Chapter 14
Concerts were everywhere in Venice. You could stroll past a church and hear an organ recital; theatres put on operas with extravagant scenery and special effects; chamber orchestras floated on barges down the Grand Canal, playing Vivaldi.
Thomas did not consider himself a devotee of the art, but he enjoyed it now and again, and was glad to join a party assembled by Francesco Pavan to view Mozart’s The Marriage of Figaro at the Apollo theatre, a short walk from Palazzo Gritti.
They had a large box near the stage, and everyone came.
At the front, Agnese Pavan sat with Concetta and her companion, a former governess.
English milordi (a humorous rendering of My Lord) came next, with Enzo Basso joining the Pavan brothers behind.
The opera was sung in Italian, a language Thomas was picking up fast owing to its resemblance to Latin.
The comedy unfolded, and Thomas found his eye often drawn to Concetta Basso, for whom the occasion was obviously a treat. Ned Turton also seemed engrossed in Concetta, and Thomas noticed Enzo Basso glaring at the handsome Englishman as if he would like to impale him with a stiletto.
These undercurrents aside, all had gone well.
They had comfortable quarters at Palazzo Gritti, except for Edward Gardiner, who was staying with Francesco Pavan.
Sylvie de Montmorency had joined them for two weeks, awaiting the arrival of her uncle from Florence; during this interlude she had been taken under the wing of Concetta Basso—so rescuing her from the attentions of Ned Turton.
Thomas and Henry Leighton had explored, travelling by barge up the Brenta Riviera to the ancient university town of Padua, and viewing Palladian villas along the way.
Monk wanted to renew his acquaintance with Florence, Rome, Naples—and had offered to show them his haunts.
But for different reasons, everyone else stayed in Venice.
Ned Turton had discovered the delights of the cortigiane oneste, the alluring Venetian courtesans, famed for their education and wit as well as their beauty, and a major reason why the city was a magnet for wealthy English gentlemen.
Leighton, interested in art, architecture, history, spent hours touring churches, taking notes for a book to be written on his return.
Thomas, meanwhile, had simply enjoyed Venice.
He recalled sometimes John Bennet’s description of his character: a dabbler.
Edward by contrast was single-minded: he had come to learn a business.
Turton, with similar dedication, pursued the ladies; Leighton sought material for his book.
Thomas, instead, found varied pleasures in the city, and had no appetite for travel and its attendant discomfort.
Fortune had brought him to one of the loveliest places the world had to offer. He would stay there.
Act I of the opera ended, and while servants brought fruit and wine, Concetta and Agnese left with their husbands—perhaps to stretch their legs, or seek a private alley to relieve themselves.
A hand brushed Thomas’s arm, and he found himself face-to-face with Concetta’s companion Signora Bordoni, a small rotund woman, at first sight insignificant, but said to be erudite, as much a friend to the Pavans as an employee.
‘A word please.’ She drew him to the shadows and continued in a whisper. ‘Signora Basso must speak with you, in private.’
‘After the performance?’
A shake of the head. ‘She will be in the Basilica at noon tomorrow. Seated half way down, on the left. You know?’
Thomas nodded: he had often visited St Mark’s Basilica, the city’s Roman Catholic cathedral. He wondered at the reason for this secrecy: perhaps Concetta feared her husband’s anger if she confided in another man.
‘I will be there,’ he whispered. ‘Alone. And I will tell no-one.’
‘Good.’ Another light touch, and she left the box.
In the dim interior of the Basilica, Thomas passed softly by people at prayer in the rear seats, his eye drawn first to the inlaid marble floor, then to the shimmering gold glass mosaics on the domes and arches of the ceiling.
He walked down a side aisle where pillars supported an upper floor, and reached a central row.
She was there. Head bowed, in a modest grey gown.
She smiled conspiratorially as he sat beside her.
‘Mr Bennet. Thank you.’ She spoke softly, but did not whisper; in this vast cavernous space no-one would hear.
‘Sta bene, spero,’ he said. You are well, I hope.
‘You learn our language! Yes, in good health, but concerned about news received from Florence.’ She drew out a letter. ‘In French.’
‘From Miss Montmorency?’
‘Yes, Sylvie, my poor friend.’ She shifted so that their eyes met. ‘I sense you are a tolerant man, Mr Bennet. I feel I can approach you more easily than—Mr Leighton for instance.’ She sighed. ‘Excuse my digression. May I just give you the facts?’
‘Sylvie is in difficulty?’
‘A very discreet family doctor has pronounced her with child. As yet her condition can be concealed. The baby will not come till February or March.’
Thomas frowned. ‘So the child was conceived shortly before our party reached Venice?’
‘Exactly.’ A smile. ‘Again you impress me. You do not rush to judgement. You calculate.’
Thomas looked away, caught between his fascination with Concetta, and the grave implications of this news. A distinguished baron had entrusted them with the safety of his daughter. Instead of looking after her, they had been negligent—or worse.
He faced Concetta again. ‘Did she identify …’
The mischievous smile again. ‘It was not you.’
‘But one of our party?’
‘Not Mr Leighton. Nor Mr Monk, nor a servant.’
Thomas nodded. Of course it would be Turton. ‘But how could this happen? During the day, Sylvie was with us all. During the night, her maid slept in her room.’
