In the first week that my father was home, I heard nothing of potential suitors. I knew better than to take heart from this, for my father simply needed some time to settle back into business in Venice after his absence. It was a temporary stay of execution. The axe would fall eventually; it was just a matter of when.
For the time being I went about my business, carefully sneaking out to Vivaldi’s house for lessons, and trying to practice behind closed—and locked—doors whenever possible. The music that the maestro was now giving me made it essential that I practice as much as possible, so that I did not disgrace myself under his discerning ear. Giuseppe continued to assist me in leaving the palazzo, though he was not happy about it. I still had not told him where I was going, nor did I intend to.
Then, in the second week after my father’s return, I got the news I had been dreading.
I was just dressing for the day when my father’s manservant appeared to tell me that I was to report to his study immediately. Meneghina finished lacing my gown and quickly pinned up my hair, then left.
Remaining seated at my dressing table, I stared at my reflection in the gilt-framed Murano glass mirror, gathering my courage. I smiled, practicing for the moment when my father delivered me news of some suitor about whom I must pretend to be happy; yet even to me, the smile looked fake, forced, fragile.
I took a deep breath and rose, knowing I could delay this no longer.
I made my way to my father’s study, which was on the floor below my rooms. The door was already open, and I halted in the doorway, awaiting permission to enter. When he looked up from the papers on his desk and caught sight of me, he waved me forward.
“Adriana,” he said, as I came in and sat in one of the silk-upholstered chairs facing his desk. “I wanted to give you fair warning. I shall be hosting a party here a week hence, and I shall need you to play hostess. The guests will be largely my business associates and investors and their wives—also their sons.” His expression became stern. “Needless to say, I am hoping you may find a potential suitor or two among them, and as such, I will require your full cooperation, and will expect you to look your best.”
“Yes, Father,” I said, because it seemed that I was expected to say something.
My father tended to keep me shut away in my rooms when he had company over, citing the loose morals of Venetian society. Yet now that a husband was needed, he was forced to loosen his hold, if only slightly. Under the circumstances, though, I realized that I much preferred the role of cloistered virgin to chattel for sale.
“Very good,” he said, turning his attention back to the documents before him. “I am glad we understand each other.” There was a brief pause, and he glanced back up at me, as though surprised to find me still sitting before him. “That is all. You may go.”
I rose wordlessly to take my leave.
I swept back down the hall and up the stairs to my rooms, jaw clenched tightly to prevent the ugly, jagged emotions I felt from spilling onto my face. When I reached my bedchamber, I locked the door behind me and removed my violin from its hiding place beneath the bed. My fingers itched to play; it was the only thing that could bring me any modicum of solace at this particular moment, and damn any who might hear me.
My fingers scurried up and down the fingerboard to match the speed of my bow, picking out a rough melody that was not beautiful or soothing, but harsh and prickly, and perhaps the more powerful for it. I leaped between notes, sprinkling in dissonant chords as I went. The melody seemed to slide from the strings, curling itself up my arm and twining around my body, a sinuous serpent that held me in its grasp.
When the melody—or whatever it had been—finally came to an end, I felt a great deal calmer. My emotions receded and the musician in me came forward, wondering what it was that I had played. Yet as I put the bow to the strings to try to play it again—more slowly this time, so I could study it—nothing came. It had slipped through the cracks in my mind, and though I stood there and tried and tried, I could not remember it. The melody was gone.
* * *
The party my father gave was more or less what I had anticipated. Meneghina laced me into a gown chosen by my father: one that was cut to show off my figure just enough but not too much, one that was fine—of green silk and lace at the neckline, bodice, and sleeves—but not the finest that I owned. My dark curls had been tamed and hung halfway down my back. I did look rather lovely, I thought, but this caused me to grow more despondent, as those who would see me were not ones for whom I would have chosen to look beautiful.
The evening began in the large ballroom of the piano nobile, where my father received his guests and introduced them to me. It was a blur of names and faces: business associates and members of the Grand Council and their wives, as well as a member of the Signoria and his son. The young man—Lorenzo or Luca Morosini, some such thing—was seated beside me at dinner, where he proceeded to regale me with his views on such varied topics as Venice’s Jews—who, he felt, were treated much too leniently—as well as his dislike for the opera. He found it distasteful to see the divas wearing so much makeup and such scandalous costumes, for only whores would put themselves on such display. In fact, according to young Don Morosini, women should not be encouraged to engage in the arts at all.
“Take that ridiculous woman artist, for instance; what is her name?” he asked, nodding imperiously at the servant who had appeared to refill his wineglass. “Rosalba. Stealing commissions away from the rest of the artists in Europe, men who have trained and studied for years, all to be passed over in favor of a woman.”
He was as old-fashioned as the most elderly grandfather of the republic. My father would adore him. I had to hope that they did not get a chance to converse later in the evening, or I might wake to find myself betrothed to the monster.
The only respite I had was from the man seated on my other side, Senator Giacomo Baldovino, and he was hardly any better. He was old, older than my father, with a belly that suggested he partook of the finest foods and beverages without quite overindulging. He was apparently a lifelong bachelor, and he went on at length about his family palazzo, which was much in need of renovations and, he hinted, a woman’s touch—all while glancing obviously and appreciatively at the hint of bosom revealed by my gown’s neckline.
Later that night, once everyone had finally, finally departed, my father followed me up the stairs to my rooms and settled himself in one of the chairs in my sitting room. “Senator Morosini’s son seemed rather taken with you,” he said. “He is a younger son, of course, but to marry into a senatorial family is a high honor for a girl without noble blood.”
Exhaustion made me blunt. “And does it matter that I was not in the least taken with him?” I asked.
His eyes darkened and his smile hardened. “No, it does not,” he said. “You are a girl of eighteen. How can you be expected to know what sort of man will be best for you?” He lapsed into silence for a moment before continuing. “Senator Baldovino was also quite taken with you,” he said. “He expressed a wish to call on you.”
I gave him a disgusted look. “He is older than you are, Father.”
He laughed. “I am well aware, figlia. I anticipate there will be better prospects yet for you—and younger ones, as well. Senator Baldovino comes from a minor noble family, and owes his seat in the Senate more to the accomplishments of his esteemed late father than to any political talents of his own. Still, he is an old friend, and is powerful enough in his own right, so it would hardly do to offend him. And you should consider yourself honored that a senator wishes to pay court to you.” He rose from his chair. “High time you slept, I think. Buona notte, figlia.”
“Buona notte,” I said woodenly. It was all I could do not to slam the door behind him.