It was one of those beautiful, early spring days in March, a day completely unfit for the news we received, in the form of a hastily scrawled note delivered by one of the Cassenti servants.
Giacomo was still abed, as he had grown rather older and wearier of late. This left me as the first one to read the message: Francesco had died the night before, after suffering violent chest pains. The distraught Vittoria begged me to come to her as soon as I could.
Tears stung my eyes, thinking of Vittoria now a widow at such a young age—she would be only twenty-six this year, two years younger than me—and alone and adrift in a large and boisterous world where she still struggled, sometimes, to feel comfortable.
“My mistress beseeches you to attend her as soon as possible,” the servant informed me. “She said I am to bring you back in the gondola, if it pleases you.”
I nodded, taking a deep breath and banishing the tears. “Of course,” I replied. “But first I must take the news to my husband, if you do not mind waiting. Don Cassenti was a good friend of his.”
I dreaded telling Giacomo. But when I did, he simply remained where he was, silently lying unmoving on the bed, still, not speaking. Then he rolled over, putting his back to me. “Go to her,” he said quietly. “I will remain here.”
I left without further discussion, knowing that each must handle their grief in their own way, and allowed the servant to take me to my friend.
Vittoria was much grieved. Despite her occasional disappointment in the life for which she had forsaken music, Francesco had always been so good to her, she said between fits of weeping. He was her protector, her teacher in the ways of the world, her companion.
It was not until some hours later, when I finally persuaded her to rest and left her palazzo, that I thought of Giuseppe. Had he heard? And what would he do now that the one obstacle to his love was gone?
Immediately I reproached myself. He would do nothing; Vittoria was a newly made widow, and must go through the requisite period of mourning. Francesco had yet to even be buried.
* * *
Giacomo remained in his rooms for days, emerging only to attend the requiem Mass—during which he promptly dissolved in a shower of tears. Perhaps his friend’s death was a dark reminder that his own could not be far to seek. Francesco had been a full year younger than Giacomo, whose own health was not nearly as robust lately. Finding these thoughts disturbing, I pushed them aside.
Vittoria, though looking pale and wan against the black gown and veil she wore, comported herself remarkably well. She stood tall, and what tears she shed were silent ones. No doubt her faith, as strong as ever, was consoling her a great deal.
I had been relieved to learn that Francesco—having no other heir—had left everything he had to his wife. It ensured she would want for nothing, and could live comfortably for the rest of her days, even should she choose not to remarry.
Leaving the church, we encountered Giuseppe, whom I had not seen enter. He bowed. “Don Senatore Baldovino,” he said. He turned to me, a slight smile cracking his otherwise grim face. “Adriana.”
Giacomo nodded disinterestedly, walking past him to await our gondola.
“It is a tragedy,” Giuseppe said to me, his voice low.
“Yes,” I answered, slightly bewildered. Giuseppe had hardly known Francesco, and had obvious reasons to not feel kindly disposed toward the man. “Francesco was a good man; a good friend of Giacomo’s, as you know. He has taken the news ill, indeed.”
“She is so young, so good,” he said, as if he had not heard me. His eyes followed the funeral gondola that Vittoria had mounted, accompanying her husband’s body to one of the islands in the lagoon for burial. “And so sad. She is bereft, now, of her protector in the world.” He sighed, running his fingers through his dark hair. “I hate to see her in such a state.”
I nodded. “As do I.”
“I went to her when I heard. To offer my condolences,” he said, in the hurried tone of one confessing some damning sin. “Just to do that, nothing more, I swear. And she…” He paused. “She cried in my arms, Adriana. And though God will surely punish me for taking such joy in her grief, I have never known a happier moment in my life.”
I sighed. A newly widowed Vittoria weeping for her husband in the arms of another man, one who loved her and whom she loved … I knew not what to make of that. But in that moment, all impropriety aside, I fervently wished that Vittoria would not spend the rest of her life alone, nor that my brother’s anguish would continue without relief.
* * *
I was not privy to whatever arrangements were made between Vittoria and Giuseppe, nor to what promises they made each other, but some months after Francesco’s death, Giuseppe began visiting Vittoria at her palazzo. A year and a half later, the pair announced they were to be married. They brought the news to me themselves, giggling and blushing like a couple of love-struck teenagers.
