The reverberating echo of the gunshot froze both sides. A scream ripped through the crowd; Francesca thrust Daniel aside and seized her dead husband in her arms. Barbara pulled out of a woman’s restraining grasp to put her head into her father’s bloody lap, wailing like a wounded animal.
“What have you done?” cried a young man, running to the stricken family. “What have you done?”
Daniel stared at Christophe, whose pistol pointed at the empty space above Emilio’s prone body, smoke rising from the barrel. “What have you done?” he whispered.
47
MAY 26
Francesca, robed in mourning black, was genuflecting at her backyard altar when Father Candelabri found her. She looked up from her fervent devotions.
“Will the French release his body, Father?” she asked.
“I’m not certain,” he said, looking at her solemnly. “They might have done so before, but now . . .” He extended a hand and helped her to her feet.
“Now? Did something happen?”
“Yes, my child.”
Francesca waited.
“Let’s sit down,” the priest said. “Perhaps that bench over there?”
Francesca led him to the bench under the magnolia. She was grateful that the baby was sleeping, and that Fiona’s mother had invited Barbara to spend the day with them.
“What’s happened, Father?”
He pulled a rosary out of his cassock and sat, slowly moving the polished black beads through his fingers. He bit his lip. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, especially in such a time of sorrow, but you need to know. They’ve stolen the miraculous Madonna from the cathedral.”
Francesca crossed herself in alarm. “The French took it?”
Father Candelabri shook his head. “No. Members of the Catholic Fellowship. Not the cardinal, but some of the others. We suspect Emilio’s cousins Desi and Roberto are among the instigators.”
Francesca stared, uncomprehending. “But why?”
The priest returned the rosary to his pocket and took Francesca’s hands. “They say they will burn it if the French do not leave Ancona. That Emilio’s murder showed how unjust and violent French rule is. A desperate measure, perhaps. But the entire city knows of Bonaparte’s fascination with the painting.”
Francesca sat rooted to her seat, a loud rushing between her ears. Growing dizzy, she pulled her hands away to grip the bench.
“No,” she whispered, sick to her stomach. “They cannot mean it.”
Father Candelabri sighed. “They do. I take it you had nothing to do with this, child?”
“Father! How could you even suspect . . .” Francesca sputtered to a halt. “I loved my husband, but I could never countenance an act like this. Never in a million years.”
I loved my husband, Francesca repeated bitterly to herself. It was a lie, wasn’t it? She looked up at the priest and flushed, feeling a damning wave of shame. She had hidden the truth from everyone, excluding it even from confessional. Doing so had forfeited her right to communion. Was she damned for wishing that her husband would die and leave her family in peace—especially now that the wish had been granted? Was his death the devil’s work, tempting her? She clung to that part of her that genuinely mourned the man she had married. But another part was glad he was gone forever.
“Bonaparte is somewhere near Milan. They sent a messenger to request his instructions in the matter,” the priest said. “Francesca, are you certain you’re all right?”
Francesca raised her head. “I’m fine,” she said weakly. “Thank you for telling me. I’ll pray for the outcome the Lady would want. Surely she will give us a sign.”
Candelabri shrugged. “The ways of heaven are shrouded in mystery, child. We still do not know why she came to us as she did.”
“But the cardinal . . .”
The priest smiled wryly. “My superior in Christ believes the miracle intended to goad us to action against the French. I am not convinced he was right.”
Francesca stared at him, shocked. Priests were supposed to obey, not to question. “How can you say that?”
The priest stood, holding a hand out for her. “Come, let us pray at your altar to Mary. I do not forget your grief. If nothing else, the Lady will bestow peace upon us for a while.”
Later that afternoon, Roberto stopped by. He looked nearly as devastated as poor Barbara, who had not stopped crying since her father had been shot. Fiona’s mother had brought her home early, saying that neither she nor her daughter could stem the child’s flow of tears.
“Come sit, Roberto,” Francesca said.
“You should cast me out,” he muttered, collapsing in a kitchen seat. “I am sick with shame.”
