“It is a son!” the midwife cried triumphantly, holding up the red, squalling child in her arms.
I let my head fall back, my body sinking into the mattress beneath me, exhausted, overjoyed, and relieved. I did not want to confront Giacomo’s disappointment again, and I was genuinely happy to have given him the son and heir he had wanted so desperately.
I opened my eyes to see the midwife frowning. “You may not rest yet, I fear, madonna,” she said, handing my son to Giovanna.
“What?”
“There is a second child,” she said, crouching down to peer between my legs again. “Twins.”
“Holy Virgin,” I breathed, shuddering as another pain racked me.
“Indeed, we shall beseech the Holy Virgin to give you strength, madonna,” the midwife said. “You must push yet again!”
Twins. I could hardly believe that I must expel another child from my body, that I would have the strength. Yet a mother’s fierce love shot through me, love for this second creature I had not known was there. I did as the midwife bade me and, in relatively short order, gave birth to my fourth child and my third daughter.
This time, when I lay back against the pillows, I did not think I would ever open my eyes. But I was roused when I heard my children crying. “Bring them to me,” I said, struggling to sit up.
The midwife hesitated. “You should rest, madonna, and we need to clean them up in any case.”
“No,” I said. I held out my arms, taking one child in each, with Giovanna hovering nearby should I need assistance.
I studied each of them in turn. My son, I was certain, was the most perfect son ever born, from his tiny toenails to his soft, velvety head.
And my daughter. My unexpected one. She was smaller than her brother, with an impressive head of dark hair, and perhaps feistier, for as he settled comfortably against me, making a strange hiccupping noise, she began to wail, demanding to be fed.
I laughed. “Very well, figlia.” I handed my son to Giovanna, and set his sister to my breast.
“Shall I send for a wet nurse for the boy, madonna?” Giovanna asked.
“Of course not,” I said. “He shall have his turn.”
Once both children had been fed, I reluctantly surrendered them to be washed before Giacomo came to see them. He had been informed of the happy news.
“Twins?” he cried incredulously when he was finally allowed in the room. “Dio mio, twins! And one of them a son, a son at last!”
I smiled as he sat on the edge of the bed, peering at the children. “They are healthy, yes? A strong and healthy son and daughter?”
“They are,” I said. “We are all three of us well.”
Giacomo gently stroked our son’s head. “Yes, little Giacomo,” he said softly, as the baby stirred. “It is your father.”
“Marito,” I began, “I … that is, I had a different name in mind.”
He looked up. “Why should my son and heir not be named after me?”
“Surely we can be more creative than that,” I said. “I have always been fond of the name Antonio.”
Giacomo was silent for a moment, and I could scarcely breathe, praying that he would not guess. “Antonio Giacomo Baldovino,” he said, testing it. “Very well. Antonio was my father’s name, after all.”
“But of course,” I said, though I had forgotten that entirely. “That is part of the reason I suggested it.”
He kissed my forehead. “I can deny you nothing, mia bell’Adriana. And our little surprise?” he said, turning his attention to the girl. “What shall we name her?”
“I rather like Cecilia,” I said. “For the patron saint of music.”
“I think that suits,” Giacomo said. “Cecilia Adriana, for her courageous mother.”
I smiled, tears stinging my eyes.
He drew me gently against him. “You have made me the happiest man alive, mia carissima. I know that our marriage was not your choice, but I fancy that I have managed to make you happy at times, yes?”
The tears spilled over onto my cheeks. “Oh, yes,” I whispered. “I am happy at this moment, marito. Brilliantly happy.”
* * *
Giacomo spared no expense on a lavish party to celebrate the twins’ birth, and particularly the birth of his heir. Antonio was, as such, the focus of the evening—the early part, anyway. He was carried about by me, by Giovanna, and even by Giacomo, for our guests to admire and croon over. Cecilia, however, was not to be ignored, and took to wailing loudly whenever she felt not enough attention was being paid to her.
