This Rough Magic (27 page)

"I was here first. You can wait your turn."

The woman's jaw dropped. She caught it; pinched her lips, took a deep breath, and emitted a screeching: "
Do you know who I am?
You—you—" She looked at Maria's fairly plain, unfashionable garb. "You Corfiote
puttana
!"

Maria put Alessia down, carefully. "I don't care who you are. But if you like I can throw you into the harbor to cool off. With luck, your head will go underwater and spare me from having to stare anymore at what the elderly maiden aunts of the
Case Vecchie
were wearing last year."

The last part of the statement made the woman's eyes bulge. She looked uncommonly like one of those fancy poodles that had become the latest fashion among the
Case Vecchie
of Venice. Her eye-bulge was more fashionable than her hairstyle. "You—you—
How dare you?
I'll tell my husband of your insolence!"

"Do. Then I can toss him into the harbor, too," said Maria, advancing on the woman. "He's clearly not doing his duty in beating you often enough to curb that tongue of yours."

The woman retreated, tripping over her petticoats in her haste. "You haven't heard the last of this, you Corfiote cow!"

Maria turned back and retrieved Alessia, who was going into full wail. It took her a short while to soothe her down.

The little woman shook her head incredulously. "Kyria, do you know who that was?"

Maria shook her head, her temper cooling. "No. Who?"

"That is the wife of the captain-general! Sophia Tomaselli!"

Maria said something very indelicate.

The little woman just about fell apart laughing and trying to restrain herself. "They say that's what she was before the marriage."

Maria gritted her teeth. She'd better tell Umberto about this. It was not a very promising start to their stay in Corfu. She bought some fresh bread and headed back to the house.

Umberto's gloomy expression got deeper when she told him about it. "More troubles. I'm getting somewhere with the senior journeymen. I am not winning with the Corfiotes or the other masters. Oh, well. We must expect things to take time. There is a reception and dinner tonight for the new people sent out by the Senate. We will have to attend."

Maria had done certain small adaptations to the dress she had worn for Kat's wedding. She only had five dresses—though that was more than she would have ever dreamed of owning once, more than most ordinary women would ever own. This one, however, was special. Francesca with her impeccable eye had picked out the fabric from among all of the gowns that had once graced Kat's mother. Francesca's dressmaker had remade it, knowing it would adorn one of the ladies who would get an enormous amount of attention at the wedding.

The dressmaker had wanted to be absolutely certain of two things: First, that the dress would fill every aspirant of fashion in the
Case
Vecchie
with a desire to own it. And, second, that the owner would love the dress so much that she would send all those who asked about it to Madame Therasé.

And, indeed, the dressmaker had succeeded beyond her expectations, even among the haut monde of Venice. By the standards that prevailed in little out-of-the-way Corfu . . .

The wine-red gown would excite envy to a fever pitch. The red velvet, with a pattern woven into it of high and low pile, was the sort of stuff that would never go out of style and was appallingly expensive. The low, square neckline and the flattened bosom were of the very latest style, as was the natural waistline, rather than the line that came just under the bosom. As was proper in a married woman, the undergown, of the finest linen, covered most of her exposed chest, right up to the collarbone, and it was pulled through the myriad small slashings in the sleeves, which were faced with scarlet silk.

The sleeves themselves were enormous, like a couple of hams. Maria often thought that she could probably smuggle most of what her old pole-boat used to carry in those sleeves. They ended in tight cuffs, though, which would make getting anything into them rather impractical. The beautiful pillow-lace that finished the sleeves of the undergown showed at the cuffs, and trimmed the edge of the undergown's neckline. The bodice of the overgown was sewn with tiny seed pearls in a latticework pattern, a pattern that was repeated on the sleeves.

The captain-general's wife had worn a gown with a high waist, and no slashings in the sleeves at all. And while her gown for this festivity would probably be of more opulent materials, Maria doubted that it would be of more recent date.

Jewelry . . . well, she only had two pieces. They'd not pass a jeweler's eye. But the three ropes of "pearls" of glass and fish-scale would stand up to any lesser scrutiny. Francesca had seen to that, and if anyone knew jewelry, it was a courtesan. And there were earrings to match.

