Dolce had been her confidante since the night of the ball when she, thank goodness, opened Mirelle’s door. Dolce had helped devise the necessary lies, telling their worried parents that Mirelle’s heel had broken and she’d taken a bad spill. The exquisite gown was declared beyond repair, but Mirelle wouldn’t dispose of it. David smiled when he heard that, and Mirelle could only suppose that he thought it was out of affection for his gift.
Mirelle realized that Dolce was only helping her to prevent her marriage to David, but her friend never said so out loud, or asked Mirelle to break off her engagement—which confused Mirelle. She wouldn’t blame Dolce for making such a demand; after all, it was the honorable thing to do, the thing God, with His strictures against wantonness, would demand of her. And Mirelle would have if she weren’t worried about two things: Mama and the ketubah workers. The thought of betraying either made her stomach churn. If I marry David, I can save them both, she told herself. I’ll keep Christophe a secret. A secret to look back upon fondly once she fulfilled her duty to her family.
Christophe didn’t want to hear about her duty. He pressed her to run away with him. “Let’s go to the Cisalpine Republic,” he said as they sat in the woods, referring to the republic Bonaparte had established in Northern Italy. “They allow civil wedding ceremonies there. It wouldn’t take long to travel to Bologna. Less than a day by horseback.”
Mirelle bit her lip. “I can’t do that to my mother. Or to David. I’m promised to him.”
Christophe’s eyes turned stormy. “How can you consider marrying him, when it’s me you love?”
“I have to.” Tears choked her throat. “I agreed to marry David. Please understand.”
Christophe reared back, fuming. “Understand?” He jumped up, standing over her, his hands clenched at his sides. “You ask too much of me.” In one swift motion, he hauled her to her feet, pulled her to him, and kissed her with a fierceness that seemed to brand her very soul. Then, just as wildly, he thrust her backward so she stumbled and almost fell.
“Do you really think I’ll let you marry him?” he demanded.
She reached back blindly and, finding a tree trunk, straightened herself with a hand that trembled. “Would you force me?” she asked, suddenly furious.
“You know I won’t.”
“Well, then—”
But he didn’t let her finish speaking. Instead, he seized her to him once more and kissed her passionately. When he finally broke off the caress, he held her at arm’s length, his eyes searching her face. “You’ll come to me of your own free will. Because you love me. Deep down, you know it’s true. We’re meant to be together.”
Dolce encouraged their rendezvous, even when Mirelle wished she wouldn’t. She knew what her friend wanted—for Christophe to carry her off and free David. Mirelle knew she shouldn’t confide in her, but she ached to share her wild, uncontrolled feelings with someone who wouldn’t condemn her. Dolce was her only real choice.
“You go along,” she told Mirelle one afternoon as she stood before her, twisting her fan.
“Why don’t you come, too?” The company would shield Mirelle from the danger of yielding, once and for all, to her desires.
“Nonsense. If I came, who would distract your mother and my father?” Dolce gave a conspiratorial laugh. “Go on now, Mira. Your swain awaits.”
Mirelle let herself out of the house, stepping into the sultry summer sunlight. A breeze blew off the water and caught her bonnet. To her dismay, it flew clear off her head and skipped along the wooden dock. Hampered by her narrow skirt, she hobbled to catch it. It was nearly in the water when a hand reached out and grabbed it.
“Yours, I believe, cousin?” Daniel asked, handing it to her with a bow.
“Daniel!” Mirelle could hardly contain her delight. “How long has it been?”
“Since the ball, I believe.”
“Thank you.” She shook out the bonnet, readjusted the ribbons, and tied them tightly under her chin. “Where are you going?”
Daniel’s shoulders slumped. “I’ve been helping with the search for the miraculous portrait. No luck yet, I’m afraid.”
“Is that why you haven’t been to see us?”
Daniel nodded, looking away from her and toward the harbor.
Mirelle wondered: Had Christophe told her cousin about their meetings? She bit her lip. If Christophe had even hinted, what must Daniel think of her?
