So: his name was Marco Felluci. A few casual questions began to paint a broader canvas. A clerk for Ventuccio. And something of a healer. Respected by the bargees and canalers--people who didn't give respect or liking easily. And a boy with friends. Friends prepared to spend money to find him when he went missing. She hadn't needed that information to tell her he was a good man. She knew that the moment she saw him.
So . . . he was only a clerk. It hadn't taken her long to realize that being Case Vecchie was less important to her than being happy.
So. She'd be poor, then. Why not? She was practiced at it by now, wasn't she? They'd have a little house and she'd wash, and clean and cook. Easier work--less dangerous, too--than what she'd been doing, after all. And if they needed more money than he could make as a clerk, Katerina could always take Francesca up on her offer to work as a special gondolier for Casa Louise.
She must learn more about cooking. . . . How to make cheap meals. They'd have children and his work would bring him promotion and . . .
Insane. She couldn't do it! Not that she cared herself about remaining Case Vecchie--well, not much, anyway--but if she abandoned her family Casa Montescue would collapse. Without her dealing in the gray goods coming in with Captain Della Tomasso, the Casa would fall apart. Be bankrupt before the summer. Her grandfather--who had borne so much, with such Montescue pride and fortitude--would die if the Casa were sold. And it wasn't just him. All the servants and family retainers, many of whom had spent their lives in service to Montescue--for generations, some of them--would be cast adrift also.
Katerina Montescue had responsibilities as well as longings and desires. She couldn't simply toss over the one for the other.
And, besides--she had no idea how to meet him anyway. Neither of her two personas, either as 'the Spook' or as Katerina Montescue, would ever come into contact with a clerk who worked, no doubt, in a back room at Ventuccio. A dark back room where his eyes would go . . .
What to do? What to do?
Francesca. Yes! I'll talk to Francesca about it. The very next time I see her!
Katerina's face went through an odd little play of expressions. 'Oh,' she murmured to herself. 'That's tonight, isn't it?'
And that was another problem! For a moment, Katerina almost burst into a pure shriek of frustration at society's quirks.
* * *
'Are you going to get dressed or aren't you?' snapped Alessandra, peering around the door.
Guilt and the reason for being so out of sorts returned Kat to the real world. 'I'm coming.'
'Well hurry up,' said Alessandra irritably. 'We go out so little that you don't have to be late when we do have the chance. You'll never find a man--not that you've got a chance without a dowry--cooped up here.'
Kat began to hastily dress her hair. 'I'll be there in five minutes.'
'You're not wearing that dowdy old green thing to go to La Fenice, are you?' Alessandra demanded. Kat's sister-in-law was clad in a Venetian lace-trimmed gown of golden-yellow silk. Katerina shuddered to think where the money had come from. Alessandra, on the other hand, looked truly shocked at her sister-in-law's dusty-green taffeta.
'Yes. Now go away and let me finish.' It was last year's style and last year's dress. And in Venice among the Case Vecchie, death was better than being out of fashion. It was just too bad. Katerina had learned this much if nothing else: there were many more important things in life than silk.
'We won't wait!' threatened Alessandra.
I wish, thought Kat. But she held her tongue and simply closed the door. Took out a string of 'pearls' that wouldn't stand too close an inspection. Glass and fishscale . . . A poor replacement for what had been her birthright. She shook herself. It was no use getting upset about any of it. She had no idea if she'd ever get to meet him. Or if he was married already. But wait, that canal-brat, Benito! She'd seen him, now and then, wearing Ventuccio livery. Perhaps he would help her--
'KATERINA!' It was an old voice, the timbre going, but still strong.
'Coming, Grandpapa.'
* * *
