All went according to my father’s plans. The betrothal terms were finalized, and my affianced husband presented me with a heavy gold betrothal ring set with a large diamond and bordered with smaller diamonds. It had belonged to his mother, which accounted for its old-fashioned design. I wore it whenever I knew I would see him or my father; otherwise it remained in its case on my dressing table. My mother’s ring I wore every day, if only to feel that she was with me.
I was sent to Zia Gianna’s palazzo in Mantua at the end of October, as planned. The maid who had been seeing to my appearance, Agnese, accompanied me.
My stay with Zia Gianna was just as odious as I had anticipated. She was as disagreeable and miserable as ever; more so, in fact, due to the shameful circumstances of my visit. She wasted no opportunity to say that I was a common slut, no better than the whores who sold their bodies on the bridges of Venice—or worse, since I had always acted so modestly and properly, thus deceiving everyone as to my true nature. She was shocked that any man would stoop to make me his wife. I got into the habit of sitting on my hands whenever she would launch into such a tirade so as not to reach out and slap her smug, sanctimonious face. One day I finally broke down and screamed at the old harpy to be silent. I was locked in my room the rest of the day as punishment; but being confined was something to which I had grown quite accustomed.
A few weeks after my arrival, she informed me that a family had been found for my child. Their name was Girò, they already had one daughter, and owned a wig-making shop. That was all I was told; and none of it told me what I most needed to know: Were they good people? Would they treat my child well? Would they love him or her?
My questions were destined to go unanswered.
And so I waited, as I had been doing for so long now, for the birth of the child, for this phase of my life to end so the next could begin. Some days I could not help but think that this limbo in which I existed was perfect, for I wanted to go neither forward nor back.
* * *
The day after Christmas—a joyless and somber feast, so completely unlike the previous Christmas—I awoke in the dead of night to find the sheets of my bed soaked through. As I went to get up, a clenching pain caused me to double over, as though an enormous hand was wrapped around my innards and was squeezing tightly.
Within half an hour, I was installed in a chamber that had been prepared especially for the birth. My aunt was striding about the room giving orders as we waited for the midwife to come from town. It seemed as if all the servant women in the house were crowded into the room, carrying pails of hot water and piles of linens or herbs or medicines that were supposed to aid in the birthing process, or prevent childbed fever from setting in afterward. Somehow it had never occurred to me I might die during the birth, but I could not bring myself to be afraid. I could only wonder how Vivaldi would feel if he were to learn that I had died in childbirth.
When the midwife finally arrived, she ordered the servants out, save two older women—experienced in delivering babies—and Agnese. Zia Gianna remained as well, pacing and wringing her hands nervously. I wanted to ask her what she was so concerned about, considering the stain I was on the family name. But it occurred to me that perhaps she did not relish the thought of informing my father that his daughter—the intended bride of a senator—had died under her care.
The midwife, Pietra, had me lie on the bed and lifted the hem of my linen shift up past my waist. She instructed me to bend my knees and spread my legs, so that she might check on the baby’s progress, which I did.
When she was done, she replaced my clothing and looked at me with a faint smile. “You are in for a very long night, I am afraid,” she said. “This is your first child, is it not?”
I nodded.
“And do you know when, precisely, you conceived?”
Even then, my face flushed with heat as I remembered that April night, and the rose petals against my skin in Vivaldi’s bed. “I believe it was April 26.”
“A few weeks early, then,” the midwife said. “Yes, it will be quite a long night. The first child always takes the longest, for your body must perform a task with which it is not yet acquainted. And since the child is coming early, it will be harder to expel from the womb.”
She told me to walk about the room, the better to help the child shift into the proper position. Meanwhile, she had Agnese fetch me some broth from the kitchen. “Drink it,” she admonished me. “You will need your strength.”
I paused in my pacing long enough to obey, then resumed, back and forth, back and forth.
The pains were still few and far between when I began to grow weary. My eyelids began to droop, and my footsteps slowed.
“Might I not rest now?” I asked the midwife.
Pietra shook her head. “You must continue to walk about,” she said. “It will make it go faster.”
Obediently I continued to shuffle back and forth.
