Masquerade (6 page)

Claudia peered over the edge of her fan of yellow brocade. She noted the position of her mother across the ballroom, standing between two men, their identity concealed behind long-beaked plague-doctor masks. Her mother’s head was thrown back in laughter.

Claudia smiled. Bene. The men had heeded her instructions to flatter. She had paid them handsomely, but even the silver she had parted with did not guarantee her mother’s sustained interest in them, especially when there were patricians to impress and competition to alienate.

For a moment, Claudia’s thoughts turned to her father who was ill in bed on the floor below. She wondered if he could hear the noise of the orchestra and guests coming and going, and if it was disturbing him. It didn’t seem fair that he should be confined to his bed while just upstairs her mother threw what she hoped would be the most talked about ball of the season. Then again, it wasn’t that much different to the last Carnevale, really.

Claudia put aside thoughts of the things she could not change, and focused on her own situation. She edged along the wall, not taking her eyes off her mother until her hand found the door handle. She turned the handle and felt the door open behind her. With a glance at her mother who was still enjoying the flattery of the two men, Claudia slipped through the opening into the adjoining sitting room.

She flew across the empty room like a bird that had been let out of its cage. It was a sentiment reflected in her costume, a yellow brocade robe à la française and a columbina mask adorned with yellow feathers. It was a subtle statement – the only kind of statement Claudia dared to make – which her mother had not picked up on. Instead, she had complimented her daughter on picking a colour that made every eye in the room draw to her, like the sun. Of course, this was followed by a reprimand for not wearing the Hera costume her mother had specifically selected for her.

Claudia came to a door that opened onto the portego. The entrance hall was occupied by latecomers who went from ball to ball, or by guests who wanted a moment away from the ballroom.

Pulling the corners of her mask down to just below her cheekbones, Claudia stepped out into the long rectangular room. She walked over to the staircase, resisting the urge to run. She often watched cats stalk birds on the fondamenta from her bedroom window and had learnt that if you wanted to get by unnoticed, you had to move slowly and deliberately.

When she reached the top of the staircase, she checked behind herself to ensure she wasn’t being watched or followed. Claudia smiled. No one seemed interested in who she was or where she was going. That might have been different had she worn the sweeping one-shouldered white Hera costume, which was precisely the reason she had not worn it.

She reached the bottom of the staircase and entered the andron, brightly lit by hanging lanterns. She waited for a couple to pass through the water entrance before she headed in the direction of the far storeroom. Until the 15th century, the previous owners of this palazzo had all had been merchants and these rooms had been used for storing goods. Now they were mostly unused and rarely visited which was perfect for Claudia’s purpose.

The small heels of her satin slippers clicked upon the floor as she approached a doorway, each step bringing her closer. Her stomach started to flutter, as it always did. She held her breath as she looked inside the room. Her eyes searched the darkness until they found what she was looking for. She released her breath and smiled. ‘Ciao, Filippo’ she said warmly, taking off her mask.

The young man Claudia cared the most about in the world looked up brightly. Since his services had not been required that evening, he had changed out of his red and black livery and was wearing a loose white shirt. A black columbina mask rested on his forehead, even though he could not join the guests upstairs. He put down the knife and the piece of wood he was carving, and quickly stood. ‘You came,’ he said, collecting Claudia in his arms and twirling her around.

Claudia rested her head on his chest and inhaled his salty smell. ‘Of course, I came. It took longer than I expected to get away from my mother. Can you forgive me?’

‘Always,’ he said, stroking her hair.

Claudia sighed and looked up at him. ‘I can’t stay long. My mother will soon realise I’m gone.’

Filippo tilted his head towards her. Claudia waited for his lips to reach hers but just before that long awaited touch, the sound of laughter erupted in the andron.

‘Let’s go somewhere more private,’ said Claudia.

Filippo smiled mischievously, pulling down his mask and gently replacing Claudia’s feathered creation to conceal her face. She followed him out of the room and across the andron to the water entrance where a fleet of gondolas belonging to various guests were tied to the red and black mooring poles. Filippo jumped from gondola to gondola until he reached her family’s craft. He took hold of the long oar and steered the gondola up to the water steps.

When he held out a strong hand to help Claudia aboard, she recalled how she had fallen in love with him a year ago. She had known the very first time he had held her hand when helping her into the gondola. She had learnt more about his touch ever since then. Much more.

Claudia settled into the felze and looked out across the Canal Grande. It was busier with traffic now than it was during the day. ‘I don’t think we’re going to find somewhere private tonight,’ she said.

Standing at the back of the gondola with an oar in hand, Filippo winked at her. ‘You don’t know the canals like I do.’

