The Glassmaker's Daughter - Donna Russo Morin

Historical Fiction Set In 17th Century Venice

The Glassmaker's Daughter by Donna Russo Morin

Book excerpt

The royal blue and gold gondola belonging to the da Fuligna family waited for them as they stepped off the barge. Sophia lumbered along behind her parents as they crossed the fondamenta. Clad in her finest gown, a simple but elegant buttermilk silk that tapered at the waist and revealed the upper curves of her full breasts, her body felt as disconcerted as her mind.

“Let’s ride within the felze, shall we?” her mother suggested, her voice ringing with forced frivolity as she tried to help her daughter brave this perilous journey. “I have never been in one and it will be cooler.”

The reticent gondolier helped them onto the craft with silent reverence, a stark contrast from the oarsmen who had driven them to the festival. This man was a servant of the da Fulignas; it was not his place to entertain. The copper-haired man leaned before them with a bow, pulling back the navy brocade of the canopy entrance and holding it aloft for them as they bent low and entered. Sophia sat alone on a cushioned side bench while her parents shared a larger one against the back drape.

Their bodies lurched as the gondola launched. Sophia felt the ripples of the water pass beneath the wood beneath her feet. She heard the oar’s soft splash as it dipped into the water, again and again, like the ticking of a clock on a sleepless night; louder and louder it reverberated in her ears. The four windowless sides of the cloth cabin seemed to draw closer around her. The dramatic coiffure of pinned-up, bejeweled braids felt tighter on her head. She took a breath but it wasn’t enough. Her chest constricted, her throat narrowed.

“I cannot breathe,” she whispered.

Leaning forward she threw open the drape and rushed out. The gondola swayed under her sudden motion. With little grace, she flounced down on the bench just outside the baldachin. Seconds passed before her parents joined her, sitting beside her, one on each side. Without words, for there were none that would suffice, her father put an arm around her shoulder; her mother took her hand.

When they turned onto the wide Grand Canal, gondole passed them on each side, their drivers singing, their passengers talking and laughing, but the Fiolarios continued on in silence, as mute and subdued as their subservient gondolier. Sophia contemplated the beauty of her surroundings with a contemptuous stare as if seeing the manure that fertilizes the flower instead of the bloom itself.

Where once there stood only huts of wood and wattle, the magnificent palazzi dominated both sides of Venice’s main thoroughfare, their colorful stone façades of lime and ochre, tracery ornamentation, and open loggias and arcades gave these Venetian palaces their particular distinction.

This world waited to gather Sophia into its clutching arms; a life of grandness and elegance, pretension and envy… an affected life that her family’s money would pay for.

As their gondola entered the next deep bend in the Canalazzo, the driver pointed the ferro, the iron-beaked prow, toward the outside shoreline, toward a palazzo that dominated the curve in the canal. The Ca’ da Fuligna was four stories tall, each level gaining in opulence as it rose from the water toward the heavens. Simple Gothic arches festooned the canal level, while the four-leaf clovers and medallion-topped arches of the upper floor gave the building a slightly Moorish aspect. As in so many of the buildings in Venice, the pietra d’Istria—the waterproof, white stone—formed the foundation of the building. Upon its stalwart support sat the ochre bricks, high above the water’s erosive grasp.

As the gondolier trussed the craft to one of the painted, private family stazi, her parents stood, heads tipping up to scrutinize the palace from bottom to top. Sophia remained in her seat, staring at the decaying stone of the first floor and the mold creeping up its crumbling side.

“Sophia?”

Her mother’s prodding broke her reverie. Sophia stood, smoothed her soft silk skirt with trembling hands, and followed her parents off the boat and onto the quayside.

A blue-liveried servant bowed low as he opened the door, one pristine, glove-encased hand pointing toward the marble staircase opposite the arched wooden door.

“This way, per favore.”

He did not ask their names, as there was no need; their arrival had long been expected.

