Miss Weston's Masquerade (14 page)

As she swung the cloak around her shoulders, Antonio pointed from the window. ‘Follow this
calle
here and eventually it will take you to St Mark’s Square.’ He looked at the map she had opened out. ‘You will be quite safe if you avoid these
sestieri
– in those areas, the low types inhabit. Stay with the crowds and carry only a few coins secreted in your clothing.’

Cassandra put on the domino and the mask, which covered the upper part of her face. Behind it she felt anonymous and irresponsible, no longer Miss Cassandra Weston of Ware, but a citizen of Venice going out to enjoy the evening like any other.

The narrow
calle
flanking the canal twisted and turned, sometimes widening into the forecourts of
palazzi
, sometimes into little squares where several paths met. Several times she had to flatten herself against the brickwork or stand in a doorway to let a group pass noisily on their way to the Opera or to one of the many public balls whose music floated across the water.

Finally, more by good luck than by careful attention to her map, Cassandra reached St Mark’s. The entire square was a confusion of people and a babble of languages. Cassandra spied an elderly gentleman rising from a table outside a coffee house and darted quickly to seize the seat.

‘Uno caffe
,’ she ordered, pleased with her few words of Italian gleaned from her father’s books.

Languages she could only guess at filled her ears but, as she sipped her coffee, she began to differentiate one from the other.

A group of naval officers, swarthy and dark-haired, must be Greek and she recognised a few words close to the classical form. Two tall men, deep in a business discussion must be Jews judging their long ringlets and fur-trimmed hats, and to her delight a group of turbanned and be-robed Turks strolled across looking arrogantly about them.

There was a multitude of fortune-tellers, minstrels and conjurors, even a man with a dancing bear, all soliciting for money in loud voices and with extravagant gestures. Cassandra pushed the purse containing her money more securely into her inner garments. Pick-pockets were the same the world over from Ware market to Venice, and, as she watched, she saw an embroidered handkerchief vanish into a voluminous sleeve without the owner being any the wiser.

As the night became darker the flares and lamps lighting the piazza shone more brilliantly. Cassandra ordered more coffee, then nearly dropped the cup in shock as a courtesan swept into sight, a small black page at her heels. There was no mistaking her trade, for her hair fell loose, dyed an improbable array of colours, plumes topping a silk turban. Heavy earrings brushed her shoulders, but the most shocking thing was her gown, cut so low in the bodice that her breasts were totally exposed, the nipples painted gold.

Respectable people passed her with scarcely a glance, then Cassandra saw others like her, drawn like moths from the darkness into the illumination of the piazza.

With a start, she found someone bending over her, whispering in her ear. Her Italian could not cope with the rapid words, but the tone of invitation was unmistakable in any language. The man’s garlic-laden breath was hot on her face and lacking the words she pushed him roughly away. He fell against another table and wandered off laughing, quite unperturbed by her rejection. In alarm, Cassandra doubted her disguise: even behind the concealing mask had he realised she was a woman?

At that moment a youth strolled past with an older man, the latter openly fondling his shoulder, and she realised that being a boy was no protection here. The next rake who wandered in her direction was met with a scowl so ferocious that he veered away at once, and Cassandra relaxed slightly.

The crowd fell back and a group of men wearing strange silken togas strolled across the square. Her reading of the guidebook told her that these were some of the senators who governed
La Serenissima
under the Doge.

The clock in the tower struck twelve and Cassandra knew she should retrace her steps and be safely home before Nicholas returned. But her feet were aching now and the darkened lanes beyond the Square were subtly threatening. She would hire a gondola and glide home in style.

She was hesitating on the water-steps, unsure of how to hail one of the many gondoliers when a man and a woman passed her so close that the silk of the woman’s gown swished against her cloak. Cassandra stepped back, a word of apology on her lips, then froze as she realised the man was Nicholas.