“Why are you helping with the search?” she asked, striving for a normal tone of voice. “What do you care if the painting is recovered or not?”
Daniel shifted from one foot to the other. “The general has ordered it recovered. If it isn’t—I fear for Signora Marotti and her children.”
“But he wouldn’t . . . ?” Mirelle looked into Daniel’s face, reading the truth there. “Is your general that ruthless?”
“Bonaparte?” Daniel asked. “Once, during an insurrection in Paris, he fired grapeshot into a crowd of Royalists. Live ammunition on French men, women, and children. No one else would have dared. He’s a general, Mirelle. A strategist. He does what he must to ensure victory.”
“And you admire that?”
Daniel glanced at her. “It is the mark of a great man, and perhaps one reason I could never hope to be one. Yes, I admire it. But I don’t think I could emulate it.”
“There are other ways to become great,” Mirelle said, patting his arm. “Helping a woman whose husband has done you harm, for instance.”
Daniel shrugged. “It’s not her fault she married a villain.”
“Still . . .”
“I plan to go there tomorrow—to convince her to help us find the portrait. Perhaps you could come and translate for me. She told me you brought Barbara home. She might listen to you.” He laughed, wryly. “I could use the help.”
Mirelle didn’t want to see Marotti’s widow ever again, but Daniel looked at her with so much hope that she couldn’t deny him. “All right.”
They fell into a companionable silence. Mirelle still wondered how much he knew about her and Christophe. As they walked past the French army barracks, Christophe emerged from the building.
“There you are!” he said, taking her arm. “I wondered if you were coming today.”
Mirelle felt the flush sweep through her entire body. Glancing at Daniel, she saw he, too, had turned bright red.
“Daniel, you can hand her over to me now,” Christophe said gaily, not seeming to detect the embarrassment the other two felt.
Without a word, Daniel bowed to Mirelle and walked swiftly away in the opposite direction.
“What’s the matter with him?” Christophe asked, sounding amused. “He’s turned strange lately. I know he disapproves of us, but—”
“Disapproves of what? What have you told him?” Mirelle asked, pulling her arm out of his.
He looked at her, eyebrows raised. “He’s been a friend of mine since we were nine years old. Of course, I’ve told him I hope to marry you.”
“And what we do together? Have you told him that, too?” Wanting to sink into the ground, Mirelle could barely voice the question.
“What kind of cad do you take me for?” Christophe exclaimed. Then he thought for a moment and chuckled. “Of course, he knows of my luck with the ladies. Perhaps he speculates.”
“And you enjoy it!” Mirelle flared. “Why do I allow you . . . What’s wrong with me?”
Christophe blinked in surprise. “Mirelle, my love, you’re over-wrought. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I am ashamed,” she whispered. “What we’re doing is wrong.”
Christophe took her arm, pulled her into a shadowed corner of the barracks, and gathered her in his arms. He cupped her chin and covered her mouth with his. All resistance ebbed from her; her body grew slack. He lowered his lips onto her neck, kissing the nape, then moving to her shoulder. She felt his heat through the thin fabric of her dress and shivered.
“Are you still ashamed?” he murmured in her
ear. “Is it still wrong?”
“Yes,” she whispered, her voice husky. “I am. It is.”
But as he began to pull away, she put up her arms to hold him fast.
53
AUGUST 31
Francesca was cleaning the morning dishes when a pounding at the door startled her. Tentatively, she creaked it open. A contingent of French soldiers stood there, with Daniel at their head, Mirelle at his side.
“I brought my cousin along to translate for me, Signora Marotti,” Daniel told Francesca. “We need to search the house. Permesso? May we come in?”
Francesca bit her tongue. Could she refuse him? Mario was crawling at her feet. She reached down and picked him up.
“He’s gotten big,” Daniel said.
She backed away to let the soldiers inside. Barbara was God knew where. She hoped the child wouldn’t return before she’d had a chance to return everything to order. She knew from past searches what chaos the soldiers would leave in their wake.
