The Visitant: A Venetian Ghost Story (5 page)

Chapter 5

That night, I went through Samuel’s file again. I knew he’d had petit mal seizures in the past, but I wanted the reassurance of my father’s familiar words. He too had found such seizures disconcerting. It was some comfort to know it, even if I could not stop thinking of the sudden cold and the strangeness that had accompanied Samuel’s trance. The cold was no doubt only a draft, but the rest . . . I put it off to my imagination, which had always been a bit too vibrant. The seizure had taken me by surprise. Next time, I would be more prepared.

It was dark outside my window, but I heard laughter in the courtyard below and saw flickering bits of light whenever the kitchen door opened. The entire Nardi clan must be down there now, judging by the noise. How did Madame Basilio sleep? How did anyone? I glanced at the clock. It was nearly midnight.

I thought about going down and throwing them out myself, or at least asking for quiet, but I had already dressed for bed, and the coal brazier had just now managed to take the chill edge off the air, and I knew I would get no cooperation from Giulia or Zuan, and would only end up retreating to the third floor with my tail between my legs.

Then I heard the crash.

It came from down the hall, reverberating and echoing.

I grabbed the leather strap from the desk where I’d left it and rushed to the door, jerking it open. The hall was empty. Silent.

And then, a male voice lifted in song. I didn’t recognize the words; it was a moment before I realized he was singing in another language. Italian? Venetian?

No seizure, then. I put the strap in my dressing gown pocket. Cautiously, I went to his door and knocked. “Samuel?”

He kept singing. The song didn’t sound like one angels might sing. It was boisterous and loud, probably ribald, or so it sounded. I opened the door.

His bed was empty, the blankets thrown every which way. The washstand was on its side, shards of pottery from the shattered washbasin scattered everywhere in jagged little shadows polished by the glow of moonlight. Standing before the balcony doors, with his back to me, was Samuel, bare chested, clad only in his long underwear.

“Samuel?”

He stopped abruptly, pivoting. When he saw me, he backed up violently, putting up his hands as if to ward off evil. “What now? What angel is this?”

I stepped closer. “No angel, Samuel. It’s me. It’s Elena.”

“Elena?”

“Your nurse.” I stepped closer still.

“You’re floating.” His voice caught in the middle of the word.

I glanced down at my feet, hidden by the flowing hem of my dressing gown, which was long and trailing. I lifted it to show my feet, the low-heeled slippers I wore. “I’m not. You see?” I held one out to show him. “I’m very corporeal.”

He swallowed hard; I saw his uncertainty. He lowered his hands. “Is she still here?”

“She?”

“The angel.” More of a whisper now, but one that set me on edge.

He collapsed to the floor in one fluid motion, pulling up his knees, burying his face in them. And then again, a rush of uncannily cold air laden with the stink of algae and fetid canal and . . . and vanilla. The perfume from the handkerchiefs. I glanced toward the dresser. The drawer was closed.

He muttered something. His voice was almost demonic, and so quiet I had to strain to hear it. When he spoke again, it was in that other language, but even I understood the threat in it.

I stepped back in sudden fear. The icy cold turned my breath to frosty clouds. I remembered Madame Basilio’s words about not waking him from his singing and his angel. I said softly, “You should be in bed.”

Samuel looked up, his eyes in the darkness showing the moonlight the way a cat’s did—a full and empty reflection—and then they rolled back, only whites. He gasped, a choking gargle of sound, his back arching with deadly force, so that he looked to break in half. He began to convulse. Foam gathered at his lips; I heard the crack of his teeth against each other as his jaw tightened. I pulled the strap from my pocket and raced over to him, shoving it into his mouth to keep him from biting his tongue, throwing myself upon him, trying to hold him down, to keep him from hurting himself as he bucked and twisted beneath me.

It felt as if it lasted forever, but finally the convulsions lessened, spasms instead, and then he went still; only the racing of his heart beneath my hand told me he was still alive. Dear God, how had Papa thought I could do this? I’d gone from finishing school to my father’s side when I was sixteen, but my duties had never been onerous. While the other attendants dealt with the rigors of violent patients, I had been relegated to reading soothing texts and doling out medicines.

