He drank, then threw his glass into the roaring fireplace. A cheer rose from the room, and Mirelle’s aunt cried out, “To Mirelle! My dearest, most darling niece!”
Mirelle’s eyes sought Dolce’s. Her friend was not smiling.
Mirelle was appalled. How could he? To propose so publicly, without discovering how she felt beforehand? Without talking to his own daughter?
She swiveled toward Daniel and Christophe. Daniel stood at the entrance, a startled look on his face. Christophe, however, had turned on his heel and was already halfway out the door.
PART THREE
MARCH–JUNE 1797
35
MARCH 1
The day after the French took possession of Rome, Cardinal Ranuzzi convened a meeting of the Catholic Fellowship. They looked a sorry bunch to Emilio—moping about the darkened cathedral dining hall, a single candle flickering on the long oak board. He saw many fewer faces than before the French occupation.
Desi sat next to Emilio, shirtsleeves rolled up, looking like he was itching for a fight. But nothing had convinced Roberto to come.
“I’m done,” he’d told Emilio wearily, sitting at a coffeehouse table on the dock, watching the enemy march. “The French aren’t leaving any time soon. And you, cousin, you’re endangering your life just by attending this meeting. What did Bonaparte say? That you’d be hanged if they caught you? Be smart. Think of Francesca and the children.”
“Be smart?” Emilio raged. “Do you think the French can threaten me? This is our country and they’ve no right here. Easy for them to talk about liberty! What liberty have they given us? We’ll only have liberty when we take it back!”
But Roberto merely shook his head, like the coward Emilio called him, and refused to come.
Most of the men at the meeting seemed unwilling to act as well. The cardinal led them in prayer and they bowed their heads meekly.
Emilio waited for all the God talk to end before speaking. “We need to show them!” he burst out. “They can’t keep us penned in like this, their soldiers parading our streets! And you all looking like death warmed over, like frightened little girls!”
“Emilio,” the cardinal said, “calm down.”
“Calm down? We’re too calm! We need to hit them—hit them hard!” Emilio’s breathing grew ragged. “Look here! I stood up to the general, spat in his face. I face a sentence of death just for being here. Think that stops me?”
“Did you really spit in the general’s face, Emilio?” asked one of the dockhands. “Wouldn’t Bonaparte have strung you up for that?”
“The general’s not a patient man.” Ranuzzi quickly put up a hand to stop Emilio from replying. “And he’s a parvenu, sensitive of his dignity. Let’s assume Emilio’s spit was more gesture than real. But he is right about one thing: we should show them that they haven’t cowed us.”
“But how?” asked Desi. “We tried an ambush—that didn’t work.”
“Let’s just wait them out,” said another man, servant to Barone Confidati. “My master said the French won’t be here forever. Maybe just months. Then everything will return to normal.”
The cardinal shook his head. “I wish that were true.” He shifted in his seat. “But I’ve read the terms of the Treaty of Tolentino. In addition to paying the French, the pope permitted a French garrison to remain in Ancona. Permanently. Even if they leave the rest of Italy, the French are in our city to stay.”
“Then the pope is a traitor!” Emilio cried, fists clenched. “He’s betrayed us.”
Ranuzzi shook his head. “It seems simple when you’re one man in one city. The pope holds the entire spiritual world in his hands. We can’t know.”
“That’s rot!” Emilio spat on the ground. “Mere excuses. All you churchmen stick together. What has your precious Fellowship done, anyway—except almost get me hanged?”
Ranuzzi crossed his arms across his chest. “Shut up, Marotti. If you don’t like how I run things—”
“I don’t!” Emilio sprang to his feet. “Why I ever thought a priest could lead a group of brigands. . .”
“Brigands?” Ranuzzi’s face turned sheet white. “We’re patriots—don’t you forget it!”
Emilio sniggered, reclining in his chair and stretching his legs. “Of course, we are. When we win, we’re patriots. Right now, to the French and their lackeys, we’re nothing but cutthroats and bandits.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Ranuzzi thrust his face into Emilio’s so their noses were almost touching. “We’re patriots and Catholics, on a holy mission.”
