The Contessa's Vendetta (22 page)

Her
eyes flashed with delight.

“
You are very good to me, contessa. How can I thank you?”

“
Do not worry. The day will come when you will have an opportunity to to thank me and show me your gratitude. Now, I am sure you have much to attend to and much packing. I will come and see you off in the morning,” I dismissed.

My reassurance seemed to satisfy her and she left.

I did not see her again that day. I knew she was with my husband, no doubt extracting promises of fidelity from him. I envisioned him holding her in his arms, kissing her with passion as she beseeched him to be faithful, night and day, until her return.

I smiled coldly at this vision.
Si
, Beatrice, kiss him now to your heart’s content, for you will never do so again. Dario will no longer bewitch you with his glance. He will no longer sweep your jealous body into his embrace. His kisses will no longer burn upon your curved sweet lips. Your day is done, my dear Beatrice. The final moments of pleasure born from your transgressions has arrived. Make the most of them. No one shall interfere. Drink the last drop of sweet wine. I shall not disturb your final night of love. Turncoat, swindler, and charlatan – may your wretched soul fall to ruin. Take one last look at Dario. May he murmur persuasive lies into your ears.
I will be true,
he will tell you, and I hope you believe him as I once did. May your parting be sweet, because this time, you will part forever. You will never see him again.

* * *

The next morning I met Beatrice in front of The Black Horse Inn. She appeared ashen-faced and weary, but she gave me a slight smile when I descended from my carriage, which had come to a stop behind the passenger coach headed to Rome.

I could see at once that she was in a foul mood. She scolded the old porter who struggled to load her heavy trunk
on top of the conveyance. Tension surrounded her and it was a relief when she at last ascended into the coach. She carried a small leather volume in her hand.

“
Is that an amusing book?” I asked.

“
I do not know yet because I only recently purchased it. It is by Antonio Francesco Grazzini from Florence. In his writing, he delights in praising low and disgusting things and in jeering at what is noble and serious. His work is said to be both playful and bizarre.” She held up the cover for me to see.

“
Si
, I have heard of this book.
I Parentadi
.” The Marriages. How appropriate, I thought.

“
The bookseller told me it is about a wife betrayed by her husband and the ensuing loss, romance, and unexpected discoveries.” 

“
Ah, I see. Betrayal always brings excitement, but be forewarned; the ending may be tragic. You must lend it to me when you have finished reading it. I am always interested in such tales.”

All was ready and the other passengers had boarded.
I watched her alight. The driver was on the verge of driving away when she leaned out of the coach window and beckoned me to come closer.

“
Remember!” she whispered, “I entrust Dario into your care.”

“
Do not worry. I promise to do my best to replace you during your absence.”

She gave me a troubled smile and squeezed my hand with gratitude.

These were our last words, for at that moment, the driver called out a warning, gave the reins a slap, and I watched the coach drive away. 

A sense of unqualified freedom swept over me. Now I could do as I pleased with my husband. If I wanted to, I could even kill him. No one would interfere. I could visit him that evening, declare myself to him, and accuse him of infidelity before stabbing him in the heart. Then I could flee without suspect because the world believed I was dead. But no, I would
do none of that. My original plan was better, and I must keep to it and allow it to unfold with patience, even though my patience was difficult to keep in check.

Just as I was about to enter my carriage, I was startled by the unexpected appearance of Santina, who came upon me quite suddenly, out of breath from running. I slid over to make room for her in the carriage and she handed me a note marked
Urgent
. It was from Annunziata.

Please come at once. Chiara is very ill, and asks for you.

“Who gave you this?” I asked.

“
Giacomo from Villa Mancini brought it,” Santina said.

My heart sunk and a great fear rose within me. I bade
Paolo to hurry to Villa Mancini first and then take Santina home afterward.

Despite the fact
Paolo hurried, the ride to Villa Mancini seemed to take forever. When we finally arrived, the gates were already open in expectation of my arrival. I ran from the carriage to the entrance. Before I could knock, Giacomo swung open the door, his face creased with worry.

“
How is Chiara?” I asked him anxiously as I swept inside, mantle billowing behind me.  

He shook his head solemnly and gestured to a sympathetic looking man descending the stairs. I instantly recognized him as a physician who practiced in the vicinity
of the villa.

“
How is the child?” I asked the physician. 

He gestured for me to follow him into a side room and closed the door behind us. He shook his head.
“It is a matter of flagrant negligence. The child has been in a weakened state for quite some time, and therefore an easy target for disease. She was once hale and hearty, that is most evident. If someone had summoned me when her symptoms first developed, I believe I might have been able to cure her. The nurse, Annunziata, tells me she was afraid to enter the father’s bedchamber to disturb him in the night, otherwise he might have checked on the child and summoned me. How unfortunate. Now, it is too late, there is nothing I can do.”

I listened to his every word as if I were
trapped in a nightmare. Not even old Annunziata dared enter her master’s room in the night, despite the fact, the child was ill and suffering. And I knew why. Last night, while Beatrice lay in my husband’s arms delighting in amorous embraces and lingering farewells, my little daughter suffered without a mother or father’s comfort. Not that it would have made a difference, but I was fool enough to hope that one faint spark of fatherhood remained in Dario, the man upon whom I had squandered all my love.

The physician watched and waited as my mind raced with these thoughts.