And I had not even done that well, had I?

“You can do this, Elena,”
Papa had said.
“And you are our best hope.”

I took courage from the memory. He had done all he could to prepare me, and there was no other choice.

My patient stirred. His eyes opened, revealing a rapturous gaze like a saint’s must be in the midst of a miracle. “River,” he whispered.

The ceiling did indeed look like a river, flowing across and downward, sparkling in the moonlight, reflections from the canal below playing across the painted blue medallions to create colors of sky blue and lapis and a deep, rich midnight.

I said, “It’s beautiful.”

He blinked as if he were trying to focus. “Where am . . . drowning.” He struggled to say even that, his confusion obvious, words eluding him, sense scrambling.

“Come to bed.” I helped him to his feet. He staggered into me, disoriented, stumbling as if he could not completely command his limbs. It took a firm hand to guide him to the bed, and then he fell onto the mattress, flinging his arm over his eyes.

He was unconscious in moments, but I didn’t leave, too alarmed by the seizure, afraid of another. I went to close the door, and heard a whish of movement out in the hallway, moving quickly. The white edge of a shroud flicked around the corner.

A shroud?

I stared in surprise. There was the perfume again, borne on a freezing breeze. Cedar and iris, a hint of sweet vanilla, familiar, and with it the rotten scent of the canal.

I lurched back, and nearly slammed the door shut.

Chapter 6

The morning was so beautiful that the strangeness of the night before lost its power. When I brought Samuel breakfast, and his dosage of bromide, he was lucid, though there were circles beneath his eyes. “I feel as if someone’s beaten on me.”

“Someone did beat on you,” I reminded him.

“I mean besides that. And my head feels encased in cotton wool. I had a seizure, didn’t I?”

I nodded. “Last night. Don’t you remember?”

“No.” He drank the bromide, then let his hand and the glass flop to the blanket. The cup rolled from his fingers to settle against his hip.

“What’s the last thing you do remember?”

“Flashes of light.”

“Angels?”

“What?”

“You spoke of an angel.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I had the feeling that wasn’t exactly true. “It’s all right, you know. You can tell me. Hallucinations are a perfectly normal symptom—”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“I just need to know how often you have them. And how intense they are. I can adjust your medication. The bromide can cause such things too, you know, if the dosage is too strong. Though I think it’s not strong enough, given what happened last night.”

“What exactly did happen last night?”

“I heard a crash. Then I heard you singing.”

“Singing?”

“In Italian. Or perhaps it was Venetian.”

He paled, making the wounds on his face look red against his white skin. “I barely know either. What else did I do?”

“You said something about an angel. Something else too, but it was in that other language and I didn’t understand.” No point in mentioning how frightening it had been. “Then you had a seizure.”

“Was it bad?”

“I think so,” I told him quietly. “Though I don’t know how bad your seizures usually are. You had one the other day too, though only a petit mal.”

He sighed, again sinking into the pillow. “It’s getting worse, not better.”

“You’ve only been back on the bromide for a few days. It takes weeks to stabilize.”

“What if it never does?”

“It did before, didn’t it? It always has.”

“They still happened when I was taking it. Just not as often.”

“When did you stop taking it? How long before your seizure in Rome?”

“I don’t remember. A few months, perhaps. I don’t like it. It dulls . . . everything.”

“So you lied to me about how long it had been. It had nothing to do with your father’s letter about your betrothal.”

“Did I say that?”

I sighed at his obvious evasion. “You must be more honest with me. How can I help you if I don’t know the truth?”

“Why not just admit that you can’t help me?” he asked.

“Because I believe I can.” I felt more encouraged now that I knew he had been months without bromide. I had been afraid that it had still been in his blood, which meant it wasn’t helping at all. All I must do was build it back to its proper level.