Daniel chucked the baby at his throat, making him laugh. “He’s sweet,” he said. “Listen, signora, I must ask you some questions.”
She stuck up her chin. “I’ve told you, I know nothing about the portrait. Yet still you plague me, frighten my children. What more do you want from me?”
Daniel looked toward Mirelle, who spoke to him in French. Why did he bring her along? His Italian was perfectly passable.
“I asked to lead this detail,” he replied. “They want to bring you in for questioning, signora, put you behind bars. I told them you’d answer me.”
“Why should I?” She spat the words, tasting bile. “You French have ruined my family’s life. I’d rather talk to anyone but you.”
His lips thinned. “The general orders us to find that painting if we have to turn the entire city upside down. If the soldiers think you know anything, they’ll throw you in chains. Whip you. Starve you. But you can tell me what you know, and I’ll protect you.”
Behind them, one of the soldiers overturned a kitchen cabinet, sending the wood crashing to the floor, dishes smashing. The baby wailed in Francesca’s arms. She and Mirelle both flinched. Daniel reached out and touched her elbow; she pulled away.
“Take me in, then,” she said, eyes blazing with scorn. “Torture me. What do I care? I’ve nothing left to live for anymore.”
Daniel stared at her, wide-eyed. “That’s not true,” he whispered. “Isn’t it?” She heard the hysteria rising in her voice. “My husband is dead. His cousins are holding the portrait hostage—the Lord only knows where. My daughter runs around like a hoyden and hates me. When I pray for solace, the Lady remains silent, indifferent. I’m all alone and you—” Her voice broke, and a torrent of weeping flooded out from the deepest part of her. The baby, who had been whimpering since the crash of furniture, turned red and started screaming.
Daniel stood as if turned to stone. Mirelle stared, openmouthed, silent.
Finally, Daniel reached for the child. “I’ll take him,” he said, speaking loudly over her sobs. “Let me get you something to drink.”
She clutched the baby to her for a moment, wondering if she could trust him, but gave in and placed Mario in his arms. The boy screeched even louder, reaching out plump arms past Daniel’s shoulders for his mother as he carried him away. She collapsed on the step and leaned against the doorjamb, hiccupping as she tried to stop crying. Behind her, the soldiers, seemingly indifferent to her anguish, continued to tear her house apart.
Mirelle sat beside her and placed a hand on her knee. Another crash made the Jewess’s shoulders shoot up around her neck. “Is it like this every time they search?”
Francesca whisked her tears away with the back of her hand. “Yes.”
The two women sat silent for a moment, then Mirelle spoke again. “I’m sorry. If you truly have no idea where the portrait is . . .”
“I don’t,” Francesca said shortly. “I’ve said it a hundred times. I say it again and again, and it makes no difference.”
“But your family took it, didn’t they?”
“My husband’s family, not me. What they threaten to do is a sin.”
“Then why not help us find it?”
Francesca almost wanted to laugh. How innocent she was!
Daniel returned with a cup of water. The baby sucked on a spoon, dribbling honey on her floor. His little face was still beet red, but at least he’d stopped wailing.
Francesca took the glass and tried to drink it, but her throat had closed. She returned it to Daniel, shaking her head.
“Francesca,” he said. “Listen to me.” He sat beside her and put the baby on the stone step just outside the door. Mirelle moved aside to give him room. Mario grabbed hold of his mother’s foot, smearing it with his honeyed spoon, then abandoned both to toddle off into the yard.
“Listen,” Daniel repeated.
She stared at him.
“You must help us.”
She plucked the sticky spoon from her foot and threw it carelessly into the grass. “I don’t know where the portrait is. And how could I tell you if I did? Betray my people?”
“No one has to know.” Daniel touched her gently on the arm. “But it would be over. Don’t you want this to be over?”
“Devil,” she whispered, staring at him. “Satan, get thee behind me.”
Daniel shook his head. “We’re not the devil. Your miracle painting is in danger. All we need is a clue. Because the alternative . . .”
