“I am so saddened by what the world has become,” he said, turning to her.
“I’m sorry you had to see it. To me, it’s a wondrous place I love and value. It may not be as beautiful as your world was, but it’s safe. We have almost no violence any more. People are not hungry, there is little disease, everyone has leisure time to pursue the things they love. We have ease, comfort. The world went through many centuries of war and atrocities to get to what we have now. We’re grateful.”
He looked into her eyes. “Do you suppose I could come to see it as you do?”
“I don’t know.”
He put his hand under her hair, pulled her toward him, and kissed her. Her mouth opened to his, so warm, so sweet. They sank to the ground, which was softened by the wheat. He stretched his body over hers. Her back arched, her chest rising to meet his, and her arms enfolded him as they kissed. One of his hands traveled over her shoulder to her breast while the other remained wrapped under her body. She grasped his shoulders. His arms and back were strong. “Lauro,” she whispered.
“I want you,” he said.
“Not yet, not here.”
He pressed his lips to hers again. They kissed long and deeply. She opened her eyes and took a breath. “We should go before it gets dark.”
“Very well.” But he didn’t get up. His kisses intensified.
She pulled away and laughed. “Lauro….”
“Yes.” He sat up with a chuckle. “You’re right. Let’s go.” He stood and helped her to her feet.
Night had completely fallen before they reached the stable near Siena, and it was nine o’clock before they were within the city limits. They ate at a restaurant before returning to the villa. The house was dark; no one was around.
“Is this the time? The place?” Lauro said to her as he took her into his arms in the dark hallway.
“No. I don’t want Jake to know just yet, and he’s likely to, with all of us in the same house.”
“I understand. Then when?” He pulled her closer.
“I don’t know.” She smiled. “But soon.”
He kissed her again. “Goodnight.”
She moved up the stairs toward her room. “Goodnight,” she whispered.
Chapter Five
Cassandra gazed down at the ancient books, encased in glass, in the study of Giulia Brogi’s home. One of the diaries lay open. “I can hardly make out these words.”
“Listen,” Giulia said. “We may not want to read all of these right now. It’s a lot, and, well, now that I know who Jacopo is,”—she turned to Jake—“I realize some of them will seem very personal to you.”
“What do you mean?”
“There are two series of diaries. The first series is from Giuliana’s life in Florence. She must have begun to write them when she met you, because that day is the first entry.”
Jake gasped. “Really?”
“Yes, and so I think you may want to read those in private. You may come back any time to do so.” She smiled shyly and looked down at the books.
“All right. And the other series?”
“It is from after Guerrini died. She didn’t keep any journals during the time of her marriage to him. It seems that what she wanted to write about was mostly you.”
“So what should we do?”
Giulia unlocked the case and, with gloved hands, carefully drew one of the books out. She handed it to Lauro, who was also wearing cotton gloves. “I’d like to start from the first entry after Guerrini died. I figure Signor Sampieri is the only one who can read it without much effort, even though it’s faded.”
Lauro gingerly held the book and went to sit at Giulia’s desk where the light was best. He withdrew a pair of spectacles that Jake had given him from his pocket. Cassandra drew up a nearby chair. Giulia and Jake sat together on a small sofa.
Lauro cleared his throat. “’July 9, 1509: It has now been a week since the death of my husband and since Jacopo disappeared with his sister and Maestro Sampieri. Piero’s brothers have searched everywhere for him, questioning those who know him well, journeying to San Gimignano to question his aunt…everywhere, but it is as if he has vaporized into thin air.’”
“My aunt!” Lauro looked up from the book. “I swear if they harmed her or her house in any way, I will go back there myself and—”
“Keep reading, Maestro,” Giulia said gently.
He sighed deeply and continued. “’I threatened those thugs with cutting them off financially if they hurt anyone in their efforts, and they have been so dependent on their brother’s money for so many years, I know they have well heeded my warnings. I can only think the Contessa managed to get Maestro Sampieri to the port and they fled to England together. But has my Jacopo survived? Is he alive?’”