She went over to the cupboard and brought down a glass and Emilio’s bottle of grappa. Her fingers trembled around the neck of the bottle, remembering how her husband would grab it off the shelf, the sound of glass scraping the wood. She put bottle and glass in front of his young cousin, and poured out a drink.
“Shame? Roberto, be sensible. Emilio was a prisoner. He taunted the soldiers, murdered Jews, he . . .” She sighed. “You could not have prevented the French from killing him.”
Roberto shook his head. “That’s not what I mean.”
“Not?” Francesca frowned. “Then what?”
“I wouldn’t attend the Catholic Fellowship meeting held after the French captured Ancona,” Roberto said. “I wouldn’t help him with his plot to kill the Jew. Why, even you were brave enough to sew the uniform for him. Desi visited him when he was in hiding. But me? I am a coward.” He downed the glass she’d poured him and poured another himself.
She stared at his hangdog expression, shaking her head. “There’s no shame in being afraid. And certainly not in having enough common sense to realize that Emilio’s plan could not prosper.” She picked Mario up from his basket on the floor and bounced him on her lap. “You blame yourself for not helping. I blame myself for just the opposite. Don’t you think I know that if I had not sewn that uniform or”—she lowered her voice, making sure Barbara, sniffling in her bedroom, could not overhear—“sent my daughter to him, he might be alive today?”
Roberto downed the second glass of grappa, and would have taken a third if Francesca hadn’t removed the glass from his grasp. He laughed bitterly. “Did you see how that Frenchman shot him down—like a dog in the street?”
Francesca flinched.
“Like a dog, I tell you, Francesca!” he cried wildly.
“Silenzio,” she hissed, glancing toward the children’s room.
But it was too late. Barbara, her face swollen and eyes red, stood in the doorway.
“But we will have revenge, I tell you,” Roberto cried, grabbing the bottle by the neck and gulping straight from it.
“Give me that!” Francesca moved the baby to her hip as she reached across the table.
His eyes bored into her. “We’ve done something for him.”
“I heard,” Francesca said. “You’ve stolen the portrait.”
Roberto’s face brightened, and Francesca felt a shiver. The fanatical light in his eyes felt all too familiar.
“Where is it, Roberto?” she asked. “You must return it.”
“Return it? To the French? Are you joking?” He laughed maniacally. “We’d rather see it in flames.”
Francesca shook her head. “It’s a portrait of God’s Virgin Mother. How does burning something that holy help my poor, dead husband?”
“It was his idea,” he answered. “Desi told me. It means something to that damn general. Emilio wanted to burn it because Bonaparte demanded his soldiers keep it safe.”
“But it’s a sin,” Francesca insisted.
Barbara burst into the room, fists clenched. “That’s just like you,” she shrieked, “thinking of sin and God rather than my papa! If Papa wanted to burn it, Cousin Roberto is right—they should burn it!”
Mario started wailing.
“Barbara!”
But it was
too late. Barbara pushed past her and raced out the door. Her daughter’s angry shouts echoing in her ears, Francesca turned on her husband’s cousin. “Do you see what you’ve done?” she demanded, trying to soothe the now screaming baby. “Stop talking like a madman. Do something useful—go bring my girl home!”
I can’t bear staying indoors, Mirelle thought. The shocking death in town still lingered in her mind. The wind had picked up, blowing cold off the water, but she decided to walk along the shoreline anyway, past the harbor and the docks. She could be alone there. The hard headwinds invigorated her, drove away her demons.
She tucked her shawl over her head to muffle the wail of the gale. Walking nearly doubled over, she imagined the fury of the elements mocking her, their wild freedom so different from her predicament: forbidden to do the one thing that brought her peace, denied the man she loved.
Nearing the edge of the water, Mirelle thought she saw a shape in the distance. She scrubbed her eyes and drew closer until the figure materialized. It was a small, huddled child.
“Hello,” she said, kneeling to the girl’s level. “What are you doing here all alone?”
