Masquerade (23 page)

Since returning from the island of Murano, Orelia had been trying to summon the courage to confront her uncle. She wanted to hear the truth about her mother from him. She still wasn’t sure if she believed what she had been told, or perhaps she just didn’t want to believe the old woman’s story. Either way, it was all she could think about, especially during the two-week break from Carnevale between Christmas and the Feast of the Epiphany. God certainly did not grant her mind any peace during the many hours she spent with her family on her knees in church services.

There had also been a moment of illumination in the holy period. It had come on Christmas Eve when the entire government went by gondola to venerate the martyr’s relics on the island of San Giorgio. Orelia had watched the procession from her bedroom balcony, feeling quite overwhelmed by the sight of hundreds of illuminated boats. It struck her in that moment just how immense and intimidating the Venetian government was. How could one woman strike it down with one act? It was unimaginable, impossible. Even more impossible was that her mother would do something like that. The mother she knew would never hurt anyone. She was no witch.

Every time Orelia dismissed the whole story as an old woman’s crazy invention, she remembered how Signora Tiepolo had recognised Orelia for who she really was, and not the daughter of Roman bankers. There was some truth in the story and the only person who could illuminate that for her was her uncle.

But how to confront him when he had been so very clear when she had arrived in Venice that he did not want to dig up the past? Orelia considered writing him a letter, but she did not feel that she could organise her thoughts into a coherent piece of writing. She also considered dropping hints about her new knowledge at the dinner table to see his reaction, but she did not think he deserved that.

Then one afternoon after having a glass of wine with lunch – her first since the night at La Fenice – Orelia sent Maria to ask Signor Contarini if he had time to meet with her. Maria returned with a simple nod and led her to the library.

When Orelia entered the library, her uncle was sitting in an armchair by the window with his hands clasped together and his chin resting upon them, almost as if he were praying. The scene reminded her of the first time she had met her uncle.

‘Come and sit down,’ he said, motioning to the armchair facing him.

Orelia turned to Maria who was still standing behind her in the doorway. ‘I would like to speak with my godfather alone, please.’

As predicted, Maria huffed before leaving. Ignoring the servant’s disapproval, Orelia closed the door and walked across the room to sit facing her uncle.

‘It’s hard to believe you’ve been with us nearly four months. How have you found Venice so far?’ he said, smiling.

‘Quite wonderful,’ answered Orelia truthfully, fiddling with her emerald ring, which had been an early Christmas gift from Angelique. ‘Everyone has been so welcoming and it’s such a beautiful city. There’s so much to see . . . In fact, I visited Murano a few weeks ago.’

‘Really? I did not hear about it. Angelique and Aunt Portia both neglected to tell me about the trip.’

‘They didn’t accompany me. I went alone.’

Her uncle’s smile faltered. ‘Did you enjoy it?’

For a moment, Orelia was tempted to tell her uncle that the trip was pleasant and leave it at that. At the most, she would be lectured again about leaving the palazzo unchaperoned. Her absence that morning had gone unnoticed due to a drama that took place between Angelique and one of the hairdressers she was interviewing. Orelia liked to think she had become a little braver since her arrival in Venice, but it was moments like these that made her feel like nothing had changed. She took a deep breath; things had changed. ‘I did not go for the sightseeing,’ she whispered. ‘I went looking for answers about my mother’s past.’

‘What did you find?’

‘The truth.’

‘In Venice, the truth has a way of changing like the weather. Tell me what you have been told.’

All at once, Orelia told her uncle the woman’s story. When she finished speaking, her uncle nodded sadly. ‘In this case you have proved me wrong. That is an accurate version of the events that took place nineteen years ago. I’m sorry that I did not tell you the truth when you arrived. I was afraid that if you knew the truth you would not stay.’

Orelia was silent. She had been desperately hoping the woman’s story was a lie.

Her uncle looked at her intently, as if reading her thoughts. ‘You’re mother wasn’t a witch, though I’m sure you already knew that. What she did on the Festa Della Sensa was completely out of character. I would not have believed it had I not seen it happen with my own eyes.’

‘Then, why did she do it?’

‘I only wish I could have asked her that myself. But I never saw her or heard from her after she fled from the Piazzetta. All I know is that she accused the Doge of killing the man she loved. The rumours that circulated in the weeks afterwards said that he was a glassblower from Murano.

