The Time Contessa (The Time Mistress Book 3)

by Georgina Young-Ellis

  Jake didn’t seem to be as successful. “Piacere…a pleasure.” His face flushed red.

  “I would offer you his services, for, as you can see, his work is exceptional.”

  He appeared to be putting the finishing touches on a small painting of a serene Madonna and child. It was so lovely; it had the effect of soothing Cassandra’s rattled nerves.

  “But he is about to start on a portrait of Giuliana De Lucca Guerrini, wife of one of Siena’s most distinguished citizens, and so he will not be available to take on another commission right away.”

  “Of course, we understand,” Jake stammered.

  Sampieri led them into a building with a high ceiling, tall, airy windows, and smooth, rose-colored walls. The hard-packed dirt floor was scattered with straw. At one end of the room was a large sculpture, still in armature phase—clay packed onto wire—of a male figure. Cassandra followed the men past tables scattered with smaller sculptures still in progress, a desk on which sculpting tools were neatly organized, and another table where two apprentices were bent over pots of color, mixing with great concentration. They didn’t look up as the visitors passed, but when she glanced back, they were staring. When caught, they immediately looked down at their work. Trying to suppress a smile, her gaze drifted out the wide doorway at Marino in the yard, still looking in her direction.

  “I only have sketches here,” Sampieri said.

  Her attention snapped back to him.

  “…since the finished portraits are with their owners. However, I could arrange for you see to them if you wish.”

  He went to a basket where parchments were rolled up, chose one, and unfurled it. It was a sketch of a woman in profile with soft eyes, a straight nose, thin lips and wavy long hair. Jake gave the appropriate response; it was not Cassandra’s place to enter into the discussion though the portrait was to be of her. Sampieri next withdrew a sketch of an old man, a clear expression of contempt written across his face; the next, a young man, thin and drawn, perhaps not far from death. The fourth was of an older, dour-looking woman, and the last three were of younger women, one very beautiful, another with an odd, turned up nose, but large, attractive eyes. The last was plump, with considerable cleavage and a mischievous grin on her face. Their eyes seemed to reflect a particularly flirtatious glint. Perhaps it was the artist’s charm that drew the expression forth.

  “Maestro, your work speaks for itself. We could not be more honored if you could find the time to do the portrait of my sister. Do you agree, Cassandra?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And we would like to pay you in advance,” said Jake.

  “All of it? But it is not customary,” Sampieri replied. “Why don’t you wait and pay me the final half when you decide if you’re pleased with the picture?”

  “I have no doubt we will be,” said Jake, “so why wait?” He reached into his satchel and pulled out a small velvet bag. He counted ten gold Florins into Sampieri’s hand.

  “Is that price acceptable?”

  It was the equivalent of about three thousand modern dollars. Cassandra coughed into her hand.

  The artist bowed low. “More than adequate. I am honored to be in your service, Count Grenefeld. And as a token of friendship, I invite you to stay in my humble home while we complete the portrait. It is very simple, I assure you, but you and your sister will each have your own bedchamber and you can make use of my library, my instruments, my gardens, and whatever else suits your fancy. In short, my home will be yours.”

  It didn’t sound as if the man’s home were the least bit “humble.”

  “No,” said Jake. “You are too kind. We could not impose.”

  “Please, you would be doing me a vast honor. My house is too quiet now. My darling wife passed a few years ago, and my two daughters were recently married. I have only my servants and whatever guests will tolerate me long enough to stay and keep me company. At the moment, there is no one. Please, come keep a lonely man company.”

  Cassandra’s eyes met his. They were serious. Her trust in him was instinctive.

  “Very well,” Jake assented.

  “I shall introduce you to the finest tailor and dressmaker in the city. In the meantime, Conte, you and I are not so different in size, and, Contessa, you will likely fit into the gowns that I still keep of my Teresa.”

  Cassandra again dropped into a curtsey.

  Sampieri beckoned to the two apprentices. He called one Carlo, a large, muscular young man with a muddy complexion and the beginnings of a hump on his back. The other was Giovanni, an attractive youth, with a classic roman nose, deep brown eyes with long lashes, full lips, and a thick head of chestnut hair. He grinned openly at Cassandra.