The child looked up, a flash of hatred in her eyes, and Mirelle rocked back on her heels. I know her, she thought. She was the daughter of the man Christophe had shot. The girl who had called her and Daniel Jewish devils in the marketplace. What is her name again?
“Go away,” the girl hissed. “Leave me alone.”
For a moment, Mirelle considered it. This child’s father had caused so much misery. Emilio had been a demon, a monster—the man who’d slaughtered both her brother and father. Why help his daughter? But then, seeing the girl’s dirty, tear-streaked face, Mirelle softened. This child, too, was mourning a father—a father who had been shot dead while she watched. Another family torn apart by hatred, another victim of senseless violence.
Barbara, Mirelle remembered. That was her name.
“You can’t be out here in this wind, Barbara,” Mirelle told her. “Your mother will worry.”
“My mother?” the girl spat. “My mother doesn’t care. She’s glad they killed Papa! She doesn’t think I can tell, but I can. She’s relieved.”
Mirelle put out a hand and touched the girl on the shoulder. Barbara hunched away, but Mirelle’s hand followed and stroked her tangled hair gently. “You know that’s not true.”
“What do you know?” Barbara railed. “My papa . . .”
“My father died recently, too,” Mirelle said. “I miss him, cry for him at night. Sometimes during the day, too.”
Barbara stared at her with baleful eyes. “He wasn’t killed, was he? No one shot him down in the streets—like a dog, my cousin Roberto said. They killed my papa like a dog.”
“No,” Mirelle said slowly, biting back the bitter rejoinder that leapt to her lips. “My papa died in bed. But . . . it was sudden, too.”
They stayed there for a moment, Barbara allowing Mirelle to lightly pat her shoulder as she stared out at the horizon. The wind blew sharp pellets of sand into Mirelle’s face, stinging her cheeks. The girl wasn’t safe out here, she thought. She had to convince her to go home.
“They’re going to burn the portrait,” Barbara blurted, ducking her head. “Unless the French leave Ancona. Papa wanted to burn it, that’s what Cousin Roberto said. But Mama says it’s a sin.”
“What portrait?” Mirelle asked.
“The Madonna portrait,” Barbara said impatiently. “Want to know something? I saw the miracle first. Mama keeps saying it was her, but she’s lying.”
Mirelle studied the child’s face. “I don’t understand.”
“They all say that Mama first witnessed the miracle. Everyone believes her because she’s so holy, because she’s so special. But I saw it first!” Barbara shook off Mirelle’s hand. “So there!”
“You’re angry,” Mirelle said. “Have you told your mother how you feel?”
Barbara shook her head. “Mama doesn’t care. She loves the portrait more than me.”
“I’m certain that’s not true.” Mirelle knew she couldn’t leave the child out here all alone. It was growing late, and the keening wind made her shiver. “I’ll take you home,” she offered.
Barbara rose, the wind beating at her face. “All right,” she agreed. “I’m hungry anyway.”
They arrived at the little farm just in time to see a distraught Francesca heading out to search for her daughter. An older woman sat outside in the twilight, holding a baby.
Francesca gasped with relief when she saw Barbara. “Where have you been?” She grabbed hold of her and hugged her fiercely. “I’ve been so worried.”
“I want my dinner.” Barbara broke free from her mother’s embrace and ran into the house.
Only then did Francesca notice Mirelle. Her eyes widened. “Where was she?” she asked abruptly. “We looked everywhere.”
“On the shoreline outside the city. It was pure chance I found her. She’s safe now, so I’ll take my leave.” The last thing Mirelle wanted was to talk to Marotti’s widow.
“It seems I have to thank you yet again,” Francesca said, more softly this time.
Mirelle shrugged. “No need,” she said brusquely. Common courtesy demanded that she offer her condolences, but she couldn’t bring herself to say she was sorry. She was glad Marotti was dead, glad Christophe had killed him.
Francesca, though, did not move. She put out a hand. “Nevertheless, I do thank you. It was kind of you—kinder than I had any right to expect.”
Mirelle took the widow’s hand for a brief second, then let it drop.
