Daughter of Venice (5 page)

“I take it the plan is acceptable to you,” says Father.

Piero gets to his feet so fast that his chair falls backward. We all laugh. He rushes to Father, kneels, and kisses Father’s cheeks. “I will do everything in my power to be worthy of your trust.”

“And expense,” calls out Francesco. But it’s a good-natured jest.

“And expense,” says Piero, with a smile.

“You are already worthy of both,” says Father.

Piero returns to his seat.

We all look to Father. Could there possibly be more announcements?

He smiles at us, obviously enjoying the way his proposals have been received thus far. “Antonio,” he says. “It’s your turn.”

Antonio’s chest rises and falls visibly, he breathes so hard. “I love Venice, Father,” he says quickly, before Father can continue. “But I have no inclination for trade or travel—unlike Francesco—nor am I clever at studies—unlike Piero. I hold dear the values of the Venetian Empire, and of the city of Venice, and of our own cherished family. I will always toil faithfully. I want to stay here, in this city, a member of the Senate, eventually, if I am fortunate enough to be elected. That is the life I want, serving however I can.”

I hardly breathe. Antonio is my most placid brother. I’ve never heard him take control like this. And with Father, of all people.

But Father shows no surprise; he doesn’t hesitate. “Precisely my assessment, Antonio. The family will thrive in your hands someday.”

Antonio blinks. He’s confused, as we all are. All of us but Mother.

Mother reaches across the table and puts her hand on Antonio’s. “You’re the one to marry.”

“Me?” Antonio looks from Mother to Francesco. “But what about Francesco?”

Exactly my question. Father was the oldest of the brothers in his generation, and he was the one to marry. And his father was the oldest of the brothers of his generation. The custom in our family is clear.

Francesco lifts both hands, palms facing Antonio. “In my opinion, there are too many lovely gardens in Venice to enjoy only one.”

Paolina perks up. “The
palazzo
of the Nani family is said to have the most wonderful garden in Venice.”

We laugh, Paolina joining, though our silly little sister doesn’t know the joke’s on her.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” says Francesco.

“And you, Piero,” says Antonio. “What about you?”

“I’ve never hoped to marry,” says Piero. “I took it for granted that Francesco would be the head of the family.” He speaks slowly, as though working his way through his thoughts. “With all my serious studies ahead, and then the hardships and dangers of life abroad, a wife would have no place in my future. And, Antonio, the very fact that your first reaction is to check the response of your older brothers is proof that you value the peace of the family above all else. Father and Mother have not erred.”

Antonio smiles. “I would enjoy a family, it’s true. My own children.” His eyes are warm with joy. “My own children to climb all over me.”

“Just as you’ve let your younger siblings do.” Father smiles. “An education serves a father, as it does a senator,” he says. “The more you’ve studied, the better decisions you make.”

Antonio nods. “I see that, Father. I see that in you.”

“So, then, it’s settled. You will join your older brothers in Padua next term. They will commence the study of law at the university of jurists. You will commence the study of philosophy at the university of the liberal arts. For how long is up to you.”

Antonio gets up and walks to Father’s side. He kneels and kisses Father’s cheeks. “Thank you, Father. You will be my model.”

“Not in physique, I hope.” Father puts his hand on his large belly and laughs.

Antonio goes back to his seat.

Father picks up his napkin and wipes his mouth, a gesture of finality.

“But what about me?” asks Vincenzo.

“You’re the quick one,” says Father. “No one doubts that. But you still have much to learn about yourself. It’s not time yet to discuss your future. The next order of business is the family’s marriages. Antonio’s and Andriana’s. Andriana’s first, since Antonio’s must wait until he finishes his education.”

Andriana jerks to attention.

“But not this moment. I have several matters to deal with now. These are enough decisions for one day.” Father gets up and leaves.

Once he’s out of the room, Vincenzo scowls. “All the good choices are taken.” He counts off on his fingers. “Francesco will make the money, Piero will spend it, Antonio will make laws and babies. What will I do?”

But everyone is getting up and going about their business.

Everyone but Laura and me. We look at each other in perfect understanding. Father has said the next order of business is the family’s marriages. Antonio’s and Andriana’s.

He said nothing about Laura and me.

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

LOVE

Y
ou look so glum.” Paolina squeezes my hand. “Come with me. Please. Giulia’s mother is going to a garden party at the Fiorazzo family’s
palazzo
in San Trovaso. She’s taking Giulia. And she invited me. I know she’ll let you come, too.”

San Trovaso is in the neighborhood called Dorsoduro. They’ll go in Giulia’s family’s gondola, directly to the steps of the
palazzo;
they won’t travel any intriguing alleys.

Still, there are many things you can see from a gondola, even through a veil.

And the Fiorazzo garden might be marvelous.