  Sampieri instructed them to escort his guests to the villa. “And please,” the artist said, “take some cherries for your walk. You must be famished.” He handed Jake a cloth sack full of the fruit. The “count” bowed his thanks.

  The travelers went arm in arm, following the apprentices, having been told to expect about a half an hour’s walk, the house being situated some distance beyond the city walls. As soon as they were past the northern gates of Siena, the air began to blow fresh. The scent of olive blooms returned. They continued along a dirt road, up a slight hill lined with jasmine bushes, speaking little. A dizzy feeling, maybe from not having eaten, made Cassandra grasp Jake’s arm more firmly. He took her hand, squeezed it, and smiled at her. There was a look in his eyes that could have been fear, or maybe just excitement. He held out the cherries and they ate them as they walked. The sunshine, the sweet fruit, and the clean air made her feel better. Their plan seemed to be falling into place. And Sampieri. He was the picture of what she’d imagined a Renaissance gentleman would be: charismatic, gallant, intelligent. What a pleasant turn of events to be guests in his home.

  Chapter Four

  Soon, the house was before them at the top of the hill, a pale stone, two-story building with a red tile roof. At the center of the house, above the rounded, wooden entry, a tower rose. There were four rectangular windows on the front wall of the building, and two rounded windows in the shape of the arched front door, one directly above the entrance on the second story, and one at the front of the tower.

  Giovanni, the good looking apprentice, knocked, and a woman answered. He told her that two guests had been sent by Sampieri, and the woman smiled, crinkling her face into a web of wrinkles. She bowed low to Cassandra and Jake. Giovanni shot Cassandra a flirtatious smile as he turned to go back to town, but Carlo, the hunchback, simply stared as she passed him going into the house.

  The building was cool within, the floors red brick, the thick interior walls stuccoed in pale plaster, and the ceilings were exposed wooden beams. The woman introduced herself, in an Italian laced with heavy dialect, as Ottavia Schiatti, the housekeeper. She immediately began to chatter about how her family had served the family of Teresa Martinelli, Sampieri’s bride, for generations, and went on about the great wealth of the Martinelli family as if it were her own. Though Cassandra didn’t understand everything the woman said, it began to make sense how an artist, even a successful one, could afford the splendor in which Lauro Sampieri lived: he had married into it.

  They walked through the open spaces, lined with arches, each leading into another room. The furniture was sparse: heavy, carved chairs lined up against the walls, a thick table here, a chest there, tapestries hanging on most of the walls with ornate weavings of animals and Tuscan scenery. Cassandra stopped in front of a large portrait hung between two windows in one of the spacious rooms. Obviously Sampieri’s style, it was a painting of a youngish woman with dark blonde hair and startling green eyes, a downward curving nose and a broad forehead—an unconventional beauty. Her mouth was not smiling, but her eyes were. She was looking directly at the viewer, her strong chin held high, her thin shoulders veiled by a transparent covering, and her back straight and proud. The background was the landscape around the villa.

  “La Signora,” sa
id the housekeeper. “The Maestro painted her. She was very beautiful.”

  “I can see,” said Cassandra softly.

  The woman led them up a brick stairway into an upstairs hall. Through the glassless windows, their heavy wooden shutters thrown open to the sun, the city of Siena could be seen shimmering, not far off.

  Ottavia showed Cassandra a room dominated by a narrow bed with high, ornately carved head and footboards. A crucifix hung on a wall above it. There was a chest of dark wood resting at the end of the bed, painted with scenes of a wedding, and two stiff-backed chairs flanking a small table near a balcony with doors open wide. Jake and the housekeeper continued to chat, but Cassandra went to the balcony. It allowed a view out over the back of the villa, which was composed of two long, one-story buildings, a courtyard between them. In the center was a well and garden. Beyond the house, an olive grove stretched beside a broad vineyard, green with leaves and brown with twisting vines. To the north, a great field of wheat glowed yellow. To the south, a pen held huge, brown pigs, and past it was a meadow, where cows and goats grazed. Beyond all this, gentle hills rose and fell, crisscrossed with rectangular orchards and dotted with stands of cypress.

