Beatrice
laughed carelessly. “She would never have discovered anything. You were too clever for her, Dario. Besides, her conceit saved her. She had such a high opinion of herself that she would not have deemed it possible for you to love any other woman.”
My
husband, that paragon of manhood, sighed restlessly. “I am glad she is dead! But we cannot be careless, Beatrice. We must not be seen together yet. The servants will talk! I must go into mourning for at least six months...and there are many other things to consider.”
Beatrice
’s hand played with the jeweled necklace she wore, a favorite of mine.
He
bent and kissed the location on her neck just above the pendant. Ah, my dear husband, do not let your conscience prevent your enjoyment, I thought as I crouched behind the trees, the wrath inside me making the blood beat in my head like a hundred drums.
“
No, my love,” she replied to him. “It is a pity Carlotta is dead! Alive, she made an excellent screen. She was an unaware guardian of propriety for both of us, as no one else could be.”
The boughs that covered me creaked and rustled. My
husband looked uneasily about.
“
Hush!” he said, nervously. “She was buried only yesterday.”
“
And her ghost could be about, especially on this path. I wish we had not come here. It was her favorite place to walk.”
“
She was the mother of my child. We must think of that, too,” Dario added with a slight tone of regretfulness.
“
You don’t think I know that?” Beatrice exclaimed. “I curse her for every kiss she stole from your lips.”
I listened
astounded. Here was a new philosophy: wives were thieves! They
stole
kisses and only lovers or mistresses were honest in their intimacy. Oh, my dear friend, how near you came to death in that moment. Had you seen my face peering through the dusky leaves, you could have known the force of the fury pent up within me.
“
Why did you marry her?” she asked, after a little pause
Dario toyed
with one of her curls that rested against his breast. He looked at her with a frown and shrugged his shoulders. “Why? Because I was tired of the monastery and all the stupid, solemn ways of the monks. It was an unbearable location for an education. Also because she was rich and I was horribly poor. I cannot bear to be poor! Then there is the fact that she loved me.” His eyes glimmered with malicious triumph. “
Si
, she was mad for me and—”
“
You loved her?” Beatrice demanded almost fiercely.
“
I suppose I did, for the first few weeks. As much as one can ever love a wife. Why does one marry for at all? For convenience, money, position. She gave me these things, as you know.”
“
You will gain nothing by marrying me, then,” she said, jealously.
“
Of course not! Besides, have I said I will marry you? You are very agreeable as a lover, but otherwise, I am not so sure,” he said teasingly. “And I am free now. I can do as I like. I want to enjoy my liberty, and—”
Beatrice laid her hand,
aglitter with my rings, against his lips.
In response, Dario
snatched her close to his breast and held her tight, his face engulfed with passion.
“
You cannot deceive me, Dario,” Beatrice said with a giggle. “I have endured much because of you. From the moment I first saw you on your wedding day with poor Carlotta, I loved you desperately, completely, and without shame. I knew you would be unfaithful to Carlotta, so I bided my time. And only three months after your wedding, you came to me, willing and eager. With my touch, words, and glances, I gave you all you sought. Why try to deny it now? You became my lover as much as Carlotta’s. No, you belonged more to me because you loved me. And though you lied to your wife, you dare not lie to me. Carlotta was easily tricked. A married woman must be vigilant when it comes to a husband, for if she relents, she has only herself to blame when her man wanders into another woman’s arms. I repeat, Dario, you are mine, and you shall always be so.” The impetuous words coursed rapidly from her lips as she thrust herself into his arms.
I
smirked bitterly as I listened and stared.
He pushed her away.
The
fierceness of her embrace had crushed the rose she wore, and its scarlet petals drifted on the breeze to scatter on the ground at their feet.
Dario
’s eyes flared and an irritated frown tapered his brows. He glanced away from her in silence, the silence of derision.
H
is manner seemed to upset her. She caught his hand and kissed it. “Forgive me,
caro
. I did not mean to mock you. It is not your fault you are so handsome, so beautiful, so appealing. You are my heart and soul. Let us not squander words in worthless irritation. We are free, Dario. Free to pursue our dreams. Carlotta’s death is our good fortune. We can now be together for the rest of our lives.”
He
grinned and drew her into his embrace.
Her lips met his.
I
observed them, agonized, as they held each other in a staunch embrace.
He
weaved one of her ebony curls around his jeweled finger. “So impulsive, so jealous. I have told you many times that I love you.” He laughed. “Do you not remember that night when Carlotta sat out on the balcony reading, and we were singing together in the library? Did I not tell you then that I loved you more than her? I truly meant it, you know.”
Beatrice
smiled, and placed her hand on his that still held her curl. “I believed it, and still do,” she said. “But you must expect me to be jealous. Carlotta was never jealous; she had complete trust in you. She thought herself better than you. A woman who spent her days at church and in charity work, leaving her husband to his own devices; a woman who preferred to read instead of look after him. She was the mistress of her own fate and deserved to lose you. But I am jealous of the ground you tread, of the air that touches you, and I was jealous of Carlotta.” Her eyes darkened with fury. “If any woman dared now to come between us, I would make her regret it.”
Dario
gave her a look of reproval. “Must you be so cross, and over nothing?” He kissed her. “I am happy that I am your only love. Come, it’s chilly out here. Why don’t we go back inside?
I watched as my
husband led his lover away. Arms entwined, they strode toward my villa, and then I saw them pause.
“
Do you hear the nightingales?” Beatrice asked.