The sun had long since risen by the time my pains began to come closer together. They lasted longer and were more forceful; each time it was like a wave breaking over me, and I had to double over and squeeze my eyes shut until it passed, leaving me weakened and drained.
Finally, Pietra gave me permission to lie on the bed, which I did gratefully. She pulled up my shift again to inspect me, her fingers gently probing.
“Your body is opening to push the child out,” she told me. “The hardest part is still before you.”
I stared at her in wonder, hardly believing I could be any more tired than I already was.
As the pains began coming faster, Pietra instructed me to push each time they were upon me. Before long, each pain brought with it the utter certainty that I was being ripped in half; but I would do my best to push with the strength I had left, which was not much.
“You must push, signorina!” Pietra told me, crouching down to peer between my thighs.
“I cannot!” I cried, lying flat, my eyes closed.
“You must!”
“Please, signora, I cannot!”
In that moment, I was so full of hatred for everyone who had brought me to this place: Vivaldi, God, my father, Baldovino, even Giuseppe. Even if I did succeed in giving birth to this child, I was certain it would be formed of rage and loathing instead of flesh and blood.
“Signorina, you must not give up now!”
Why not? What do I have to live for? And how do I know things will be any better for my child?
My eyes fluttered open, and I fought to sit up.
I will not abandon my child as everyone else has abandoned me.
Teeth gritted, I commenced pushing, with Pietra urging me on. “I can see the head, signorina,” she told me. “Nearly there!”
I scarcely noticed the woman standing next to me, wiping my sweat-drenched face with a cool, damp cloth. The pain was relentless now, and I knew, with some basic, primal female instinct, that this meant it was almost over.
I pushed, harder, crying out in pain as I felt a rush of blood come from between my legs.
What strange, foolish creatures we women are, some numb, detached part of me mused. All of this blood and suffering for the love of a man.
“Once more, signorina! Almost there!”
With one last excruciating push, I gave the last of my strength and fell back against the pillows, utterly exhausted; so much so that I wondered if I had, in fact, died.
But then I heard my baby cry, and my eyes flew open, new life filling me.
Pietra was holding the small, red, blood-covered thing in her arms, smiling down at it. “A girl, signorina,” she said, looking up and transferring her smile to me. “A beautiful healthy girl.”
I reached out my arms, and Pietra, after severing the cord that still connected her to my body, gave her to me without hesitation.
She was the most beautiful creature I had ever beheld in my life. Each part of her tiny body was perfectly formed, a replica in miniature of my own.
“She has a good set of lungs on her,” Pietra remarked.
Indeed she had, for she scarcely seemed to pause in her wailing to breathe. I moved to bare my breast for her.
My aunt gasped in shock and disapproval. “Take the child from her at once,” she ordered Pietra. “We have a wet nurse who is to suckle the child, and go with her to her new home. Adriana is to have no further contact with the child.”
I clutched my daughter as tightly as I dared. “No! You cannot take her from me yet! Please, just give me a little time!”
But Zia Gianna was shaking her head. “You will only grow attached to her.” She motioned again to Pietra. “Take her away. Now.”
“No!” I screamed. “Please, I beg of you! Just give me an hour—not even that! Half an hour only!”
I broke off as Pietra approached me. “Please, signora,” I whispered, tears streaming down my cheeks. “This is the child of the man I love. She is all I have left.”
“Pietra!” my aunt barked, seeing her hesitation. “If you do not do as I bid you, I will see to it that you do not find work in this city ever again. Am I understood?”
At that, Pietra stepped closer, gently taking my daughter from my arms. The child began to wail anew, only this time her cries were like knives upon my ears. “What is her name, signorina?” Pietra whispered.
I looked for the last time upon my daughter’s face. In that moment I feared that, should I name her after her father as I had wanted, someone might guess his identity. “Anna,” I said aloud. “Her name is Anna.”
Pietra nodded once, then stepped away from the bed. I fell back and closed my eyes.
Once I heard the door close behind her, I began sobbing. “You evil, hateful witch!” I screamed as my aunt made to leave the room as well. “How could you—why—” But I could no longer speak, my words dissolving into screams, but of a different, far greater pain this time.