Read Online The Rossetti Letter (v5) by Christi Phillips - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Christi Phillips
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she wanted to go. In just over a week, she could be on a plane, on her way there. There’d be some kid sitting beside her, but so what? She could find out what this Cambridge professor had written and, even better, she could spend the rest of the week in the Biblioteca Nazionale Marciana, Venice’s library, doing research. A week wasn’t much time, but it was better than nothing. She’d be able to check the original documents for some of the sources she’d already cited; best of all, Alessandra Rossetti’s diaries were there.
“And, as I told you the other day, there are Italian—” Meredith stopped as they heard a man’s voice calling out an uncertain “Hello?” from the reception area.
Meredith stood up as Edward Fry appeared at the door. Claire made a quick appraisal: tall, medium build, vaguely athletic. About forty-five, she guessed, with a golfer’s tan and attractive crinkles around his eyes when he smiled. He was casually attired in jeans and a polo shirt. The most remarkable thing about him was the plaster cast on his left foot and his hospital-issue cane, and Claire was reminded of why her assistance was being sought. It occurred to her that he might have done something truly terrible to deserve his ex-wife’s fury. She was somewhat surprised to discover that Edward Fry was a pleasant man, and Claire soon realized that she’d made up her mind: she would go to Venice as his daughter’s chaperone.
Honestly, how bad could it be?
Fortitude
21 May 1617
“O NCE MORE, ALL the way across the room,” La Celestia said.
Alessandra hitched up her skirt and took a tentative step in her new choppines, the high, platform shoes favored by Venice’s style-conscious women.
“Don’t pull at your dress, it looks awkward. Your arms should rest gracefully at your sides, like so.” La Celestia waved Alessandra back. “Start again.”
Again? Alessandra sighed impatiently. La Celestia was a bigger tyrant than Signor Ligorio, her old Latin master.
“I heard that,” La Celestia said. “Any time you’re ready to give up, just remember that the convent awaits.”
Alessandra tottered back to the end of the room. La Celestia stood at the other end, a good distance away. The courtesan’s bedchamber was larger than most salons; it was easily twice the size of Alessandra’s largest room at home. In the three weeks since she’d first come here, she hadn’t quite overcome her astonishment at the luxuriousness of La Celestia’s palazzo. Each day she found another detail at which to marvel: soaring ceilings painted with clouds and angels or scenes from mythology; endless mosaic tile floors, layered with sumptuous carpets; a camera d’oro —or chamber of gold, with walls coated in gold leaf—adjacent to the portego that glowed in the afternoons with a light so rich it appeared almost liquid. The walls were covered with tapestries, ornate mirrors, and portraits of La Celestia—Alessandra had counted eight so far. On the top floor was a lavish room just for bathing, containing a huge tub where the courtesan took her daily ablutions, in water steeped with fragrant herbs, or, twice a week, in milk.
The entire house was filled with sunlight, fresh flowers, and, in the afternoons, the sweet melodies of La Celestia’s young daughters, Caterina and Elena, at their music lessons. Peacocks strutted on the altana, the rooftop loggia; finches, parakeets, and larks in gilded cages twittered and filled the air with their song; the courtesan’s pet monkey, Odomo, had his own small room furnished with a tiny canopy bed and brocade chairs. Servants of every sort appeared and disappeared as effortlessly as apparitions, always ready to fulfill the slightest request. If Alessandra had not known otherwise, she would have thought that a princess lived in this palace.
Alessandra started across the room again, trying to imitate the graceful, gliding walk La Celestia had shown her. Why was it impossible to hold her arms elegantly
“And, as I told you the other day, there are Italian—” Meredith stopped as they heard a man’s voice calling out an uncertain “Hello?” from the reception area.
Meredith stood up as Edward Fry appeared at the door. Claire made a quick appraisal: tall, medium build, vaguely athletic. About forty-five, she guessed, with a golfer’s tan and attractive crinkles around his eyes when he smiled. He was casually attired in jeans and a polo shirt. The most remarkable thing about him was the plaster cast on his left foot and his hospital-issue cane, and Claire was reminded of why her assistance was being sought. It occurred to her that he might have done something truly terrible to deserve his ex-wife’s fury. She was somewhat surprised to discover that Edward Fry was a pleasant man, and Claire soon realized that she’d made up her mind: she would go to Venice as his daughter’s chaperone.
Honestly, how bad could it be?
Fortitude
21 May 1617
“O NCE MORE, ALL the way across the room,” La Celestia said.
Alessandra hitched up her skirt and took a tentative step in her new choppines, the high, platform shoes favored by Venice’s style-conscious women.
“Don’t pull at your dress, it looks awkward. Your arms should rest gracefully at your sides, like so.” La Celestia waved Alessandra back. “Start again.”
Again? Alessandra sighed impatiently. La Celestia was a bigger tyrant than Signor Ligorio, her old Latin master.
“I heard that,” La Celestia said. “Any time you’re ready to give up, just remember that the convent awaits.”
Alessandra tottered back to the end of the room. La Celestia stood at the other end, a good distance away. The courtesan’s bedchamber was larger than most salons; it was easily twice the size of Alessandra’s largest room at home. In the three weeks since she’d first come here, she hadn’t quite overcome her astonishment at the luxuriousness of La Celestia’s palazzo. Each day she found another detail at which to marvel: soaring ceilings painted with clouds and angels or scenes from mythology; endless mosaic tile floors, layered with sumptuous carpets; a camera d’oro —or chamber of gold, with walls coated in gold leaf—adjacent to the portego that glowed in the afternoons with a light so rich it appeared almost liquid. The walls were covered with tapestries, ornate mirrors, and portraits of La Celestia—Alessandra had counted eight so far. On the top floor was a lavish room just for bathing, containing a huge tub where the courtesan took her daily ablutions, in water steeped with fragrant herbs, or, twice a week, in milk.
The entire house was filled with sunlight, fresh flowers, and, in the afternoons, the sweet melodies of La Celestia’s young daughters, Caterina and Elena, at their music lessons. Peacocks strutted on the altana, the rooftop loggia; finches, parakeets, and larks in gilded cages twittered and filled the air with their song; the courtesan’s pet monkey, Odomo, had his own small room furnished with a tiny canopy bed and brocade chairs. Servants of every sort appeared and disappeared as effortlessly as apparitions, always ready to fulfill the slightest request. If Alessandra had not known otherwise, she would have thought that a princess lived in this palace.
Alessandra started across the room again, trying to imitate the graceful, gliding walk La Celestia had shown her. Why was it impossible to hold her arms elegantly
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