Without another word, Francesca turned and went inside to her daughter.
48
May 29 PALAZZA MOMBELLO, THREE LEAGUES OUTSIDE OF MILAN
It took Daniel three days of hard riding to reach the Palazza Mombello. Never an intrepid horseman—he left that to Christophe—he’d protested vociferously against being sent. But Captain Bossard, in command of the French contingent in Ancona, had insisted.
“You were with the general when he first saw the portrait,” Bossard said. “It only makes sense that you tell him what’s happening here.”
He’d set forth after tossing a few things into a knapsack, and left a city buzzing with rumor. Who had stolen the portrait? Where was it hidden? The town residents all had their own theories—except when questioned by the French. Then they sat, eyes on the floor or the ground, silent as a tomb.
Daniel rode into an Italy rife with the aftermath of riots—a revolt in Venice in March, a massacre of more than four hundred French soldiers in Verona just over a month earlier. “Death to Frenchmen! Death to Jacobins!” was the cry rising from the pulpit to the streets. Daniel was well aware that this was not the best time to be a lone French rider on a skittish mare galloping through Italy’s towns and villages, so he made the best speed he could, wishing he could avoid bustling town squares and lonely roadways alike. Neither felt safe.
He was relieved to reach the château where Bonaparte had set up his headquarters to negotiate treaty terms with the Austrians, the pope, and sundry Italian leaders. His first view of the palace made him catch his breath: a building golden in the afternoon sunlight, surrounded by tall cedars, nestled in Lombardy’s rolling hills. Everything about it spoke of grandeur.
Entering the château, he felt unequal to his task. He was muddy, exhausted, and, despite days of mumbling to himself in practice, still unsure how to address the general.
Luckily for him, the first person he saw upon entering the palazzo was Bourrienne.
“Daniel!” the secretary cried. “Why are you here?”
He grasped the back of a chair. After riding nonstop for three days, he felt almost seasick, his legs wobbly and weak. “I’ve been sent as a messenger.”
“Let’s get you some food and drink,” Bourrienne said. “And clean you up. You don’t want to report to the general looking like that.”
The secretary brought him into a vast flagstoned kitchen
and called for some bread, meat, and a glass of wine. Daniel gulped down his repast, desperate to dispatch his message and head back to Ancona. When he was finished, he asked, “Where can I clean up?”
“I’ll take you to my quarters,” Bourrienne said. “We’ll arrange for your lodging later.”
The general was relaxing with his family in a glassed-in sunroom just off the château’s courtyard when Bourrienne brought Daniel to see him. Daniel was curious to see his wife face-to-face. Josephine had always provoked a good deal of gossip among the soldiers, not all of it savory.
But as she moved forward to greet him, he was struck by the sweet and gentle grace of her manner. Her dark curls clustered around her face, and her black eyes were large, expressive, and welcoming. She was slender, dressed in a white dress that fell from just under her chest in a column to the floor. A gold chain was clasped around her milky white throat, two pearl drop earrings dangling from her ears. She might have served as a model for a Roman goddess, Daniel thought.
She glided toward him, extending a hand out from a shawl of crimson. “Welcome, Sergeant,” she said, her tones dulcet.
Not knowing what else to do, Daniel bent and kissed the back of her hand.
The general, who was listening to a young girl play a harp, turned sharply and glared, first at Daniel and then at his secretary. “What now, Bourrienne?” he demanded.
“Sergeant Isidore is here from—”
“Listen,” Bonaparte snapped. “I need to dictate a letter to Barras.”
The smile on Bourrienne’s face faded. He slipped a small notepad from his breast pocket and opened it, ready for the general’s direction.
“Director Barras. You’ve written me about the public’s desire for peace,” Bonaparte barked. “Said they weary of war and feel France is no longer endangered by outside forces. But you know how untrue that is. England alone . . .”
Perplexed, Daniel glanced from one man to the other. The last time he’d seen them together, they had acted more like equals than commander and subordinate. Something must have shifted in their relationship.
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