridges were not ornate but simple low spans, requiring Luca to duck as they passed underneath. Moss grew thick on the steps, a deep, vibrant green, while the canals themselves reflected the colours of the surrounding buildings—muddy brown and dusky pink and milky grey. Where there were walkways they were precarious and narrow, connected by shallow flights of steps. It would be very easy to lose one’s footing on the damp cobblestones, even easier for the unwary to slither down those treacherous little steps and plunge headlong into the murky water.
There were few people visible, yet Becky had an acute sensation of being watched, from behind green shutters, from just around the corner of the warren of passageways. Voices echoed, but they seemed to emanate from far away. Cats sat on the top of the steps leading down into the waters, on the window ledges, in the doorways, watching. It was eerie and beautiful, haunting and frightening. ‘I wouldn’t like to come here on my own at night,’ she said to Luca, keeping her voice low, in tune with her mood.
‘I would not advise it, especially not on foot,’ he replied. ‘Even Venetians can get lost and end up walking around in circles. You can be five minutes from your destination, and it can end up taking you an hour or more.’
Becky shivered. ‘I feel like there are eyes everywhere. It’s like walking through the rookeries at night. You know the place is overrun with people but you can’t see them, not unless you know where to look.’
‘I don’t like to think of you alone in a place like this, day or night.’
‘It’s safe enough if you are known,’ Becky said. ‘Most of the time,’ she added with a wry smile. ‘When you live there, and you don’t know any different, it’s not so bad. Now—No, I wouldn’t go back even if I could.’
‘Could?’
‘It’s just a saying,’ she said hurriedly, cursing herself for the stupid mistake. Trust Luca to notice it! ‘What I’m saying is, I don’t aspire to live in a palazzo, but I don’t want to live in a slum.’ She leaned back, gazing up at the narrow grey sliver of sky. ‘I’m beginning to think that I need to broaden my horizons a bit though. I don’t just mean travel, which I have been thinking about, thanks to you, but... It was something your mother said, about wanting to be useful.’
‘Talking of my mother, I’ve written to my uncle, asking him to arrange safe passage for Mama to England as soon as he can.’
‘Luca!’ Becky jumped up, causing the gondola to rock wildly before sitting down again immediately. ‘Sorry, I forgot we were on a boat! I was going to hug you.’
‘Then far be it from me to stop you.’
‘It would be most improper of me to do so,’ Becky said primly. ‘Have you told Isabel that you’ve written to her brother?’
‘No, I want it to be a surprise. I’ve forgotten why I came to mention it now.’
‘I was talking about wanting to be useful. The problem is that I have no idea what I mean by that. Have you thought about what you’re going to do with the money we will win back for the city?’
‘I have. In fact, we’re nearly at our destination. If you don’t mind a short detour, I can show you.’
‘Please,’ she said, intrigued, since they were in one of the dingiest and most run-down districts of Venice she had seen so far.
Making sure that her hood covered most of her face, Becky clutched Luca’s hand gratefully as she stepped on to the slimy cobblestones. She would have missed the narrow passageway had she been alone, would have fallen in the sudden gloom were it not for his support, and was dazzled when they emerged suddenly into a large campo with a bustling market. The stalls were covered in garish canvas awnings, the vegetables and fruit, considering the time of year, ripe and brightly coloured, but it was the plentiful mounds of unfamiliar fish which intrigued Becky. ‘I don’t think I know what half of these are. What is that horrible thing with the gaping mouth full of sharp teeth?’
‘Coda di rospo, which means tail of the toad. You don’t eat the ugly bit,’ Luca said. ‘These are all various species of octopus, which you’ve had in antipasti, but not these little ones, which are called folpeti in Venetian.’
‘And these... Are they snails?’ Becky asked, eyeing the writhing mass of shells.
‘Sea snails,’ Luca answered, laughing at her expression. ‘We call them bovoleti.’