“The alternative?” Francesca kept her eyes on his face.
“The general has sent new orders. If we don’t find the painting in three days, we are to begin executing the suspects. Starting with Emilio’s cousins, whom we’ve already incarcerated.”
Francesca slumped against the doorframe. She thought of Desi—how he loved a girl in a fishing village near Ancona, planned to marry her once he’d saved up enough money. Of Roberto, who still hadn’t enough hair on his face to be considered a man, and who’d always been the kindest of Emilio’s cousins, despite the anger he now carried as though it were a living thing. Both with lives yet unlived.
“This portrait,” Francesca said, sitting up. “To us, it’s a miracle. Why does your general care so much about it?”
Mirelle shifted closer. “You cannot tell anyone. He told me this in confidence.” She took a breath. “He said . . . the portrait glared at him.”
Daniel started. “You knew that?”
Mirelle glanced at him, equally surprised. “He told me the night of Dolce’s salon—but swore me to secrecy.”
Francesca shook her head. “So what? The Lady smiled at me. She wept. Hundreds of the faithful and unfaithful witnessed the miracle.”
“A glare is different,” Daniel said. “Bonaparte is a great man, to be sure, but a superstitious one. Not unlike yourself, signora. When I told him it had been stolen, his wife asked the same question you just asked. He told her that the portrait rattled him—shook him to his core. Forced him to question his destiny. And for a man like Bonaparte, destiny is everything.” Daniel looked at the clouds scuttling overhead. “Until he can unravel its portents, he wants the portrait safe and under guard. And he will do anything to get it back.”
“Anything? Kill people?”
“He’s a soldier, signora. He’s used to killing to get what he wants.” Daniel lowered his voice. “You’ll be executed, your children left motherless and fatherless. You can’t want that.”
The children. Francesca shut her eyes, then stood with an effort, gripping the doorjamb so she wouldn’t fall. She watched Mario playing in the dirt of the kitchen garden, wondered again where Barbara might be. My first duty is to these children. Another crash echoed through the small house.
“All right,” she whispered. “I’ll help you find it.”
54
They’d stuck Roberto and Desi in the basement of the French barracks. When Francesca entered, her heart in her throat, Roberto stood next to the window of the cell, looking out at th
e shoes and boots of passersby. A dusty, warm breeze filtered through the bars.
Desi sat, looking desolate, on the single cot in the room. Francesca sat next to him and put her arms around him in a hug. He squeezed her shoulders, but Roberto ignored her and glared at Daniel, who stood by the open cell door.
“Why is he here?” Roberto grated.
“They won’t let me see you alone.” Francesca reached out her hands to him, but he ignored them.
“So they sent you with that Jewish bastard?” Roberto hissed. “The one who gunned your husband down in the street?”
“That wasn’t Daniel,” Francesca countered, “that was his friend.” Even as she said the words, she regretted them.
“What difference does that make?” Desi spat. “He hunted him down, didn’t he? He marched him like a criminal through the streets. Might as well have pulled the trigger himself.”
Francesca threw Daniel a desperate look. “I can send in another guard if you want, Signora Marotti,” he said impassively.
Father Candelabri slipped past Daniel and stood in the center of the cell, taking in the scene with careful eyes. Francesca had asked him along in hopes his presence would help.
“One French pig is as bad as the next,” Desi sneered. “What difference does it make?”
“This one is a Jew as well as French,” Roberto said, narrowing his eyes. “Emilio was right. We should have killed them all when we had the chance.”
Daniel stiffened, and a chill chased up Francesca’s spine. “Roberto, what’s gotten into you?” Father Candelabri admonished. “What are you saying?”
Roberto’s lips thinned. “Emilio died because of them—the French and the Jews.” He pointed at Francesca. “Why defend these pieces of filth?”
Francesca struggled to find the right response. “They’re going to kill you,” she finally said. “You know that, don’t you?”
Desi spat on the sawdust-covered floor. “So we’ll die as patriots. So what?”
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