Beyond the Ghetto Gates by Michelle Cameron

Author:Michelle Cameron
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: She Writes Press
Published: 2020-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

34

Mirelle led her aunt toward Dolce’s salon, both women carefully negotiating the cobbles. Light splashed into the narrow ghetto streets from every window in the Morpurgo villa. Linkboys, holding torches high to illuminate the dark streets, ushered sedan chairs, while curious children pointed at the arriving guests. Merriment resounded from the open doorway.

Prudenzia looked approvingly at the mansion as they entered. “Clearly a wealthy family, niece,” she said. “You’ve chosen your bosom friend well.”

Mirelle bit her lip. Did her aunt think she was friends with Dolce just because the Morpurgos were rich?

“Signora Prudenzia Fermi and Signorina Mirelle d’Ancona.” The footman’s voice announcing them carried over the chatter of the crowd.

Mirelle recognized only a few faces. At her father’s behest, Dolce had invited not only the town’s Gentile and Jewish freethinkers but also a more aristocratic crowd than usual. They must have come, Mirelle thought, to pander to David and Ezekiel, given their new roles on the municipal council. And, of course, to meet the great general, who—Mirelle looked about her—did not seem to be in attendance. In fact, no one from the French forces was there.

“D’Ancona?” came the question from a few steps away. A gentleman raised a quizzing glass and leveled it at Mirelle. “Surely not a member of your family, Marchesa Arianna?”

The bejeweled woman standing next to him languidly turned her head to look. Mirelle had worn her best dress, a low-waisted ivory gown embroidered with flowers around the hemline and sleeves. As fashionable as it was, it looked shabby compared to the marchesa’s exquisite raiment, a wide brocade black silk gown.

“A member of my family, Barone Confidati? Surely you jest. She’s a Jewess, yes?”

The baron shook his head. “Ever since the French removed their insignia, it’s impossible to tell. Well, nearly impossible.” He laughed, tapping his nose.

The marchesa rapped his knuckles with her fan. She pretended to whisper, but her deep voice carried. “I can always count on you to be droll—or naughty. What a dreadful affair this is!”

Her cheeks burning, Mirelle turned away and searched the room for Dolce. But her aunt touched her shoulder, whispering, “Is that the Marchesa Donna Arianna Alonzo di Ancona?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never met the woman before. Nor do I care to.”

Prudenzia sniffed. “Nonsense, child. In Rome, I rub elbows with nobility all the time. You must learn to introduce yourself to them.”

To Mirelle’s horror, her aunt stepped forward and curtsied. Holding the pose, she said, “Marchesa, I bring you greetings from the Duchessa di Torlonia. I saw Teresa last week in Rome.”

The older woman raised her chin. “What a treat for you,” she finally said, slowly, as if every word were coated in honeyed poison.

Prudenzia rose gracefully, ignoring the snub. “I attended one of her receptions, raising funds for the wounded. Her husband, the Duca di Torlonia, honored us by speaking of the preparations for the local hospitals.”

“A charity event?” Barone Confidati glanced at the marchesa. “I understand now.”

Prudenzia seemed unperturbed, but Mirelle frowned. “What exactly do you understand, sir?” she asked.

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