The Contessa's Vendetta (18 page)

“
That is what you truly believe?” I asked.

“
Si
, to eat, drink and be merry, to live life to its fullest, because tomorrow we die.”

I had no
desire to disagree with her. I only wanted to understand what dwelled in her shallow heart to convince me of her utter worthlessness. I tested her further. “There truly is no need to be virtuous unless it suits us. The only important thing is to avoid public scandal so that our more pleasant activities do not suffer.”

“
That is exactly right,” she said with a smile. “We women must guard our reputations and avoid scandal. A man’s reputation, however, is not so easily tarnished. Before he marries, and after he marries, he is totally free. He can take a dozen lovers if he likes, and if he manages them well, his wife need never be the wiser. She has her lovers, too of course. Why not? When an injured wife learns the truth about her husband’s infidelities, there is a devil of an argument, a moral one, the worst kind. But a clever man can always steer clear of scandal and gossip if he likes.”

Contemptible
bitch! I glanced at her pretty face and figure with unveiled disdain. With all the advantages I had given her, she was a bitch to the core. “I see you have a comprehensive understanding of the world and its ways. I admire your views. From what you told me, you have no sympathy with marital sins, do you?”

“
Not in the least. They are far too widespread and absurd. To me, the wronged wife always cuts such a pathetic figure.”

“
Always?” I raised an eyebrow. 

“Well, usually, she does. What can she do to resolve the problem if her husband refuses to relinquish his affair?

“
Very true,” I said with a forced laugh, exasperated by her despicable flippancy. She met my gaze with merriment and fearless candor. Her opinions did not shame her, rather she seemed to glory in them. The warm sunlight played upon her youthful features, yet the sight of her sickened me. The sooner I could crush her the better, for I would rid the world of one less traitor.  The thought of my dreadful but justified vendetta swept through me like an ill wind A shiver ran through me. 

I must have displayed some outward sign of discomfort, for Beatrice frowned.
“You look tired, contessa. Are you ill?” She reached out her hand to grasp mine. 

I waved it firmly away.
“It is nothing. I only felt a little faint, likely due to a recent illness I am recovering from.” I glanced out at the window. The afternoon was fading fast into evening. “You must excuse me. I should return home. I will send a servant to collect the pictures to save you the trouble of sending them to me.”

“
It is no trouble—” began Beatrice.

“
Please do not worry,” I interrupted. “I am perfectly capable of arranging things to my own preference. As you know, I am quite independent and wilful.”

She nodded and smiled; the smile of a toady
; a smile I hated.

“
At least allow me to accompany you back home,” she offered.

“
Grazie,
but no. It is not far and I look forward to a few moments of pleasant quiet.” The truth was that I could not stomach another moment with her. My strained nerves could take no more. I yearned to be alone. If I remained with her a moment longer, I feared I would be tempted to wrap my hands around her neck and strangle the life out of her. It took my entire will to wish her farewell with friendly, but forced courtesy.

She extended copious thanks for purchasing her pictures.

“Please, there is no need to thank me. I am proud to own such beautiful art.” My false compliment seemed to flatter her. I turned and left the room.

She accompanied me down the stairs and watched me from the doorway as I walked away with the slow and careful step of an elderly woman. The moment I knew I was out of her sight, I quickened my pace, a tempest of conflicting emotions roiling inside me.

When I passed through the front doors of my home, the first thing that met my eyes was a large gilded bowl filled with fresh fruit placed prominently on the entrance hall’s center-table.

“
Santina,” I called out. “Who sent this?” 

She removed the attached letter and handed it to me.

It was written in my husband’s own firm penmanship:

To remind the contessa of her promised visit tomorrow

Fury ran through my body like fire. I crumpled the parchment and flung it to the floor. The sweet aroma from the ripened peaches, lemons, grapes, and figs offended my senses. “Take these away at once,” I said to Santina. “Take them to the
Convento della Carita.
The orphans there will appreciate them.”

Santina took the basket and carried it out of the room. I breathed with relief the moment its fragrance and color left my sight. How cruel to receive a gift from my own orchards. Vexed and heartsick, I fell into an easy
chair. Within moments, however, the irony of the gift made me laugh.

So! My husband takes another step on the path of infidelity, bestowing his attentions upon a woman he knows nothing about, except that she is staggeringly rich and alone in the world. Wealth! It forces those swollen with pride to their knees. It makes the determined become submissive. Man is ever at its command. The more wealth Dario possesses, the more caresses and kisses he can aquire.

I smiled with indignation as I recalled Dario’s languid gaze when he said, y
ou do not seem to be so old
. I knew the meaning behind his words and recognized the greed in his eyes. We had been married for so long that I knew him well. My journey towards vengeance appeared smooth, almost too easy. I could see no complications, no hindrances. My betrayers had strolled willingly into my trap.

Bathed in my own cold blood, questions kept echoing in my mind. Was there any reason for me to be merciful towards them? Had they demonstrated one decent attribute? Was there any
honor, any shred of honesty, anything virtuous in either of them to justify my pity? And the answer I came to was always he same. No! Shallow to the heart’s core, they were cheaters and liars. Even the guilty passion they shared between them was hollow, without sincerity except to pursue their own pleasure and suit their own self-indulgence.