At the top of the gently curving stairs, the attendant led them through the empty foyer of the piano nobile and into a room to the right of the cavernous hallway. At the threshold, he bowed once more.

“Signore and Signora Fiolario and their daughter, Sophia,” he announced.

Viviana entered first, shoulders back, chin held high, grabbing her long flowing emerald green skirts to make a curtsy to the room’s inhabitants.

“Signora and Ser da Fuligna, what a pleasure to meet you at long last.”

To Sophia’s ears, her mother’s voice sounded strong but trilled, sure but fast.

“And you must be, Ser Pasquale da Fuligna, sì?” Viviana addressed both father and son with their appropriate titles as they were both nobiluomini di Venezia, noblemen of Venice. Her mother paid her greetings to her future son-in-law but still, Sophia could not peer in the door, let alone walk through it.

Zeno followed his wife in silence, his greetings no more than polite mumbles.

“Sophia?” Her mother called out into the corridor, reaching for her as a net reaches for a trapped animal.

She could delay it no longer, she must enter, to not would be unseemly.

Sophia stepped over the threshold and the afternoon sun pouring in from the side windows blinded her; she squinted against the light, but still, she could not see clearly nor discern the shadowed faces of the da Fulignas who sat with their backs to the glass. Dust motes danced in the light flooding in from the tall panes, rising up to the cathedral ceilings, their fuzziness blurring the scene before her. Lines became indistinguishable, colors blended.

Her eyes adjusted, her blindness receding like the early morning fog retreating from the shore. Her legs felt weighted, as though she waded in deep water. Features came into focus and she approached a middle-aged-looking man as he rose from a tall, leather, winged-back chair, his body creating an almost vulgar sound as it slid against the buckskin.

“Here, Sophia.” Viviana took her daughter brusquely by the arm and spun her to the two people seated on a faded, garden-print sofa. “Pay your respects to Ser and Signora da Fuligna.”

Sophia’s legs trembled as she made her obeisance. With a jolt, she realized her error. The man she thought to be her future father-in-law was, in truth, her future husband.

“It is my great honor to meet you, signore, signora.”

“Young lady.” The elder man gave a curt nod of his head, looking at Sophia with small, beady eyes from beyond a long, curved Roman nose. He wore a grand doublet and waistcoat and a long gray beard below his bald head.

The woman to his left said nothing at all but bowed almost imperceptibly from her waist. Sophia thought she saw pity in the wrinkled woman’s face and light eyes but recognized it instead as timidity.

With a lowered head, she acknowledged the man now standing beside her, offering him a silent curtsy.

“Signorina.” He took her hand, and bowed over it, making no pretense to kiss it as was customary. “How do you do?”

His voice and diction were precise and clipped, as meticulous as his extravagant attire of midnight blue doublet trimmed with gold braid, matching breeches, and fine lawn shirt. He lifted Sophia up and out of her bow.

Pasquale da Fuligna resembled his father, a few fewer wrinkles perhaps, and a few more hairs on his head, a few of them still brown, but otherwise he was a duplicate of the elder man. Sophia couldn’t fathom his age; she didn’t think he was as old as her on father but thought he looked to be more of Zeno’s generation than her own. His dark eyes appeared intelligent and hard, the closed and shuttered windows of an armored soul.

“Please sit,” he offered, not with warmth or courtesy, only instruction.

Sophia sat beside her mother on the smaller rose-colored loveseat across from the larger sofa while her father stood behind them.

“You have a lovely home.” Viviana’s words skipped along the finely strung tension filling the room.

“It has been in our family for over two hundred years,” the elder da Fuligna informed them with more than a little superciliousness. “We have more rooms than any other house on the canal.”

“Really?” Viviana turned to the woman of the house. “I’m sure that keeps your servants busy.”

Renata da Fuligna didn’t open her mouth; her thin, pale lips spread in a pale imitation of a smile. Eugenio da Fuligna answered for his wife. “They are proficient at their work.”