‘They sound much nicer than they look.’ They carried on, past stalls selling bread and wine, and many more fish stalls. ‘There’s no meat for sale,’ Becky observed.
‘This is one of Venice’s poorest quarters. They can’t afford meat,’ Luca replied. ‘Many here have no work. There was once a charitable school and a hospital, but the funding for both dried up. Now these people are struggling to survive.’
It was horribly familiar, yet it seemed so much worse for such poverty to exist in such beautiful surroundings—and there was beauty everywhere, Becky noted, gazing around her. A portico carved with vine leaves, elaborate latticework in an arched window, coloured glass in a fanlight, a wooden balcony tilting precariously. Venice, even in her pockets of decay, was beautiful. Though beauty provided scant solace to an empty belly or a cold hearth, she knew all too well. ‘Do you plan to help them?’
‘By restoring the schools and the hospitals which have fallen into disuse, for a start.’
‘And more appreciated I’m sure than some old paintings hanging in a gallery.’
‘My father’s motives were noble but you have a point.’
‘Perhaps I will follow your example and use my windfall for a good cause. Establish a school? I have no idea what it would cost. Or I could fund a refuge for young girls. You know, a safe house.’
‘The kind of sanctuary which wasn’t available to you, Becky?’
She coloured. ‘Could I afford that, do you think?’
‘Easily, but don’t spend it all on other people.’
‘Are you worried that I’ll get a taste for the high life?’
He laughed. ‘Your favourite place in my palazzo is the rooftop. You already have a taste for the high life.’
‘I think of it as my little kingdom.’ They had come to the end of the market. On the far side of the campo, three children were throwing a stick for a scrawny dog to fetch. It was starting to rain. ‘What people want, in my experience, is not charity, Luca. It’s the ability to earn a living. You’ll do more for these people by building your dockyard and creating jobs than handing out alms.’
‘Or building them a fountain?’ he asked with a mocking smile. ‘It was one of the things I’d thought of. Beautiful and also practical. Clean drinking water is in scarce supply.’
‘Who’d have thought that spending money would be such hard work?’ Becky said. ‘If you’re not careful, it will take over your life and your shipbuilding plans will remain a pipe dream.’
‘All of it will be a pipe dream if we don’t get the Queen of Coins’s costume made. The studio is not far from here.’
* * *
It was ironic, Luca thought as he guided Becky the short distance to the mask-maker’s studio, that while her horizons were rapidly expanding, his were narrowing alarmingly. Would dispensing all this money become a burden? What was the point in worrying about it now? he thought impatiently. After Carnevale was time enough. Though after Carnevale, the time when his life would begin afresh, was beginning to feel like the time when his freedom would be surrendered completely. The point when he would assume the mantle and the responsibilities of being the Conte del Pietro. Justice would have been done—yes, that was still a most uplifting prospect. But Becky, through whom justice would be served, would be gone.
There were weeks and weeks left before then. They had barely begun. ‘This is it,’ he said, stopping abruptly
in front of a shuttered window.
‘There’s no sign. It doesn’t even look like a shop. Are you sure? And are you absolutely certain that this man can be trusted?’
‘The mask-maker knows the identity of every Venetian who wears his creations. In his own way, he is even more powerful than my father was. His family have been creating masks for generations, and for generations have kept the owners’ identities secret. I would go as far as to say that if there is one man in Venice who can be trusted, it is he.’
Becky still looked dubious, but from the moment she stepped through the door and into the studio she was, as Luca had known she would be, completely enraptured.
Bartolomeo, the only name the mask-maker was ever known by, locked the door behind them, bowing low. ‘Conte del Pietro. It is an honour. I don’t believe I have created a mask for you before.’
‘I require only a volto,’ Luca said, pointing at an example of the simple white ghost mask. ‘It is the signorina who has a more specialised request. Show Bartolomeo your design,’ he added in English to Becky.
