The Midwife of Venice by Roberta Rich

Author:Roberta Rich
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Fiction.Historical, fiction
ISBN: 9780091944902
Publisher: Ebury Press
Published: 2011-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 13

THERE WAS NO NEED for Hannah’s heart to be pounding so. Jacopo and Niccolò would not harm the child. In this palazzo, each room bigger than any loghetto in the ghetto, staffed by dozens of servants, Matteo was safe. The only peril this cosseted noble child faced was from being overindulged.

But where in this vast palace could he be? She went to the window to see if the di Padovani gondola was still in sight. It was no longer there. She would search for him on the ground floor. Perhaps Giovanna had taken him. Or perhaps a cook or a housemaid was giving Matteo suck to give Giovanna respite. Hannah would find the child, assure herself that all was well, and then quickly take her leave to avoid running into the two brothers.

A terrible thought occurred to her. Had Lucia’s mind become so unhinged that she had harmed the child? Hannah thought of the incident of the silversmith’s wife who smothered her baby. She dismissed the thought from her mind. Lucia was ill and weak, but not mad.

Hannah had paused, about to descend the stairs, when she heard footsteps and the low murmur of male voices. Two figures appeared at the far end of the hallway. She thought of racing down the stairs herself, but realized she could not reach the bottom before they spotted her.

There was a niche midway along the corridor, just before the staircase, where a pair of heavy damask curtains hung. Slipping into the semicircular alcove, she pulled the drapery closed, waiting for the men to pass. In the alcove was a statue of the Virgin and Child. The Virgin’s knee pressed into Hannah’s hip as she tried to make herself smaller. She wriggled behind the statue, closer to the wall, but no matter how she squirmed, her hip protruded into the hallway, outlined by the damask curtain. There was no helping it. Into the folded hands of the Virgin, she thrust her bag with the birthing spoons and ducats. Taking a deep breath, she clasped the statue around the waist, curved her body to squeeze behind it, and pressed her face into the Madonna’s marble lap. The marble was as cold as canal water in winter; she shivered and fought the impulse to pull away, but she could not without exposing herself to view.

Through a slight parting of the curtains, she watched Jacopo and Niccolò sneak along the corridor. Niccolò was holding a bundle in his arms. He stumbled, cursed quietly, and nearly dropped what he was carrying. Before they reached her recess, she nudged the drapes into place with her knee. As they passed, she could smell Jacopo’s eau de cologne and Niccolò’s sweat. Her heart beat so loudly she was afraid they would hear. She listened as they descended the staircase.

When she could no longer hear their footsteps, she grabbed her bag from the Virgin’s hands, pushed her way out from behind the statue, and began to make her way down the stairs, clutching the stone balustrade to steady herself.

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