Scales of Gold - Dorothy Dunnett [38]
‘Trained in Bologna,’ Nicholas said. ‘You really ought to get out more.’
There was a long pause. ‘Yes,’ said Gregorio. After a moment he added, ‘By the way, I mentioned the loan. I told Father Godscalc about the Bank’s extended offer to the Signory. But you should speak to him yourself.’
‘Yes, I shall,’ Nicholas said. ‘Although it sounds to me as if you have each said all there is to say.’
There was some business to discuss. As he left, Gregorio turned at the door. ‘Martin. Should you have extra protection?’
‘Perhaps, but not against the Vatachino,’ Nicholas said. ‘I think we should give a reception.’
‘And invite them?’ said Gregorio.
‘It would be a small reception in that case. No, I was thinking of something rather larger than usual. Where would you put four hundred people?’
Gregorio looked at him. ‘Not here. One would borrow, or hire.’
‘Then hire. A place on the Canal, with the largest possible public rooms, and a garden. We do have money for that?’
‘Yes,’ said Gregorio. ‘When?’
‘In two weeks’ time. Will people come at short notice? Yes, they will, I am sure. And it gives us two weeks to plan.’
‘Plan what?’ Gregorio said.
‘The future,’ said Nicholas.
Reclining scented upon her lagoon, Venice was a city of festivals, a city of water-parties and music, of masquerades and stately processions, of entertainments of the circus and entertainments of a more intimate kind, behind silken curtains.
In time of war, it was still there, although muted, this civilised deployment of leisure. What had to be judged, for those who proposed to be hosts, was the invisible place on the scale, the vibration between one quarter-tone and the next which it was proper for them to occupy.
After months of living in Venice, Margot had acquired such a sense. From God knew where, Nicholas had it as well. Hence the Palazzo where he received his guests on the appointed night was graceful but not of ducal dimensions. The servants were many, but only his own wore the Bank’s livery. The garlands were exquisite, but didn’t clothe every pillar or staircase; the food was well-served and plentiful but did not include ostrich eggs, or a fanciful relish of parrot tongues. In a conversation to which Margot had not been privy, Lopez had received the duty of remaining to safeguard the affairs of the Bank.
If there were no pretensions, there were some surprises: a portative organ; a lutenist composer and some chamber players known to Gregorio. In due course, some of those couples present elected to dance, swaying round the room in grave, weaving columns, the women slowly spinning, slowly sinking to curtsey, and later resting on cushions, while fruit was brought, and more wine, and a few acrobats in sparkling costumes somersaulted before them. The doors to the lamplit gardens stood open and men and women stood by the fountain or strolled, their scent mixed with that of the flowers. To Gregorio, Margot said, ‘What is wrong?’
‘Nothing,’ he said.
By arrangement, Margot was not the hostess on this, the Bank’s grand reception. When Nicholas asked, she had been happy to agree that the honour should go to Tilde, and thought it no hardship to help with her robing and grooming. Mathilde de Charetty, walking at her step-father’s side in rustling damask with pearls in her shining brown hair, showed, for once, her mother’s bright blood in her cheeks, and her shadowed eyes shone. And Nicholas treated her as he had treated her mother.
Margot, moving about and speaking to those women she knew, listened to the undertone of the conversation, and was satisfied. Some of these people were strangers: clients of the Bank briefly met; noblemen and their wives representing one authority or another, and a group from the Council, who owed the House of Niccolò more than that courtesy. Some, merchants and bankers met on the Rialto, she had come to know very well. There was, of course, the Charetty party: Julius, and Godscalc the priest, and Alessandro Martelli of the Medici Bank in Venice, with whom they were staying.