And he was right. Once they turned off the Canal Grande, passed under a few ponti and wove through the narrowing canals, they came to a quiet dead end.

‘Which seistre are we in?’ asked Claudia, looking up at the walls of the buildings with exposed brick showing beneath crumbling plaster.

‘We are still in Cannaregio, on the very outskirts,’ said Filippo, making room for himself inside the felze by gathering the material of her gown and pushing it aside. ‘There would be a lot more room if you took the gown off.’

Claudia slapped him lightly. ‘It would take too long to get it off. You’ll just have to work around it.’

Filippo’s lips were upon hers in a second. Work around it, he did. The gondola rocked gently with their movements. Claudia’s fair fingers entwined with Filippo’s as a gasp escaped her mouth. Filippo laid back and Claudia rested her head on his chest. Their breathing slowed and fell into rhythm with each other.

Claudia stared up at the full moon. ‘Let’s leave Venice and be together without all this secrecy.’

Filippo laid a kiss on her forehead. ‘One day. I promise.’

Claudia lifted herself onto her elbows to look at him. ‘Let’s go
now
.’

‘You know I won’t do that to you. I cannot offer you the life you deserve.’

‘I don’t want a life filled with gowns and jewels!’ Claudia pulled at the diamond necklace around her neck, unsuccessfully trying to break it.

Filippo put his dark hand over hers, stopping her. ‘You say that now,’ he said, ‘but you don’t know what it’s like to be poor.’

‘I do know. My father gambled away our entire fortune a few years ago!’ Claudia immediately felt ashamed for shouting. She looked away. It was the mention of her father that made Claudia realise that Filippo was right, in some sense. As much as she longed to, she couldn’t leave Venice while her father remained sick and bedridden with a mysterious illness. She had to make sure he was cared for. She had to see him recover, if that was even possible.

‘I love you,’ said Filippo, gently taking her hands in his. ‘I will find a way for us to leave Venice and give you the life you deserve. Be patient.’

‘I love you too,’ she whispered. She believed him. She would be patient. Her father would recover.

She felt her body softening again, but just before she gave in to the glorious feeling, her eyes went wide and she sat upright. ‘I have to get back.’

Claudia ran up the stairs to the piano nobile, the main floor of their palazzo. She didn’t bother slipping through the sitting room to avoid entering the ballroom through the main doors in the portego. She ran straight across the hall and into the ballroom.

As she collapsed against the inside wall, her eyes closed as she tried to regain her composure. All of a sudden, a cold hand gripped her forearm.

Claudia’s eyes sprang open and she saw the last person she wanted to see.

‘Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you everywhere,’ snapped her mother. ‘You look . . . flustered.’ Her kohl darkened eyes narrowed suspiciously.

‘I’ve been looking for Bastian,’ said Claudia, failing to maintain a light measured voice. ‘I thought that’s what you wanted.’

‘Did you find him?’

Claudia lowered her eyes. ‘No.’

‘Fortunately, I did,’ said her mother. ‘And I have persuaded Bastian to save a dance for you. But trying to pin you both down is like trying to view the sun and moon together. Stay here and don’t move.’

Claudia nodded, but when her mother was out of earshot, she whispered, ‘One day.’

It was an indisputable fact that Bastian Donato spent one half of his life chasing women and the other half of his life fleeing from the same women.

The woman he was fleeing from on this particular night was Regina Gamba. She was a very tall girl and it was lucky that she had not been born one hundred years earlier when sixteen-inch heeled shoes were the height of fashion in Venice. Fortunately for Regina, sensible slippers were the fashion of the day, which was unfortunate for Bastian, as it made her much harder to escape from. And that was just for now.

As Bastian used his weight to close the library door, he began to realise that it might not have been such a good idea to sleep with Regina’s sister in her own casa, when he was calling on
her
. He could only imagine her wrath if she ever found out, especially given her display in the ballroom.

‘Hiding from another one of your mistakes again, are you?’

Bastian looked up and saw he was not alone. Marco D’Este, clad in a gold-spangled navy blue dress-coat adorned with badges typical of a Spanish general, sat on the edge of a desk on the other side of the room. The plain white bauta mask was resting next to him. He had a tall glass of dark liquid in his hand and a smug smile on his face.

‘You know me too well,’ said Bastian.

‘I’m guessing it is the same woman who interrupted your dance. Who is she?’ asked Marco, swirling the contents of his glass. His dark, almost black, eyes shone with curiosity.

‘Regina Gamba.’

Marco shook his head. ‘You love to play with fire, don’t you? How did you manage to escape her?’

Bastian poured himself a drink. ‘I’m too ashamed to say.’

‘Tell me you didn’t.’