I believed the entire world could hear their burst
of melody. It erupted from every tree around us. The chaste, fervent tones penetrated the air like the peal of bells, singing their love-songs with perfect rhapsody. Creatures untainted by lies, unsullied by betrayal.
Beatrice s
hivered and drew her wrap tighter about her shoulders. “I hate them. Their noise is enough to damage one’s hearing. And Carlotta used to be so fond of them! Poor, stupid Carlotta.”
Without averting my
eyes, I watched them walk away, their consciences untainted, as though no shadow of vengeance loomed over them, as though retribution did not follow their steps. Between the dark boughs, I gazed at their receding figures till the last glimmer of my husband’s face and Beatrice’s white gown vanished behind the thick foliage.
Slowly,
I came out of my hideaway and stood where they had stood, reconciling myself with the hateful truth. My mind reeled. Prisms of light spun before my eyes. The solid earth swayed beneath my feet. Was I a ghost who had returned to witness the ruin of all that was precious in my life? The man I had loved was not the same person. He was lower than a vile snake, someone all men would despise and point a scornful finger at.
That
creature was my husband, the father of my child. He had cast mud on his soul by choice. He had selected evil and crowned himself with shame instead of honor.
What should
I do? I tortured myself with this question. I stared blankly about as if the trees and earth might provide an answer. What should be done with him and with her, my treacherous friend and betrayer of a husband?
I noticed the f
allen rose petals. They lay on the soft ground, round and soft and scarlet. I stooped and picked them up, holding them in my palm. They carried a sweet fragrance even though they had adorned the breast of a woman who reeked with lies. I wanted to kill her.
I remembered the miserable
rag-picker who told me she had taken her revenge on the day she had discovered her husband and his lover. I had foolishly let my opportunity pass. But there were many ways to settle a score. I must seek my vengeance wisely to inflict the longest and cruelest agony upon my betrayers. How sweet to slay the sinners in the act of sinning, but I was a Mancini and I must not bloody my hands directly. There were other means to accomplish such a task. I must plan it out carefully. I hauled my tired body to a nearby tree and slid down to the ground, the dying rose-petals in my clenched palm.
A rush of blood surged
through my veins. I looked down at the clothes I wore, the former garments of a suicide victim.
She was a fool
, the old rag-picker had said.
She killed herself
. There was no doubt about it; the woman had been a fool to forfeit her own life. I would not follow in her footsteps, or at least not yet. I had something to do first, as long as I could follow through without remorse. My thoughts swirled in my head in a jumble of confusion. The scent of the rose petals I held in my palm sickened me, yet I refused to cast them away. I wanted them as an eternal reminder of the betrayal I had witnessed.
I
reached for my purse and dropped the wilting petals inside. Then I remembered the two leather pouches I had concealed beneath my gown; one filled with gold, the other with gems. The horror of being buried alive returned to me; my grim fight for life and freedom. Life and freedom. Of what use were they to me now, save for one thing – revenge?
I was not wanted
. No one expected me to return. The large fortune I had possessed was now my husband’s by decree of my own last will and testament. But I possessed new wealth; the hidden hoard was sufficient to keep me in luxury for the rest of my life. A rush of excitement throbbed in my veins. Wealth! Gold could purchase anything, even vengeance. But what sort of vengeance? The type I sought must be distinctive. It must be sophisticated, persistent, and absolute.
An evening wind swayed
the leaves of the trees. The nightingales chirruped sweetly and the moon shone brightly against the impenetrable indigo sky. Heedless of the passing time, I sat still, trapped in bewildered thoughts. Once betrayed, nothing in life can restore happy days long past. So I have learned, and so many more after me must learn.
A white-haired
beauty
! The words of the doge tumbled about in my tortured thoughts. I was greatly changed and looked worn and old. I doubt anyone would recognize me. The innkeeper hadn’t. And neither had the rag-picker.
All at once, an
idea came to life; a plan of retribution so diabolical, so bold, and so unspeakable, that I recoiled as though I had been stung by a wasp. I rose and paced back and forth as outrageous ideas tossed about in my mind. Amid all my wonder, details began to form. I deliberated over every circumstance that might spoil my plot, and then resolved each one.
My despair
disappeared. Let sailors’ lovers and rag-pickers resort to murder and suicide as fit outlets for their wrath. As for me, I would not blight my family’s good name with a vulgar crime. No, retribution by a member of the Mancini family must rise above such common methods and must be taken with confidence, calm, and careful forethought - no haste, no plebeian fury, no fuss, no scandal.
I
paced slowly, calculating every scene of the bitter drama I would soon enact. My thoughts cleared and I breathed more easily. Bit by bit, I became very collected. Regrets for the past disappeared. Why should I mourn the loss of a love that was never mine in the first place? It was not as if they had waited till my death. No, their deceit began within three months of my marriage and endured for three years after that. And in all that time, I had suspected nothing.
Now I
knew the extent of my injury. I was a woman enormously wronged, grossly duped. My sense of justice and self-respect demanded that I punish those who had played me false. The love I once felt for my husband died. I plucked it from my heart like a thorn from my flesh and flung it away with disgust. Infinite contempt replaced my deep fondness for Beatrice Cardano. I also scorned myself for hurrying home with so much joy and love in my heart, like a merry fool marching to her own execution. But the delusions of my life existed no more. I possessed the strength to avenge myself and the craftiness to accomplish it.
My plan
now complete, I drew from my breast the crucifix the dead monk Cipriano had laid with me in my coffin, and kissing it, I raised it aloft, and swore never to relent, never to relax, never to rest, till I fulfilled my vendetta.