“Zio Giuseppe and Zia Vittoria are waiting downstairs,” Lucrezia said, peeking her head in. I sat motionless at my dressing table, staring down at the black veil that sat upon it. When I did not respond, she stepped into the room. “Madre?”
I took a deep breath. “Yes. Of course.” Still I did not move to put on the veil. I had waved Meneghina away when she offered to do it for me. This was something I had to do myself, and yet found that I could not. By donning this widow’s veil, I moved from one part of my life to another, and there would be no going back.
I was not ready.
And yet I had no choice. It was only two short years after the premiere of Le quattro stagioni in our ballroom, and Giacomo was dead. His death was rather like his life, in which he cut no great social or political swaths: he died quietly in his sleep.
I jumped when I felt Lucrezia’s hands on my shoulders. “Mama, are you all right?” she asked softly.
I closed my eyes and banished the waiting tears. “I am, I suppose,” I said. “But, cara, what of you?”
Lucrezia looked guilty as her eyes met mine in the mirror. “I am well,” she said. “Perhaps too well.” At that, she began to cry.
“Oh, cara,” I drew her onto my lap, though at thirteen, she was much too big for such things.
“I am sad, but I do not know why, Mama,” she said through her tears. “If I am sad because he is dead, or sad because I did not know him better, or sad because I think I should be more sad…”
“I understand,” I whispered. The children had cried upon hearing of their father’s death, but their emotional recovery was swift. Giacomo had so distanced himself from their lives that they never truly knew him.
When Lucrezia ceased her crying, I squeezed her once, then helped her to her feet. “Now go downstairs to your aunt and uncle,” I said. “I will be along directly.”
She left the room, and I took one last, long look at my bare face.
My own tears of sorrow for Giacomo were very real. Ours had been a difficult marriage, yet there had been true affection and partnership between us, and he had given me three beautiful children. Even his cruelties were more out of thoughtlessness than malice.
And now he was gone.
I picked up the veil and pinned it into place, letting the gossamer fabric fall over my face.
* * *
Mask in place, I stepped off the dock and into the waiting gondola, helped by a warm, familiar hand. “Buona notte, Adriana,” Tommaso Foscari said from beneath his mask as I settled onto the seat beside him. “How are you faring, mia cara? I have missed you these past weeks.”
“Well enough,” I said. “And the children are well, which is all that matters. It is just strange, without him, even though…” I trailed off, and Tommaso nodded, understanding. “I have missed you as well,” I went on, and he briefly squeezed my hand. “I just do not know how much more mourning I can take. That is, I do not mean…”
He shook his head. “I understand. I know all too well the complicated emotions of a … marriage of convenience,” he said delicately. “But as Giacomo never begrudged your going out while he lived, I hardly think he should do so now.” He smiled. “And in Venice, no one need know you have been out rather than home grieving.”
I smiled. “And where are you taking me tonight?”
“A small concert I have heard of—some German harpsichordist who is traveling through,” Tommaso said. “He is to play some music by this obscure fellow named Bach. A friend of mine with no musical taste finds him deplorable, so I am certain that you and I will enjoy him greatly.”
Laughing together, we talked like old friends until we reached the concert. The first few visits with Tommaso had been somewhat awkward: him trying to hide the remnants of his pain, and me trying not to see it. But soon, somehow, it had become easier, effortless. And I saw the man I had known before, but more clearly, now that I was no longer afraid of him.