He handed his companion down into the narrow craft and waited until she was settled on the heaped cushions before joining her. Cassandra had ample time to take in the woman’s appearance. She was undoubtedly a courtesan but young and beautiful, her fresh skin subtly tinted, her hair loose on her shoulders, confined only by a twist of silk scarf. Her gown was as outrageous as the others and Cassandra realised she must be wearing tight stays to thrust forward her small, naked breasts. Her nipples had been rouged a deep ruby and a single red stone quivered on a gold chain between them.

As soon as Nicholas joined her she insinuated herself into his arms, long ruby-red fingernails scoring lightly down his thigh. Cassandra watched, mesmerised, until he bent to nuzzle the courtesan’s white throat, then she turned with a small, choking sob and stumbled away into the shadows.

Cassandra was hardly conscious of the journey back, but some instinct must have guided her footsteps for, at last, she found herself standing under the awning of the wine seller’s booth at the head of the
calle
leading to their
palazzo
.

‘
Signore
?’ The man was proffering a horn beaker brimming with red wine. Unheeding, Cassie took it and drained it in three gulps then made no protest as he filled it again. This time she sipped the wine slowly, her mind full of dark thoughts of how she would like to deposit that courtesan in the deepest, dirtiest canal in Venice – then pitch Nicholas in after her.

So much for his fine talk of reform and responsible behaviour. Why, he had just
abandoned
her in his eagerness to go out – she groped for a word and came up with the ugliest she could remember –
whoring
.

Images of the painted ceiling flashed through her mind, but it was Nicholas’s face on the satyr’s body, the painted breasts of the courtesan on the nymphs.

She tossed the wine seller a few coins and stumbled miserably towards home. The door was open and a watchman blinked sleepily at her from his chair in the hallway as she dragged herself up the stairs. She pushed open the door into Nicholas’s chamber, driven by an obscure need to touch something belonging to him.

His brocade dressing gown lay on the bed and she picked it up, smelling the ambergris he used. ‘Oh, Nicholas,’ she whispered miserably. What did she expect? He was a man of the world, used to indulging himself. He had not asked to chaperone a sulky, inexperienced girl across Europe.

‘
Where the hell have you been
?’ Nicholas roared at her from the connecting doorway to her room.

Cassandra jumped, dropping the robe as she clutch the bedpost in shock, her heart thudding in her throat. ‘I thought you were out.’

‘That is all too obvious.’ He strode into the room and took her roughly by the shoulders. ‘Where have you been sneaking off to? I managed to get Antonio to admit he’d allowed you to go out, but that’s all I’d expect from a Venetian rogue of a servant.’

‘Let go, you’re hurting me.’ Cassandra tried to free her arm from his grasp, but he only pulled her closer, a look of distaste crossing his face as he smelled the wine on her breath.

‘You’re
drunk
,’ he snarled. ‘Who have you been drinking with?’

‘No one,’ she protested, twisting in his grasp.

‘Don’t lie to me.’ Cassandra had never seen him so angry. ‘And what else have you been doing tonight?’

The implication was clear, even through the fog of wine that was muddling her thoughts. ‘You think I’ve been… that I would… How
dare
you.’

‘What am I to think, with you wandering the streets like a…’

‘Like a courtesan?’ she finished for him. ‘Hardly. But I know what a courtesan looks like.’ Her chin came up and she looked him straight in the eye. ‘She has long, unbound hair twisted with a vermilion silk scarf. She paints her face, but lightly if she is young. Her breasts are bare and her gown is sequinned and she paints her nails to match other parts of her body which should remain concealed. She laughs a lot and when she does, the ruby round her neck…’

Nicholas jerked her against his chest, glaring down into her face as she stared back defiantly. ‘You little witch. You followed me.’

‘I did not. But if you flaunt your courtesan in St Mark’s Square you should not wonder if you are seen.’ She wrenched herself free and ran across to the balcony, desperate for air. She felt sick with the heat and wine and the sordid argument.

Nicholas followed and, before she knew what he intended, he had upended her across his knee and brought his hand down hard across the seat of her breeches. With the strength of pure outrage, Cassandra twisted free, bringing up her hand to fetch him a vicious crack across the cheekbone.