But when Paolina gets home, she will describe every wide leaf of fig, all the white bells of japonica, the scent of laurel. I will shut my eyes and feel I’m walking through grass, and think I breathe the wisteria. I don’t need to actually be in the garden myself.

Besides, if I went, I would watch the mothers’ faces as they beamed on their marriage-bound daughters, the way they’d insist the girls stay in shade to keep their skin perfect, the way they’d hover.

“You’d get to miss violin lesson,” says Paolina, coaxingly. “I know you hate it.”

Not even her slyness can bring a smile to my lips. “You go and enjoy yourself, Paolina.” I look over at Laura, who stands by our bedchamber balcony, just inside so that no one can see her from the outside. Her back is to us, and the curve of her shoulders carries the sadness I feel. “I need to talk with Laura, anyway.”

“Both of you should come with me,” says Paolina.

“We don’t love gardens the way you do,” says Laura softly, without turning.

“You need to learn to love something,” says Paolina. “Something besides men.”

Laura and I both look at our little sister.

Paolina stands solemn-eyed. “A garden is a like a whole group of children. Very quiet children—but very beautiful children, too. If you take care of plants, they grow and bloom. And sometimes they grow in ways you don’t want them to; they can be naughty.”

My silly little sister isn’t silly at all. I cup Paolina’s round face in my hands and press my cheek to her forehead.

“How long have you known?” asks Laura.

“Giulia’s mother told me two years ago. She explained why she allowed me to dig in the sun with her gardener when she wouldn’t allow Giulia.”

“I’m sorry, Paolina,” says Laura. Tears roll down her cheeks. “I’m sorry for all three of us. And for Maria, too.”

“Don’t be sorry for me.” Paolina goes to the door. “I’m going to spend my life in wonderful gardens—maybe even here in our
palazzo
. I could make the most fragrant garden ever if Father would let me.” She stops, her hand on the doorknob. “Do you want to come?”

“Not today,” I say.

Paolina leaves.

I put my arm around Laura’s waist and she folds herself against me in sobs. Beyond her shoulder, I see the traffic on the Canal Grande. The nobles and citizens are like a sea of black gowns and
barete,
dotted here and there with the crimson of a senator. I watch the standing men sway with each movement of the gondola oar. From this angle, I don’t see a single woman in the boats. “In a few years our brothers will join the men in those boats.” I work to keep bitterness from my voice. “And they’ll get a wonderful education. All those years at the university. We should be glad for them, at least.” I swallow. “And especially glad for Antonio.”

“Don’t be brave, Donata. I can’t bear it. It’s terrible enough that little Paolina has to be so stoic.” Laura rolls her forehead hard against my collarbone.

I put my hand on her neck. “You’re right.” I pull the pins out of Laura’s bun and smooth her locks free down her back.

And now a brush is passing through Laura’s hair. Mother has come in silently. She moves the brush rhythmically. How much did she hear?

I step back, but Laura remains curved toward me, her torso forming a bereft hollow for her tears.

I take the pins out of my own hair and shake it free. Mother is still brushing Laura’s hair. Laura is still crying. She cries double, for both of us.

“Can’t we both stay here to care for Antonio’s children someday? Please, Mother,” says Laura.

“Rooms will be needed for Antonio’s family to grow. No one can know ahead of time how many rooms. And it is custom to have only one maiden aunt at home. If two are kept, then they’ll argue.” Mother’s words lack emotion. They come in regular beats, like the movement of the brush.

I don’t even want to take care of Antonio’s children—but I want even less to go to a convent. “The boys all get to live here forever if they want—and they take up rooms, too.”

“Men can vote. It’s important that the family voters stay close and all vote the same way.” Mother shrugs. “Women can’t vote. It isn’t practical to keep daughters at home.”

Practical. I remember Francesco saying that to be Venetian is to be practical. I want to scream. “Is it practical to lock girls away in convents?”

“I don’t know any girls who were locked away, Donata, and neither do you.” Mother reaches with the brush for my hair.

I step away and shake my hair as though it’s a mane.

Mother goes back to brushing Laura’s hair. “Girls go into the convents voluntarily, for the good of the family.”

“Voluntarily?” I stare. “Who would volunteer for such a life?”

“The convent has its advantages.”

“What advantages?” I demand.

“Women are protected there.”

“Protected? Mother, they’re trapped. They have no freedom.”

“That’s not true, Donata. They can continue their music studies. They can have parties with lovely foods and any guests they like. And those who are so inclined can talk to diplomats and influence the direction of government.”

The last thing I want to do is continue my music lessons. And what’s the point of parties, if all I wear is long, black, shapeless gowns?

No one speaks.

“If I hadn’t married,” says Mother, at last, “I’d have entered a convent happily.”

“So you could influence the direction of government?” asks Laura.

