Chapter Thirty-Seven
She had to have time alone, she told the others. Time to think, reflect, and pray—or at least to pretend she was doing something so sensible.
The church was cool as a cellar after the heat of the fondamenta.
Venetia slipped inside and let the heavy door thud shut behind her, cutting off the shimmer of the canal and the cries of gondoliers. The scent of beeswax and old incense wrapped around her while colored light slanted through narrow stained glass windows.
Exactly the place for her wild hopes either to settle… or to be exposed as fantasies.
Quietly, she made her way along the side aisle. In her mind, the portrait at La Serafina’s rose again with unnerving clarity: Isabella Monteverdi’s graceful hands folded at her waist. The gleam of the signet ring on her middle finger.
The same design Edward wore. The same.
It could be wishful thinking, of course. Any number of noblemen might share a crest that included a phoenix.
But…
She drew in a breath that tasted of damp stone and candle smoke and turned into a side chapel, intending to sit and think. Instead, she stopped short.
Someone was already kneeling before the small Madonna, shoulders shaking, a lace veil quivering with each ragged breath. The faint sound she’d heard on entering—the muffled, desperate sobbing—resolved into words in Italian, half prayer, half wail.
Sofia.
Venetia’s first instinct was to turn on her heel and retreat. The girl had used her.
You’ve some nerve, Signorina Morosini.
She took a careful step back, knocking against a pew, and the kneeling figure jerked round.
“Miss Playford!”
So much for a graceful exit.
Venetia lifted her chin. “Signorina Morosini.”
Sofia scrambled to her feet, clutching her rosary. She looked smaller in a plain dark gown, her hair scraped back under the veil, which she raised to look at Venetia.
“So, you do not wish to speak to me? All of Venice must be sneering,” Sofia said with a brittle little laugh.
Her face was blotchy and shiny with tears.
“Have you come to gloat, Miss Playford? To tell me that you and your translator have triumphed, while I am to be sold to Count Bembo and his breath of old fish?”
“No,” Venetia said quietly. “I came to think. I didn’t know you were here.”
Sofia’s mouth trembled. “Then go. I have nothing to say to you.”
Was there shame and contrition in addition to the misery? She could see no sign.
Venetia hesitated, then moved a little closer. The candle flames threw gold across the painted Madonna and caught the wet tracks on Sofia’s cheeks. “Edward told me what you confessed.”
Sofia’s fingers froze on the rosary. Then she shrugged. “Did he? I wondered if he would, but what does it matter? There is no proof—Besides, what does it matter to me since happiness is beyond my reach now?”
“But what about the rest of us? There is the maid, Griselda,” Venetia cut in, her own anger flaring at last. “You and your Paolo enlisted Griselda to steal the contessa’s emeralds.
You had her slip them into my tiara in the mending room.
You set in motion everything that followed.
You may not have meant for me to be accused…
but that’s what happened, and now I am a prisoner in Venice and might, quite possibly, lose my inheritance as a result of what you have done. Does that not trouble your conscience?”
The words rang more sharply than she’d intended in the small chapel, and she lowered her voice. “So, while you weep at being forced to marry a man you do not love, I am branded a thief in the eyes of the world and the man I love. A man I, too, may never have because of… you.”
Sofia flinched. Then she recovered her spirit. “You have your English friends. And a man who is fighting for your reputation. You say you are in mortal peril, but you have money. Another country to flee to. I have only here. Only Grandpapa. Only the marriage he chooses.”
“And Paolo,” Venetia said, not unkindly. “You have Paolo. And because of what you both have done, I stand to lose everything.”
Sofia sank back onto the narrow prayer bench with a sigh. “I decided,” she said dully, “that if I did not seize happiness now, I would never have it at all. I was willing to try anything.”
She twisted the rosary around her fingers, then sent a curious glance up at Venetia.
“You despise me, but I think I am braver than you and the man you love. Signor Rothbury? He returns your love, so what is there standing between you? You have free choice. A privilege I will never have. I think you are the most fortunate—most stupid—pair of lovers I have ever heard of. No, I do not regret what I did for love. At least I tried.” Her voice softened as she added, “And I would die trying.”
Her words found their mark, but Venetia was not going to take the bait. Edward would see matters the same way as Venetia did. Wouldn’t he?
“If you don’t care about me, what about Griselda, whom you say Paolo approached? What’s become of her?” Venetia asked angrily. “And your grandfather? What will he say when your crime is revealed?”
Sofia’s shoulders slumped, and she wiped her tear-stained cheek.
“All right! I am sorry for it all! If I am to marry Bembo, I will confess to Grandfather. And Bembo.” A thoughtful smile curved her lips. “Perhaps the scandal will be such that Count Bembo will no longer wish for this betrothal.”
Venetia nodded. “That is true,” she conceded.
There was silence for a long moment. Perhaps the same kernel of thought was making its way through Sofia’s mind. After all, it was she who’d said it.
But now it was Venetia who said, “Your betrothal to Bembo is to be announced in five days’ time at the grand ascension your grandfather is organizing?”
Sofia nodded. “Grandpapa and the marchese are planning it as if I were some heroine from one of their Waverley romances. A magnificent balloon is to rise from the piazzetta and float over the lagoon while fireworks blaze and everyone cheers the happy couple.” Her mouth twisted.
“I am to wave like a prize hen in a basket while Bembo wheezes beside me.”
Sofia waited. For sympathy from Venetia? Or something else?
Again, the silence lengthened. Venetia held her breath. What to say? She had to pick her words carefully. But suddenly her body was thrumming with excitement.
Were not both of them helplessly at the mercy of powerful men?
Were not both of them hopelessly in love with a man for whom their love could not be sanctioned?
Well! Sofia had the power to exonerate Venetia and thus ensure she was not branded a thief and therefore lose her fortune. Granted, Sofia’s confession would not remove all the obstacles between marriage between her and Edward.
But if Sofia used her knowledge of Venetian society and some artful means of helping Venetia see—even secretly—the marchese, might that not be enough to help Venetia orchestrate a reunion between Edward and—
His father?
She felt herself shaking. Of course, she might be wrong about all of it, but the more she thought about the signet ring adorning Isabella Monteverdi’s left hand, and the signet ring she’d seen Edward wear, plus countless other clues, the more she felt the pieces of the puzzle begin to make up the glorious whole.
“Signorina Sofia,” she said softly, glancing about to ensure they were not being overheard.
She had to be careful. The wrong approach could throw Sofia offside even more.
“There is more than just your happiness riding on this grand event in five days’ time.
That is also the day that Captain Rizzi must give his report to his superior regarding his belief in my testimony that I am innocent and his opinion regarding my character. ”
Sofia’s expression was inscrutable.
Venetia waited for her to speak while Rizzi’s grim voice returned to her: One more impropriety, signorina, and my report to your English trustees will be very unfavorable indeed.
One misstep, one ill-judged meeting, and she could lose everything. Except ironically, her heart—Edward already held that beyond recall.
Slowly, Sofia said, “You have already made that clear, Miss Playford. I wondered—” she hesitated “—if you are choosing your words carefully to make a case for some kind of… bargain between us?”
Oh, how sharp the girl was. But perhaps it was simply that when one had nothing to lose, and no bargaining power, one learned to be creative.
Venetia inclined her head slowly.
“I think we can both help each other,” she said. The church suddenly felt intensely cold before sudden warmth flowed through her body, and excitement fizzed in her blood as she added softly, “And I think you will consider the bargain more than adequate.”