The Contessa's Vendetta (9 page)

As soon as the
doge vanished down the street, I decided to visit the small inn where I had fallen ill. After a few missed streets, I found it. The door stood open and I glanced inside. Giovanni, the fat landlord, polished his glasses as though he had never left off. Off in the corner was the wooden bench upon which I had lain and where I had died.

“
Buon giorno
signora
,” the landlord said when I entered.

“
Good day,” I said returning his greeting. I ordered some wine and bread then sat myself at one of the little tables while he bustled about to serve me.

“
You are new to Vicenza” he asked as he dusted and rubbed a cup for my wine.

For a moment
, his question confused me and I stumbled to gather my wits. My appearance was so altered, he did not recognize me. “Relatively new,” I answered. “And you? How goes the situation with the plague?”

The landlord shook his head
and his expression turned woeful. “
Dio mio
, my God, do not speak of it. The people are dying like flies in honey. Only yesterday, goodness, who would have believed it?” Pressing his palms together as if in prayer, he waved them back and forth before him as he looked up to Heaven and sighed.

“
What happened yesterday?” I asked, even though I knew what he would tell me. “I am a stranger in Vicenza and eager for news.”

Perspiring, Giovanni
laid the cup of wine and half-loaf of bread on the marble top of the table. “Have you heard of Contessa Mancini?” 

I
shook my head and bent my face over my wine cup.

“
Ah, well, it does not matter,” he groaned. “There is no Contessa Mancini anymore. She is gone. She was rich, they say, yet as vulnerable as the rest of us. Fra Cipriano of the Benedictines carried her in here yesterday morning because she fell ill with the plague. She died in a matter of hours.” The landlord caught a mosquito and killed it. “As dead as that
zanzara
!
Si
, she lay dead on that very wooden bench opposite to you. The
beccamorti
took her away before sunset. Life in Vicenza has become like a bad dream!”

I
pretended to be engrossed with breaking off a piece of the bread and dipping it into the wine. “Whether a person is rich or not makes no difference. The rich must die just like the poor.”

“
Ah, that is true, very true,” assented Giovanni. “All the money in the world could not save the blessed Cipriano.”

I
tensed, but regained my composure. “What do you mean?”

“
Si,
Fra Cipriano. He deserves to be canonized a saint one day, the poor man. I speak of the holy Benedictine brother who brought Contessa Mancini here so ill. Little did I know that God would soon call him too.”

A sickening sensation settled in my heart.
“Is he dead?”

“
As dead as a martyr. He caught the plague, I suppose, from the contessa, for he was bending over her to the last. He sprinkled holy water over her corpse and laid his own crucifix upon it in the coffin. Then he went to Villa Mancini to deliver the news to her family.”

My poor
Dario. “How did her husband take the news?”

The landlord shrugged his bulky shoulders.
“How should I know? The reverend brother said nothing, save that the man turned away from him. But that is not so unusual. A man never lets another man see him cry. As I said before, the good brother Cipriano presided over the contessa’s burial, and he had scarce returned from it when the illness seized him. He died this morning at the monastery.” Giovanni crossed himself. “May his soul rest in peace!

I pushed away
my meal untasted. The bread choked me and the wine tasted sour. I fought back tears for the gracious, tolerant monk who had sacrificed his life for me and the young boy I had asked him to help. One hero less in this brutal, heartless world. I sat quiet, lost in my mournful thoughts.

The landlord looked at me curiously.
“Does the wine not please you? Have you no appetite?

I forced a smile.
“Your story about the death of the good brother stripped me of my appetite. Vicenza seems such a terrible place right now. There is nothing to hear but stories of the dead and dying.”

Giovanni gave me an
apologetic expression. “Well, truly, there is very little else. The plague is everywhere, touching everyone, and it is the will of God.”

As he
finished speaking, a woman who strolled past the open door of the inn caught my gaze. It was Beatrice Cardano! My dear friend! I yearned to run out and embrace her, but something in her look and manner restrained me.

She
walked with a smile on her face and a posy of roses in her hands, similar to the roses that grew in such profusion on the upper terrace of my villa. Shocked, I stared at her as she passed. She looked happy and tranquil, happier indeed than I had ever seen her. Yet, I, her best friend, had died only yesterday. With such recent sorrow, how could she smile so happily and carry such beautiful roses? These were not the signs of mourning.

For one long moment, I felt the sting of hurt. Then I
laughed at my own over-sensitivity. After all, what did it matter that she bore a smile and carried roses? A woman could not always be answerable for the expression in her face. As for the flowers, perhaps she might have gathered them in passing or Chiara might have given them to her. Beatrice did not appear to be mourning, but with my recent death, there would have been no time for her to procure black vestments.

Satisfied with my own self-reasoning
, I made no attempt to follow Beatrice. I let her go on her way unconscious of my existence. I would wait, I thought, till the evening. Then all would be explained, all would return to normal.

I turned to the landlord.
“How much do I owe you?

“
Pay what you can,” he replied. “I am never hard on strangers. Times are bad, or you would be welcome to it for nothing. Many a day I have done the same for new visitors to Vicenza, and the blessed Cipriano would assure me that St. Peter would remember me for it.”

