The Contessa's Vendetta (23 page)

At that moment, Chiara awoke and smiled angelically at the three of us.

“Are you in pain, my
bambola
?” I asked gently.

“
No,” she answered in a voice so faint, we almost had to hold our breath to hear her. “I feel much better now. Annunziata, you must dress me in my white frock now that Mama is here. I knew she would come home to me!”

And she looked upon me with clear astuteness. 

“Her brain wanders,” the physician whispered
sotto voce
. “It will be over soon.”

Chiara did not hear him; she nestled herself more comfortably in my arms.
“You did not go away because I was naughty, did you, Mama?”

“
No
carina
!” I answered, hiding my face in her curls. “You were never naughty. You must never think that.”

“
Why do you wear those ugly black spectacles?” Her voice was so feeble now that I could scarcely hear her. “Are your eyes hurt? Please let me see them.”

I
hesitated. Dare I humour her request? I glanced around. The physician had turned his head away and Annunziata was still on her knees, her face buried in the bedclothes, praying. I quickly slipped my spectacles down, and looked over them at my darling child.

“
Mama!” she uttered and stretched out her arms.

At that very moment, a fierce shudder shook her body.

The physician rushed forward.

I replaced my glasses and pushed myself away to make room for the physician to examine my suffering child.

Her face reddened and she tried to speak. Her beautiful eyes rolled upward. A sigh escaped from her lips, and then she sunk back on my breast. Her chest no longer rose and fell.

M
y sweet baby had left me. I stifled the fierce sob that threatened to explode and clasped her small, lifeless body to me, rocking back and forth in my grief. I released my tears and they fell hot and fast.

An enduring silence hung in the air; a profound, reverent silence. I knew the Angel of Death had entered and departed, taking my delicate little flower away
forever.

“Please, come away now.” The physician’s voice, soft and kind, swarmed over me as if from a great distance to rouse me from grief. “The child is free from pain now,” he said. “Her dream that you were her mother brought her comfort in her final moments. Come with me now. I can see this has been a shock to you.”

I laid my darling
’s fragile body back down on the pillows and adjusted her brown locks around her angelic face. With a gentle sweep of my hand, I closed her upturned, blank eyes and folded her tiny hands together across her chest. Her cheeks still held the warmth of life when I bent down to kiss them for the last time. The remnants of a delicate smile lingered on her face, a smile so sweet, so magnificent in its simplicity.

Tears cascaded down Annunziata
’s weary, shrunken face. She rose awkwardly from her knees and laid her rosary on Chiara’s folded hands. Her age-spotted hands trembled as she wiped her tears away with the edge of her apron. “Someone must tell her father.”

The physician
’s expression turned sour. “Her father, as you call him, should have been here.”

Annunziata shook her head.
“For the duration of her illness, the child never once asked for him.”

“
How very tragic,” the physician answered, his eyes unwavering from Chiara’s face. 

An awkward silence befell us. We stood round the small bed, gazing down at my baby; the flawless pearl of innocence whose spirit had left us far too soon. Why had God saved me and not her? She deserved to live, to laugh, to wed and have children of her own one day. Instead, she had died sad, neglected, forlorn. Numb with profound grief, I watched Annunziata shutting the blinds; a signal to the world that death had once more visited the villa.  

The physician crooked his finger for me to follow him out of the room. We paused at the top of the stairwell and began our descent to the villa’s second level.

“
If you do not object, I will announce the child’s death to Signore Gismondi,” the physician said.

My grief was more than I could bear, and I struggled to fight it off. I must remain composed.
“I appreciate it. I cannot speak with him right now.”

“
I completely understand. I hope he will show some pretence of grief.”

By this time, we had reached the first landing and stood in the corridor. 

“I doubt he will demonstrate emotion.” My entire body trembled with a mixture of anger and anguish. 

A grimace contracted the physician
’s face, and then he turned and disappeared down the corridor to Dario’s bedchamber.

I sat in a chair that faced a small window, incoherent of everything except for the agony of my loss. Alone and in the quiet, I allowed my tears to fall freely. I hated myself for having been so blind and not
having seen the repulsiveness of the man I had married. Indirectly, I had caused this. I had been the one to leave Chiara in his hands. I had been the one to plan my vendetta instead of confronting Dario and Beatrice immediately upon my resurrection. My guilt was more than I could bear.  

Absent-mindedly I studied the room
’s costly furnishings, vases, and ornaments, most of which Dario had wanted me to purchase during the first few months of our marriage. Once I had beheld them with pride. Now they disgusted me and all that they represented. Worthless trinkets, meaningless compared to the true values of humanity like love and family.    

Soon, I heard the sound of footsteps and in a moment, the physician made his way back down the hall towards me bearing a sardonic expression.
“He looked shocked, but he did not weep,” he replied at my look of inquiry. He touched my arm in consolation. “The signore would like to speak with you before you go. He said he will not detain you long. It is obvious you have taken this very hard. You do not look well. I recommend you return to your home as soon as possible to rest.
Arrivederci!
If there is anything I can do for you, send someone to my home and I will come to you at once.”