She did so, and as he had expected, the mask-maker eyed the drawing with delight, exclaiming in a stream of excited Italian which Luca translated for her. ‘The colombina, a classic half mask extended over the forehead, an excellent choice! The colombina should be worn only by the most beautiful women, it will suit the signorina to perfection, such a mouth as she has, and a very shapely chin. She must decide whether to fix it with laces, which is what I would recommend, though some do prefer the baton.’
‘Laces, please tell him,’ Becky said. ‘I need to have both hands free.’
But Bartolomeo had already moved on to the particulars of the design, poring over the sketch, making several drawings of his own, then, with a brief ‘mi scusi’, tilting Becky’s face this way and that, nodding in satisfaction.
‘The signorina’s eyes,’ Luca translated, ‘have a sparkling quality. We will highlight this with the application of crystals of blue like this.’
Becky pored over the redrawn design, entranced by the subtle changes which the mask-maker had made. As he began to position crystals in shades of blue over what she could now see was a template, her belly fluttered with excitement. ‘It is wonderful,’ she said to Bartolomeo in Italian. ‘Absolutely superb.’
‘No ostentatious feathers for the signorina. Her perfect beauty means she has no need of any further adornment. You agree?’
‘What did he say?’ Becky asked, after Luca had nodded his agreement.
‘He said he was ready to begin your first fitting.’
The mask-maker sat Becky down on a stool. Several heavy clay models were placed over her face, until both Bartolomeo and Becky were happy with the fit and level of comfort. She listened, fascinated, as he explained the process which would follow, with Luca translating. ‘This will be the mould. He will then make your mask using layers of special paper and a glue which is the most secret of formulas, to make a very light mask, which will be further shaped and trimmed, then decorated to your design. And it will be delivered in...?’
‘For you, Conte del Pietro, and for the very beautiful signorina, I will work through the night. The mask will be ready in three days. The delivery will be to yourself at the Palazzo Pietro? And you wish a volto for yourself? The most popular mask. I have some already prepared in various sizes. Come, let us see what is the best fit.’
* * *
It was late afternoon by the time they left Bartolomeo’s studio, for the mask-maker was also liaising with the dressmaker who would fashion the Queen of Coins’s costume. The market in the campo had long ago been packed up and closed for the day. They crossed the now-empty space, littered with detritus, to reach the passageway which would take them back to the gondola, their footsteps echoing, accompanied only by a small tabby cat. Above them, the sky was still pale blue with wispy clouds, but the waters of the canal were darkening to an inky colour.
‘There will be a beautiful sunset in a little while,’ Luca said, helping Becky back into the gondola. ‘I know a place not far from here where we can watch it if you like.’
‘Yes, please, I’d like that very much. I don’t want to return to the palazzo just yet. I’m enjoying being outside in the fresh air.’
Musing that what he enjoyed was the pleasure of her company, regardless of the location, Luca rowed them to a junction where two canals crossed, then tied the gondola up facing west before joining Becky on the bench. ‘The sunsets at this time of year are dramatic but are over very quickly,’ he said, risking putting an arm around her to pull her closer, her thigh against his, his arm on the curve of her waist, an exquisite torture.
The canal turned darker as the sun sank, the shadows cast by the overlooking buildings disappearing. Above, the sky became almost colourless, the air around them cooling abruptly so that their breaths began to cloud, and then the show began. A tinge of pale pink low in the sky streaked with white, turned the canal into a mirror of pewter and silver. On the horizon, pink darkened to violet, and the fast-sinking sun streaked orange and vermilion. As the mantle of night fell, making black hulks of the buildings, the remnants of the setting sun produced blindingly vibrant hues. And then it was over, as dramatically as it had begun.
The air hung heavy and silent, expectant, for why else would a sun set so ravishingly if it was not to encourage a kiss? They were not alone, Luca knew that, but it felt as if they were, and that was all that mattered. His heart began to thump as their lips met. If kisses could speak, this one surely spoke of yearning. Of wanting. Of passion too long pent up. There was so much restraint in their kiss, in the clutch of their hands, in the tensing of their muscles, as if every ounce of effort was needed to suppress something wild. Such longing.
