We stayed at the villa until the first week in September. In our final days the mood was one of celebration and anticipation of the upcoming nuptials. Though the official contract had yet to be negotiated—my father and Don Foscari having decided to wait until our return to the city—it had been determined that after Easter would be the most suitable time for the event: Lent would be over and the celebrations of Carnevale would be beginning again, allowing for a most extravagant occasion.
Thankfully, Tommaso did not attempt to make love to me again and behaved like a perfect gentleman, taking only as many liberties with me as was considered proper with a woman to whom one is betrothed but not yet married.
By the time we finally returned to our palazzo, it felt as if we had spent an eternity away. I forced myself to be patient as our trunks were unloaded from the boats, as mine were taken to my rooms so I could supervise their unpacking. As soon as that was complete, I shut myself into my bedchamber alone, claiming weariness.
But rest and sleep were the last things on my mind. I paced across the room, unable even to sit down. I knew Giuseppe would come to me as soon as he deemed it prudent, and with his help I would decide how to proceed.
After about twenty minutes, I finally heard a knock on my outer door, and rushed to open it. However, my visitor was not Giuseppe but my father.
“Father,” I said, trying not to sound surprised as he stepped inside. “Is something amiss?”
He frowned. “Amiss? Why would anything be amiss? I have merely come to see my daughter.”
I said nothing, not pointing out that he usually only sought my company to lecture or reprimand me.
“I thought you should know that the Foscari family will be returning to the city tomorrow, and then the betrothal negotiations can begin.”
“I am pleased to hear it,” I said.
“Yes, I thought that you might be,” he said. “I have also come to give you this,” he added, handing me a small wooden box.
I opened it to find a ring, one large diamond set in a gold band—my mother’s betrothal ring. She had once told me my father had chosen it for her—rather than a gaudier ring with a small constellation of diamonds—because he thought she should have just one diamond as beautiful and rare as she.
“No doubt Tommaso will be presenting you with a betrothal ring of your own,” my father said, “but I thought you might wear this on your other hand. Your mother would want you to have it, and…” He trailed off, his eyes—to my shock—misting over. “She would be so proud of you, and so happy that you will be wed to a man who loves you.”
I clutched the box in my hand, looking down at the floor so he would not see my tears.
He put a hand awkwardly on my shoulder. “I understand,” he said, his voice heavy. “Rest now.”
I could do nothing but nod as he left, closing the door behind him.
* * *
Giuseppe, when he finally arrived about a half hour later, counseled further patience. “You are now the affianced wife of a Foscari,” he reminded me. “There will be more eyes on you than your father’s now. We must tread carefully, for we cannot afford a misstep this late in the game.”
I agreed to allow him to go and seek Vivaldi that night, rather than risk going myself. If he was home alone, Giuseppe was to tell him I needed to speak to him about a matter of great urgency, and then return to fetch me directly.
I suffered through dinner alone with my father, all the while wondering where tomorrow would find me.
Giuseppe returned from his errand around midnight. “He was not there, madonna,” he reported in a low voice, dropping wearily into one of my chairs.
“He has not yet returned from Amsterdam, or he was not home?” I demanded.
“I cannot say, madonna. I banged on the door several times, and waited, but did not see any sign of him.”
“He must have returned to Venice by now,” I reasoned. “So tomorrow we try again.”
Giuseppe nodded. “Tomorrow we try again.”
* * *
For the next few nights, I continued to send Giuseppe to Vivaldi’s house, and each time he was never home.
Perhaps he has not returned, I thought on yet another sleepless night. Oh, God, perhaps something has happened to him … or perhaps it is no more than some foolish new opera.
It was not until nearly a week after our return that Giuseppe went to Vivaldi’s house—in broad daylight, and without waiting for me to send him—and finally found him.
“He looks haggard, and quite exhausted,” Giuseppe reported. “He did not say where he has been, nor did I ask. I gave him your message, and when I told him you needed to speak with him immediately, he seemed rather concerned. He said you can come to him tonight.” Giuseppe smiled slightly, thinking that, at last, our problems were resolving themselves.
I groaned aloud. “I cannot see him tonight.”
Giuseppe’s face fell. “After all this? Why ever not?” he demanded.
I sank down onto my bed and put my head in my hands. “My father is giving a dinner party tonight for Tommaso’s family,” I said. “God only knows how late they will all stay, and I cannot make some excuse and attempt to slip away—not tonight, not with all of them here.”
Giuseppe’s shoulders sagged in defeat.
“Did he say anything about tomorrow night?” I asked.
“No, he did not,” Giuseppe said. “Fortuna is playing a cruel joke on us, it seems,” he added, referencing that capricious goddess of gamblers, merchants, and statesmen alike.
“Yes,” I replied. “I hope that she is enjoying herself.”