Daughters of the Doge (45 page)

I felt a shadow fall across my face and realized that Thomas had risen and was standing in front of me. I opened my eyes and saw that his hand was outstretched. ‘I apologize. I had not realized quite how seriously you were taking the matter. I withdraw everything, with apologies.’

I did not stand, but simply smiled at him. How many men did I know who had the strength of character to act as he had just done? ‘Thomas, you are indeed my greatest friend. And I am your greatest admirer. The matter is closed.’

I let my eyes drift across the canal once again, thoughts ebbing and flowing like the tide of the canal. The matter between Thomas and myself might be over, but he was right, the three women who now shaped so much of my life did present me with a dilemma, and a complicated one.

C
HAPTER
54

April the 27th 1556 – Fondamenta dei Mori

I wasted no time. Early the following morning, I set off on the short walk along the canalside from our new home to Tintoretto’s studio. I caught him as he opened up, and as I helped him with the studio shutters I told him the good news. He seemed pleased but relaxed, and in no hurry to make the arrangements.

‘Yasmeen looks after the sitting diary. I believe you met her the other day, with Veronica?’

I confirmed that we had met, although very briefly.

‘Well, this will be an opportunity to get to know her better. Yasmeen is a gemstone; I would be lost without her. She was only fourteen when she first came to ask me for work. How shy she was, but even then I could sense the potential. Her organizing skills are extraordinary; my mind would burst asunder with the thousands of details she is able to keep in her head – dates, sitting positions, accessories, clothing, everything. I learned long ago that you can’t trust the models. With the exception of Veronica, who can be relied upon, they will turn up in a green robe one day and a red one the next – for the same painting! But now Yasmeen controls the wardrobe and everyone knows where they are.

‘She will be here in half an hour – she likes to take breakfast with her father before she begins work. They live just down the pavement, only a few doors away. This is not called the Fondamenta dei Mori for nothing. This canalside has been home to the city’s Moorish population for over a hundred years. When I first set up my studio in Venice, I came here because it was cheap, but now I would not move anywhere else. It’s quiet, the light is good and the neighbours are friendly.’

We finished setting up for the day as the apprentices drifted in and helped us. I now attended the drawing and painting class four or five mornings a week, and was accepted as part of the family. I regularly offered to pay Jacopo for my education, but every time he refused.

‘When you get to painting, you can pay for the materials, but at the moment I value your friendship as much as the paper and charcoal are worth.’

He would say this in a deprecating manner, as if both were worth nothing. Nevertheless, I knew that he had taken a liking to me; he had made me a member of his painting family, and it in turn had accepted me to the point where the studio now felt more like home than did the house I shared with Thomas and the earl. In return, I helped around the studio and acted as a model whenever I was required, and worked hard to fulfil any promise Tintoretto thought I might have as an artist.

I thought about that sense of belonging as I sat at my table and began to draw the study of the day, a marble bust copied from a Roman original and carefully lit to give us every challenge of highlight and shadow. Thomas had told me he felt the same about the community at the Oratorio dei Crociferi where he now spent most of his days. Both of us had been driven from our lodgings by the clammy sense of imprisonment engendered by living so closely with Edward Courtenay day-by-day. But while we had both escaped, and found some meaningful activity with which to pass our days in Venice, Courtenay had still found nothing. Or nothing that Thomas and I were aware of.

‘Excuse me, Richard, but Yasmeen told me to tell you she can see you when you are ready.’ Little Augustino, the youngest of the apprentices and still, on occasions, uncomfortably shy, tapped me on the shoulder. I looked up, wondering whether I should leave my place or continue until the class broke up. Jacopo, seeing my expression, jerked his head sideways, as if to say, ‘Off you go.’

I went to the courtyard meeting table, but there was no sign of her, so I ventured towards the door beside the fretwork screen which had been the source of so much mystery to me. I knocked gently. Already I found myself acting: playing the role of Richard Stocker, honest and decent English gentleman; kind, thoughtful and whatever else a young and beautiful Arabic girl would want him to be.

‘Please, come in and sit here.’ In her own office she was more confident than she had been at our first meeting, but still somewhat shy.

