CHAPTER NINE“Bellissima!” the Contessa cried, as Rosella spun around, the ruffles of her pink silk skirts swirling across the stone tiles of the entrance hall.
All day long the Ca’ degli Angeli had seen comings and goings – of workmen with ladders come to nail up the garlands of roses that the Contessa had decreed must hang from the high ceiling of the ballroom and caterers – stout women bearing trays of pastries and cakes.
The first arrival at the Palazzo, early that morning, had been Signora Taglioni bearing Rosella’s gown.
It was nearly two weeks since the visit to Murano for her fitting and Rosella’s hand shook as she unfolded the tissue paper and lifted the gown to look at it.
“It’s so heavy!” she had cried, as the many folds of pale-pink silk, trimmed with extra fine silver cobwe