“I’d wish you luck, except that I don’t want to be a married man.”

“It will be good for you. You need stability. You need a wife to look after you. It will be restful.”

“Restful?” His smile was thin and small. “God, I’m tired.”

“Would you like me to read to you?”

“Read what?”

“I’ve a book of poetry.”

“Poetry by whom?” he asked skeptically. “Wait, let me guess. Some suffragette poet. Is there such a thing? Or is that an oxymoron?”

“I don’t know, but I have nothing like that. I have a book by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. And another by Tennyson.”

“Ah. You’re a romantic.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I suppose I should have expected such things from a virgin. Tales of knights and princesses, true love . . . nothing real.”

I went so hot at the word
virgin
I was certain I must have been blistering red. “You don’t believe in true love?”

He laughed; it was more just a breath of sound. “No.”

“Then I suppose it doesn’t matter that you’re marrying someone you hardly know.”

“
Don’t
know,” he said shortly. “But you’re right; if I don’t believe in true love, how can it matter? Except that I’d like to make the choice myself. If I have to marry, I’d prefer it be someone I liked, at least.”

“Perhaps you will like her.”

“Unfortunately, I won’t know that until after the wedding, when I’ve already carried her off to our bridal bower. Too late then, don’t you think? What if she’s a shrew?”

“You could take a page from Shakespeare and tame her. Or she could tame you.”

“Poor woman. Rather like bearding a beast in his lair.”

“You are hardly a beast,” I said.

“No?” He lifted a brow. “You’ve seen it. Don’t tell me you weren’t frightened.”

I didn’t want to admit that I had been. I wanted him to think me competent and assured. I didn’t want to tell him I’d felt helpless and overmatched and stupid. “I’ve seen such things before.”

“I’ve seen doctors quake in fear. What makes you different?”

“You say you remember nothing during your seizures,” I pointed out. “How could you know how anyone reacts?”

He made a face. “You’re very clever.”

“You think to frighten me into running. I won’t.”

“My parents must have promised you something very good indeed.”

“You should stop trying to guess why I’m staying and concentrate instead on getting well. Now I think you should sleep. You look terrible.”

“I feel terrible,” he agreed. “But you did promise to read to me. No poems, though. I don’t have the head for it just now. All those ‘thees’ and ‘thous,’ and I’ll want to throw myself into the
rio
.”

“Then what?” I asked, glancing around, seeing not a single book anywhere.

“I have a book. I think you might like it. It’s a romance. Of sorts.”

“Where is it?”

He lay back again as if the simple motion of sitting up and holding the position for all of a minute had left him exhausted. “It fell to the floor the other night, and I haven’t seen it. I think it got pushed under the bed.”

I looked, reaching through dust and probably rat droppings to pull out a well-worn, yellow-covered book. A dime novel. No doubt full of melodrama and daring escapes. Papa would not approve of this.

I sat on the chair I’d pulled next to the bed last night, reading the title out loud. “
The Nunnery Tales
. I thought you said you were tired of ‘thees’ and ‘thous’?”

“Surprisingly, there seem to be very few of those,” he said. “I’ve marked the page where I was. Just start there.”

I turned to it. “Chapter Two,” I began. “We had an extremely good supper, and our snug little party thoroughly enjoyed it. Everything that could tempt and pamper the appetite was there”—here, a listing of foods, including oysters and shellfish; I had not realized nuns ate so well. And then, as if the author were commenting on my thoughts—“if the ladies in the convent lived on such luxurious and exciting viands, it was no wonder that they found their blood a little hotter and their passions more excitable—” I stopped.

“Go on.” Samuel’s voice was very quiet.

He was falling into sleep already. I didn’t think it would take more than a few more paragraphs. I read on as the narrator’s aunt told him that she suspected a priest was his real father. I suppressed a snort of disbelief.

“Don’t stop,” Samuel murmured.