Sophia glanced about. The massive home shone clean, not a speck of dirt lay on the corners of the marble floor or the intricately carved wainscoting and the many-faceted chandelier above their heads. With a critical eye, Sophia saw beyond the pristine cleanliness, to the chipped stone, peeling paint, and a distinct absence of art and ornamentation, save for the painted ceiling coves. Above her, naked, plump cherubs floated upon fluffy white clouds, their grins sardonic, as if they mocked her. On her hosts’ attire, she saw the same shabby grandeur in the frayed cuffs and yellowed lace of their demodé garments.

“You must be quite pleased,” Viviana said.

“Tell me, young lady, have you been educated?”

Sophia’s eyelids fluttered, as did her gaze, from person to person… a search for understanding. Taken aback by the abruptness of the elder da Fuligna’s question, by the personal nature of it so soon upon their acquaintance, she floundered.

Pasquale showed no reaction to his father’s brusque rudeness. He sat stiffly in his chair, chin in hand, flat stare intent and unsurprised. Understanding dawned. This is why they were there; she must pass muster in the eyes of the father who dominated this peculiar family. She was a commodity being inspected, examined for any weaknesses or defects. Sophia nodded. So be it.

“I can read and write with proficiency. I am conversant in Latin and can perform rudimentary mathematics.” She spoke demurely as jaw muscles flexed and her chin tilted upward.

She longed to add that this was more education than most noblewomen ever received but the spirited intentions caught in her throat; the words in her mind were always more forceful than those she managed to say.

“And music … do you play?” Eugenio showed no reaction to her litany of schooling.

Keeping his thin-eyed stare planted firmly on Sophia’s face, he raised a joint-swollen, twisted hand to the door and beckoned the servant posed there forward.

Pasquale dropped his hands to his lap at the sight of the refreshments rolling in on a silver tray, ushered in by the same servant who had greeted the Fiolarios at the door. Heaving an undisguised sigh of impatience, he squirmed in his chair; his lack of desire to lengthen this occasion any longer than was necessary apparent, regardless of what correct comportment demanded.

“I play the lute,” Sophia answered, searching for more to say, if for no other purpose than to extend their visit in the face of such disdainful dismissal.

“She plays beautifully,” Viviana said with conviction, clasping Sophia’s hands where they twisted in her daughter’s lap.

“Sophia has many talents.” The fervor in her father’s powerful baritone was unmistakable, as was the succor in the hand that grabbed her shoulder and squeezed.

These proud parents had no real wish to lose their daughter to—nor impress—these pompous people, but they would not allow her to be diminished in the eyes of the da Fulignas.

Signore da Fuligna slurped his wine, biting into the crunchy almond biscotto he’d picked up from the offered salver. Chewing on the dry cookie, smacking the lips of his almost toothless mouth, the food visible with each gaping yaw, the elder nobleman continued his interrogation.

“The social graces, what of those have you learned?”

Sophia studied her future father-in-law with silent revulsion; she had never been schooled in deportment or manners, but as the crumbs sprayed from this unctuous man’s mouth, she felt certain hers were by far superior.

“Father,” Pasquale snapped with no small hint of exasperation. “She is obviously well-mannered, the rest can be taught.”

Three loathsome gazes flashed upon Pasquale; he spoke of Sophia as if she were a pig for sale at the fair. Not even the bent, contrite head of his mother could disguise the blatant opprobrium of this conversation. It heaped upon the moment more ill-will, to Sophia’s baffled discontent. It was not to her defense that Pasquale’s acrimony rose, but seemed more a product of the ire he felt for his father. There seemed no reason for her to be here, nor why this fusion of families should be sought after. There was no affection in Pasquale’s features when he looked upon her, nor any smidgen of desire. Sophia knew with a strange certainty that he did not like women in the least.

The old man’s attention flashed on the face of his son with disgust; there was no love between these two men, regardless of the blood that bound them. She shivered from the cold radiating off these emotionally bereft people, saw her mother rub the skin of one arm, and knew she felt it too. This house was a nest of vipers and she would be the prey thrown into the fray.