The force of the blow snapped his head back and brought tears to her eyes. Nicholas stood frozen, one hand to his face, then turned on his heel and slammed the window shut with a clap that bounced off the walls of the little square.

Cassandra clutched the balcony rail as a wave of sickness swept her from head to foot. When she recovered herself, she raised her head slowly and found herself meeting the quizzical gaze of the woman in the room opposite. She was lit by a branch of candles at one side and Cassandra saw a fleeting smile touch her lips. The woman raised her hand in a small salute, then slowly turned and vanished into the room.

A thin dawn light penetrated the little courtyard, touching warm fingers on the damp stonework behind Cassandra’s head. She blinked and shook her head, wincing at the pain behind her eyes. So this was what an excess of wine felt like.

She struggled to her feet, grimacing at the stiffness in her cold limbs and realised that she must have dozed off eventually, after a miserable hour or two. Sickeningly the memory of the terrible quarrel with Nicholas hit her, the shocking words she had used to him, the humiliation of being put over his knee like a recalcitrant school-boy, and she had raised her hand to him. How could she have struck Nicholas?

No gently brought up young lady would use violence under any circumstances, save to protect her virtue or her life. And, however hypocritical he was being, she sensed Nicholas’s anger was prompted by his wish to protect her. But… He had not listened to her, he had assumed the worst and he had lost his temper every bit as much as she had. Perhaps she was not so much to blame as she thought.

Cassandra heard the creak of oars and leant out over the rail to watch a vegetable boat emerge from the miasma of mist rising from the canal. The city was beginning to wake and go about its business and a servant from the palazzo ran down the steps and hailed the vendor. After much haggling and jesting, conducted in whispers, the servant returned, his wicker basket laden with salads and fruit.

Silence fell again, broken only by the slap of the boat’s wake against the greenish stonework of the landing steps. Cassandra turned unhappily towards her chamber window, then paused as a man’s voice, low and sensual, broke the peace in the courtyard.

Standing back in the concealing shadows of the architrave, Cassandra watched as a cloaked figure stopped on his way from the house opposite to the steps. He was looking up to the window where the Titian-haired woman in the green wrapper leaned out, calling softly down to him.

As the church clocks began striking five the gentleman swept an elaborate bow, gesturing to a sleek black gondola which had drawn up in readiness. Intrigued by the pantomime of parting, Cassandra forgot her woes, watching the lovers. The woman beckoned, and as the man approached again, tossed down a round object. The gallant caught it one-handed, laughing up at his lady as he broke open the fruit.

A pomegranate. Cassandra had never tasted one, but she recognised the faceted red flesh and smooth exterior of the fruit. Somehow, it added to the fairy tale mood of the scene with the mist rising off the canal and the sleeping city slowly rousing all around them.

The magic held Cassandra until the carved stern of the gondola slipped from sight, then with a sigh she turned to slip into her room. As she moved, she found herself caught in the steady gaze of the courtesan. The woman smiled as she had before, then beckoned with one long-nailed finger.

‘Me?’ Cassandra mouthed foolishly, looking round, but there was no one else in sight. The woman nodded and gestured again. Cassandra hesitated, intrigued by the summons, yet unwilling to run the gauntlet of the servants, who would all be about their business by now.

Suddenly emboldened, she swung a leg over the balustrade, gripped the heavily carved stonework, and in a moment had reached the safety of the courtyard, with only a scraped knuckle and a burst seam to show for her foolhardiness.

The door opened silently as she approached and closed just as quickly when she entered. A maidservant holding a candle ushered her upstairs in silence, then abandoned her at a chamber door with a bobbed curtsey.

Cassandra scratched tentatively on the carved panels and a soft voice called, ‘Come in, little one.’ It was English, exotic and musically accented, but English none the less.

The chamber was heavy with brocade hangings, dominated by a huge canopied bed and lit by many candles, each multiplied over and over in the silvery mirrors which hung on every wall. The air was redolent of attar of roses and a hint of cinnabar, and Cassandra’s feet sank into the deep pile of a Turkey carpet as she hesitated inside the door.

