think of the whispers about unhappy marriages. Maybe by the time women are Mother’s age, they accept the idea of loveless marriages. But how can anyone accept that idea at the start of a marriage? “Andriana wants love,” I say. “I know she does. When the girls our age talk at parties, we talk about love—that’s what we talk about—and about the boys we’ve seen at Mass on Sundays and about who might like our brothers. Andriana wants love, Mother.”
“We will do our best to find Andriana the proper husband, but she will have to do her best to be happy with him, whoever he is. Old or young. Ugly or handsome.”
A proper husband. Mother always talks about proper this and proper that. She’s always trying to prove to everyone that she’s proper—that she’s worthy of Father. I’m so sick of being part of her proof. “What makes someone the proper husband, Mother, if not love?”
“Don’t talk nonsense, Donata. You know very well that a noble girl needs a husband who can offer her the kind of life she’s accustomed to. Falling in love has little to do with a good marriage.”
“Father fell in love with you,” says Laura. “He married you out of love.”
“And he paid for it roundly.” Mother puts the brush down and turns Laura to her. “Your father has the makings of a governor. There is no one smarter or more diligent than he. But when he chose a wife outside the nobility, he cut himself off from that kind of success.”
“I didn’t know that,” I say, instantly going limp inside. Father has always seemed content in his world. He talks of his brothers’ achievements without rancor—he boasts of them, even.
“That’s why he’s been so careful with you children.” Mother talks softly now. “The boys have been educated at home longer than most—so that Father could keep an eye on them. You girls have been more sheltered than most—so that no one can question your virtue and noble character.”
“Father got love, but we never will,” whispers Laura.
“There are all kinds of love.” Mother goes to the large canopied bed that Laura and I share. She sits and rests her hands in her lap. “Convents are bursting with the love called charity.”
“But they’re not bursting with children,” Laura says. “I want children, Mother.”
“Oh, my daughters, what you don’t know.” Mother motions us to her. Laura sits on the floor and puts her head on Mother’s lap. I remain standing, but close enough that my skirt presses against Mother’s. “The courtesans of Venice run a high risk,” says Mother, in a grave voice. “Many of them have children they neither want nor can care for. Venice has so many illegitimate children, her orphanages overflow. Besides that, many mothers die in childbirth, and their infants often go straight to the orphanages.”
I tremble slightly. When Mother gave birth to Giovanni, she was sick for months afterward. So sick that we had to get the wet nurse, Cara. When Mother first said Giovanni was her last child, I was grateful. I’d forgotten how grateful until just now.
“Clergy help in the education of these children,” Mother says. “Nuns teach the girls to sing and play instruments. They teach the boys the virtues of discipline and hard work. You can be like mothers to tens of children. You can do so much good with your lives.”
I don’t want to teach music. I don’t want to be surrounded by tens of children and pious women. I don’t know what I do want anymore, but it’s not that, it’s nothing like that.
Mother pats Laura’s cheek with one hand and takes my hand with her other. Her clasp is tight. I cling to it.
C HAPTER S IX
CLOTHES
I ’m wrapping the white cloth around my chest. It’s soft, filmy silk, the finest Venice makes, which means the finest in the world.
Mother would blink at such a claim. Her cheeks would go ruddy and the corners of her mouth would pucker just a little and she’d wait for me to continue—for me to
“We will do our best to find Andriana the proper husband, but she will have to do her best to be happy with him, whoever he is. Old or young. Ugly or handsome.”
A proper husband. Mother always talks about proper this and proper that. She’s always trying to prove to everyone that she’s proper—that she’s worthy of Father. I’m so sick of being part of her proof. “What makes someone the proper husband, Mother, if not love?”
“Don’t talk nonsense, Donata. You know very well that a noble girl needs a husband who can offer her the kind of life she’s accustomed to. Falling in love has little to do with a good marriage.”
“Father fell in love with you,” says Laura. “He married you out of love.”
“And he paid for it roundly.” Mother puts the brush down and turns Laura to her. “Your father has the makings of a governor. There is no one smarter or more diligent than he. But when he chose a wife outside the nobility, he cut himself off from that kind of success.”
“I didn’t know that,” I say, instantly going limp inside. Father has always seemed content in his world. He talks of his brothers’ achievements without rancor—he boasts of them, even.
“That’s why he’s been so careful with you children.” Mother talks softly now. “The boys have been educated at home longer than most—so that Father could keep an eye on them. You girls have been more sheltered than most—so that no one can question your virtue and noble character.”
“Father got love, but we never will,” whispers Laura.
“There are all kinds of love.” Mother goes to the large canopied bed that Laura and I share. She sits and rests her hands in her lap. “Convents are bursting with the love called charity.”
“But they’re not bursting with children,” Laura says. “I want children, Mother.”
“Oh, my daughters, what you don’t know.” Mother motions us to her. Laura sits on the floor and puts her head on Mother’s lap. I remain standing, but close enough that my skirt presses against Mother’s. “The courtesans of Venice run a high risk,” says Mother, in a grave voice. “Many of them have children they neither want nor can care for. Venice has so many illegitimate children, her orphanages overflow. Besides that, many mothers die in childbirth, and their infants often go straight to the orphanages.”
I tremble slightly. When Mother gave birth to Giovanni, she was sick for months afterward. So sick that we had to get the wet nurse, Cara. When Mother first said Giovanni was her last child, I was grateful. I’d forgotten how grateful until just now.
“Clergy help in the education of these children,” Mother says. “Nuns teach the girls to sing and play instruments. They teach the boys the virtues of discipline and hard work. You can be like mothers to tens of children. You can do so much good with your lives.”
I don’t want to teach music. I don’t want to be surrounded by tens of children and pious women. I don’t know what I do want anymore, but it’s not that, it’s nothing like that.
Mother pats Laura’s cheek with one hand and takes my hand with her other. Her clasp is tight. I cling to it.
C HAPTER S IX
CLOTHES
I ’m wrapping the white cloth around my chest. It’s soft, filmy silk, the finest Venice makes, which means the finest in the world.
Mother would blink at such a claim. Her cheeks would go ruddy and the corners of her mouth would pucker just a little and she’d wait for me to continue—for me to
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