“Ah.” Proietti sank to his chair, head in his hands. “Again, I am so very sorry.”
My reassurances to him were interrupted by the arrival of the meal. The man who’d answered the door—he seemed to be the only servant in the house at this time—entered bearing a large, covered platter. Brewster followed with smaller dishes of steaming food, which he thunked to the table without ceremony.
The manservant gently laid the platter on the table and then fetched plates from the sideboard. Proietti lifted the cover to release an aroma of sautéed meat in a savory sauce. The plates Brewster had borne held potatoes and a mound of bright greens.
“May we forget our troubles and partake?” Proietti asked. “My cook is quite good.”
Brewster cast a quick glance around the room, as though making certain we three were truly in no danger, and he followed the manservant back out again. I was surprised he’d let himself be recruited for servant duty but perhaps he’d wanted to assure himself I was safe here. Or else he’d felt compassion for the single servant having to lug everything upstairs by himself. An amalgam of both, I imagined.
Proietti himself served us meat from the platter before refilling his own plate. I bit into beef so tender it nearly fell from my fork, the juices holding a rich bite. Carrots and onions, also tender, rested in the sauce, which was excellent on the potatoes and greens. I hadn’t eaten so well in a while, despite Grenville’s expensive chef.
“My cook is an amazing woman,” Proietti said as we praised the dishes. “Only do not try to enter the kitchen to tell her so. She is quick to raise a carving knife, and only my daughter can soften her.”
His eyes filled with sudden tears, and he quickly bent over his meal.
I exchanged a glance with Grenville. “I know the subject causes pain,” I said. “But can you tell us more about the situation? How can Conte Trevisan marry your daughter if he is already married himself?”
“Because he is a snake.” Proietti’s decisive words rang through the room. “As cold as one and as wily. His wife is from Venice. Daughter of a family who produced many Doges before the republic ended. They had a great amount of wealth and influence. Trevisan married that wealth and took his wife to Milan, but she bore him no sons. A daughter only, I believe, who is no longer living. His wife has retreated to Venice, from what I understand. I have no idea why Trevisan decided to come to Rome, but perhaps his wife’s family is making the north too hot to hold him. He met my daughter, Gisela, and she claims he has fallen in love with her. Pah. I do not believe he knows the meaning of the word.”
As Proietti savagely attacked his beefsteak, Grenville asked quietly, “Your daughter perhaps has been taken in by his wealth?”
Proietti shook his head. “Not Gisela. She has no use for it. Trevisan can certainly be charming when he wishes. They attend church together, which is where he first met her. My only comfort is that he is continuing the sham of his virtue and has not laid a finger on her. I would have bodily brought her home at once if he had.”
“Trevisan’s mother truly lives in the house?” I asked.
“The contessa, yes. She adores her son, will do anything for him, but she is as iron-willed as he.Shewill let no scandal touch him, or Gisela, if my daughter is to marry him.”
“And you believe he will marry her, once he is free?” I continued.
Proietti’s sigh came from the depths of his soul. “I am by no means certain. And even if they do marry—what happens in a few years when the bloom is gone from my daughter’s cheek? If she likewise does not bear sons? Will Trevisan tire of her and turn to yet another woman, one younger than she? Breaking Gisela’s heart?”
If Trevisan was in the habit of putting aside wives who’d displeased him after he’d wrung everything he could from them, I understood Proietti’s anxiousness.
“There is one advantage to marriage,” Grenville said as he swirled his meat in its juices. “I am not familiar with all the laws of the Papal States or of Milan, but marriage settlements and legal issues can be made iron clad. You can ensure that if Trevisan ever tries to put your daughter aside, she will receive handsome compensation.”
“Possibly.” Proietti did not appear cheered by this. “But I do not believe Trevisan would agree to these things. His men of business are powerful. I’ve already had letters from them advising me not to interfere.”
“He is powerful in Milan,” I pointed out. “Can you insist they marry here in Rome? Where your own men of business can draw up the contracts?”
“I will certainly try, if it comes to that.” Proietti drained his cup and reached for the jug. “You might think it odd, gentlemen, that I do not wish my Gisela to marry a man so apparently prosperous and well-connected. She would be a contessa, live in a grand mansion, command the admiration of many. She will become a wonderful hostess no matter whom she marries—she has the gift of making anyone feel welcome and well-regarded.” His eyes grew moist, gleaming in the candlelight. “But I do wish she’d never set eyes on the man.”
“I comprehend,” I said with feeling. “I would prefer my daughter to be happy instead of stuck in a loveless marriage, no matter how wealthy her husband.”
“I have a daughter myself,” Grenville put in. “Her choices have not been the best. I unfortunately was not there to prevent them.”
Proietti refilled his cup and ours as well. “It is a perilous thing, having daughters. Especially when that daughter is your only child.”
“Indeed.” Grenville’s answer was soft. His melancholy note made me wonder—would he and Marianne try for children? Marianne had a son, who was simple, poor lad, and Grenville had already declared he’d raise David as though he were his own. But they might want children of together.
“I have a second daughter,” I said. “All of a year old. Already I have begun to fear for her future.”
“It is a father’s lot,” Proietti agreed. He raised his glass. “To fathers of daughters, and the treacherous roads they travel.”
We drank. The wine flowed after this, supper ended, and Grenville and I, despite our departure from Rome the next day, commiserated with Proietti to the small hours of the morning.
When I rosefrom my bed at dawn’s light, my head pounded, and my tongue felt thick. I tried to quench my thirst with the clear water my valet, Bartholomew, provided, but it did little for me this morning.
Grenville, likewise, had red-rimmed eyes and pallid cheeks as we attempted breakfast. Bartholomew and Gautier recommended various remedies but nothing, I knew, would suffice except time and rest.
