Miss Weston's Masquerade

So much for his fine talk of reform and responsible behaviour. Why, he had just abandoned her in his eagerness to go out – she groped for a word and came up with the ugliest she could remember – whoring.

Images of the painted ceiling flashed through her mind, but it was Nicholas’s face on the satyr’s body, the painted breasts of the courtesan on the nymphs.

She tossed the wine seller a few coins and stumbled miserably towards home. The door was open and a watchman blinked sleepily at her from his chair in the hallway as she dragged herself up the stairs. She pushed open the door into Nicholas’s chamber, driven by an obscure need to touch something belonging to him.

His brocade dressing gown lay on the bed and she picked it up, smelling the ambergris he used. ‘Oh, Nicholas,’ she whispered miserably. What did she expect? He was a man of the world, used to indulging himself. He had not asked to chaperone a sulky, inexperienced girl across Europe.

‘Where the hell have you been?’ Nicholas roared at her from the connecting doorway to her room.

Cassandra jumped, dropping the robe as she clutch the bedpost in shock, her heart thudding in her throat. ‘I thought you were out.’

‘That is all too obvious.’ He strode into the room and took her roughly by the shoulders. ‘Where have you been sneaking off to? I managed to get Antonio to admit he’d allowed you to go out, but that’s all I’d expect from a Venetian rogue of a servant.’

‘Let go, you’re hurting me.’ Cassandra tried to free her arm from his grasp, but he only pulled her closer, a look of distaste crossing his face as he smelled the wine on her breath.

‘You’re drunk,’ he snarled. ‘Who have you been drinking with?’

‘No one,’ she protested, twisting in his grasp.

‘Don’t lie to me.’ Cassandra had never seen him so angry. ‘And what else have you been doing tonight?’

The implication was clear, even through the fog of wine that was muddling her thoughts. ‘You think I’ve been… that I would… How dare you.’

‘What am I to think, with you wandering the streets like a…’

‘Like a courtesan?’ she finished for him. ‘Hardly. But I know what a courtesan looks like.’ Her chin came up and she looked him straight in the eye. ‘She has long, unbound hair twisted with a vermilion silk scarf. She paints her face, but lightly if she is young. Her breasts are bare and her gown is sequinned and she paints her nails to match other parts of her body which should remain concealed. She laughs a lot and when she does, the ruby round her neck…’

Nicholas jerked her against his chest, glaring down into her face as she stared back defiantly. ‘You little witch. You followed me.’

‘I did not. But if you flaunt your courtesan in St Mark’s Square you should not wonder if you are seen.’ She wrenched herself free and ran across to the balcony, desperate for air. She felt sick with the heat and wine and the sordid argument.

Nicholas followed and, before she knew what he intended, he had upended her across his knee and brought his hand down hard across the seat of her breeches. With the strength of pure outrage, Cassandra twisted free, bringing up her hand to fetch him a vicious crack across the cheekbone.

The force of the blow snapped his head back and brought tears to her eyes. Nicholas stood frozen, one hand to his face, then turned on his heel and slammed the window shut with a clap that bounced off the walls of the little square.

Cassandra clutched the balcony rail as a wave of sickness swept her from head to foot. When she recovered herself, she raised her head slowly and found herself meeting the quizzical gaze of the woman in the room opposite. She was lit by a branch of candles at one side and Cassandra saw a fleeting smile touch her lips. The woman raised her hand in a small salute, then slowly turned and vanished into the room.

A thin dawn light penetrated the little courtyard, touching warm fingers on the damp stonework behind Cassandra’s head. She blinked and shook her head, wincing at the pain behind her eyes. So this was what an excess of wine felt like.

She struggled to her feet, grimacing at the stiffness in her cold limbs and realised that she must have dozed off eventually, after a miserable hour or two. Sickeningly the memory of the terrible quarrel with Nicholas hit her, the shocking words she had used to him, the humiliation of being put over his knee like a recalcitrant school-boy, and she had raised her hand to him. How could she have struck Nicholas?

No gently brought up young lady would use violence under any circumstances, save to protect her virtue or her life. And, however hypocritical he was being, she sensed Nicholas’s anger was prompted by his wish to protect her. But… He had not listened to her, he had assumed the worst and he had lost his temper every bit as much as she had. Perhaps she was not so much to blame as she thought.

Cassandra heard the creak of oars and leant out over the rail to watch a vegetable boat emerge from the miasma of mist rising from the canal. The city was beginning to wake and go about its business and a servant from the palazzo ran down the steps and hailed the vendor. After much haggling and jesting, conducted in whispers, the servant returned, his wicker basket laden with salads and fruit.

Silence fell again, broken only by the slap of the boat’s wake against the greenish stonework of the landing steps. Cassandra turned unhappily towards her chamber window, then paused as a man’s voice, low and sensual, broke the peace in the courtyard.

Standing back in the concealing shadows of the architrave, Cassandra watched as a cloaked figure stopped on his way from the house opposite to the steps. He was looking up to the window where the Titian-haired woman in the green wrapper leaned out, calling softly down to him.

As the church clocks began striking five the gentleman swept an elaborate bow, gesturing to a sleek black gondola which had drawn up in readiness. Intrigued by the pantomime of parting, Cassandra forgot her woes, watching the lovers. The woman beckoned, and as the man approached again, tossed down a round object. The gallant caught it one-handed, laughing up at his lady as he broke open the fruit.

A pomegranate. Cassandra had never tasted one, but she recognised the faceted red flesh and smooth exterior of the fruit. Somehow, it added to the fairy tale mood of the scene with the mist rising off the canal and the sleeping city slowly rousing all around them.

The magic held Cassandra until the carved stern of the gondola slipped from sight, then with a sigh she turned to slip into her room. As she moved, she found herself caught in the steady gaze of the courtesan. The woman smiled as she had before, then beckoned with one long-nailed finger.

‘Me?’ Cassandra mouthed foolishly, looking round, but there was no one else in sight. The woman nodded and gestured again. Cassandra hesitated, intrigued by the summons, yet unwilling to run the gauntlet of the servants, who would all be about their business by now.

Suddenly emboldened, she swung a leg over the balustrade, gripped the heavily carved stonework, and in a moment had reached the safety of the courtyard, with only a scraped knuckle and a burst seam to show for her foolhardiness.