she was good enough for their friend: not good enough in terms of social standing or wealth, but in terms of making him happy.
‘What will Elizabeth make of us, whose fortunes came from great mercantile adventures?’ Giuseppe continued.
Elizabeth smiled.
‘I am sorry to disappoint you, but I do not look down on trade. One of my uncles is in business in London, and even if that were not so, I would not hold it in contempt, for it is trade that supplied Darcy’s friend, Bingley, with the money to rent Netherfield, and without it I would never have met my husband.’
There was general laughter, and Darcy looked at Elizabeth with admiration and approval.
‘Excellente! Well said! Then we have a great deal in common, as was to be expected, for we both love trade and hate Napoleon,’ said Alfonse with a laugh.
‘Napoleon!’ said Giuseppe, and he became sorrowful again. ‘That upstart! What gave him the right to march into our city, destroying in days what it took us centuries to build, robbing us of our greatest treasures? What gave him the right to drive something wonderful from the world?’
The mood was becoming melancholic and the men were becoming morose. The women were uncomfortable, turning their fans in their hands or arranging their skirts to hide their disquiet.
Sophia proved her worth as a hostess by immediately lightening the mood and hitting upon the one thing that could rescue them all from their melancholy: a celebration.
‘Let Napoleon have his edicts,’ she said, dismissing him with a wave of her hand, ‘let him give Venice to Austria. Let them all conspire to control us. They will not break our spirits. Let them say what they will, we will have a ball, a great masked ball in honour of Elizabeth and in honour of the splendours of Venice. Let us show Elizabeth how we Venetians used to live.’
The idea caught hold at once.
‘But yes, let us show Elizabeth some of Venice’s former splendour. A masked ball for Elizabeth!’
The mood had altered. The melancholy had disappeared, to be replaced with pleasure and excitement. Everyone had their own suggestions to make and the details of the ball began to take shape.
‘Let it be a costume ball,’ said Maria.
‘Yes! A costume ball! And let it reflect one of our greatest centuries, let us wear the clothes of a bygone era. We will dress in the clothes of the thirteenth century,’ said Alfonse.
‘No, the fifteenth,’ said Maria.
‘The sixteenth,’ said Giuseppe, ‘the time of the great artists, of Titian and Tintoretto.’
‘Very well,’ said Sophia, ‘the sixteenth century.’
‘I have no suitable clothes,’ said Elizabeth with regret, for the ball sounded exciting.
‘You shall take from me, I have plenty, and masks, too, with which to surprise the gentlemen,’ said Sophia.
‘But of course,’ said Lorenzo. ‘That is all part of the excitement, trying to guess what face lies behind the mask.’
‘We will let the others make the arrangements whilst we do something more interesting: I will help you to choose your clothes. Come, Elizabeth,’ said Sophia. ‘We will enjoy ourselves!’
She led Elizabeth upstairs, through corridors lined with great works of art, and took her into a grand apartment with high ceilings and huge mirrors all around. She rang for her maid and soon the room was ablaze with light as candles blossomed into life.
‘Here!’ said Sophia, throwing open a huge pair of doors and walking through into an antechamber full of clothes. They were of all styles and colours, some new and some very old. ‘These are the ones we will wear at the ball, from here,’ said Sophia, showing Elizabeth a collection of gowns at the back of the anteroom. ‘These are from the days of Venice’s glory.’
As Elizabeth looked at the clothes, she saw that they were very old, the glorious fabrics faded with age, but exquisite in their beauty.
‘Do you never dispose of gowns in your family?’ asked Elizabeth, amazed at how many there were.
‘In my family,’ said Sophia pensively. ‘No. They remind us of other times, other balls, other lives, other loves. And that is what we live for, is it not, to love? You, who are so newly married, know that it is true. See, this dress, it is the one I wore when I met Marco Polo.’
‘When you met Marco Polo?’ asked Elizabeth in amusement. ‘That would make you 500 years old!’
Sophia’s hands stilled on the fabric of the dress. She said, ‘You are laughing. Then Darcy has not told you?’
‘Told me what?’ asked Elizabeth.
Sophia became so still