The Rossetti Letter (v5) (13 page)

11 November 1617

B
IANCA HAD LET
him in unwillingly, then hurried upstairs to tell her mistress of their unexpected visitor. Alessandra put aside her sketch, picked up the candle that illuminated her drawing table, and gathered her skirts to go down to the parlor. She resented the intrusion at so late an hour, but her study of the nautilus shell had annoyed her. She could not seem to capture the gleam of the shell’s pearlescent interior, and she wasn’t completely unhappy to quit it.

Her mysterious caller stood facing the fire, his black cape dripping on the parquet floor. He turned at the sound of her approaching footsteps just as a bolt of lightning split the sky and lit up the room for one earth-shaking, shattering second. Face-to-face, in that first moment, Alessandra believed she was looking into the cold, glittering eyes of a madman.

But when the lightning and the crash of thunder had passed, he introduced himself with the curt bow of a young gentleman. “Antonio Perez, viscount of Utrillo-Navarre. I bear a letter for the marquis of Bedmar.”

“He isn’t here,” she replied. “I’m surprised you did not go to the Spanish embassy. Anyone can direct you to it.”

“My instructions were to bring the letter here and to wait for him if necessary. I come at the order of the duke of Ossuna, viceroy of Naples.”

“I do not expect the marquis for another four days.”

“Then I must presume upon your hospitality.”

“You presume too much. This is my home, not a lodging house. There are plenty of taverns in Venice should you need a bed.”

Antonio Perez seemed distressed by her refusal. In the dark room, lit only by the fire in the hearth, assorted candelabra, and the occasional flash of lightning as the storm moved south across the lagoon, Alessandra did not notice the way his skin seemed drawn tight over his temples, or the faint blue shadows beneath his eyes, or the bright, feverish blush on his otherwise pale cheeks.

“Signorina Rossetti, I have just spent hours in that storm and I am soaked to the bone.” He didn’t add that the inclement weather had provided excellent cover for being smuggled into Venice. “If it is your desire that I go out in it again, I will do so, but I must tell you that the men who brought me here have already departed and shall not return. I have no transport.”

“My manservant will take you to a nearby inn.”

“Then may I impose upon you for a hot brandy before I go? I fear I have caught a chill.”

Alessandra disliked his presumption but she could see that he was shivering in spite of his attempts to conceal it. “Yes, of course,” she said, turning away. As she moved toward the doorway to summon Bianca, the viscount of Utrillo-Navarre collapsed on the parlor floor.

With considerable effort, Alessandra and Nico managed to carry him upstairs to one of the bedchambers. The young nobleman was more robust than he at first appeared. Even after his soaked garments were stripped away, his strong, athletic physique had an unusual solidity that made it difficult for the two of them to lift him onto the bed. Although Antonio Perez had a gentleman’s manner, his nakedness revealed the hard musculature of a soldier. He had the sort of figure Alessandra rarely saw, at least not among the men of her intimate acquaintance, accustomed as they were to lives of luxury and ease. With the exception of Bedmar, she corrected herself, though he was shorter and more stout than this viscount, but still a powerful man for his age.

“Do you think it wise to let him stay?” Nico asked.

Alessandra saw the concern in his soft, weathered eyes. “No, I am not certain there is wisdom in it, but he is ailing. What else can I do?”

“I could take him to La Pietà. The convent sisters will take care of him.”

“I fear that would put him in as much danger as this fever.” She took her hand away from the young man’s hot forehead.

“What if he carries the pestilence? We don’t know where he is from.”

“He comes from Naples. I have not heard of any sickness there.” Alessandra gathered up the viscount’s wet clothes and handed them to Nico. “Please take these down to the kitchen to dry, and bring up some firewood. Let’s give him a day or so and see. He looks strong—perhaps he will pull through quickly.”

“As you wish.”

After Nico left, Alessandra studied Utrillo-Navarre’s few possessions: an elegant sword and scabbard; a dagger that hung at his waist and another that had been artfully hidden within a pocket inside his sleeve; a modest purse, with Neapolitan and Venetian coins; and a letter encased in a waxed parchment envelope. She took the missive from its waterproof enclosure and turned it over in her hands. The cream-colored vellum was of the finest quality, but carried neither direction nor name, only a seal of bloodred wax, stamped with an intricate, interlocking design. She quickly tucked it into her pocket when she heard footsteps on the stairs.

Bianca entered carrying a basin of water and some clean towels. Alessandra motioned for her to set it down on the bedside table, and pulled two chairs nearer the bed. Bianca dipped a cloth in the basin, wrung it out, and gave it to Alessandra, who placed the cool compress on the viscount’s brow.

“Perhaps we should call a doctor,” Bianca suggested. “I should not like to see you with a fever, too.”

“Don’t worry, you know I am never ill. If our patient is not better by tomorrow, I will send for Benedetto. He may not be the best physician in the world, but he is discreet.” She looked at Bianca meaningfully. “As we all must be.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“In the meantime, I will nurse him.”

“As you will. I should know better than to advise you. God’s truth, he is a handsome one.”

“Bianca!”

“I only say that if a stranger is going to fall ill in your house, he should look exactly like this young gentleman.” Bianca’s expression was grave, but her eyes sparkled. “Look at the way his raven hair curls about his brow, and his skin, like lilies and roses—”

“That is the fever.”

“But fever does not account for his lush, firm lips, or the pleasing contours of his face. And he is young, unlike the others,” she said with a knowing glance. “’Tis a shame he will not open his eyes.”

The viscount’s closed eyes had not so much as fluttered since he had fallen, but Alessandra remembered with remarkable clarity the moment she’d first seen them, as the lightning had struck. She’d been shocked by how black they were, as raven black as his hair.