“Oh, God,” Jake said, his head falling into his hands.
“Shall I go on, Jacopo?” Lauro asked.
Jake sighed heavily. “Yes.”
“The next entry is dated September 10, 1509: ‘The messengers I sent to Hampshire in England to find information about Count Grenefeld and Countess Bar re a ntine have come up empty. Did they really exist or were they just figments of my imagination? Nowhere is there information about Lauro Sampieri either. And so, for now, I give up on this search. Perhaps, if Jacopo survived, he will come back for me again. Now that I am free of Piero, we could truly and finally be together.’”
Cassandra looked at Jake, and saw that Giulia was looking at him too. He was gnawing on a fingernail.
“’I spend my nights dreaming of him,’” Lauro continued reading, “’my days too, for I have nothing else to do. I visit Francesco as he puts the finishing touches on my portrait. There is a quality in his work now that doesn’t exist in any of his other pieces. He, poor man, is so sad, he pours his pathos into his painting. He and I have become very good friends. He talks to me about Piero and it’s interesting to learn that my husband was a man who could actually be loved. He could never show a tender side to any woman, but he showed it to Francesco.’”
“The next is dated October 1, 1509. ‘The painting is finished and it is exquisite! I paid Francesco twice what he and Piero agreed on. Since I had it hung in my grand salon, I’ve had party after party for those wishing to see it. Every time someone hears about it, I have to have another gathering so they can come with their friends to see it. It is a phenomenon. When I look into the eyes of the woman in that portrait, my eyes, which Francesco captured so well, I see the longing there.
“’However, in order to quell the ache in my heart, I have decided to use my riches for something other than lavish entertaining. I have decided to open an orphanage for the poor children who roam the streets of my city, abandoned by impoverished parents or forsaken when they lost their family to death. I plan to make it a clean, warm place where they can learn to read and write, learn a trade, have enough food to eat, and a soft bed. This will not be a convent, though the nuns of Saint Catherine will run it. The boys and girls will be separated into different buildings, but none will have to give up their secular lives for the church in order to receive help. I will oversee the operations to be sure there is no corruption. This idea has provided a light in my life, where before, there was so much darkness. If only Jacopo would come back and share it with me.’”
“Can we take a break?” Jake said, rising abruptly.
Giulia retrieved wine and coffee for her guests, and then Lauro continued reading. “’October 24, 1509: We have located a building for the orphanage and have begun to furnish it. This is what my life was meant for. I have interviewed nuns who are willing and able to work in this capacity, and found the kindest and most dedicated. I am busy gathering linens, soap, food to stock the kitchen, pots and pans, clothes for the children, and I am walking the streets of the town, talking to children and trying to determine who needs my help. Those most in need are most reluctant, of course, but when I explain how life will be for them in their new home, I see a light begin to shine in their eyes. I am connected
with families who know of orphaned ones, and of course, there are those who want to send their children to the orphanage simply because they can’t afford to feed them. I must tread carefully here, because I want my help to go to those who need it most.’” Lauro stopped and took a sip of coffee.
“She’s an angel,” Jake murmured.
“I’m so proud to be her namesake,” said Giulia. She and Jake smiled at each other.
“Shall I go on?” asked Lauro.
“A little more,” said Jake, “but I can only take so much in one night.”
“’December 1, 1509: The orphanage of Saint Catherine has been established! We have twenty boys and thirteen girls now living there. I go every day and listen in on lessons, help in the kitchen, oversee the laundry, and inspect the groceries that come in and the cleaning. When the children are unruly, the nuns speak kindly to them, and if there is no improvement thereafter, they are given the consequence of doing some kitchen duty until their behavior improves. I will not tolerate hitting or cruel punishment of any kind. So far, this philosophy has worked well and the children respond. Besides, the orphanage is not a prison. They choose to be here, we do not force them. However, there are restrictions about leaving the premises, which they can only do when accompanied by a nun. If a child decides he prefers life on the street, he is free to return there, but if he so chooses, he cannot then return to Saint Catherine’s. So far, we have had no defectors.