‘I have come about the portrait for the earl of Devon. He is keen to commence the sittings and Jacopo said you were the one to talk to.’

She smiled, and for the first time that day looked straight at me. I felt her eyes burrowing inside me, as if looking for fault, for weakness, for something undeclared and unpleasant that would make her look away.

‘This is my sitting diary. Do you think the earl would want to sit here in the studio or in his own house?’

For a moment I felt relieved, as the focus of her attention moved away from me, although she maintained her gaze. ‘He normally likes people to visit him. It makes him more comfortable. The light is quite good in his rooms; I do not believe that would cause any difficulty.’

Again she smiled. It was like opening another shutter in the studio and letting in more sunlight. ‘Most of our patrons do. The more exalted their position, the more they tend to cling to their own familiar places.’

‘Are there exceptions?’

She considered, her long eyelashes sweeping downward like the tail-feathers of a peacock, then lifting to reveal the rich red-brown of her eyes again.

‘Explorers. Soldiers.’

She looked at me, as if for inspiration, and for the first time I felt my energy moving towards her. ‘Men who are measured by their achievements rather than by their positions of office?’

She laughed, apparently delighted that we had found common ground. ‘Yes, exactly. Achievers, you might say.’

‘People who
do,
rather than people who simply
are
?’

Again, she laughed, louder this time and more relaxed. ‘I like that.’ As if to emphasize the point, she put her hand on mine, and I clasped it eagerly. We sat for moments, seemingly unable to break the bond between us.

‘The sitting diary,’ she said, eventually.

‘What?’

‘I need my hand to turn the pages of the sitting diary.’

Reluctantly, I let her go.

‘This week is full, but next week the
maestro
could visit you on Tuesday, Thursday or Friday, in the afternoon. He likes to work here in the studio during the mornings. How far away do you live?’

‘Just along the canal – the Fondamenta della Sensa, perhaps three hundred paces.’

‘I’m sure he could manage that. Will you talk to your earl and return to me?’

‘Always.’

I thought she might snort in derision at such a crassly flirtatious retort, but she took my hand again.

‘If only you meant it.’

Once again I found myself desperately trying to play the role of my sincere self. ‘I did mean it. I do mean it.’

‘Well.You two seem to be getting on very well.’

It was Tintoretto. We jumped apart, embarrassed.

‘I did not realize the sitting diary was such a serious affair,’ he continued. ‘I am sorry to break up your discussions but there is a patron in the courtyard, Yasmeen, with quite a lot of money, and he would like a receipt. I would not want to keep him waiting.’

Yasmeen brushed her hair back with an automatic movement. ‘Tuesday, Thursday or Friday. Early afternoon.’ She looked at me seriously. ‘Let me know.’

I nodded.

‘I will. By the way, did you attend the Festival of Saint Mark the other day?

She looked at me, surprised. ‘Yes, with my father. Why do you ask?’

I shrugged, relieved. ‘Nothing.’

C
HAPTER
55

May the 4th 1556 – Convent of Sant’ Alvise

‘Excuse me, Suor Faustina; your legal adviser has arrived.’

I heard the voice down the cold stone corridor and thought I recognized her voice in reply.

‘Please tell him I shall join him in minutes. I have family papers to collect.’

She certainly was making an effort with the part she was playing; I hoped I would not let her down. As I waited, she appeared through the archway, talking earnestly to a young nun, who watched her with big brown eyes, nodding as Faustina gave her instructions. They whispered for a few more minutes, the young nun once looking up towards me, as if my name had come into their conversation, then she slipped quietly away down the corridor and Faustina turned to me.

‘Signor Frescobaldi, so good of you to come. Can I offer you something?’ She swept into the room, a picture of natural grace. She was dressed formally, in a nun’s habit, but even my limited understanding of women’s clothing told me this was no ordinary habit issued from the convent stores. The bodice was waisted, and the skirt below carefully pleated, so that when she walked the ensemble swung gently around her, emphasizing the slimness of her body and the straightness of her posture. I declined her offer and waited for her lead. She appeared to be playing to an audience, but I was not clear who that audience was, until she called out.