The following week, Giuseppe held a dinner at his palazzo, during which they made the news public. Vittoria beamed with a happiness so great her smile could barely contain it, and Giuseppe scarcely took his eyes off his affianced bride all evening.
“Congratulations again, cara!” I cried during a private moment, embracing her and kissing her cheek. “I must confess I have hoped this day would come, ever since the night you first stepped into Giuseppe’s gondola and he almost fell overboard at the sight of you.”
She laughed. “Just as they sing of on the opera stages. We have loved each other long, but I confess I had some doubts. After my mourning period was over, I did not want to dishonor Francesco’s memory or to act in haste, but my prayers and my love made up my mind for me. And we did not want to tell anyone immediately, for fear people would talk—they will still talk, I know, but I will not let the wagging tongues of others stop me from wedding the one man I have ever loved.”
She paused, a thoughtful look coming over her face. “Finally I understand what God intended for me in directing me to leave the Pietà,” she said. “Finally I understand His plan. There were times when I questioned it, and Him. But I should not have. Now I know why. For such love as Giuseppe and I have … it was worth everything. And never again will I wonder, or regret.”
Tears sprang to my eyes. “You do not know how happy I am that it should be you two, my brother and my dearest friend,” I said. “There are no two people more deserving of love in all the world.”
“Oh, Adriana,” she said, embracing me. “Perhaps it is wrong of me to hope so,” she whispered, “but my fondest wish is for you to know this kind of love yourself.”
And suddenly, before I realized it, my secret was spilling from my lips. “I have,” I whispered.
She drew back quickly, surprised.
“I have known such love,” I said softly. “Long ago, before I married Giacomo. Before you knew me.” I looked away from her alert, curious gaze, regretting having said anything. “I am sorry. I should not have spoken of it. This night is about you and Giuseppe.”
“No, no,” she said, clasping my hands in hers. “Would you like to tell me about it?”
For a moment, I actually considered it. But the overwhelming need for secrecy pressed in around me. Only a small part of me was willing to admit that I feared the censure I might see in Vittoria’s eyes if she were to learn who my lover had been, and that I could not bear. “No,” I said. “No, I should not. Forgive me. I should not have said anything. And this is not the time. We should rejoin the party, should we not? No doubt your future bridegroom is anxious without you…”
Vittoria nodded, her gaze never leaving my face. “I understand, amica mia,” she said. “I understand.”
Giuseppe and Vittoria were wed in a beautiful ceremony eight months later, in early May of 1722. The wedding took place in the chapel of the Pietà at Vittoria’s request, and Giuseppe was only too happy to acquiesce to anything his bride wanted. The feast that followed was held at Giuseppe’s palazzo, the new couple’s home.
Vittoria looked more beautiful, more joyful, than I had ever seen her, and Giuseppe was just as ecstatic. The two could not help but constantly lean their heads in close to whisper to one another, or to steal a kiss.
Other than the congratulations I extended to both outside the chapel, I was only able to speak to Giuseppe briefly during the feast. “Fratello carissimo,” I said, kissing both his cheeks. “I am sure I need not tell you how happy I am for you.”
“I can imagine, sorella,” he said, beaming. “I know you have only ever wanted my happiness, as I have only wanted yours.”
“It would seem your torment is at an end, then,” I said.
“I never dared to dream of this day,” he said. “I now have more in one lifetime than I would ever have thought possible for an ordinary man.”
I embraced him again. “Not ordinary, Giuseppe,” I whispered. “Never ordinary.”
When the time came for the newlyweds to adjourn to their bedchamber, there was a great deal of the customary ribald cheering and explicit advice for both bride and groom. The ever-modest Vittoria blushed spectacularly, but I could see the excitement on her face all the same. Once they disappeared, I signaled to Giacomo that we should take our leave, and he was only too happy to comply.
“Francesco is rolling in his grave, and no mistake,” he grumbled on our way out, as though he did not think I could hear him.
But I had not the heart for arguing, not on that night. I simply ignored him, settling into the cushions of the gondola to take in our dark city. It seemed that true love could thrive in Venice after all, in this city of reflections and hidden depths.