Their kiss came to a reluctant end, leaving them facing each other, their expressions cloaked by the gloom, only their quickened breathing and the gentle rocking of the gondola against its mooring to betray them.
* * *
Becky had been on tenterhooks for the last four days, waiting anxiously for Luca to decide the time was right for the Queen of Coins to make her debut appearance. Finally, that time had arrived. As the clock struck eleven, she ceased her anxious pacing. She was already wearing undergarments beneath her dressing gown in preparation. She had piled her hair high on her head, allowing it to trail in wild curls down her back and over one eye. Placing her powder and rouge in her pocket, she quit the room.
The corridor was dark, but years spent creeping back to her lodgings from the theatre at night meant Becky could see as well as a cat in the dark. The staff of the Palazzo Pietro went early to bed. There was only one night porter on duty in the reception hall three floors below. Becky glided silently down from the second to the first floor, making for the library.
Luca was waiting, dressed in his customary black, looking decidedly raffish rather than sombre. ‘Everything is prepared,’ he said, offering her a fortifying glass of wine, which Becky refused.
‘I need to keep my wits about me.’
Butterflies began to flutter in her tummy as Luca pulled a book from the lower shelf of one of the bookcases and twisted a lever to open the door of the secret chamber. ‘Your boudoir awaits,’ he said.
Becky stepped into the square, windowless room, where a lamp was already lit on the table. It was warm from the huge fire which burned in the adjoining library wall. The costume, swathed in muslin, was laid out on a chaise longue. On the table beside the lamp was her mask. A gilded chair beside the table, and a full-length mirror were the room’s only other furnishings.
‘There’s a handle on your side of the door,’ Luca said. ‘I’ll wait in the library.’
He closed the door. Becky carefully removed the muslin from her gown. With only her sketches to work from and not a single fitting, there was every chance that it would fail to meet her expectations, or fail to fit. But the costume revealed made her gasp with d
elight. It was as if the dressmaker had been able to read Becky’s thoughts. Whoever she was, the woman was a genius.
She cast off her dressing gown and picked up the tunic. Made of cobalt-blue silk, it had been inspired by the costume Becky had once worn to play Queen Guinevere, with long tight-fitting sleeves, a very low neckline and a full skirt. Black lacing was sewn into the waist, like a corset on the outside of the gown. She pulled it tight, pleased to see that the effect was exactly as she’d imagined, making her waist look impossibly small, her cleavage almost too plentiful for the gown, in comparison. The overdress which would serve as a coat was made of black silk lined with cobalt blue, with long pointed sleeves trailing medieval-style almost to the ground. It had a wide hood that would conceal the Queen of Coins’s face and protect her from the elements. A broad band of silver embroidery trimmed the overdress, and a wide sash of black silk embroidered with silver sat like a girdle on her hips. Black boots with pointed toes were adorned with crystals which matched those on her mask.
Becky applied a dusting of powder to her neck, throat and bosom, and a coating of rouge to her lips, before she tied her mask in place. Pulling a swathe of her curls over her shoulder to trail provocatively over her cleavage, she fixed the hood in place with some pins, and stepped in front of the mirror.
She barely recognised the creature reflected there. Her eyes, glittering behind the mask, seemed more blue than violet, picking up the colour of the gown. The vivid colours—black, blue and silver—were a stark contrast to the pale lustre of her skin, the vermilion slash of her lips. The Queen of Coins was a sensual creature, but she was also intimidating. She was mysterious, regal, remote, yet there was something about the hood and the mask, the shadowed face and the exposed bosom that beckoned, hinting at intimacy. She was a woman of contrasts, like the city she was to conquer. If Becky could have imagined the perfect role for herself, it would be this one. The costume made her feel strong, powerful even. Luca’s avenging angel. She smiled at herself, a slow, deliberately provocative smile. She was ready.
His Rags-to-Riches Contessa Page 14
