Read Online 3 - Cruel Music by Beverle Graves Myers - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Beverle Graves Myers
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a quarter mile of dike that hasn’t been touched. The better part of a year, I should think.”
His uncle nodded sagely. Finally lowering his tone to a conspiratorial whisper, he replied, “Well and good. Antonio can bide his time, then.”
***
Leaning back against the cold masonry, I forced my thoughts back to the present. I wished I could say that my labors over the long evening had borne fruit, but I would only be lying to myself. When Cardinal Fabiani’s departure from the dining hall had signaled the assembly to disperse, my head was bursting with new faces and new information, little of which seemed likely to advance my progress.
The door to the balcony rattled and Benito came out, looking for all the world like Matteo’s nurse when the boy had overstayed his bedtime.
“It’s late, Master.”
“I know.”
“The breeze is picking up.”
“So it is.”
“I’ve warmed your bed.”
“Thank you. I won’t need anything else. Retire if you like.”
Instead of retreating, Benito closed the door and moved to lean over the balcony railing. He craned his neck up and down, right and left.
“Checking for eavesdroppers? I think even Rossobelli must be in his bed by now.”
“It never hurts to be sure.”
I smiled in the darkness. In his varied adventures, my manservant had learned to be wary. I should take a leaf from his book.
The lowering moon shone on Benito’s smooth forehead. “Come to bed, Master. You’ve done everything you can do for tonight.”
“I’ve accomplished nothing.”
“Cardinal Fabiani enjoyed your singing. That gives you a start.”
“How do you know that Fabiani was pleased?”
“I spent most of the evening in the servants’ hall.”
I cocked my head in a silent question.
“They just knew,” he answered. “It’s hard to hide anything from people who dress you, drive you, feed you, and clean up all your messes.”
I nodded. I’d experienced the relationship of master and servant from both sides. Though my calling provided me with an income sufficient to hire Benito’s services and contribute to the running of our house on the Campo dei Polli, many of the wealthy who engaged me to sing treated me more like a servant paid to amuse than the artist I was.
Benito raised a gracefully plucked eyebrow. “If I tell you I’ve already found out an interesting thing or two, will you go to bed?”
“It depends. How interesting are these things?”
“You be the judge. The first is that Cardinal Fabiani had a favorite singer who occupied these very rooms. A castrato named Gaetano Tucci, by all accounts a pleasant fellow. Even the cook had a good word for him, and she’s a harridan who spouts nothing but complaints. Fabiani dismissed Tucci when he learned that you were coming.”
“I see.” That explained the coolness of the other concert musicians. To them, I was an unwanted interloper. “And the other interesting thing?”
“Prince Pompetti is a frequent visitor at the villa.”
“Senator Montorio is already aware of that.”
“Is he also aware that the prince changes coachmen and footmen as often as a woman changes her hat?”
“Why?”
“That I don’t know.”
“How did you hear of this?”
Benito sent me a pert smile. “I didn’t waste my time downstairs. I’ve been making friends.”
“Would your friend be the broad-backed footman who brought up my trunks and lingered to help you unpack?”
He nodded. “That’s Guido.”
“Ah, Guido is it?” I rubbed my eyes and stretched my neck. Fatigue was finally taking hold. “Be careful, Benito. Rome isn’t Venice. People don’t come here for pleasure—they come on pilgrimages to display their Christian virtues. The power rests in the hands of the churchmen.”
Benito snorted. “Guido’s already told me all about how it works.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.” Benito smoothed his hair, preening like a proud canary. “Guido says that in Rome everybody gives orders, but nobody obeys them, so it all
His uncle nodded sagely. Finally lowering his tone to a conspiratorial whisper, he replied, “Well and good. Antonio can bide his time, then.”
***
Leaning back against the cold masonry, I forced my thoughts back to the present. I wished I could say that my labors over the long evening had borne fruit, but I would only be lying to myself. When Cardinal Fabiani’s departure from the dining hall had signaled the assembly to disperse, my head was bursting with new faces and new information, little of which seemed likely to advance my progress.
The door to the balcony rattled and Benito came out, looking for all the world like Matteo’s nurse when the boy had overstayed his bedtime.
“It’s late, Master.”
“I know.”
“The breeze is picking up.”
“So it is.”
“I’ve warmed your bed.”
“Thank you. I won’t need anything else. Retire if you like.”
Instead of retreating, Benito closed the door and moved to lean over the balcony railing. He craned his neck up and down, right and left.
“Checking for eavesdroppers? I think even Rossobelli must be in his bed by now.”
“It never hurts to be sure.”
I smiled in the darkness. In his varied adventures, my manservant had learned to be wary. I should take a leaf from his book.
The lowering moon shone on Benito’s smooth forehead. “Come to bed, Master. You’ve done everything you can do for tonight.”
“I’ve accomplished nothing.”
“Cardinal Fabiani enjoyed your singing. That gives you a start.”
“How do you know that Fabiani was pleased?”
“I spent most of the evening in the servants’ hall.”
I cocked my head in a silent question.
“They just knew,” he answered. “It’s hard to hide anything from people who dress you, drive you, feed you, and clean up all your messes.”
I nodded. I’d experienced the relationship of master and servant from both sides. Though my calling provided me with an income sufficient to hire Benito’s services and contribute to the running of our house on the Campo dei Polli, many of the wealthy who engaged me to sing treated me more like a servant paid to amuse than the artist I was.
Benito raised a gracefully plucked eyebrow. “If I tell you I’ve already found out an interesting thing or two, will you go to bed?”
“It depends. How interesting are these things?”
“You be the judge. The first is that Cardinal Fabiani had a favorite singer who occupied these very rooms. A castrato named Gaetano Tucci, by all accounts a pleasant fellow. Even the cook had a good word for him, and she’s a harridan who spouts nothing but complaints. Fabiani dismissed Tucci when he learned that you were coming.”
“I see.” That explained the coolness of the other concert musicians. To them, I was an unwanted interloper. “And the other interesting thing?”
“Prince Pompetti is a frequent visitor at the villa.”
“Senator Montorio is already aware of that.”
“Is he also aware that the prince changes coachmen and footmen as often as a woman changes her hat?”
“Why?”
“That I don’t know.”
“How did you hear of this?”
Benito sent me a pert smile. “I didn’t waste my time downstairs. I’ve been making friends.”
“Would your friend be the broad-backed footman who brought up my trunks and lingered to help you unpack?”
He nodded. “That’s Guido.”
“Ah, Guido is it?” I rubbed my eyes and stretched my neck. Fatigue was finally taking hold. “Be careful, Benito. Rome isn’t Venice. People don’t come here for pleasure—they come on pilgrimages to display their Christian virtues. The power rests in the hands of the churchmen.”
Benito snorted. “Guido’s already told me all about how it works.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.” Benito smoothed his hair, preening like a proud canary. “Guido says that in Rome everybody gives orders, but nobody obeys them, so it all
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