“Fine by me.” Emilio snorted. “But if we’re on a holy mission, we need to have a holy mission. So what is our mission, Cardinal?”
An uncomfortable silence fell over the men. Ranuzzi slumped in his chair, face wrinkled in concentration. Emilio noticed the expression with satisfaction. So I shook up that snooty priest, he thought. Now, if I can only light a fire under the rest of these custard-hearts.
“Why did Bonaparte let you go, anyway?” the baron’s servant asked. Emilio remembered that his name was Nino. “Doesn’t seem like him.”
“He wanted Emilio’s wife to tell him about seeing the Madonna portrait,” Ranuzzi answered. “Because she was first to see the miracle.”
“Still doesn’t explain why he let you go,” Nino persisted.
“She was smart—unlike all of you—and refused to talk until he released me,” Emilio answered. “Seems the portrait spooked him in some way. Buffone.”
“Marotti, try to speak of our Lord and His Blessed Mother with respect,” Ranuzzi hissed. “I was there when the general saw the prodigy. Our Lady affected him in some deep, spiritual way. This is no deception we’re practicing on him.”
“Isn’t it?” Emilio shrugged. “I don’t believe the portrait actually moved its eyes. Or cried. Or smiled.”
“Are you calling your own wife a liar?” Desi asked.
“Uffa!” Emilio ran the fingers of both hands through his dark hair. “I know she believes it. My wife can’t lie, pious misery that she is. But couldn’t this just be a clever sham that you, Cardinal, or someone in the cathedral arranged? Bah!”
The cardinal flushed almost purple. “It’s not a sham,” he said, locking eyes again with Emilio. “Perhaps I was wrong in asking you to join us.”
“And stop calling Francesca names,” Desi protested. “Porco Diavolo, what is the matter with you? You should be down on your knees, praising Christ and all his saints for a wife like that, instead of insulting her.”
As the men around the table nodded, Emilio felt the mood of the room shifting. He looked around at their gutless faces. “Listen,” he said more quietly, “if I talk rough, it’s because I’m upset. Embarrassed. What have we really done since the cardinal pulled us together? Sure, we dispatched a few Jews to an eternity of hellfire—but what else? It keeps me awake at night, the thought of the French and the Jews ruling us. I lie down feeling sick to my stomach, and wake wanting to puke them out. I’m less of a man because the French are here. Aren’t you?”
Ranuzzi spoke up. “You know, the portrait rallied the people before. The general really was rattled by her. But he refuses to admit the truth of our Faith, calls it superstition. He’s a slave to the godforsaken Enlightenment of the French.”
The men turned toward him. Ranuzzi looked at the ceiling, as if seeing visions in the air. “We should take the painting, display it secretly. Bring people to our cause.” He paused, thinking. “The general left it in the cathedral, with orders that no one remove the cloth covering or move the painting. He’s stationed a soldier to guard it. But it would be simple enough to get past him.”
Emilio thought for a few moments. Then it came to him.
“Display it?” he said, his voice echoing in the chamber. “I think we should burn it.”
36
MARCH 5
“What do you mean, you don’t want to marry him?”
Mirelle stared at her mother, hands clenched beneath the
breakfast table. It was nearly three weeks after the salon and every morning started with the same question. “I didn’t say that,” Mirelle replied. “All I said was, I’m not sure what to respond.”
Mama reached for the toast. “Just tell him yes. Sweetly.”
“Pinina,” Papa warned. “Let the girl make up her own mind.”
Mirelle knew her father was annoyed because Mama had kept Signor Morpurgo’s interest a secret for so long. Nor was he pleased at the prospect of marrying his only child to a man older than he. Mama and her aunt, however, badgered her day and night. Everyone in the ghetto told her what an excellent match it was, what a wonderful thing for the ketubah works and for her parents.
Mirelle was working at the ketubah manufactory again—just two mornings a week, which was all Mama would allow. Mirelle had made the same argument to her that had won over her father, but Signor Morpurgo’s proposal had added one more weapon to her arsenal: she’d threatened Mama that she would refuse him outright if she were not permitted to help Papa, at least until Beniamino was settled. Mama had caved under the pressure but insisted that Mirelle be home by noon every day.