Dario, during that fateful conversation I had so painfully overheard at my villa, had hinted at the possibility of tiring of Beatrice, and she had just finished confessing that it was unreasonable to believe a man could be faithful to one woman all his life.

No, they were more than worthy of the calamity that fast approached them. Women like Beatrice and men like Dario are common, malicious creatures who deserved to be exterminated. And this I would do, but in my own good time.

“Welcome to Villa Mancini!” Dario greeted me with a broad grin.

His words sounded strange, almost dreamlike. Yet, this was no dream. I stood
with him and Beatrice on the lush green lawns of my garden. My beloved veranda with its climbing roses and fragrant jasmine beckoned. My grand villa, my childhood home where I had once been so happy, rose up before me nestled amid lush trees and terraced gardens in all its splendor. Its ethereal beauty swept my breath away. How I missed strolling in the gardens bursting with lemon trees and fragrant flowers. A sharp ache jammed my throat. I wanted to weep. My dear home; how dazzling, yet sad, it appeared. I had expected it to be in ruins; mistreated and uncared for without my loving touch, but thankfully, it was not.

I glanced at Beatrice and silently promised myself
to never allow her to become mistress here.

My gaze returned to my villa. I noticed subtle changes. Someone had removed my
favorite chair from its regular corner on the veranda. The cage that housed my beloved canaries, one orange and one yellow, no longer hung among the roses on the wall. And my dog, the smart little brown and white Lagotto Romagnolo, who excelled at searching out truffles, was nowhere in sight. What had become of poor Tito? He usually sniffed about the house and garden or slept on the lowest veranda step, basking in the sun. Incensed by his disappearance, I fought to contain my feelings in deference to the role I must play.  

Dario waited for me to say something as I continued to look about.
“Is something wrong, contessa?”

It would be wise for me to be as pleasant as possible.
“Oh, how could anyone be disappointed when they are beholding Paradise?”

Dario smiled.

Beatrice frowned impatiently, but said nothing.

My husband led the way into the house and the high-ceilinged
salotto
with its frescoed walls and wide windows that opened out to the gardens. In this room, the marble bust of me as a girl was missing. My virginal harpsichord handcrafted in Venice by Giovanni Celestini, distinguished by its exquisite casing ornamented with garlands of flowers and songbirds in magnificent inlay work, sat in its usual spot. My mandolin rested upon a side-table. Fresh flowers and ferns filled every Venetian glass vase in the room.

I seated myself and remarked on the beauty of the house and its surroundings.
“I remember it very well,” I added, quietly.

“
You remember it?” Beatrice questioned as she sat beside me on my favorite damask wing settee.

“
Of course. I used to visit quite regularly when I was a very young girl. Contessa Mancini and I played here together as children. The villa is very familiar to me.”

Dario settled himself on an armchair across from us.
“Did you ever meet my late wife?”

“
Only once; she was little more than a babe in arms. I recall her father seemed greatly enchanted by her, as was her mother.”

Dario steadied his
eyes on me. “What was Carlotta’s mother like?”

I paused a moment. Could I speak of that pure and blessed woman to this foul, though handsome creature? I knew I must.
“She was a beautiful woman unconscious of her beauty. All she cared about was to make others happy and to fill her home with a pleasant atmosphere of goodness and virtue. She died far too young.”

A flash of malevolence flared in Beatrice
’s eyes as she looked at me. “How fortunate for her to have died before she could tire of her husband. Otherwise, she might not have been so happy.”

My blood rose to a shocking heat, but I maintained my composure.
“I do not understand you, Signorina Cardano,” I said coldly. “The woman lived and died under the belief that being noble meant one must always behave honorably. She was a woman with great responsibilities and not one to spend her time in idle pursuits like many men and women of our generation. I am not as well versed in modern ideals of morality as you are.”

Dario swiftly interjected
to salvage the conversation from deteriorating. “Oh, my dear contessa, pay no attention to Signorina Cardano! She can be rash and impulsive and often speaks recklessly, but she does not mean what she says. My poor wife used to become very vexed with her, even though she was fond of her.”

Beatrice
’s eyes flamed, but he avoided looking at her.

“
Because you know so much about the Mancini family, would you like to meet my daughter, Chiara?” Dario asked. “Shall I send for her, or are you not interested in children?”

My heart thudded with both joy and anguish at the thought of seeing my daughter.
“I would love to meet my dear old friend’s daughter.”

My husband rang the bell and Giacomo entered. Giacomo, my old chief steward walked wearily and his aged features bore an injured expression
. It saddened me to see him so.  

“
Please bring Chiara to me,” Dario said.

While we waited, Beatrice engaged me in conversation. She tried to make up for her previous callous remark by agreeing to my opinions and nodding at everything I said.

After a few moments, the room’s door handle turned slightly.

“
Come in Chiara,” Dario called out impatiently. “Do be afraid.”