A few days later came my nineteenth birthday. My father presented me with a strand of fine pearls that had belonged to my mother, but otherwise did not remark upon the occasion.
Tommaso, determined to celebrate with me despite the strictures of Lent, invited me to dine with him at his family’s palazzo, where we ate a sparse Lenten meal of plain fish, bread, and pasta. We had a pleasant enough evening; then in the gondola as Tommaso escorted me home, he finally brought up that most elusive of topics.
“I want you to know,” he said suddenly, reaching across the intimate space of the felze to take my hand, “that I have wished to ask your father for your hand these many weeks past.”
I was so taken aback by his raising of the topic, after months of silence on the matter, that I had no idea what to say. “I—you have?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said, his eyes shining with resolve and determination. “You must know, Adriana,” he said, his grip on my fingers tightening, “you must know I adore you, that I have eyes for no other woman except you. I want nothing more than to make you my wife, as soon as I may.”
So this is it, I thought, my whole body feeling heavy. This is the end. It has finally come. “I am honored, to be sure, Tommaso,” I said, trying to inject the proper enthusiasm into my voice. “But you should be saying these things to my father, not me. It is he who must give his consent for us to wed, as you well know.”
He released my hand and sat back. “If only it were that simple,” he said. “If it were, I would have done so long ago. Yet my family…” He glanced at me nervously. “My family has yet to give their permission.”
“Your family does not approve of me?” I asked, sparing him the need to say it aloud.
“No, no,” he hurriedly assured me. “It is not that. They simply wish to be sure that I am making a prudent decision. They wish to know you better, and your father. My family,” he went on, a hint of excitement in his voice now, “is going to invite you and your father to spend the summer at our villa, so that we all may become better acquainted. My parents will send the formal invitation to your father after Lent.”
I was surprised. “That is very generous,” I said. “We will be honored to be your guests.”
Tommaso paid no attention to these courtesies. “Do not tell your father that we have spoken of marriage; it would not do for him to hear of it before it is proper. I only wished to set your mind at ease, to let you know that my intentions are honorable.” He kissed my hand, joy alight in his eyes. “Hopefully we can be betrothed by the end of the summer.”
“That sounds wonderful,” I said, unsuccessfully trying to sound excited.
He eyed me worriedly. “This is what you want, is it not?” he asked. “You do want me as your husband?” His gaze probed mine. “I know that you are a modest woman, Adriana, but I confess that I thought—hoped—that you felt as I did, that you would be more excited…”
Thinking quickly, I learned forward and boldly kissed him on the mouth.
His response was instantaneous. His arms went around me as he deepened the kiss, keeping it gentle yet insistent. He need not know I was imagining that he was someone else.
* * *
The next day, I sent Giuseppe to Vivaldi’s house, asking if I could come to him that night. He replied in the affirmative, and if he wondered why I should want to return now, after what had passed between us last time, and our lack of communication since, I had no way of knowing. All that mattered was he still wanted me to come to him.
When I arrived that night, I threw myself into his arms without so much as a word of greeting. He was surprised at first, but within seconds his ardor rose to match mine, and no words were needed.
After we made love, he drew me tightly against him, my back to his chest. He was silent a long time before finally speaking. “You will always be mine,” he whispered. “You will always be a part of me.”
And I knew, for better or worse, what he said was true.