I laughed and tossed him a
gold coin. He pocketed it at once and his eyes twinkled. “Such an overpayment is most generous, but the saints will make it up to you, never fear!”

“
I am sure of that!” I said as I rose. “
Arrivederci
.”

He
responded with amiable heartiness, and then began polishing his glasses anew.

For the remainder of the day, I strolled
the less travelled streets of Vicenza, pining for the dark pink splendor of sunset, which would return me safe into the arms of my family, of love and contentment.

The evening arrived at last.
A delicate breeze carried the sweet fragrance of flowers and cooled the heat of the day. A grandeur of colors blazed in the sky, its magnificent tints sending lustre against walls and rooftops. My longing for home urged me forward, yet I held myself back, forcing myself to wait until the sun sank below the horizon, till the glow of its fading light died, and the moon rose languidly into the night sky.

Finally, when night had fully fallen,
I turned onto the road that led to Villa Mancini. My heart raced, my limbs quivered with anticipation, each footstep impatient. Never had the way seemed so long.

At last
, I reached the gate, but it was locked. The sculptured lions on either side frowned down upon me. Beyond, I could hear the splash and tinkle of the fountains as I inhaled the scents of the roses and periwinkle.

My home! My family!
I had no intention of entering through the main gate. I took one long, loving look, and turned left into a small private gate that led into an avenue of trees. This lane had been my favorite place to walk, for it provided cool shade on hot days and was rarely used by anyone other than myself. Beatrice sometimes joined me, but usually I walked alone. I enjoyed strolling the shadowed path reading a good book or giving myself up to the
dolce far niente,
the sweetness of doing nothing
,
and my own fancies.

The
path led to the rear of the villa where I hoped to find Annunziata. I would carefully approach her first. The trees rustled in the darkness as I stepped further along the moss-grown path. Sometimes the nightingales broke into melody before falling silent again. Moonlight filtered through interlacing boughs, casting shadows on the ground. Faint aromas floated in the air, shaken from orange boughs and trailing branches of white jasmine.

I
hurried forth, my spirits rising with every step the closer I came to my destination. Sweet anticipation drove me. I longed to be embraced by my beloved Dario, to see his lustrous eyes looking fondly into mine. I was eager to see Beatrice’s delight at my appearance. Chiara would be in bed, but I would tiptoe into her room and watch her sleep, for my happiness would not be complete till I had kissed her round face and caressed her curls, the color of spun gold.

I heard a sound and came to a sudden stop.
What could it be? I strained to listen. It sounded like a ripple of pleasant laughter. A shiver shook me from head to toe. It was my husband’s laugh. I recognized its rich baritone ring. Iciness squeezed my heart. I paused, unsure. How could he laugh so easily, so soon after my death?

I caught a glimpse of
white through the trees. Acting on impulse, I stepped behind some dense foliage through which I could see without being seen. His clear laugh rang out once again; its intensity painful to my ears. He sounded happy, even merry. He wandered in the moonlight joyous-hearted, while I had expected to find him shut in his rooms grieving. We women are such fools when we love a man.

A
terrible thought struck me. Had he gone mad? Had the shock and grief of my unexpected death affected his mind? I shuddered at the thought. Bending apart the boughs behind which I hid, I looked out. Two figures were walking towards me; my husband and my best friend, Beatrice Cardano.

There was nothing unusual about seeing them together.
Beatrice was like a sister to me. It was her duty to console Dario over my loss. But I saw much more than that. His arm was around her shoulder and she leaned against him for support.

A
n angry curse threatened to break from my lips. Death and the horrors of the vault were nothing compared to the anguish that coursed through me. To this day, the memory of that moment burns in my mind like an inextinguishable fire.

My hands clenched into fists
in an effort to beat back my bitterness. I fought to restrain the ferocious rage that awoke within me and I forced myself to remain motionless and silent in my hiding-place.

I
observed their betrayal! I witnessed my honor stabbed to death by those whom I most trusted, and still I remained silent. Beatrice and Dario came so close to my hiding-place that I could hear every word they uttered and watch their every gesture.

They paused within three steps of me
, his arm still around her shoulder and hers around his waist. She rested her head on his shoulder just as I had done with Dario a thousand times. She wore a pure white gown except for the blood red rose at her breast fastened with a diamond pin that flashed in the moonlight. How I wished it were blood instead of a rose at her breast. How I wished it was a stiletto that jabbed into her body instead of a diamond pin that pierced her gown.

But I had no weapon
. I could only stare at them, dry-eyed and mute. Dario looked handsome as ever, exceptionally so. No trace of grief marred his fine-looking features. His eyes were as clear and gentle as ever. His lips were parted in that fetching smile that was so endearing, so trustworthy. I heard him speak in the old enchanting tone of his low voice that made my heart leap and my brain reel.

“
Foolish Beatrice!” he said with amusement. “What would have happened, I wonder, if Carlotta had not fortunately died.”

I
held my breath as I awaited the answer.