  Jake was explaining to the old woman Sampieri’s suggestion that Cassandra wear his deceased wife’s clothing until other arrangements could be made. Cassandra turned to them as Ottavia open ed the wedding chest and drew out an off-white, silk nightgown, delicately embroidered. She laid it on the dark purple bedspread. She continued to remove clothing, remarking on the beauty of each item as she did so. Cassandra gasped. The gowns were so elegant. One was of deep-red velvet with long, narrow sleeves that formed points at the wrists; it had a scooped neck and a short train in back. Another was sky blue silk, still another, a pale yellow brocade. Cassandra shook her head and tried to explain she couldn’t wear such precious and expensive heirlooms, but the signora waved the Englishwoman’s concerns away with a flick of her hand. She withdrew silk and linen long sleeved chemises to be worn beneath the dresses, bloomers, and white lace petticoats. Finally, she extracted a pair of velvet shoes—way too small for Cassandra. She was sure she was slim enough to fit into the dresses, but there was nothing she could do to make her feet any smaller.

  Satisfied, the housekeeper clapped her hands together once and drew Jake out of the room, admonishing Cassandra to change her clothes and be ready for the midday meal that was soon approaching. The master, she said, would be home to eat.

  “Signora!” Cassandra cried before the woman shut the door, “Dov’è…?”

  “Where is….” the woman repeated. “Oh! La comoda!” She indicated a small door next to the balcony.

  “And….”

  The woman stopped and looked at her impatiently.

  “May I have water to wash with?”

  “Certo, Contessa.” Ottavia turned to go.

  Jake gave Cassandra a wink and left with his hostess.

  Cassandra sighed and opened the door to the toilet, or comoda, as Ottavia had called it. It was a tiny room built into the wall, merely a closet with a shelf and a hole in the center. In one corner of the shelf was a stack of clean rags, and next to it, a ceramic jar with a lid—perhaps a place to throw the used rags. She scrunched up her nose and leaned over the hole. There was no perceptible bottom to it. She went back out to the balcony. Nearby, to her right, the walls of the small bathroom protruded and continued all the way to the first floor. Next to the wall was the flourishing garden. On the other interior walls next to the garden , there were similar protrusions. The waste that came from the toilets must go underground to the soil beneath the garden. Ingenious.

  There was no choice but to go ahead and use the thing. Though the rudimentary flush toilets she’d been lucky enough to encounter during her journey to 1853 New York hardly seemed sufficient at the time, she would be glad for one now.

  After the unwelcomed experience, she needed to wash her hands but no water had yet been brought. She gritted her teeth and went to examine the dresses. She lifted the blue one and held it up against her. Teresa had obviously been tall for a woman of her time because the dress seemed as if it would be long enough for her own five foot, six inch frame. Just after she’d stripped down to her bloomers and chemise, there was a tap at the door.

  “Chi è? Who is it?” Cassandra inquired. Could Jake, or even Sampieri, be stopping by her room at this inopportune moment?

  “Sono Caterina. I am the maid!” said a high, pleasant voice.

  “Come in,” Cassandra said, holding the gown up in front of her.

  A small, brown-haired woman wearing an apron entered. She was young, perhaps even in her teens. She limped slightly as she carried an earthen bowl and pitcher across the room to the table. She smiled at Cassandra after she’d set it down. One of her front teeth was missing.

  “Let me help you,” Caterina said. The words were clear and well-spoken. She busily unfolded a cloth from several she was carrying across her arm. She laid it on the floor and beckoned Cassandra to come to her. Then she took the gown and laid it across a chair. She motioned for Cassandra to stand on the cloth. She then poured water from the pitcher into the bowl, over a bar of coarse soap. She took another, smaller cloth, wet it, and rubbed the soap across it. She deftly whipped Cassandra’s chemise off, then gently washed her face and ears and matter-of-factly raised her arms and washed underneath. Cassandra flinched at the cool water, embarrassed to be bathed like a child. Caterina proceeded to wash her torso, neck, arms, and hands, pausing to examine the bruises blooming there. Cassandra offered a brief explanation of her encounter with the innkeeper while Caterina clucked her sympathy. Finally she yanked down Cassandra’s bloomers and thoroughly cleaned her lower body while a red blush crept over the time-traveler’s skin.