Brushing crumbs from his lap and onto the floor, Eugenio retrieved a roll of parchment from the surface of the ornately carved walnut gueridon to his right.

“I would like you to read these over, Fiolario.” He thrust them toward Zeno. “You can read, can’t you? If not you should have a clerk of the court explain them to you.”

“I will have the barrister who represents our glassworks review them,” Zeno replied with a tight-lipped grimace. “After I have read them myself.”

Sophia longed to cheer at her father’s bravura, but lowered her head, allowing a small smile to tickle her lips. Absent were any signs of her father’s confusion and frustration, and for that Sophia felt gratitude; as if the indignation he felt toward these arrogant people kept his blood stirred, his mind sharp.

“If the contents are agreed upon, the signed copies will be exchanged at the ceremony,” Eugenio resumed dispassionately. “Pay particular attention to the last clause, that which would give my son control of the factory upon your death.”

Viviana shot the man a scathing look, her lack of patience with da Fuligna’s insensitivity scantily veiled by her impeccable manners. He ignored her.

“I must be clear, this means nothing,” Signore da Fuligna insisted, eyes narrowing contemptuously, the baggy, ashen skin around them tightening. “To be allowed into a family who has been listed in the Libro d’Oro for hundreds of years is a privilege young women clamor for. I must give this union a thorough study before any agreement is signed.”

At one time, Venice’s Golden Book of Noble Families held over two thousand names, but plague and declining fortunes, inhibiting marriage and the number of offspring, had seen that number shrink dramatically in recent years. True, a small part of Sophia wished to see her future progeny’s name among the auspicious list someday—any Venetian who loved her country would—but she felt no inferiority to those who were on it. Her own family’s lineage reached back to the dawning of the Veneto and surely the Fiolario wealth far outshone most of theirs. After these scant few minutes with this family, she understood the true depth of her own family’s riches, wealth that could never be measured in ducats or soldi.

“Including further inquiries into your family’s lineage,” da Fuligna continued, oblivious to his offensive posturing.

“Would you care for more wine?” Signora da Fuligna’s sweet voice amid such antagonism shocked the Fiolario family.

Viviana nodded, offering her empty goblet for the woman to fill.

“We.” Pasquale sat forward in his chair, staring at his father though he addressed Zeno. “We will be making inquiries.”

Father and son dueled soundlessly, neither willing to back down or give way. The room fell into silence under the weight of unease; not only were the Fiolarios uncomfortable with their hosts, the da Fulignas were uncomfortable with each other as well. Pasquale sucked his teeth in exasperation as his mother filled Sophia’s empty glass and sprung to his feet.

“I’m very sorry,” he said, the feigned apology offered to the room in general. “But I must be leaving. I can delay no longer.”

With a shallow bow and without a hint of a glance in Sophia’s direction, he rushed from the room.

The father watched with undisguised loathing as the son sprinted out of the chamber. Sophia studied him as his lips parted, as his gaze narrowed to a slit. She wondered if he longed to cry out but used every ounce of restraint he possessed to remain quiet.

Sophia stared at Pasquale’s retreating form, at the empty doorway long after he left it. How could she ever grow to care about this man when his own family hated him?

“Like brilliant glass, Donna Russo Morin’s story swirls together colors of political and religious intrigue, murder and romance. Readers will be enmeshed in the lives of her fascinating characters”

— RT Reviews

“One of the best written novels of Venice I have ever read”

— Historical Novel Review

“With elegant prose and alluring style, Donna Russo Morin brings 17th century Venice gloriously to life”

— HistoricalFiction.com

Book Details

AUTHOR NAME: Donna Russo Morin

BOOK TITLE: The Glassmaker's Daughter

GENRE: Historical Fiction

SUBGENRE: Italian Historical Fiction

PAGE COUNT: 414

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