Amanda McCabe - A Notorious Woman

What was happening here? Surely she was no gullible girl to believe he desired her, no matter what guilty, secret hopes lurked deep in her heart. She remembered that brief swirl of darkness she had felt when he touched her hand. Something was happening between them, something she wanted so desperately to explain, to know.

Julietta drew her hand from beneath his, but leaned closer, until she could smell the clean ocean scent of him. “Carnival is a special time. Some say it is even—magic,” she whispered. “Masks can set people free, can make them see the truth behind the disguises we all bear. Desire can come to reality then. Perhaps you will find what you seek in the nights of secrets, signor. Perhaps you can find what you always wanted.”

They stared at each other in charged silence, not touching, yet close, so very close. Julietta did not know where her words came from. Her mother had always said that Julietta held herself inside too much, always thinking, planning. Sometimes, my daughter, she had told her, you must simply say what is in your heart.

Easier said than done, of course. And look where speaking her heart had got Julietta’s mother. Yet Julietta knew that what she said was true. Carnival was a time out of time, a time when the truths of her life—the hidden room, Count Ermano, her past in Milan, everything—could vanish for a night. Behind a mask, anything was possible.

“Do you verily speak truth, madonna? ” Marc said roughly.

Julietta nodded. Follow what is in your heart, a voice whispered in her mind.

“Then will you do me the honour of accompanying me to a ball in the Piazza San Marco tomorrow night, after the Marriage of the Sea?” He watched her very closely, his gaze unreadable.

Your heart! “Yes, signor. I will go with you to the ball.”

The crowds were thick on the fondamento along the Grand Canal, a living, pulsing mass of flesh, breath, velvet and linen, jewels, masks. The scents of perfumes and people blended with the strange, sick sweetness that always seemed to rise from the canals, twisting, twining with the sounds of laughter and chatter and music to form a golden net that hung heavy over all of Venice. It was the day of the Feast of the Ascension, the day the ancient ritual called the Marriage of the Sea would be enacted. No one wanted to miss that.

Not even Julietta. She pushed her way through a knot of people, using her unusual height to advantage in seeking a fine spot to view the procession before it moved into the lagoon and out of sight. Bianca followed closely behind, clutching at Julietta’s sleeve so they would not be separated in the crush. At last they found a few empty inches at the edge of the canal, where they could watch and observe.

Julietta reached out to wrap her hand around a striped pole that would usually tether a gondola, but could today hold her in place, firm against the surgings of the crowd at her back and pressing on both sides. To her left stood a courtesan, henna-haired and perfectly rounded in her silver-spangled crimson gown, surrounded by a throng of admirers. The heavy perfumes of gardenia and bergamot rose from them, along with a copious amount of pungent wine. At Julietta’s other side stood a young couple and their two small children, obviously artisans to judge by their simple garments and their scent of plain soap. All manner of people, rich, peasant, old, young, nun, courtesan, mingled on this day, as they would until Carnival exploded to a close and sent them all scurrying back to their own worlds again.

Julietta gave the two excited children a small smile and turned her attention to the wide canal before her. The Doge had not yet appeared, but there was no lack of spectacle even so. Barges and gondolas lined the inky water, black and gold and white, sparkling like an emperor’s jewel case in the sun. Each craft was decorated with copious amounts of flowers and brightly coloured ribbon streamers. Music played from a few of the larger vessels, lively dance tunes from lutes and viols, mingling with all the laughter.

It had been many years since Julietta came to Venice; many times she had seen this pageant play out. Yet somehow it always awakened something deep inside her, her own laughter, her own mirth. It tumbled around in her heart like some unruly butterfly, reminding her of days when she was a young, carefree girl and longed for nothing so much as a fine festival, a dance, a song of courtly love. She never gave in to that wildness now, but it was still hidden there.

And she did like this day, the bright hope of it, the life that filled every corner, driving out death and decay even if only for a moment. Part of her high mood, she had to admit, had something to do with the thought of the evening to come, when she would see him again— Il leone, Marc Antonio Velazquez, whatever he wanted to call himself. She would see him, dance with him, and it filled her with an odd warmth she had no desire to analyse. It was dangerous, she knew that. He was a man of many secrets. Yet today she found it hard to take care, as she always should.

Thanatos was hidden by the crowd, the sunlight. Only Eros remained, full of mischievous romance. Or perhaps Dionysus, she thought, as she watched one of the courtesan’s young swains reel drunkenly, saved from toppling into the canal when one of his friends grabbed on to his fine satin doublet and hauled him back on to terra firma. The woman and her admirers fell into great peals of merriment, leaning against each other, passing around a bottle that was sure to cause more such scenes as the day went on.

“Signora Bassano! Such a rare pleasure.”

Julietta’s smile faded, wiped away as if it had never been as she heard those words. A smooth, charming, elegantly accented voice, hailing her from the water just below her perch, dimming the brilliant day. She could have vowed that a gray cloud eclipsed the sun, but when she glanced up at the sky it was as cerulean and flawless as before.

She tightened her grip on the wooden pole and stared down at the canal, feeling Bianca press closer to her side. Count Ermano Grattiano—just as she feared. His grand gondola, glossy black edged with copious frostings of glittering giltwork and sprays of black-and-gold plumes, had come to a halt only feet away. The velvet curtains of the felze were drawn back, leaving its occupants revealed to view.

As always, Count Ermano was as gloriously caparisoned as his vehicle, in a doublet of gold satin edged in ermine and gold braid, his hose striped white and gold, his sleeveless coat lined with more of the rare white fur. A diamond the size of an egg winked and dazzled in his cloth-of-gold hat, mocking her with its glitter.

The gem was well matched to its owner, Julietta thought wryly. Though her senior by many years, Count Ermano was still a very handsome man, with thick white hair and a neatly trimmed white beard, cold green eyes bright and shrewd in a lined, chiselled lean face. He had a quick, wide smile, an easy air that belied the power and ruthlessness below the sparkling surface. He had made a great fortune in the Veneto, by means rumoured to be both fair and foul. He held an important position in the Doge’s court, as a member of the Savio ai Cerimoniali, the committee which arranged state visits of foreign rulers, ministers, and ambassadors—the committee that had seen many of its members, including Signor Landucci, die so unfortunately of late. His home, Ca Grattiano, was one of the most glorious in the city. He had been married four times, all of them ladies of impeccable lineage, fortune and beauty, who passed away sadly before their time.

Now, he seemed to want to add Julietta’s small villa and farm on the mainland—the settlement she had received from her husband’s family when she left Milan—to his kingdom. Perhaps he even wanted to add Julietta herself, though she could not fathom why. He had every young, full-bosomed courtesan in the city at his beck and call, he did not need her tall, thin, dark self. Whatever he truly desired, he had been most persistent in seeking it. He came to her shop, sent small gifts, invited her to gatherings at his palace, ever since the day they met in San Marco.