  Caterina grabbed clean undergarments from the bed and began to dress her new mistress, replacing the chemise and bloomers with clean ones of finer silk that had belonged to Teresa. She had surely done the same with Teresa and her daughters since she was very young.

  When she was done, she turned Cassandra to look at herself in a long, free standing, oval mirror opposite the bed. “Bella!” the maid breathed.

  Cassandra’s image smiled back at her from the mirror, her eyes matching the blue of the dress exactly. The full sleeves of the chemise beneath the snug-fitting bodice fell gracefully, then gathered with ties at her wrists. The skirt fell from her waist in pleasing cascades. Caterina pulled a chair in front of the mirror and motioned for Cassandra to sit. She then removed the scarf her mistress had been wearing and gently pulled her long curls free with her fingers, parting her hair in the center. It fell around Cassandra’s shoulders and down her back. The result was a little like a da Vinci painting, and Cassandra added the Mona Lisa smile for the finishing touch.

  Finally Caterina said, “Scusi,” and rubbed her hands together to warm them. She then gently reached into the low neck of the dress and grabbed Cassandra’s breasts, pulling them upward. Cassandra gasped; the rounded tops of her breasts were now shown off seductively, held in position by the snugness of the bodice. She stood.

  “Sono pronta?” she asked the girl: am I ready?

  “Si!” Caterina declared and led her from the bedroom, down to the dining hall.

  Dominating the room was a long, wooden table with finely carved, heavy legs. Jake, Sampieri, and Francesco Marino were already there, seated around it in straight-backed chairs. They leapt to their feet when she entered. Marino pulled out the chair next to him and she sat between him and Sampieri, who was at the head.

  Sampieri took her hand as she sat. “I never thought I would see my Teresa’s clothing worn again, Contessa,” he said. “It makes me happy to see it, and yet I miss her all the more. You do them great justice.”

  “Yes, sister,” said Jake, smiling. “You look very beautiful.”

  “Grazie,” she said, eyes cast down. Glancing up, it was Marino who caught her gaze. With great effort she pulled her focus to Jake. He wore a wine-red d
oublet with a closely matching shirt underneath that Sampieri must have lent him.

  The first course was served, a simple bowl of vermicelli with olive oil and a pungent cheese grated on top. What was that other smell? Perfume…a jasmine-scented perfume but, also, something not so pleasant: body odor. She turned her head toward Sampieri; the odor faded. Turning toward Marino, it returned.

  At her place setting was an eating knife—she’d expected to see that—but something else too, some kind of long, three-tined fork. To her knowledge, people of the Renaissance were not yet using forks. She picked it up, turning it over in her hand.

  Sampieri laughed. “Do you like my invention, Contessa? I call it a mangia-bene!”

  ‘Eat-well,’ she translated. She smiled. It would eventually be called a forchetta in Italian. Could he be the original inventor? “Brilliant!” she said. “It is for the vermicelli?”

  “Yes! Very astute! Let me see if you can figure out how to use it.”

  She dipped the fork into the pasta and began to wind it around the utensil.

  “Very good!”

  “Let me try,” said Jake, who accomplished the feat with equal ease. He winked at Cassandra.

  “Ah, these English are more talented than we give them credit for, Francesco.”

  “It would surprise me if our beautiful Contessa were not talented in many areas,” Marino said with a flowery gesture of his hand in her direction. His scent wafted toward her again.

  “My sister is a very accomplished harpsichordist,” said Jake.

  “Magnifico!” cried Sampieri. “I don’t think you have seen the music room yet. If you care to try out the instrument, Contessa, and find it worthy, perhaps you would entertain my friends this evening with some music.”

  Cassandra raised her eyebrows and shot Jake an irritated glance. The harpsichord was so similar to a piano she could play it easily, and she’d practiced some early Renaissance pieces in preparation for the trip, but hadn’t imagined she would be called upon so soon to play for an audience.