And so it was settled. Andrea and Cecilia would be married in April of 1734, two months before the child was due, thus allowing it to be born in the marriage bed, even if it was not conceived there.
Tommaso and I gave a grand party to celebrate the betrothal of our children. No one but our families knew Cecilia was with child; though no doubt Venice would find out soon enough, for the moment it was a secret. And whatever people chose to think later, no one who saw the couple that night could doubt that they were very much in love—and that their parents were very pleased to have it so.
I learned that Lucrezia had known of Cecilia and Andrea’s affair all along, and of her sister’s pregnancy. I could not find it in me to fault her for not telling me; after all, who better than I to understand the bond between siblings?
The night of the party, Vittoria and I looked on as Andrea made a toast to his bride-to-be, declaring himself the happiest and most fortunate of men, and heaping boundless praise upon the blushing Cecilia—good heavens, when had I ever seen the girl blush, of all things?
“They are a lovely couple,” Vittoria murmured to me. “Oh, Adriana, I am so happy for them, and so glad you and Tommaso were able to come to an accord. Not that he set himself against anything you wanted, I will wager,” she added slyly.
I laughed. “You may or may not be right about that, sorella. But all we want is our children’s happiness.”
“Then you are successful.” She watched the couple kiss, to the applause of those present. “There is nothing like one’s first love,” she said. “I am lucky enough to be married to mine, and so will Cecilia.”
“Yes,” I said. “Not all of us are so fortunate, and it has always been my fondest wish for my children.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Vittoria studying me as the speech ended and the crowd began to disperse. Softly, so softly I was almost not sure I had heard her, she said, “It was Maestro Vivaldi, was it not?”
I could only stare at her, dumbstruck with horror.
Apparently I had not kept my secret as well as I thought.
I grabbed her arm and drew her out into the hall where there was no danger of being overheard. But once there, I still could not speak.
“Oh, Adriana, forgive me,” she said. “Forgive me for prying; it is a sin I will readily confess. I have been curious, and I thought … it seemed to me that everything fit together, over the years.”
When still I remained silent, she said, “Please forgive me. I should not have said anything.”
She made to return to the ballroom, but I reached out, stopping her. “I can only imagine what you must think of me,” I said.
To my surprise, she smiled slightly. “I admit, I was a bit shocked when first I thought I had stumbled upon the answer. But … he was always a rather difficult man to work with; at the Pietà he demanded perfection at all times. Yet we all adored him just the same, perhaps because of that.” She studied my face. “So I can see how easy it must have been for you to love him. And just as easy for him to love you.”
“It was,” I whispered. “It was easy to love him, and yet painful at the same time.” I cleared my throat. “Did Giuseppe—”
“No,” she hurriedly assured me. “Giuseppe never breathed a word. I asked him once, after we were married, if he knew who your great lost love was. He tried to avoid the question, but I…” She smiled ruefully. “I pressed him, which was wrong of me. It was the only time in our marriage that he has ever spoken sharply to me. He said that it was your secret to tell, not his.”
“I am sorry to have caused discord between you,” I said.
Vittoria smiled. “Do not be. It is one of the things I love most about him—his loyalty.” She paused, studying me. “There is one thing I still do not understand,” she said. “Where does Anna Girò fit into all this?”
I took a deep breath. “She is our daughter. Mine and Maestro Vivaldi’s.”
Vittoria threw her arms around me. “Oh, Adriana,” she whispered. “I will not tell a soul. I will take it to my grave, I swear.”
* * *
That night, after the party had ended, I went into Cecilia’s room. She was still awake, though dressed for bed. “Mother,” she said, surprised. “What is it?”
I sat on the bed beside her. It had taken me until tonight to realize how heavy secrets are, and how much heavier they grow over the years. And if there was one person I would have know the truth—other than Vittoria—it was Cecilia, the child who was most like me. My unexpected one. “I told you,” I began, “that as a young woman I fell in love with a man who could not marry me.”
She nodded, her eyes wide.
“It has been a secret long enough,” I said. “I will tell you everything, if you are willing to hear it.”
“Of course, Mother,” she said.
I smiled. “You met him once, you know,” I said. “If you recall, when you were much younger. His name is Antonio Vivaldi.”
And then I told her all.