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The door opened silently as she approached and closed just as quickly when she entered. A maidservant holding a candle ushered her upstairs in silence, then abandoned her at a chamber door with a bobbed curtsey.
Cassandra scratched tentatively on the carved panels and a soft voice called, ‘Come in, little one.’ It was English, exotic and musically accented, but English none the less.
The chamber was heavy with brocade hangings, dominated by a huge canopied bed and lit by many candles, each multiplied over and over in the silvery mirrors which hung on every wall. The air was redolent of attar of roses and a hint of cinnabar, and Cassandra’s feet sank into the deep pile of a Turkey carpet as she hesitated inside the door.
‘Come in, little sister,’ the woman said, sinking gracefully onto a sofa with a gesture for Cassandra to come and sit by her.
Startled, Cassandra blurted out, ‘You know I am not a boy?’ as she sat next to the courtesan, unashamedly staring.
‘But, of course. You may call me Lucia. And you are?’
‘Cassandra.’
‘Cassandra.’ Lucia rolled the name round her tongue as if tasting it and nodded in approval. ‘You will take your colazione with me.’ It was an assumption, not a request, and Cassandra abandoned all thought of her English Society manners. This was no afternoon tea party
at the vicarage.
The maid was already laying the breakfast table with hot rolls, fruit and chocolate. The mixture of warm fragrances was so appetising that Cassandra could hardly contain her hunger.
To her surprise, her hostess showed as hearty an appetite as she, and for several minutes neither spoke. At last Cassandra sat back with a contented sigh, warm, full and clear headed.
Lucia shifted slightly to regard her guest. ‘So! Now you feel like a human being again. It is always a mistake not to eat, my child. How old are you?’
‘Eighteen,’ Cassandra confessed. Being lectured on the importance of eating properly was not what she had envisaged when she had entered this house.
‘Ah.’ She shifted uneasily under the courtesan’s appraising gaze. ‘Just eighteen, just arrived in Venice and you have had a disputa, a, what do you call it…?’
‘Quarrel?’
‘Si. A quarrel, with your lover.’
‘He is not my lover,’ Cassandra said flatly. ‘He is the son of my godmother and I am travelling under his protection.’
‘Dressed as his valet? And it is part of the masquerade that he beats you? You English.’ She cast her eyes heavenwards.
‘He doesn’t beat me. Well, that was the only time and I was more of a spank and we had both lost our tempers.’ Her voice trailed away as the resentments of last night resurfaced. ‘But he deserved what I said about his whore.’ Then she realised in whose company she was and felt her skin heat with embarrassment.
‘There is no need to avoid the word in my company, although courtesan is more accurate, both for myself and for the lady whom the Earl of Lydford was escorting.’
‘You know who he is?’ Cassandra looked at Lucia with new respect, noting for the first time the shrewd intelligence in her eyes.
‘It is my business to know.’ She shrugged, a lazily sensuous movement, even in the presence of another woman. ‘My sisters and I are well-informed. We are professionals, after all.’
‘Your sisters?’
‘Venice is a city of women. Men rule it – and we rule the men. Men work against each other for their own power. Our strength lies in our combined power and even the wives of the men who come to us are our sisters. We trust each other. It is accepted.’
The idea of women selling themselves, yet still retaining their independence and their dignity, astonished Cassandra, yet, looking at Lucia, the only comparison she could draw was with her godmother, an independent great lady.
‘But why did you ask me here?’ she blurted out.
‘Because you need my help, that is plain.’ Lucia snuggled back into the cushions and tucked her bare feet up under her. ‘You say he is not your lover, this Earl of Lydford.’
‘Nicholas.’
‘Niccolo.’ Lucia tried out the name. ‘You do love him?’ Her plucked eyebrows rose interrogatively.
‘Yes,’ Cassandra whispered. Having said it out loud, she knew it was true. This was no hero-worship, no tendre of a young woman for an experienced man. It was certainly not gratitude. She wanted him in every possible way, and forever. ‘But it’s impossible.’