Maria felt some pride when she looked at herself in the mirror. She gave a vixenish grin at the elegant woman with her dark, lustrous hair done up "a la didon" as Francesca had showed her. She was sorry that Caesare couldn't see her like this. Then she'd have been able to spit in his face and laugh at him. He'd always played her origins against her in a nasty game designed to keep her feeling at once utterly inferior to him and at the same time terribly grateful that he deigned to honor her with his attentions. She could see that now, with the benefit of looking back from a distance, and from the positively old age of nineteen.

She bit her lips to redden them, make them fuller, and used just a touch of belladonna around her eyes to make the pupils widen. Umberto's sharp intake of breath when he saw her brought a smile to her face.

She took his arm, and allowed him to reverently escort her to the reception, feeling a wave of warmth for her husband. Yes, granted, Umberto was unimaginative, often even stodgy—in bed as well as everywhere else—with not a trace of Caesare's golden charm or Benito's wit and bravura. And so what? He was conscientious, considerate, kindly; scrupulously responsible in his family duties; and, in his own sometimes fussy and always respectable way, he doted on her. That was its own treasure, after all, which she would repay in full with loyalty and affection.

Maria did not love Umberto, not really; but, slowly and steadily, she was growing very fond of the man.

The captain-general and his wife stood beside the elderly podesta and his wife to welcome the guests. Maria managed to keep an absolute deadpan face when she was introduced. Sophia Tomaselli did not. The captain general's wife saw the face first. And then . . . just as she was about to explode, took in the elegant hairstyling and the dress. Maria smiled vaguely at her as if she'd never seen the now ashen-faced woman in her life before.

It got worse. The podesta's wife was frail and white haired. She smiled at Maria with genuine warmth, instead of the
Case Vecchie
-greeting-the-lowly-Scuolo attitude that the captain-general and his wife adopted.

"My dear Maria! Welcome to Corfu. I have had a letter from the Doge's ward about you, begging my kindness to a dear friend. Marco tells me you are a close friend of his wife's, who was of the
Casa
Montescue."

The little white-haired woman twinkled at her husband, making light of a friendship between one of the Scuolo and a
Case Vecchie
longi
house like Montescue. "My dear Alexio stole me away from that scamp Lodovico Montescue. Lodovico was a terrible tearaway when I was young. The scandal of the town! But very charming. I remember him with great fondness. Have you met him?"

"I . . . Yes, I know him, milady. He is a grand old man, gallant as anyone half his age. He can still be very charming."

The podesta's wife laughed and patted Maria's arm. "I am delighted to hear it. We must have a talk later. I can't wait to hear what that old rogue has been up to."

"I look forward to it, milady," said Maria with trepidation. How would she cope with
Case Vecchie
gossip? It was bad enough keeping her mouth shut, in case her tongue betrayed her origins in a crowd, where everyone simply said polite nothings. Back then—several lifetimes ago it seemed—she'd dreamed of being fine enough to be a
Case Vecchie
wife for the aristocratic Caesare. Well, a master-craftsman's wife stood far lower on the social scale, but it was still a long step from "canal-woman." A one-on-one conversation would be hell. But for Umberto's sake she'd had to try.

Maria couldn't help flicking a glance at the captain-general and his wife. Sophia Tomaselli's face was white under her makeup, and two red spots burned in her cheeks. Maria didn't need to look at her fulminating eyes to know that she'd acquired an enemy for life. Aside from their confrontation . . . now, thanks to Marco's well-meaning attempt to smooth her path, the woman also knew that Maria and Umberto had powerful political connections. If Maria knew anything about that kind of woman, the captain-general's wife wouldn't let that stop her. She'd just honey her spite in public—and plot, scheme and gossip in private. And doubtless nag that husband of hers. He, poor man, obviously knew his wife's expressions well. He was already looking nervous.

Then, Maria realized she'd done more than merely make the captain-general's wife look like she was wearing her mother's unaltered gown, which someone like Sophia Tomaselli would consider an insult of the first water.