I read on.
“
‘How do you know that, my dear aunt?’ I asked. ‘Oh, by the simplest way in the world,’ she laughingly replied.” The aunt explained how she’d paid a visit to her sister and been met instead by her brother-in-law, who complimented her lavishly.
“
‘He proceeded from compliments to kissing, and from kissing to feeling and handling my—
’
”
breasts and rump
.

I closed the book with a snap.

“What’s wrong?” Samuel asked, oh so innocently.

“This is obscene,” I sputtered.

“Come, don’t tell me it doesn’t intrigue you,” he said. “It would be good for you to read something about what real people do and how it feels. Perhaps then you’ll understand what you’re asking me to give up. You want to take away everything that’s worth living for.”

“You could find other things worth living for,” I said, throwing the book onto the bed, where it sprawled open. “Love, for one thing. A family.”

He made a sound of disbelief. “You could not possibly be so naïve.”

“I am not naïve. I believe life could be better for you. But you’ll never know if you refuse to try.”

“My God, you’re persistent.”

“It would be best if you understood that I don’t mean to fail.”

He was quiet for a moment. I saw a consideration in him I was not certain I liked, and knew I didn’t when he said, “Very well, I’ll make a bargain with you.”

“What kind of a bargain?” I asked warily.

“I’ll do everything you tell me,” he said. “If you read that book.”

“You must be joking.”

He shook his head. “No. I want you to understand why this might be . . . difficult. You’re a little self-righteous about all of it. It’s hard for me to listen to you when you’ve no idea what you’re asking.”

I glanced at those open pages, the words that leaped from them straight into imagery, things I’d never seen, that I didn’t know. That I didn’t
want
to know, and I was angry that he asked it, resentful not only that he had but also that he’d raised my interest. These were not the kinds of books decent women read, not the kind that I should read.

“Romance isn’t real,” he went on. “But what’s in there is. You’d be better off knowing it. You could say I’m protecting you, really. Once you know what’s really on a man’s mind, you’ll be better at judging whether or not he’s lying to you.”

It was as if he’d seen into my mind.

He closed the book and picked it up, holding it out to me. “Well? Have we agreed? My acquiescence for your learning. Believe me, I think you have the better side of it.”

Gingerly, I took the book. The cover was rough between my fingers. I noticed for the first time how worn the edges were.

His smile was smug. “It won’t be so bad.”

“You should sleep,” I said, rising. “I’ll be back later this afternoon. Believe me, I will hold you to your promise.”

“I’ll hold you to yours,” he said.

I tucked the book into the pocket of my skirt. It was not thick nor especially heavy, but it felt both things, and I could hardly wait to be rid of it. I left him and dodged into my room, tucking it under the mattress of the bed where no one would come upon it, where I might even forget it was there. I was angry with myself for agreeing, though really I’d had no choice.

Just like before.

Samuel Farber had worked me just as easily, but I pushed the worrisome thought away and told myself that as long as Samuel ended up doing what I wanted, it didn’t matter. I would read every filthy book in Venice if it meant I could deliver a compliant and healthy heir to the Farbers.

Still, I was so undone that I was halfway down the stairs to the courtyard before I realized I had no idea what I was doing or where I’d thought to go. Wanting to be somewhere warm, I hurried to the kitchen. Just as I reached the door, it opened, and Giulia stepped out.

She looked surprised to see me, and then her expression settled into insolence. She kept the door from closing with an outstretched hand. “Mamzelle, how can I help you?”

“You can’t,” I said, trying to push past her. When she didn’t budge, I stepped back.

Her eyes narrowed with a satisfaction I didn’t understand or like. “Samuel has a beautiful voice, does he not? I think it is a gift, to be so chosen. Do you not think it too, mamzelle?”

“Chosen?” I asked. “Sometimes the medicines affect him strangely, that’s all.”

“If that’s what you believe,” she said, dropping her hand from the door and stepping aside. I caught it with my foot before it closed. She leaned close, whispering, “But I would lock my door at night if I were you, mamzelle.”

I was so taken aback by her warning that I said nothing as she stepped away, sashaying and bouncing as she went.