‘It seems your friend succeeded in charming the maid as well as Sylvie. A swap was agreed. A silver coin changed hands.’
Thomas thought for a few seconds while Concetta remained silent, as if loath to distract him. Eventually he said, ‘Does she say what she wishes us to do? Confront Turton, perhaps? Find out whether he is willing to marry her?’
‘Her uncle offers two solutions. Yes, marriage. Or leave Florence for a faraway town, and have the baby adopted.’
‘Has Baron de Montmorency been informed?’
‘Sylvie is afraid. She hopes he need never know.’
Thomas nodded. News of the storming of the Bastille had reached Venice; the baron would be occupied already without this further complication.
‘Would Sylvie marry Ned Turton? If he offered?’
‘I hope not.’ Concetta’s face darkened. ‘If life has taught me anything, it is that one should marry for love, not convenience.’
Thomas felt a stab of pain, aware that he had committed the same mistake. Concetta, useless wife. How could Basso fail to appreciate his good fortune? He looked at her, unable to speak, mortified by the waste of it all.
She smiled sadly, extended her hand, then withdrew. ‘Ironic, is it not? We learn by trial and error. But some errors we are not permitted to correct.’
He breathed deeply, finding some solace in this connection between them. ‘If Turton agreed, it would be for her status and her dowry. Men like that do not change.’
‘I agree. But it is her choice.’ Concetta made a gesture of helplessness. ‘So. What do we do?’
‘I will tell Henry Leighton. The Montmorencys are his friends. It was he that accepted responsibility for Sylvie. He is also the only man in our party with the resources to help.’
‘Will he be discreet?’
‘I trust him.’ Thomas paused. ‘Have you told …’
‘My family? No. Not even Signora Bordoni. Only you.’
‘I intend no accusation, Ned.’ Leighton’s tone was neither friendly nor hostile. ‘Judge not, lest ye be judged. I ask only for the truth. In confidence.’
Thomas observed Turton, who was leaning back on the divan with a faint grin. They were alone, just the three of them, in the salotto at the Gritti Palace.
Ned shrugged. ‘I see no proof the baby is mine.’
Leighton remained patient. ‘One cannot be sure. But is it possible?’
‘We had fun one night.’ Turton sniffed. ‘After that she avoided me like the plague.’ He regarded them both with a lift of the eyebrows. ‘Maybe she moved on.’
‘I take that as a Yes,’ Leighton said. ‘Which brings us to a question. What do you intend to do about it?’
‘Me?’ Turton frowned.
‘Do you want to marry her?’
‘Not if she hates me.’ Turton threw up his hands. ‘I may be every kind of scapegrace, Henry, and a baron’s daughter is a tempting target. But she’s a sweet girl and I wish her no ill. Let her marry whomever she chooses.’ He turned to Thomas. ‘How do you know this anyway? Did Sylvie write to you?’
Thomas hesitated. ‘To a friend.’
‘Basso’s wife, I suppose.’ Turton winced. ‘Who belongs in a nunnery. No wonder she bores him.’
‘Never mind how we know,’ Leighton said quickly. ‘I’m grateful for your honesty, Ned. But you should be aware that Italians are by reputation excitable, and inclined to take vengeance when family honour is at stake.’
Turton stared at him. ‘You think …’
‘I don’t know. But if you are interested in touring Rome, or Naples, or the Mediterranean, this might be an opportune moment.’ Leighton stood up, with a nod to Thomas. ‘Fancy a stroll?’
They headed for St Mark’s Square and took an outdoor table at Caffè Florian, popular among visitors as the only coffee house in Venice that admitted women.
Leighton had set a fast pace, perhaps walking off suppressed anger, and Thomas was relieved to find a place where they could talk in comfort, while viewing the bell tower a few yards away, and behind it, the Basilica, with its memories of his midday meeting with Concetta.
‘Confound it.’ Leighton returned after seeking a waiter. ‘There’s no point remonstrating with Ned, but he should be horsewhipped. An innocent 18-year-old girl from one of the foremost families in Paris, entrusted to our protection. Claude will be furious with me.’
‘Perhaps the matter can be resolved? Without the details becoming generally known?’
Leighton leaned closer. ‘Listen. I’m going to take a local driver and go to Florence. Three days should be enough. I’ll explain matters to Sylvie’s uncle, and if he agrees, bring her back, alone except for a companion they trust. I hope by then Ned will have done a bunk.’
‘And then? Hide her in Palazzo Gritti?’
‘A small island would be better. There are several only a few hundred yards away. The trouble is, we’d all have to move.
You, me, Monk if he comes back, servants.
Gardiner I assume will stay with the Pavans.
We can get supplies. But we’d be deprived of theatres, churches, music, society, art—all the things we came for. ’
Thomas considered. ‘We could get to the main island in half an hour if we hired a boat with two oarsmen. And stay overnight once in a while.’ He paused. ‘What happens after the baby is born?’
‘Venice has hospitals for foundlings, as well as charities for their education.’ Leighton grimaced. ‘It is a city with a large number of abandoned newborns.’
‘A pitiful fate for the child of a noble family.’
Leighton nodded. ‘Florence first. Then we’ll see.’