‘I had no choice. It’s the only thing that works on a woman like her. You have to make them feel that you want to be with them, but can’t. And the best way to do that is to tell them that your best friend is in love with them.’

Marco downed his drink in one mouthful. ‘You need to come up with a new story or soon half of Venice will think I am in love with them.’

‘If it’s any consolation, you won the bet.’

When Marco raised his eyes, there was a glint in them brought on either by too much alcohol, or the mention of gambling. He and Marco had been making bets with each other since they had learnt to count money, even though their bets rarely involved money.

‘Which bet?’ asked Marco. It wasn’t that he had forgotten, rather that they had so many bets going at once it was difficult to keep track.

‘The bet that no one would understand my costume.’ As Bastian spoke, he slid a ruby ring off his finger and held it out to Marco.

‘It’s hardly a bet worth winning,’ said Marco. But he slid the ring onto his finger with a satisfaction that suggested every bet, no matter how small, was worth winning. The ring was how they kept track of who had won the last bet. The ring had once belonged to a cardinal from Rome. Bastian and Marco were ten when the cardinal had visited the Palazzo Ducale, where Bastian lived with his father, the Doge. Marco had bet that Bastian couldn’t steal the ring. It was the very first bet they had made and the very first bet Bastian had won.

‘Someone even asked if I was a Faun. Do I look half goat, half human?’

‘In a way, you do.’ Marco chuckled. ‘But where is your mask? The one Signor Zafoni sent you as a gift.’

‘It didn’t go with my headdress. I thought together it was a bit excessive,’ said Bastian, his voice falling flat.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Marco.

‘It’s Regina. She is becoming a serious problem. Why do women do this? I never promise anything more than a night of pleasure. Why do they fall in love with me?’

Marco laughed. ‘They do not love you. It is obsession, not love. In fact, I don’t think you could get a woman to fall in love with you.’

‘I certainly could.’ Bastian looked at his reflection in his wine glass. What was there not to love? Every woman in Venice would die to be his wife or lover. This was proven last season when a rumour circulated that he had married a fisherman’s daughter in secret. One of the daughters of a patrician had thrown herself from her third-storey balcony upon hearing the rumour. She had survived the fall with a few broken bones, and a broken heart. If that wasn’t love, what was?

‘Care to bet on that?’ said Marco.

Bastian crossed his arms across his bare chest flecked with gold. ‘Always.’

‘I bet that you can’t get a woman to fall in love with you by the end of Carnevale.’

‘Any woman?’

Marco shook his head. ‘Not just any woman. It has to be someone who isn’t familiar with you. Someone you haven’t already been with, which limits the possible candidates considerably.’ A smile began to form at the corner of Marco’s mouth. ‘The woman you danced with. I’ve never seen her before. She looked like she had some sense to her, since she didn’t instantly swoon over you. The looks she was giving you could have frozen the Canal Grande.’

Bastian didn’t know what to think of Orelia. She seemed to embody so many contradictions. She seemed foreign
and
Venetian, awkward
and
graceful, meek
and
fiery. There was something about her green eyes and flame red hair . . . Bet or no bet, he had to have her.

‘Seems fair. I wouldn’t mind seeing her again,’ said Bastian. ‘What proof of her love shall you require?’ asked Bastian. ‘A love letter?’

‘Oh no, love letters are not worth the paper they are written on. I know you have a chest full of them.’ Marco thought for a moment. ‘Get her to lay with you. She seems to be the sort of woman who would only give herself to a man she loves.’

Bastian smiled. This bet was just getting better and better. ‘How do you know that?’

‘I can tell just by looking at her. She will not let you have her until she is certain she loves you.’

‘But how will you know that I’ve slept with her?’

Marco thought for a moment. ‘You must take her chemise as proof.’

‘How will her chemise prove anything? I also have a chest of chemises.’

Marco groaned. ‘All women have their initials embroidered on their chemise, if you’ve ever bothered to look. It will prove you have been with her and only her.’

Bastian took a sip of his wine. The bet was still too easy. Marco knew that Bastian could get half the women in a single convent to sleep with him, after they had taken their vows.

But then, it was Marco’s style to set a bet that Bastian seemed sure to win. Then, when Marco won, the victory was all the more satisfying for him. And Marco was not known to play fair. Undoubtedly, he would find a way to convince Orelia of Bastian’s bad character. It was Marco’s cunning ways that made their bets all the more fun.

‘Unless you think you can’t win . . .’

Bastian straightened his back. This was one bet he was going to win and he would enjoy every minute of it. ‘It’s a bet.’

Stepping towards each other, Bastian and Marco shook hands. When they parted, Bastian raised his glass, his eyes wild with excitement. ‘To Carnevale!’