“The child is asking to see you, contessa. I persuaded Signore Gismondi to send for you, though he seemed reluctant because he feared you might catch the disease. Of course there is always a risk of contagion—”

“
I am not afraid of contagion. I survived the plague when many others perished.”

The physician bowed courteously.
“Then there is little else to say, except that you should visit the child at once. I am obliged to leave for a brief while, but I will return shortly.”

I gripped his arm to detain him.
“Please stay! Is there any hope?”

A glint of sadness appeared in his
eyes and he shook his head gravely. “I am afraid not, contessa. You should prepare yourself for the worst.”

“
Nothing? Are you certain nothing can be done?”

“
I am sorry. There is nothing more to be done except to keep her as quiet and comfortable as possible. I have given her a small amount of a tincture made with poppy, mandrake, and vinegar and left more with the nurse. It will help alleviate the pain, but you must not give her any more than necessary. I shall return to examine her again as soon as I return.”

Stunned, I watched wordlessly as he left the room until Giacomo nudged my arm and offered to accompany me to the nursery.

“Where is Signore Gismondi?” I whispered as I followed him up the stairs.

“
The signore?” he asked, eyes wide in astonishment. “In his bedchamber, of course. He would not think of leaving it for fear of infection.” His tone carried a hint of sarcasm.

One more act that proved my husband
’s utter heartlessness. One more nail in his coffin. I smothered the curse that rose to my lips. “Has he not seen his daughter?”

“
Not since she became ill, contessa.”

Unimaginable pain, fear, and
panic clamoured in my stomach as I gently pushed open the door to the nursery. The blinds were drawn shut to prevent the strong light from bothering my beloved child. Annunziata sat beside the small ivory bed, her face ashen and tense with anxiety.

At my appearance, she raised her
eyes to mine. “Chiara has the fever in her throat. She took ill in the middle of the night. This morning she became worse. Why must it always be like this? God always take the good and virtuous. First the mother; now the child. Only the wicked remain.”

“
Mama,” Chiara moaned weakly. She tried to raise herself upon tumbled pillows, her eyes wide, her cheeks scarlet with fever. She breathed with difficulty through parted lips.

Shocked at her appearance and the symptoms she bravely suffered, I placed my arms tenderly round her. She smiled softly and I pressed my lips upon her poor little parched mouth and kissed her.
“Hush,
carina
, rest, and soon the pain will better.” I adjusted her pillows and she sank back upon them obediently, her eyes never wavering from me. I knelt at her bedside, her small warm hand in mine, and watched her with desperation and yearning.

Annunziata moistened Chiara
’s lips with a damp cloth and tucked the bedcovers neatly around her.

I watched helplessly, unable to ease the pain endured so meekly by my little darling whose breathing grew quicker and fainter with every moment.

“You are my Mama, are you not?” she asked, a deeper flush crossing her forehead and cheeks.

A knot clogged my throat and I could not answer. Instead, I kissed the small hot hand I held in mine
as I fought back my tears. I could not let Chiara see my cry. 

Annunziata
’s eyes welled with tears and she shook her head. “Ah,
poverina
. Her time must be near because she sees her mother. And why not? She loved her with all her heart. I have no doubt her mother’s spirit has come to take Chiara to Heaven.” She fell on her knees, wrapped her rosary between her gnarled fingers and hands speckled with age, and prayed with deep devotion.

Chiara
raised her arms to me.

I lay myself down on the bed
beside her and rested her head against my breast. I knew I held my baby for the last time and struggled to stifle my profound grief.

“
My throat aches so, Mama!” she said, her breathing coming with great difficulty. “Can you make it better?”

“
I wish I could,
piccolina
,” I whispered. “I would take away all your pain.”

She was silent a moment.
“You have been gone for such a long time, Mama, and now I am too sick to play with you!” A faint smile arose on her lips. “See poor Nina!” Her eyes moved to the old battered doll that lay discarded near the foot of her bed. “Poor Nina. She will think I do not love her anymore because my throat hurts me. Give her to me, Mama!”

As I obeyed her request, she
hugged the doll with one arm, while she clung to me with the other. 

“
Nina remembers you, Mama; remember, you brought her from Rome, and she is fond of you, too—but not as fond of you as I am!” Her dark eyes glowed with fever. She turned to Annunziata, who had buried her gray head in her hands as she knelt praying. “Annunziata,” she said.

The old woman glanced up.
“
Si
, my
bambinetta
!” she answered in an aged, trembling voice. 

“
Why are you crying?” Chiara asked with surprise. “Are you not happy to see my Mama?” A sharp spasm of pain seized her. Her body convulsed as she gasped for breath.

My child was suffocating
and all my wealth, all my love could not help her.

Annunziata and I hurried to raise her up gently and supported her against her pillows; her agony passed slowly, but left her little face white and rigid. Sweat gathered on her brow. 

“Hush, my sweetheart, try not to talk too much,” I whispered in an attempt to soothe her. “Try to lie still so that your throat will not hurt.”

She looked at me sadly.
“Kiss me, then, and I will be good.”

I kissed her and embraced her. She closed her
eyes. A long silence ensued in which she did not move.

Time passed as I watched my daughter
with terror and fear and helplessness.

Finally, the physician returned. He came to stand at Chiara
’s bedside, looking down on her. He shook his head and remained standing quietly at the foot of the bed.