Tommaso Foscari was married just before I: to Faustina Barberini, daughter of one of Venice’s oldest and most noble families, and whose father was Giuseppe’s former employer. The Foscari family was likely more impressed with her pedigree than her fortune, which was dwindling. She was classically beautiful, with pale skin, blue eyes, and long golden hair. She was also reported to be vain, shallow, and even—so some said—rather stupid. She had borne a strong, healthy daughter perhaps a year after their marriage, followed quickly by a son around the time I gave birth to the twins and, the year after that, another daughter.
I only came face-to-face with the couple once, while attending the opera during my first Carnevale after being married. As we were making our way to our box, we passed by Tommaso, his pretty new wife on his arm. The rest of my party continued on without a thought, but I started when he saw me. He froze, his jaw tightening. For a moment I thought he would ignore me altogether, yet he nodded briefly and went along his way. Thankfully, none of my friends noticed, so I was spared the need to explain.
Then, in January of 1720, well into the Carnevale season, my friends and I attended a party being held by Senator Barbo and his wife. I had just begun a dance with Leonardo when someone cut in on him. “I hope I can persuade you to give up the honor, my fine fellow,” said a smooth, deep voice that I recognized well, even though the speaker’s face was hidden by his mask.
“Of course,” Leonardo said, sounding puzzled. He stepped aside, and the newcomer swept me into the circle of dancers. Suddenly I was a girl of eighteen again, dancing with Tommaso Foscari in the ballroom of his parents’ palazzo.
“Donna Baldovino,” he said as we entered the dance. “I should not presume to use your Christian name, I suppose.”
“I see the mask my maid recommended leaves much to be desired,” I said, “since you knew so easily that it was me.”
“You have not changed all that much.”
“I was but a girl then,” I said, unsure of his tone.
“And now you are a senator’s wife,” he said. “You have done very well for yourself, I see.”
“Are you mocking me, Tommaso?” I asked, my composure slipping a bit as I used his given name.
“Not at all,” he said. “To be the wife of a senator of our fair republic is an enviable position.”
“Yes, well,” I said. “It is not exactly what my father wanted.”
“And you, Adriana?” he asked. “Is it what you wanted?”
I was taken aback by his directness, by the venom in his voice. So disarmed was I that I answered honestly. “You must know that it was not,” I said, lowering my voice.
“Ah, that is right. You wanted to run away with your mysterious lover, and be his wife and bear his children.”
“How dare you,” I bit out, stopping abruptly in the middle of the dance. Several people looked curiously in our direction. “What gives you the right to accost me on a ballroom floor, and to speak of that about which you know nothing? Is this the behavior of a gentleman, then?”
He gaped at me in silence, then guided me back into the dance before we attracted any further attention.
“I am sorry, Adriana,” he said, sounding chastened. “Forgive me. I do not mean to be so bitter. It is just that…” He lowered his voice to a near-whisper and leaned closer to me. “I do not love my wife,” he confessed. “My parents chose her and forced her on me. She is vapid and vain and foolish, and I pray each day that my daughters will not grow up to be like her.” He sighed. “Some days I wake up and rage at the mess my life has become.”
His bitterness shocked me, but his honesty shocked me more. I could taste the unpleasant burn of guilt in my mouth. How strange, I mused, that a man, too, could end up just as hopelessly trapped as a woman. “I know well enough how you feel,” I said quietly. “It seems neither of our lives went as we might have liked.”
“Would you go back and undo it all, if you could?”
His question startled me; it was the question I had danced around but could never bring myself to ask. Now I had no choice but to face it, to dance with it.
On that night Vivaldi and I first made love, I remember thinking that never would I wish it had not happened, despite what consequences might come. Had that been simply the silly, romantic notion of a girl in love? Or had I known then what perhaps I had forgotten since: that it was worth any cost to love and be loved in return, to choose and be chosen, to make love with the one person in all the world that you wanted, and to carry a piece of them with you forever after?
And maybe, just maybe, I had been completely wrong this whole time. Maybe fate had not punished me. Maybe I was the luckiest of women: for knowing what it is to be in love, such all-consuming, senseless, heedless love; and now I had three children whom I loved and would not trade for anything or anyone.
Was it worth the price? My innocence, my faith, my firstborn child?
“I…” I stuttered. “So much has happened … I no longer know…”
The music came to an end, and Tommaso executed a perfect bow and kissed my hand. His eyes were sad behind his mask, sad that I had not said that I would have done it all differently, with no regrets, if only to be with him.
“It is all right,” he said quietly. “I understand.”