The Violinist of Venice by Alyssa Palombo

Author:Alyssa Palombo
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781466882638
Publisher: St. Martin's Press

37

STAND MY GROUND

The next morning, I rose and waited for Meneghina to come help me dress. As I was pulling on my white silk robe, the door to my bedchamber banged open unexpectedly. I turned, expecting Meneghina or perhaps Giuseppe. I froze as I beheld my father, his eyes fixed in shock on my protruding belly beneath my shift. I quickly pulled my robe closed, but it was too late. He had already seen what he needed to see.

In an instant, his expression changed from shocked to enraged, though I could tell that he was trying to keep his anger under control. “Please tell me,” he said through gritted teeth, “that is Tommaso Foscari’s child.”

Suddenly there seemed to be a new way out. What if I lied and said yes? What could my father do? We were engaged to be married, after all, and once we were, it need not matter to anyone again.

But Tommaso would know the truth. And love me though he did, he was not so mindlessly besotted that he would consent to raise another man’s child as his own. Nor could I ask such a thing of him.

But it did not matter. My hesitation had been the giveaway. My father had seen the calculation in my eyes, as I tried to decide the best answer to give. And in that one moment, he knew everything that I had tried so hard, for so long, to hide.

In a few quick, long strides, he crossed the room, and the back of his hand came crashing against the side of my face, sending me tumbling to the floor.

“You disgusting hussy!” he yelled, standing over me. He reached down, grabbed a fistful of my hair, and used it to haul me to my feet. “You filthy whore! How … who…”

But his anger was so great that words failed him. He struck me across the face again, harder this time. Black spots began to dance across my vision, and I could feel my lip split open and begin to bleed.

“How could you be so stupid, you slut?” he demanded, shoving me into my wardrobe. I fell against it, striking my head and back so hard that I cried out. I huddled against it as he came to tower over me again.

“Tell me his name!” he demanded, spittle flying from his mouth. “Tell me the name of the depraved bastard who dared defile you, or so help me God—”

“I would sooner die!” I flung my head back and shouted at him.

He struck me across the face again. “Tell me his name!”

But beating or no beating, I was through cowering in fear of him. Even as I knelt on the floor, my body curled around my belly to protect my child, I refused to give in. “You are not fit to touch his shoes!” I cried. “Your filthy, foul lips are not fit to speak his name!”

He dragged me to my feet by my robe, and I could feel the thin cloth tear under his violent grasp.

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