I was quite sad to see Carnevale end. There would be no more entertainments for the next forty days, while Venice began the tedious process of repenting of our sins during Lent’s somber season.
I further lamented when Giacomo made a most unwelcome announcement at dinner on the first Saturday after Ash Wednesday. “We will be attending Mass tomorrow morning at the Pietà,” he informed me. “So be sure to rise and make yourself ready.”
“Oh?” I asked, raising an eyebrow with practiced composure. “Suddenly so pious, marito?”
He chuckled. “I have neglected piety a great deal of late, it is true,” he said. “But I mean to begin attending again with you. No doubt you will find the music the coro performs during Mass just as enjoyable as their performance here. Also,” he added, “tomorrow the coro is to premiere a new work by il Prete Rosso, and I mean to hear it.”
I felt that old vibration of longing, as though someone had taken a bow to the strings of my heart. “As you wish, marito,” I said, bowing my head to hide my discomfort.
* * *
The chapel was crowded when we arrived, but Giacomo seated us in one of the first pews, reserved for the nobility. I cast my gaze at those sitting around us, hoping that perhaps Vittoria might be among them. I did not see her.
Sighing, I turned my attention to the simple beauty of the chapel. I had been far too distraught on my wedding day to appreciate the painting of the Blessed Mother over the altar, and the high, graceful dome with windows beneath it allowing sunlight to spill in. To my left was the choir loft, where the members of the coro filed onto the balcony and took their places behind the grille in a blur of indistinct shapes and colors.
Just then, the Mass began. The words of the priest and the mumbled replies of the congregation faded into a dull blur of sound as I tried to regulate my breathing. The past few days had found me quite ill in the morning—a pattern I knew too well and couldn’t bring myself to think on just yet. It was an unseasonably warm, muggy day, and as such the air inside the chapel was heavy from the closely packed bodies within, oppressively so.
When it came time for the psalm, it seemed as if the congregation drew in a collective breath of anticipation. I realized that this must be the expected new work of il Prete Rosso as the strings struck up a beautiful yet heartbreakingly somber melody. After several measures, a mournful contralto voice rang out from the balcony.
“Stabat mater dolorosa,” she sang, managing to convey so much sorrow in her rich, low voice it seemed as though she were actually weeping as she sang. “Juxta crucem lacrimosa, lacrimosa.”
I broke out into a cold sweat, feeling as though the close air was smothering me. The psalm was of the Virgin Mother standing before the cross, sobbing as she looked up at her crucified son, her sacrificed child.
“Stabat mater dolorosa, dolorosa,” the soloist sang with heightened urgency. Then she backed away, her voice becoming softer, as though her anguish were such she could not muster the strength to be any louder: “Juxta crucem lacrimosa, lacrimosa.”
My breath came in shallow gasps. Never before had I thought of the Holy Virgin as a mother like any other, who had surely raged against the divine plan that took her beloved child from her. How she would weep to find that the world had not changed, that mothers and children were still being separated by the plans of those more powerful than they.
And I was going to bring another child into this world …
I tried to stand, pulling myself up using the back of the pew in front of me, but found my legs would not support me. The heat was overwhelming; the altar and the crucifix swam before my eyes. If I could just breathe, breathe past this sorrow …
Vaguely I heard Giacomo’s urgent whisper: “Adriana! Be seated!” I opened my mouth to reply before collapsing against him, surrendering to the blackness that was waiting to catch me.
* * *
When I awoke, my breathing came easily, and the air around me was cool and clean. I slowly opened my eyes to find myself lying on a narrow bed in a small, plain room with feeble sunlight trickling in through a window.
I sat up, leaning against the wall, and discovered that I was dressed only in my shift. My gown, petticoat, and corset were draped over a nearby chair.
The chapel … that music … the heat … then nothing.
Evidently I had fainted dead away.
I breathed in sharply, my hands going to my abdomen: the child. Was the child well?
In the space of only a few seconds, I felt myself become fiercely protective of the child about whose existence I had been somewhat ambiguous—so much so that I had not yet told Giacomo.
I began to take inventory of my ailments. But other than a minor and persistent ache in my head and what felt like a bruise forming on my hip, I felt quite well. There was nothing leading me to believe that the tiny child within me was any the worse for wear after its mother’s unexpected adventure.
Just then, a nun entered my chamber, carrying a tray with a bowl of soup on it. Her face brightened. “Donna Baldovino! You are awake, praise the Virgin!” She set her tray down and laid a hand on my forehead while peering into my eyes. “There is no fever, so that is well,” she said. “How do you feel, madonna?”
“Well enough, if a bit embarrassed,” I confessed. “But Sister…?”
“Sister Graziella,” she supplied. “I am the nurse and apothecary here.”
“Sister Graziella,” I repeated. “I must ask … that is, I am with child, you see, and I hope my fainting spell did not harm the baby.”
An excited yet knowing look came into her eyes. “Why, congratulazioni, madonna! You need not worry; I saw nothing to indicate that the child would have suffered any ill effects. And this quite explains your spell.”
“Good,” I said, relieved.
“But, madonna, does il senatore your husband know?” she asked. “He did not mention anything of your condition when he brought you here…”
I was somewhat touched by the implication Giacomo had carried me to the infirmary himself. “No,” I said. “Not yet, I fear. It is early days yet.”
She nodded. “Of course. Well, I have brought you some soup to help you regain your strength, and I shall send for your husband. I am sure he will be overjoyed at your news!”
After she left, I obediently ate my soup, pondering the best way to tell Giacomo. Then I wondered whether Vivaldi had seen me fall in the chapel, whether he had known it was me. Whether he had worried. Whether he cared.