Whenever she walked through the ghetto streets and past Dolce’s home, Mirelle reflected on how her life had changed because of Signor Morpurgo’s shocking proposal. The entire Jewish Quarter treated her differently, as if the Morpurgo fortune was already in her purse. But not Dolce.
The day following the salon, Mirelle had decided against visiting Dolce, afraid of meeting her friend’s father. So she’d dispatched a note, asking Dolce to come to her. Dolce hadn’t responded for two days. When she did, her letter was not what Mirelle expected.
I think it is best if we don’t see one another.
I’m shocked that my father would consider marrying you. I’m being honest about this—unlike you, who clearly set your cap at him for some time. I know your parents always wanted to find you a wealthy husband, but I didn’t think you’d stoop so low to entice my father—my father!—into marriage. Know that I will do everything I can to convince him against the match. It’s disgraceful, frankly, to think of you becoming his wife, replacing my beloved mother. I don’t want to see you until the matter is settled, one way or another.
From someone who once thought herself your friend,
Dolce Morpurgo
Mirelle had stood in the hallway, crumpling the letter in her fist. She’d stalked to her desk, intending to write a furious letter in response, but instead only stared off into space. Until she made up her mind whether to accept Signor Morpurgo or not, she had no idea what to say.
Rising from her desk, she’d gone in search of her mother and handed her the note so she could see Dolce’s displeasure for herself.
Mama just shrugged. “She’s been spoiled all her life,” she said. “She’ll be fine once she realizes the marriage is inevitable.”
“But it’s not inevitable. I haven’t said yes yet.”
Mama shook her head. “What are you waiting for, Mira? Do you think you’ll find someone kinder? Someone better equipped to support you—and help your father?”
“But—he’s old!”
Mama reached up and stroked Mirelle’s hair. “Yes, he’s old,” she said softly. “But some girls do better with older husbands. You might, I think.” She pushed Mirelle’s hair off her forehead and smiled brightly. “He’ll certainly always care for you.”
“You think I might do better with an older husband?” Mirelle was aghast. How could Mama think that?
Of course, Mirelle couldn’t explain her other reason for hesitating. Mama and Papa would die of shock if they knew she was considering a Gentile as a husband. That is, if Christophe still wanted her. Since the salon, he had disappeared utterly from view.
Mirelle might long to see the French soldier again, but she was too proud to summon him. She wrote him a letter and tore it to shreds, scattering the pieces in the fireplace. Several times she set out to walk by the French barracks, but always turned back before reaching it. Daniel often visited the family. Mirelle suspected it made him feel less lonely in a foreign land. But when she opened her mouth to speak of his friend, that same pride stopped her.
She spent her days and nights thinking of Christophe, conjuring up his slow smile when she’d catch him staring at her. She replayed their conversations, sometimes changing the words to convince herself that she did, in fact, love him. Other times, she felt guilty about her obsession, but she couldn’t stop herself. Secretly, she imagined dire scenes—a runaway horse, a burning building, even standing under the wedding canopy with Signor Morpurgo—just so Christophe could rescue her. He would throw her over his saddle and they would ride off together. He’d already rescued her twice. Surely, he’d do so again.
She put off answering Signor Morpurgo, inventing one excuse after another. She tried to reason with herself, convince herself she was afflicted by infatuation, a feeling built on nothing. Her common sense had never failed her before this. But her feelings persisted.
The thought of Dolce was like a bruise. Christophe was an ache, a longing buried deep. Mama and Prudenzia were gnats, which Papa helped her swat away. And David Morpurgo? Surprisingly, he was more like a balm, a soothing presence in the sudden upheaval of her life. But, still, she felt nothing more for him than she’d feel for a loving uncle.
He visited constantly, appearing mornings and evenings, always ready with an excuse for Dolce. Mirelle’s lips thinned to hear that her friend was suffering sneezing fits as the flowers bloomed, her eyes red and head aching. Mama, privy to Dolce’s letter, knew that the girls weren’t speaking, but Aunt Prudenzia didn’t.