“’Beyond these activities, which consume most of my time, I have begun to host salons in my home for artists, musicians, and intellectuals. We play music, discuss art, literature and philosophy, mathematics and science. I know Jacopo would have enjoyed these occasions so much. Still, I feel less and less like I need a man as a companion. My life is so very, very full.’”
“The dates jump six months ahead,” Lauro said. “’June 20, 1511. For several months I’ve had little time to write. The orphanage and my salons occupy nearly all my time. However, this year I intend to start a new project: I have bought land from Maestro Sampieri’s estate, and I plan to use it to start a sanctuary for horses, those worn out by the military or who are simply too old to work or be ridden. And imagine who will run it—Carlo, my good and faithful bodyguard! He and I became good friends after Piero died. He fell in love with one of my maids and they married. So I will build a house for them on the property, and we will use Signor Sampieri’s stables since Ottavia has no need of them. She has already sold off the vineyards and the wheat fields. I imagine they are too much work for her, and since Alessandra married that apprentice of Sampieri’s who is now working for Francesco, that fellow named Giovanni, Ottavia is alone in the house. She has begun to rent out rooms, making the place into a sort of inn. I went for the first time since the Maestro disappeared, when I purchased the land, and though not much has changed, it made me feel very sad. What in heaven and earth could have become of him? It’s been two years now and we hear no word. Ottavia says his uncle has had no news, nor have his daughters. Just as Jake and his sister have essentially disappeared into the ether, so has Lauro Sampieri. I can only think they all went to England…that is, if Jacopo survived at all. I truly believe now that I will never see them again. Siena has lost a great man in Maestro Sampieri, and I have lost the other half of my soul. But by killing Piero, the Maestro left me the greatest gift imaginable—my life, to live how I want to live it. It will be dedicated always to God and His service. I am free from the specter of the convent, but I will take my own private vows to serve Him and live in chastity and obedience always.’”
Lauro took off his spectacles and looked around the room. “She was always a remarkable woman, but given no chance to shine with Guerrini.”
“The rest of the second series begins to be less about Jacopo and more and more about her work,” Giulia informed them. “Eventually, she stopped writing altogether—probably too busy and too fulfilled to need to write about it anymore.”
Jake was looking at the floor, silent.
“It’s fascinating to hear her mention the painting,” said Cassandra. “When Lauro read that part, suddenly the portrait became clear in my mind’s eye. But then it faded.”
“I had that same experience,” Giulia said.
“Anyway, what do you say we wrap it up for tonight?” Cassandra went on. “I’m sure the mayor has a busy day tomorrow.”
“As always,” she laughed. “Only two days before speech day. Gentlemen, will you come to my office tomorrow so we can prepare?”
Cassandra had opted out of speaking for the mayor’s campaign.
“Oh yes,” said Jake after a slight shake of his head. He rose and took the mayor’s hand. “Thank you so much for dinner, signorina, and the chance to find out about Giuliana’s life. I would like to continue reading when we can.”
“I go on vacation just after the Palio, so it will have to be soon.”
“Jake, why don’t you come by yourself,” Cassandra suggested, “since you probably want to start on the first series. I’m sure you’re curious about it.”
“Is that all right with you, Signorina Brogi?”
“Please call me Giulia.”
“Giulia,” Jake said with a smile.
“Yes, of course. So then, after our meeting tomorrow, you and I will continue this on our own, Jacopo?”
“It’s a plan.”
A vibration woke Cassandra from a deep sleep. The Mangia tower clock chimed one in the distance. It must have been her link, there on the bedside table, that woke her. Indeed, a message from Jake blinked at her. Curious, she asked for the contents. His voice said, “This is Giuliana’s first diary. Please read it as soon as you can.” A hologram of an ancient book bloomed before her. Of course Jake couldn’t have meant for her to read it right then in the middle of the night, but she had to have one peek at least. She gave a command for the hologram to lighten, then reached out and turned to the first page.