Apparently, they planned on leaving Serenissima together, but when the Inquisitors found out their plan, they had him killed. Glassblowers are not allowed to step foot off Murano for fear that they will reveal their glassblowing secrets to other countries.’

‘Si, Maria told me about the glassblowers. That man was my father, wasn’t he?’

It was the first time Orelia had said this out loud. She had thought about it endlessly since finding the love letter. Growing up, she’d never really thought about her father much, perhaps being too caught up with her mother’s secrets. But now he was real to her, someone who had a life, and it was too late for her to know him. Orelia felt her eyes sting with tears.

‘It’s quite possible,’ said her uncle. ‘But you see, no one knew your mother was in love. She never spoke about it, nor showed any signs of being in love. Everything she did and said that day in the Piazzetta was so unlike her.’

Orelia remembered the letter and glass flower but said nothing. She brushed away her tears angrily. ‘What sort of government hunts down craftsmen and hangs innocent women?’

‘It is not as simple as you would like it to be. There are laws and when they are broken, there are punishments,’ said her uncle, wiping his forehead with the sleeve of his dress-coat.

‘Of course you would defend the government. You are part of it!’

‘Si,’ answered her uncle in a tired voice, ‘but that does not mean that I didn’t love your mother and wish every day that things had been different. Let me tell you the rest of the story because it did not end when your mother fled.

‘When the Inquisitors could not find Isabella, they came for our family. Your grandfather begged for mercy, claiming that no witchcraft was practised in our casa and that any association Isabella had with the dark arts was unbeknownst to him.

‘Because we are one of Venice’s oldest families in the aristocracy, having descended from the twelve tribunes who elected the first Doge, The Council of Ten granted us two options: our entire family be trialled for treason or your grandfather disown Isabella and pay 100,000 ducats for our family’s name to remain in the Golden Book. It may seem like he chose position and title over his daughter, but he was protecting the family he had left. Iwas married and my wife had just given birth to Veronica.’

‘But could you not have done as she did? Started a life somewhere else? Did you even try to find her?’

‘We could not leave Venice; we were being watched very closely. Any attempt to find her would have been proof of guilt. There would not have even been a trial.

‘So, your grandfather disowned your mother and paid the fine, but for a long time our family was looked upon as traitors. We were not invited to dinners and balls. Painters or tailors would not visit our casa. It was not just the Doge that Isabella cursed; it was Venice – every man, woman and child. I hope you never know what it feels like to have everyone against you.’

Orelia thought of what brought her to Venice, but she remained silent.

Her uncle continued, ‘Later that year when I turned twenty-five, I joined the Great Council, as all young patricians are required. At first, I felt like I was betraying my sister, but slowly things began to change. It took many years until the name Contarini ceased to be associated with traitors. Our family became respected once more. My daughters do not even know what their family name once meant.’

‘But surely they would’ve heard gossip?’

‘Venetians love gossip, but they are even more superstitious. Some four hundred years ago, the fifty-fifth Doge, whose name I will not speak, committed an act of treason. After the government beheaded him, they condemned him to damnatio memoriae, erasing every image of him and his name from history.

It is much the same with your mother. Those who remember the events of nineteen years ago will not speak of Isabella Contarini, as if by their silence the curse cannot harm them, but that does not mean her crimes have been forgotten. That is why knowing the truth about your mother’s past does not change anything. You still cannot tell anyone that you are her daughter.’

‘But I have committed no crime!’ Orelia cried, frustrated tears pricking her eyes once again.

‘Si, but you are her daughter. The government was not able to punish your mother for her crimes; I have no doubt that they would make you pay for them. If anyone finds out who you really are, I will not be able to protect you. As long as you maintain your false identity you will be safe.’ His eyes searched Orelia’s. ‘Please tell me that you will.’

Orelia looked down into her lap, feeling as though nothing had changed since she had first arrived in Venice. Would she ever be able to take off this mask?

‘I will,’ she whispered.

‘Another!’ Bastian shouted, raising his arm to the bartender.

‘That’s the spirit,’ said Marco, leaning back in his chair and finishing off the contents of his mug. ‘Did you know that Salvador lodged a complaint about our prank to the Lion’s Mouth?’