Soon, however, they both grew fussy, and I made my escape. As refreshing as the party was after my long confinement and recovery, I still tired easily, even though a month had passed since the birth. I excused myself to put the children to bed, gathered Vittoria and Giulietta, and we adjourned to my sitting room just as Giacomo was calling for more brandy to be poured.
I sighed in relief as I sank down into one of the armchairs and kicked off my silk shoes. Lucrezia promptly crawled into my lap, peering into the face of the sleeping Antonio, who lay in my arms.
“Shall I take Cecilia to the nursery?” Giovanna asked.
“Oh, may I hold her?” Vittoria asked, her eyes alight.
“Of course,” I said, and Giovanna handed the baby to her. “You are dismissed for the evening, Giovanna.”
Vittoria cradled my daughter as skillfully as any experienced mother. “What a little angel,” she said. “All three of them. You are blessed, Adriana. Truly you are. What I would not give for such beautiful children as yours.”
I smiled, stroking Lucrezia’s feathery light hair with one hand as she fell asleep in my lap. Vittoria was right: I was blessed, in spite of the things I had lost. “Perhaps you and Francesco might yet be so blessed,” I said, though even I did not believe my own words. As if Francesco’s age were not enough of an impediment to conception, his health had been poor of late. Always thin, his appearance had become almost skeletal, and he was prone to chills and fevers.
Vittoria smiled sadly. “Not now, I am afraid. He was already too old to father children when I first married him, or so it seems.”
Giulietta chuckled. “I would have thought the same of our illustrious Senator Baldovino, yet it appears he has more life in him than anyone could have guessed!”
I rolled my eyes. “And he has thrown a party to announce and celebrate that fact.”
“As well he should,” Giulietta said. “He is apparently so potent that he managed to get you with two children at once!”
“Or such is the story he shall tell,” I said, and we all dissolved into laughter.
“If only Roberto could have done the same, I might have been finished with childbearing all in one fell swoop,” Giulietta said.
“Perhaps Giacomo can give him lessons,” Vittoria said, surprising us so with her bawdy joke that our fits of giggles returned, petering out only when we saw all my children were fast asleep.
“Come, cara,” I whispered, nudging Lucrezia awake. She sleepily tumbled off my lap, and I lifted her with my other arm, carrying her and her brother into the nursery. Vittoria followed me with Cecilia.
Once the children were safely abed, Vittoria and I returned to the sitting room. “I was just wondering, Adriana,” Giulietta said as I sat down, “why your son is not named after his father.”
I froze, just for an instant, yet the look in Vittoria’s eyes told me she had seen it nonetheless. “Oh … well, Antonio was the name of Giacomo’s father,” I said. “And he is Antonio Giacomo, at any rate.”
Giulietta looked satisfied enough with this explanation, though Vittoria’s face remained curious.
“Oh!” Giulietta cried suddenly, heedless of the sleeping children in the next room. “Have you heard who that dreadful Claudia Cornaro was caught in maschera with?” She leaned forward, eyes wide. “They say she was found in a very compromising position, if you take my meaning, at the festa given by the Guicciardi family with—you shall never guess it—her brother-in-law! Her sister Elisabetta’s husband! They were found in the mezzanine by a footman! They say it was Claudia, anyway; the mask the lady was wearing was the same as one she has worn. I, for one, believe it, what with the way that girl behaves…”
I readily confessed to enjoying the frivolousness of gossip from time to time, but tonight I could not bring myself to pay attention. Instead, my thoughts were on my children, and what their lives would be like in this vain, decadent Venice of ours, and how I could protect and shelter them while still letting them live. And what of my lost daughter? Did the Girò family love her, and treat her well? Had they told her of her true mother, or did she believe herself to be their daughter? Which way was better?
And, in spite of myself, I found myself wondering whether or not Antonio Vivaldi would ever know I named my son after him.