January 30, 1506 —Since my uncle gave me this beautiful book in which to write my poetry and practice my drawing, I haven’t been inspired to use it at all. I had no urge to compose poems, nor have I found any subject worthy of sketching. Until today. I have heard that some of my friends write their private thoughts in their precious booklets, so that is what I do now, using this dear gift to write about the loveliest man I have ever met. His name is Jacopo. He is an Englishman. I was at Maestro da Vinci’s studio today, because papa is commissioning a work of art as a gift for my cousin’s wedding. He argued and wrangled to try to get the Maestro to do it himself, but da Vinci said he had no time as he was preparing to go to France in a few months and could not be bothered with small commissions. This infuriated papa, but Leonardo showed off the work of some of the most worthy artists at the studio, and papa began to be assuaged. I noticed a young man hanging back in a corner, listening to everything with interest, observing all that passed. I saw him looking at me too. He picked up a parchment and began drawing on it, looking from me to it, from it to me. I realized he was drawing me, which was very bold. I tried to look away, but didn’t want to deny him his subject. I didn’t know whether to smile or remain serious. I became very conscious of how I should arrange my face. I finally decided I’d better look like I hadn’t noticed him, so I merely gazed out the window across the room. After several minutes, he coughed, and I looked at him. He turned the drawing to show me. It was beautiful. So much more than I really am. I moved away from my father’s conversation with da Vinci, pretending to look at paints and tools, but making my way toward where the young man sat. As I came close, he asked me, in the funniest Italian, what my name was. I told him. He repeated the word ‘Giuliana’ as if it was a delectable fruit he was tasting in his mouth. I asked for his, and he told me, ‘Jacopo. Jacopo Grenefeld.’ What a strange name! All he had time to say was that he was from England before father caught me talking to him and ordered me to his side. The Englishman’s soft blue eyes followed me until we left the studio. Now I can’t stop seeing them in my mind.
&
nbsp; February 7, 1506—I begged father to take me back to the studio again, and he relented. Jacopo was there. I was careful not to approach him this time, but I couldn’t help exchanging glances. He has the thickest, light brown hair, wavy and so…clean looking! Everything about him seems so fresh. His clothes look new and expensive; he must be very wealthy for da Vinci to agree to take him on as an apprentice. The Maestro takes almost no one, and an Englishman at that! I can’t imagine how much Signor Grenefeld’s family must have paid for the privilege. I want to talk to him; I want to ask him about England and his life there, and what he’s doing here.
And then, then, dear book of mine, he brushed by me and I smelled his delicious scent. It wasn’t heavy with aromatic oil, like all the other men I know, covering up the foul odor of their bodies. It wasn’t sweet, like a woman’s perfume. It was the scent of sunshine and fresh air, of sea spray and freshly washed clothes. I have never, in all my twenty-one years, felt so drawn to a man.
February 10, 1506—I did an incredibly bold thing today. I wrote a poem for Jacopo. I gave it to Maurizio, the house-boy, and paid him well to deliver it to da Vinci’s studio. I told him to look for the man with the light hair and blue eyes—there could be no mistaking him. Maurizio returned after a few hours, saying that Jacopo read my poem and asked him to wait while he penned a response. It was just a few lines: ‘To the beautiful and esteemed Signorina De Lucca, thank you for honoring me with your poem. I am not worthy. Though I wish I could know you better, I fear your father would not approve. Please be careful for your own sake, Jacopo Grenefeld.’ He is a gentleman.
February 14, 1506—Today, I sent the cook’s son to follow Jacopo and find out where he is staying, which, as it turns out, of course, is the finest inn in Florence.
February 16, 1506—I went with the cook to the market because Jacopo’s inn is on the way. As we passed, I asked the cook to wait, saying that I had to use the comoda. I gave a maid in the inn a note for Jacopo, and a few coins for delivering it and keeping quiet about it. In the note, I asked Jacopo to come to my father’s palazzo late tonight, after the bells ring for Matins. I said I would meet him at the gate where we could exchange a few words. Let’s see if he comes. I’m trembling with excitement.
The Time Contessa (The Time Mistress Book 3) Page 20