He took my hand in his and gave it a gentle pat. Then he left me and I heard the door close behind him. Again, I stared out the window, my arms folded across my chest, my body rocking back and forth, wrapped in
torment.

I did not hear the stealthy tread on the carpet behind me, but I sensed someone
’s presence. I turned sharply around and found myself face to face with old Giacomo, who held out a note out to me on a silver salver. He peered down at me with such sorrowful, inquisitive eyes that it made me uneasy.

“
Our little angel is dead!” he murmured in a thin, quavering voice. “Dead! What a tragedy. Misfortune has visited the villa too much. But my mistress is still alive. Contessa Mancini is still alive.”

I paid no heed to his confused ramblings and read the message Dario had sent to me through him.

I am in mourning. Will you kindly send a letter of my dreadful loss to Signorina Cardano? I shall be much obliged to you. Dario

I looked up from the note and studied my old steward’s wrinkled face. He was a short, stooped man whose attention was riveted on me. He clasped his hands together and muttered words I could not make out. 

“
Tell your master,” I said, speaking slowly and harshly, “that I will do as he wishes; that I am entirely at his service. Do you understand?”

“
Si,
I understand!” faltered Giacomo, nervously. “Contessa Mancini never thought me foolish. She always understood me well.”

Anger, frustration, grief, and impatience melded together inside me and I could not prevent myself from lashing out at him.
“I am tired of hearing about your mistress.” My tone was cold and cutting and I cared not. “I weary of it. If she were alive, she would say you were in your dotage! Take my message to Signore Gismondi at once.”

The old man
’s face paled and his lips quivered. He straightened his shrunken figure with dignity. “My mistress would never speak to me like that - never!” Then his expression wilted and he shook his head. “Though it is just...I am a fool...mistaken...ah, quite mistaken. There is no resemblance.” He paused. “I will take your message.” With his shoulders sagging more than ever, he shuffled away. 

My heart smote me as I watched him disappear. I had spoken far too harshly to the poor old fellow, but there had been no choice. His incessant scrutiny, his timidity when he approached me, the strange tremors he experienced whenever I addressed him, warned me to be on my guard in his presence. If by chance my devoted steward recognized me, it would spoil all my plans.
For now, because of Chiara’s death, my need for vengeance surged stronger and more desperately than ever before. One more sin against Beatrice’s and Dario’s black hearts. 

I descended the stairs to the salon. From the writing desk, I penned a brief letter to Beatrice and after waiting for the ink to dry, sealed it. Gathering my mantle, I left the house. As I crossed the upper terrace, I noticed a small round object lying in the grass
. It was Chiara’s ball, the one she used to throw for Tito to catch and bring to her. I picked it up tenderly, held it in my hand as a flood of memories rushed over me. With a sigh, I placed it in my bag. I glanced up once more at the darkened nursery windows and waved a kiss of farewell to my little one lying there in her last sleep. Then fiercely controlling all the weaker and softer emotions that threatened to overwhelm me, on trembling legs, I hurried into my waiting carriage.

On my way home, I stopped at the inn where Beatrice had boarded her coach to Rome and asked the innkeeper to dispatch my letter on the next coach. She would be surprised, I thought, but certainly not grieved. Chiara had likely always been in her way. Would she rush back to Vicenza to console Dario, now a childless widower? Not she! She would know that he would need little consolation. She would accept Chiara
’s death as she had accepted mine - as a blessing and not a loss. 

On reaching my apartments, I gave orders to Santina that I was not at home to anyone who might call. I passed the rest of the day in bed, locked in my dark room, the shutters closed tight, weeping, releasing my
deep anguish in private.

When I had cried till I could cry no more, it was
then that a vile coldness crept into my soul. My thoughts cleared. The last tenuous bond to my husband had crumbled like a lump of sun-baked mud. Our child, the one unsullied link in the long chain of falsehood and deception, no longer existed. The torment of her loss would haunt me forever. My only consolation was that Chiara no longer had to endure such horrendous misery. Now she was at peace, happy.

The tragedy of her parents
’ lives could now unfold without harming her. She was in God’s care now. He had released her from every worldly menace, past and future, and that knowledge gave me solace.

Now, more than ever, I must see my vendetta to the end. It was a fire that burned within me, stronger, fiercer. Nothing was as important to me as the need to avenge Chiara and restore my self-respect and damaged
honor.

* * *

Ten days passed since Chiara’s death. I do not know how I survived those impossible black days, having to disguise every shred of my grief. My child’s passing had only strengthened my resolve. The need for retribution kept me from falling into deep melancholy and drove me forward.

Dario had asked me to arrange our child
’s funeral and burial. It was a blessing, for I could not bear to think of her cherished body laid to rot away in the Mancini vault where I had endured so many horrors. Instead I chose a quaint spot in the cemetery, beneath the dappled shade of a glorious cherry tree with a stone bench nearby. Here we laid her to rest in the warm earth. I had sweet jasmine and pink roses planted thickly all about her grave. Her tombstone was of an angel carved in white marble. Upon it I had the words
A Vanished Star
engraved above her name followed by her birth and death dates.