Umberto smiled at her. "Phillipo here tells me you have quite stolen Signora Tomaselli's thunder, my dear. She is used to being the center of attention; everyone in our community considered her to be the most beautiful lady on the island. Tonight there are far more people looking at you. You cast her into the shade."

He meant it well, but Maria was hard-pressed not to groan. All it needed was that! She looked across the hall to where Sophia was saying something to two other women. They both suddenly glanced at her. And hastily looked away.

She stood at the head of the stone breakwater, her long blond hair streaming like a banner in the wind. Farther back along the breakwater, Maria could see the inevitable brothers were lounging against some crates, along with four or five of their Vinlander escort. To the north the galleys of the Outremer-bound Venetian convoy cut the bright water under full sail.

Maria suppressed a chuckle. Svanhild was making absolutely certain that the first thing that Erik saw was going to be her. The dockyard tarts were also on the quay-side, but Svanhild was making damn sure she got her hooks set before the island's hookers did.

But that wasn't really fair, Maria knew. She was thinking like a canaler. The Vinlander woman wouldn't see it that way; her heart might know what she was really doing, but her head would be telling her that she only wanted to get the first possible sight of the convoy and of Erik.

Maria left off watching the convoy coming in. They were still under sail; they'd have to drop their sails and come in to port under oars. Maria hoped Svanhild felt like a good long stand, because she was going to be on her feet there for a while.

But Maria couldn't wait about; she had food to prepare. The one thing that Corfu had going for it was the presence in the market of even better fish than were available in Venice. She'd bought some small octopus this morning. Umberto loved them, and he was having a rough enough time at work for Maria to wish to improve his day just a little. Umberto was used to working within the framework of rigid guild discipline, where a master-craftsman said something and was obeyed, instantly and precisely. Here, away from Venice . . . what was needed was a sharp clout from the Master before the 'prentices would stop their pretense of immobility.

The small house was redolent with the scent of
zuppa con popli
, and Umberto was still sitting with a glass of white wine, the frown-lines easing around his eyes and forehead, when someone knocked at the door.

Maria went to it, angry. "Can't you even leave the master to eat his meal in peace!" she yelled. The Little Arsenal would work day and night now until the fleet left, and she expected it to be yet another problem for Umberto's attention.

But, when she flung the door open, she saw it wasn't someone from the shipyard. Instead it was a very woebegone looking Svanhild and her brothers and their men. The narrow roadway seemed very full of large Vinlanders.

Maria was taken entirely aback. "Oh! I . . . I thought it was someone for my husband from the shipyard. I'm so sorry."

"Erik is not on the ships!" By the reddened eyes Svanhild had already been crying. The poor woman-child seemed to spend her life crying.

"Oh." That seemed a very inadequate thing to say. Maria knew the Vinlanders had almost certainly extended their stay in Europe for a whole season on the basis of what she'd told them about Erik's plans. The only reason they were here at all was because of what she'd said about the convoys stopping at Corfu.

"I know Prince Manfred is definitely going to the Holy Land," she protested. "Katerina told me herself! And she got that from . . . uh, from Mademoiselle de Chevreuse. She's, ah, a close friend of the prince."

"None of them are on the convoy," Svanhild repeated, half-wailing. "I've lost him!"

"I believe I can help you, my lady," said Umberto diffidently, from the table where he had hastily risen to his feet. "Prince Manfred and his Knights of the Holy Trinity are coming with four special great galleys that have been built for service off Cyprus. I heard from the admiral of the Outremer fleet that they were doing final outfitting in the Arsenal the day his fleet left. He says they should not be more than a week behind the Outremer convoy." Gloomily, he added: "The Little Arsenal will be sore pressed to fix those vessels as well, if we haven't got the Outremer fleet out by then."

It was like the sun coming out on Svanhild's face again, and it looked as if she would gladly have flung herself at Umberto and kissed him, if it hadn't been so improper to do so. So Maria did just that for her. He was a good man.

Far enough away from the house not to be spotted in the darkness, two women studied the figure standing in the doorway talking to the enormous and crude Vinlanders. Sophia Tomaselli's expression was tight and pinched with anger; that of her friend Bianca Casarini, simply cool and calculating.