“I know you speak only to provoke me,” said Alessandra, smiling, “but I will grant you he is not unsightly. For a Spaniard, that is.”

It was a hand. Antonio squinted and focused on a glass-fronted curio cabinet against the wall near the bed. Yes, prominently displayed on the top shelf was a human hand, cut off just above the wrist, blackened with age, wizened, clawlike, grotesque.

He had seen many repugnant things in his twenty-six years: mutilations, amputations, decapitations, even seen men gutted and tripping over their own entrails on the battlefield—nevertheless this desiccated, disembodied hand unnerved him. It provoked, from the fog of his recent memory, a disturbing recollection of what may have been an unholy ritual, complete with incense and chanting and the sound of tinkling glass, performed at his bedside by a hideous, birdlike creature. Antonio lifted his hands to eye level just to make sure: yes, he still had the requisite number, one at the end of each arm.

He pushed back a thick coverlet, rolled on his side, and tried to sit up, but the effort was too great. There was a profoundly bad odor in the room, the smell of something dead. He fought back a wave of nausea as he surveyed his surroundings.

The bedchamber was very fine, larger and more elegantly furnished than his rooms at Ossuna’s palace in Naples. The canopy bed’s brocade draperies were drawn open, letting in the heat from a well-tended fire in the manteled hearth on the right. To the left, a wood table was covered with small ink and charcoal sketches of seashells and plant life, with some of the drawings pinned to the wall above. Ahead, muted light shone softly through a row of Moorish windows, through which he could see the delicate tracery of barren tree branches and, beyond that, water and sky, both a misted silver-gray. It was an austere yet pleasing prospect. The time was either early morning or late afternoon; he couldn’t tell which.

He was at Signorina Rossetti’s, he realized. The last he could recall, he was standing in the parlor. He remembered the fire, the roar of the storm raging outside, how he had tried to stop his teeth from chattering but could not. Although why he should be so vain in the presence of a courtesan, he knew not, except that she’d been so much different from what he’d expected. From what he’d heard, Venetian courtesans were akin to mythic sirens who ensnared men with a glance and a sweet song and who existed solely to charm a man’s purse from him.

But this one had been ready to toss him out into the storm again, in complete defiance of Ossuna’s wishes! She hadn’t been impressed by him in the least. Surely, though, he would’ve been more impressive if he’d left the parlor under his own power. Obviously someone had carried him to this room, but he remembered none of it. How many hours—or days?—had he slept in this comfortable bed? In truth he could not tell; he knew only that sometime between the moment of his insensibility and his awakening was a dark night of chanting and incense, and a vision of a huge, horrific bird.

He studied the curio cabinet again. The hand was not the only curiosity on display; it was set among other artifacts and relics equally strange, although generally less repulsive. Antonio noted a flat stone etched with hieroglyphs; numerous coins, Roman and Greek; a few rough nuggets of carnelian, onyx, and crystal; and pieces of amber with insects entombed. One, shaped like a heart, contained within it a tiny but perfectly formed salamander. One shelf was wholly given over to the natural treasures of the sea, with shells of diverse shapes and sizes, a family of starfish, opaque bits of colored sea glass, a few pearls, and a handful of small, polished rocks.

The door slowly opened, and Alessandra peeked in. She caught his eye, smiled, and entered. “I see the patient is restored to life.”

“How long have I been here?”

“Two days.”

“Oh, no. I must get up…” Antonio raised himself on one elbow and grimaced.

“You are too weak,” she protested.

He sank back, dizzy from the effort. “I fear I am in your debt.”

“It’s too soon to worry about that. First, you must get well.” She held her hand to his forehead. “You have improved. The fever broke a while ago, and I thought it best to let you sleep.”

“Is it morning or night?”

“Night, in a few hours. I have come to inquire as to whether you would like some supper.”

“I’m not certain I can stomach a meal just yet. I don’t mean to offend, but there is a terrible odor in this room.”

Alessandra laughed. “You are the source of that odor.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Please allow me to explain. The doctor was here last night—”

“By any chance does he resemble a large bird? Or was that a nightmare?”

“You remember his mask. It is commonly used for protection against the plague. As you are still alive, I think we can assume that you have not carried the pestilence with you.”

“You did not do well to summon anyone.”

“I am well aware that your visit to Venice is—how shall I say?—a private matter. But what would you have me do? If you had died in my house, I would have had a body to dispose of. A doctor’s visit is easily explained, but a dead body is not.”

As he had been on their first, brief meeting, Antonio was impressed with Signorina Rossetti’s remarkable self-possession. He’d never known a woman to speak so calmly about such things. Although he was not yet certain, he suspected that their meeting was not completely incidental to his task, but yet another part of Ossuna’s grand design. The duke thought Bedmar a fool for consorting with a Venetian mistress; facing her now, he reckoned that Ossuna had more reason to be worried than he knew. In Signorina Rossetti were beauty and intelligence combined, and Perez intuited that she would not be easily frightened. If the courtesan could not be intimidated, then her fate was dark indeed. For a moment he felt something like regret, if he should be chosen as the instrument of that fate.

“In Spain we do not associate doctors with increased health, but with death,” he said.

“Perhaps our Venetian physicians are more enlightened. After all, you appear to be on the mend. Benedetto bled you, and he recommended some ointment of his own design, which he rubbed on your chest and the soles of your feet. That is the source of the odor of which you complain.”

“It is truly quite foul.”

“He assured me of its curative properties. It is the distillation of marmot.”

“Marmot?”

“The oil from the creature’s skin, he said, can relieve every suffering.”

“Are you of this same opinion?”

“I believe that paying the doctor well for the opportunity to test his medicine has bought his silence. How do you feel?”

“I cannot yet tell you. But be assured that this ointment has cured me of one thing—my appetite.”

“It is that bad?”