“Mirelle, you’re not a good friend to poor little Dolce,” Prudenzia scolded one morning as the ladies sat with Signor Morpurgo over coffee and biscotti. “You haven’t been to visit her in days! And with her feeling so poorly.”
Signor Morpurgo interrupted the strained silence. “Mirelle is right to stay away,” he said, calmly dipping his cookie in the coffee. “These are delicious, Pinina. When Dolce suffers, she makes everyone miserable. Right, Mirelle?” He turned to her, smiling benignly.
“Yes,” Mirelle murmured, her voice low.
“Well, I suppose you have some excuse,” Prudenzia tittered. “A wedding to prepare for.”
“Aunt!” Mirelle kept seated with an effort. “Please don’t.”
“Mirelle, really!” Mama sounded impatient. “Your aunt only means to be helpful.”
At that, Mirelle jumped out of her chair. “I know what she means,” she exclaimed. “I know what everyone means! But shouldn’t this be my decision? Not yours, not Aunt’s, not . . .” She waved a hand toward Signor Morpurgo, whose face creased in concern. Mirelle flung her hands in the air, then dashed from the room, up the stairs, and into her room. She slammed her door behind her.
Mino would tell her what happened next—Mino, who should have been at work but was pretending his stomach ached. He crept into her room about an hour later while she lay limply on her bed, staring at the ceiling, wishing Christophe loved her enough to rescue her.
“They’re going to leave you alone,” Mino whispered in her ear.
She sat up. “Who’s going to leave me alone?”
“Your mama and mine. Signor Morpurgo insisted.” “He did what?”
Mino winked slyly. “What will you give me if I tell you?”
“Give you?”
“Dessert tonight. Anna says it’s your favorite. Bocconotti.”
Mirelle looked at him, perched on the end of her bed, swinging a foot idly. “I thought your stomach hurt.”
Mino ignored her. “Agreed?”
Mirelle hadn’t tasted cream puffs since surprising her brother and his friends, when Jacopo was still alive. She didn’t care if she never ate another again. “Fine, agreed.”
“I was hiding under the table. You didn’t see me, did you?”
Mirelle shook her head. She’d grown used to Mino secreting himself in odd places, slinking in and out of
rooms like a cat. What he’d said that first day was true. He had plenty of secrets.
“Well, after you left, the old man told your mama and mine to let you be.” He paused, eyes glinting. “He said that if they kept it up, you’d be an unwilling wife. That you’d be much more biddable if they left you alone.”
“He said ‘biddable’?” Indignation burned inside her.
“That means you’ll do what they want, doesn’t it?”
Mirelle detected malice in the boy’s smile. Careful, she warned herself. This one tells tales. “Something like that,” she replied, controlling her temper. “Did he say anything else?”
“Just that you were a sweet, docile girl and didn’t need to be badgered into accepting his offer. ‘She’ll see the sense of it soon,’ he said. ‘But not if you put up her back’.”
Mirelle worked hard to keep her emotions in check. “And your mama and mine agreed?”
Mino laughed. “Well, yours did. Mine said she would, but I’ll wager she’ll still nag you. Mama isn’t very good at leaving things alone.”
Mirelle wanted to shake him. “If you’re feeling better, shouldn’t you go to work?”
Mino jumped from the bed. He clutched his stomach and winked at her. “Oww,” he groaned comically, not even trying to sound genuine. He started from the room, then turned back. “Don’t forget. You owe me your bocconotti tonight.”
37
MARCH 7
“Hurry up! The men are waiting!”
Mirelle lifted her head from the accounts when she heard Signor Narducci chiding Beniamino. Papa was out, visiting a prospective customer. Mirelle watched as Mino dragged through the workroom, dropping a brush on one man’s table, a fresh sheet of parchment on another. His arms were loaded down with supplies, and he moved slowly, awkwardly.
“Never mind,” one of the men said, handing him back the brush. “I needed this an hour ago. I used something else.”
“So why have me fetch it?” whined Mino. “You’re making extra work for me.”
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