‘Come in, little sister,’ the woman said, sinking gracefully onto a sofa with a gesture for Cassandra to come and sit by her.

Startled, Cassandra blurted out, ‘You know I am not a boy?’ as she sat next to the courtesan, unashamedly staring.

‘But, of course. You may call me Lucia. And you are?’

‘Cassandra.’

‘Cassandra.’ Lucia rolled the name round her tongue as if tasting it and nodded in approval. ‘You will take your
colazione
with me.’ It was an assumption, not a request, and Cassandra abandoned all thought of her English Society manners. This was no afternoon tea party at the vicarage.

The maid was already laying the breakfast table with hot rolls, fruit and chocolate. The mixture of warm fragrances was so appetising that Cassandra could hardly contain her hunger.

To her surprise, her hostess showed as hearty an appetite as she, and for several minutes neither spoke. At last Cassandra sat back with a contented sigh, warm, full and clear headed.

Lucia shifted slightly to regard her guest. ‘So! Now you feel like a human being again. It is always a mistake not to eat, my child. How old are you?’

‘Eighteen,’ Cassandra confessed. Being lectured on the importance of eating properly was not what she had envisaged when she had entered this house.

‘Ah.’ She shifted uneasily under the courtesan’s appraising gaze. ‘Just eighteen, just arrived in Venice and you have had a
disputa
, a, what do you call it...?’

‘Quarrel?’

‘
Si
. A quarrel, with your lover.’

‘He is not my lover,’ Cassandra said flatly. ‘He is the son of my godmother and I am travelling under his protection.’

‘Dressed as his valet? And it is part of the masquerade that he beats you? You English.’ She cast her eyes heavenwards.

‘He doesn’t beat me. Well, that was the only time and I was more of a spank and we had both lost our tempers.’ Her voice trailed away as the resentments of last night resurfaced. ‘But he deserved what I said about his whore.’ Then she realised in whose company she was and felt her skin heat with embarrassment.

‘There is no need to avoid the word in my company, although courtesan is more accurate, both for myself and for the lady whom the Earl of Lydford was escorting.’

‘You know who he is?’ Cassandra looked at Lucia with new respect, noting for the first time the shrewd intelligence in her eyes.

‘It is my business to know.’ She shrugged, a lazily sensuous movement, even in the presence of another woman. ‘My sisters and I are well-informed. We are professionals, after all.’

‘Your sisters?’

‘Venice is a city of women. Men rule it – and we rule the men. Men work against each other for their own power. Our strength lies in our
combined
power and even the wives of the men who come to us are our sisters. We trust each other. It is accepted.’

The idea of women selling themselves, yet still retaining their independence and their dignity, astonished Cassandra, yet, looking at Lucia, the only comparison she could draw was with her godmother, an independent great lady.

‘But why did you ask me here?’ she blurted out.

‘Because you need my help, that is plain.’ Lucia snuggled back into the cushions and tucked her bare feet up under her. ‘You say he is not your lover, this Earl of Lydford.’

‘Nicholas.’

‘Niccolo.’
Lucia tried out the name. ‘You do love him?’ Her plucked eyebrows rose interrogatively.

‘Yes,’ Cassandra whispered. Having said it out loud, she knew it was true. This was no hero-worship, no
tendre
of a young woman for an experienced man. It was certainly not gratitude. She wanted him in every possible way, and forever. ‘But it’s impossible.’

‘Perhaps. Do you want his heart or his body?’

‘Both,’ Cassandra confessed. ‘I want him to love me and marry me.’

‘Ah,’ Lucia looked thoughtful. ‘This is more difficult. He wants you, that is self-evident.’

‘It is?’ Cassandra's eyebrows shot up. ‘There have been occasions…’ She blushed. ‘We have been thrown together by circumstance and he is a man of the world.’

‘So he starts to make love to you and then he feels guilty and stops. Oh, the English and their sense of guilt.’ Lucia frowned at her. ‘Silly little virgin, do you think he would be so angry with you if he did not want you?’

‘Perhaps not. But I am a great nuisance to him, I have ruined his Tour and perhaps even his reputation, if we are found out.’