Page 45 of Vengeance in Venice
Chapter Ten
Half an hourlater, she was heartily relieved when Solomon suggested leaving. For the last few minutes, she had felt distinctly shaky and unwell, and besides, the guests were thinning out.
She was glad of Solomon’s arm out in the fresh air, like an anchor in a suddenly unsteady world. Kellar had disturbed her more than he should, and she was anxious to discuss him with Solomon, the good and the bad suspicions.
But Solomon was talking, and it was oddly difficult to concentrate. “…divided between Giusti and the widow. Though one Englishwoman’s opinion seemed to be based solely on the fact that they were all foreign. She accused Signora Savelli of multiple affairs, including with Giusti, Premarin, and even Domenico Rossi.”
Constance frowned and peered at him. “Is Kellar a spy of some kind? An assassin? Am I tipsy?”
Solomon smiled. She loved his smile, but it died disappointingly quickly and now he was frowning. “Actually, you don’t look well.”
“I don’t feel well,” she admitted. “Where is Alvise?”Don’t let me be sick in the boat…
But the movement of the water beneath proved too much for her roiling stomach and she was violently ill. The delight of traveling by traditional gondola vanished into misery, until she latched on to one incredible idea.
Some women were terribly ill during pregnancy, at least in the early stages.
Admittedly, it was generally in the morning, but not always. Until Solomon, she had never imagined she would ever have children, and even when they were married, the idea had been sweet, confusing, and unreal. Now, her skin clammy, her head swimming, and her stomach in torment, she hung on to the idea with fierce, desperate hope. She could bear anything for this reason…
But she was barely aware of anything else. She knew Solomon was carrying her off the boat and into the house, heard his urgent voice demanding a doctor in both Italian and English, but by then her main concern was not losing any more dignity, and she somehow staggered alone into the privy.
After that, awash with pain and sweat and shivering so violently that she couldn’t speak, she knew very little.
*
It was stillearly in the morning when Elena Savelli somewhat listlessly broke her fast with coffee and bread. She felt exhausted, but then, she had not been sleeping well since Angelo’s death—or before, really. She seemed twisted up with guilt and grief as well as hopelessness. But she was so tired of those feelings, vaguely aware that they had been building within her for some months before he died.
Before he was murdered.
Yesterday, she had buried him. She had sat in the great, beautiful church, trying to pray for Angelo’s soul. She had accepted the condolences of, it seemed, the entire city—certainly of all the most prominent citizens and their Austrian masters. Veiled and numb, she had accepted it all, had even hosted the gathering here at the palazzo, with generous amounts of foodand wine. She had been going through the motions, giving Angelo the respect that was his due, but then, so had they, and most had not stayed long.
Her own family had stayed away.
It was done now. He was buried. And she had no idea what to do with herself. The lawyers had told her everything was hers. His houses, his businesses, all his possessions. Many people wanted to manage everything for her. But she could manage everything just as well, she thought, given time. She just couldn’t summon the desire or the energy.
Soon. Soon, I will. Perhaps when Foscolo arrests someone—or gives up.
“Signora, Dr. Donati is here.”
Elena blinked at her maidservant. “Why? Who is ill?”
“He has come to see you, signora.”
In fact, the young doctor stepped around the maid, bowing. “Forgive the early hour, signora, but I was passing and your servants told me you were up.”
“But I am not ill.”
“You will be if you do not sleep.”
Elena flicked one finger, dismissing the girl. She invited the doctor to sit and regarded him. “So will you. You look dreadful.”
He smiled wearily. “I have been up all night with a patient. Which is why I call on you now, so that I can sleep with a clear conscience.”
“You cannot doctor loss. Though I admit I would welcome something to help me sleep. I hope your night’s work was successful.”
“So do I,” Donati said ruefully, reaching into his bag. “A young foreign lady, terribly ill from…food poisoning.”
“Poor creature. Bad clams?”