‘Too well,’ said Bastian, slurring his words. ‘What I wouldn’t give to see that pig right now.’

Marco looked around. ‘Si, a shame he’s not here. There’s lots of easy women, though. How about we invite some over?’

Bastian shook his head. ‘Women are the last thing on my mind tonight.’

‘This couldn’t have something to do with our bet, could it?’

The tavern owner appeared in front of them carrying a jug of glistening ale.

‘Grazie, my good friend.’ Bastian tried to stand and give the man a hug, but Marco grabbed his arm and pulled him down.

Marco then refilled Bastian’s mug and pushed it towards him. Bastian took it up eagerly.

‘So, how is our bet going?’ said Marco. ‘There are only twenty-three days left of Carnevale. Have you managed to get Orelia to fall in love with you yet?’

Before Bastian could answer, the man at the table behind them began coughing violently, as if he was choking. Bastian spun around, only to find that the man had rather quickly recovered.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Bastian.

The man dressed in the traditional Carnevale costume nodded, but said nothing.

Bastian patted the empty chair beside him. ‘Come and join us, the more the merrier!’

This time the man only shook his head. When Bastian wore a mask, he thought there was no better device. But when someone else was wearing a mask it annoyed him immensely. Who knew who was behind the mask, especially when it was coupled with a hood and tricorne hat?

‘Fine,’ said Bastian, spinning back to his table.

‘So, the bet about Orelia?’ said Marco, annoyance playing on his features.

‘Orelia, isn’t that a pretty name?’

‘Si, very pretty. Have you kissed her yet?’

‘Yesssssss,’ answered Bastian. ‘Get your 50,000 ducats ready. She loves me, she loves me, sh -’

‘Then where’s her chemise as proof?’ demanded Marco, interrupting Bastian’s drunk song.

‘Well, I haven’t lain with her just yet.’

Bastian saw Marco’s grip on the handle of his mug relax.

‘If you’re so sure she loves you, why have you not?’ said Marco.

Bastian started laughing so hard he almost spilt his ale.

‘What?’

‘I’m engaged.’

‘What? To whom? Not Orelia . . .’

‘To Angelique Contarini.’

Now Marco started laughing. ‘You’ve completely lost your mind.’

‘I had no choice. It was that or be sent to Padua. Padua that smelly place.’ Bastian waved his hand in front of his nose.

‘There’s no way you’re going get Orelia to lay with you now that you’re engaged to her friend,’ said Marco with a smirk.

Bastian gulped down his ale and shook his finger. ‘But you see Angelique was trying to capture my affections with a love potion, which I found out about from Orelia. So as far as either of them knows, I’ve fallen victim to the love potion. It’s perfect. When the moment is right, I will snap out of it and Orelia will fall into my arms.’

‘But you’ll still be engaged,’ said Marco, his voice filled with spite.

‘Wrong,’ said Bastian, smiling like a happy fool. He watched the vein in Marco’s neck pulse, as it always did when he was angry. It was so easy to get to Marco.

‘Nobody outside the family knows about the engagement,’ continued Bastian. ‘Her father will not let us marry until the older sister is wed, so I suggested we keep the engagement a secret. Her father will be pleased when I call it off and my father . . . well I’ll be long gone with my winnings anyway. So long, Venice!’ Bastian raised his glass triumphantly in the air.

At that same moment, a chair at the table next to them crashed to the floor. Bastian turned to see the man who had been coughing earlier hurrying towards the exit without stopping to pick up the fallen chair.

‘Do you think he’s all right?’ Bastian asked Marco, almost falling off his own chair from craning his neck.

‘It’s not our concern,’ snapped Marco. ‘So what makes you think Orelia is at home pining for you right now? She could already be in the arms of another man, one who is not presently engaged to her friend.’

Bastian sat still and quiet. The thought of Orelia with another man made his heart pound more than his head already was. He remembered their dance on the first night of Carnevale. He remembered her face as she watched the canaries fly off into the night. He remembered the kiss they shared at the Ridotto. The realisation hit him.

He loved her.

He’d never felt this way before.

He stood up to leave.

‘Where are you going?’ asked Marco.

Bastian didn’t answer. All he could think about was how he was in love with Orelia. And how love would only complicate things more.