Mother laughs. “A girl of my background couldn’t do that. But nuns can work. Many of them weave. That’s what I would have chosen.”

I know it’s true the moment she says it. Just yesterday morning her voice filled with joy when she talked of weaving. “That’s why you don’t feel sorry for us now. But look at us, Mother. We’re not lucky like you were. We have no trade to pursue. We’ve never had a chance to know a trade. Noble girls have no chances.”

Mother’s eyes cloud with pain and for an instant I’m sure she does understand, after all. But she blinks, and her eyes change again. “This from the one who always laments when asked to work? My dear Donata, you can’t have it both ways. Lucky, indeed. Your childhood has been full of pleasures. Your adulthood will be, as well, if you allow it.”

How does she do this? How does she manage to make me feel ungrateful whenever I complain? I want to argue more.

But Laura steps forward, cutting me off purposely, I know. “How often can nuns visit home?” Her very question smacks of resignation. I want to shake her.

“Suora Luciana came home for every important family event.”

Suora Luciana was another of Father’s sisters. She drowned in a boating accident when I was small. I don’t remember her. “That’s not enough,” I say. “This is our home. Not some dreadful convent.”

“There’s nothing dreadful about them. Oh, my daughters, the families of Venice recognize the sacrifice, and they are tolerant of behavior in the convents. They shut one eye.”

“As well they should, Mother.” My voice is firm, but already the practical side of me, the Venetian in my veins, wonders exactly what behavior is tolerated. I cannot ask, though. I will do nothing to suggest the convent is an option to consider.

“Don’t play the rebel now, Donata. It will serve you well to accept your future. What can you do about it anyway? This is the way things are.”

Laura sniffles. “Girls in convents do not fall in love.”

“Many girls outside of convents don’t fall in love, my daughter.”

I think of the whispers about unhappy marriages. Maybe by the time women are Mother’s age, they accept the idea of loveless marriages. But how can anyone accept that idea at the start of a marriage? “Andriana wants love,” I say. “I know she does. When the girls our age talk at parties, we talk about love—that’s what we talk about—and about the boys we’ve seen at Mass on Sundays and about who might like our brothers. Andriana wants love, Mother.”

“We will do our best to find Andriana the proper husband, but she will have to do her best to be happy with him, whoever he is. Old or young. Ugly or handsome.”

A proper husband. Mother always talks about proper this and proper that. She’s always trying to prove to everyone that she’s proper—that she’s worthy of Father. I’m so sick of being part of her proof. “What makes someone the proper husband, Mother, if not love?”

“Don’t talk nonsense, Donata. You know very well that a noble girl needs a husband who can offer her the kind of life she’s accustomed to. Falling in love has little to do with a good marriage.”

“Father fell in love with you,” says Laura. “He married you out of love.”

“And he paid for it roundly.” Mother puts the brush down and turns Laura to her. “Your father has the makings of a governor. There is no one smarter or more diligent than he. But when he chose a wife outside the nobility, he cut himself off from that kind of success.”

“I didn’t know that,” I say, instantly going limp inside. Father has always seemed content in his world. He talks of his brothers’ achievements without rancor—he boasts of them, even.

“That’s why he’s been so careful with you children.” Mother talks softly now. “The boys have been educated at home longer than most—so that Father could keep an eye on them. You girls have been more sheltered than most—so that no one can question your virtue and noble character.”

“Father got love, but we never will,” whispers Laura.

“There are all kinds of love.” Mother goes to the large canopied bed that Laura and I share. She sits and rests her hands in her lap. “Convents are bursting with the love called charity.”

“But they’re not bursting with children,” Laura says. “I want children, Mother.”

“Oh, my daughters, what you don’t know.” Mother motions us to her. Laura sits on the floor and puts her head on Mother’s lap. I remain standing, but close enough that my skirt presses against Mother’s. “The courtesans of Venice run a high risk,” says Mother, in a grave voice. “Many of them have children they neither want nor can care for. Venice has so many illegitimate children, her orphanages overflow. Besides that, many mothers die in childbirth, and their infants often go straight to the orphanages.”

I tremble slightly. When Mother gave birth to Giovanni, she was sick for months afterward. So sick that we had to get the wet nurse, Cara. When Mother first said Giovanni was her last child, I was grateful. I’d forgotten how grateful until just now.

“Clergy help in the education of these children,” Mother says. “Nuns teach the girls to sing and play instruments. They teach the boys the virtues of discipline and hard work. You can be like mothers to tens of children. You can do so much good with your lives.”

I don’t want to teach music. I don’t want to be surrounded by tens of children and pious women. I don’t know what I do want anymore, but it’s not that, it’s nothing like that.

Mother pats Laura’s cheek with one hand and takes my hand with her other. Her clasp is tight. I cling to it.