The Time Contessa (The Time Mistress Book 3)

by Georgina Young-Ellis

  February 17, 1506—When I saw Jacopo outside the gate waiting for me, I nearly tripped over my fur robe I was so overjoyed. I ran to meet him, opened the gate, and slipped out without anyone seeing. He said he was worried about me getting into trouble, but I told him I didn’t care. I told him I loved him. Why did I do such a thing? I don’t even know him! When I’m around him, I feel intoxicated. He put my hand to his lips. Oh! His sweet lips! He said he wished he could ask for my father’s permission to court me, but that he must return to England in the summer, that it wouldn’t be fair to me, since he’s not free to marry. But why? I don’t understand. If he’s wealthy, Father might just agree. I told Jacopo I would go to England with him, not even believing the bold words coming from my mouth were my own. He laughed, but kindly. Now, I don’t know what to do or how to think. I reminded him that Carnevale is in two days, and that da Vinci and his artists are invited to the great masquerade celebration at my uncle’s palazzo. I told Jacopo I would meet him there, that I would be dressed as a swan, all in white. He said he planned to go, and he would be dressed as an Oriental king with a blue mask. I can’t wait!

  February 20, 1506—I write this mid-afternoon, for the celebration didn’t end until early this morning, and I slept until the sun was high in the sky. There is so much to tell! I had been at my uncle’s house since dinner. We feasted for hours. Then we went to rest and change. I put on my white dress, sewn with swan’s feathers in rows around the skirt and neckline. The sleeves of my snowy-white chemise hung loose, but when I raised my arms as if to dance, they resembled wings. On my head I wore a crown of pearls and a white mask with small feathers pasted to it that just covered my eyes.

  After nightfall, the music began, and I looked around for Jacopo. It wasn’t until well after the dancing started that I saw him. He was dressed in a lapis-colored silk doublet, hose, and blouse, a midnight-blue cape and long boots. On his head he wore an oriental hat of deep azure with a long peacock feather. A mask surrounded his eyes, a much darker color, but through it I could see those sky-blue orbs.

  He was one of many who danced with me. I could see my father keeping a sharp eye, but he didn’t know who my partners were, as they were all in disguise. More and more people joined the celebration until we didn’t know who was invited and who wasn’t. Da Vinci was there, dressed all in red as the devil. He’s a beautiful old man, but had no interest in dancing and avoided the ladies in favor of talking with the dashing young men. Everyone knows what they say about him, that there’s a reason he never married.

  Finally, the pageant began, a presentation of beautiful young women and handsome men, dressed as the pagan gods, playing out the Roman myths. They were so scantily clad, it was shocking. I watched Jacopo and he watched me. He had no eyes for what was unfolding on the stage. He began to edge out of the room, and I slowly followed. My father and mother’s eyes were riveted on the performance—for once not watching me. I followed Jacopo out of the main hall, through the dining room, all the while pretending not to see him, until we met on the stairway. Then I took the lead and he followed me at a good distance to the bedroom where I’m staying. I closed the door behind him and took off my mask. He did too. Without a word, he took me into his arms and kissed me. In the distance, we could hear the music of the pageant, and only that way did I know time had a beginning and an end. We didn’t speak, only kissed and looked into one another’s eyes. When we heard the music stop, I whispered to him to go. He returned to the main hall, and I followed after a considerable time had passed.

  No one even noticed I was gone. Jacopo left the party soon after, but not until he came close enough to whisper to meet him at the church of Santa Maria Novella, Saturday when the bells toll twenty. It will be easy to say I’m going to the market with the cook, then tell her I want to stop at the church for prayer. She’s too distracted in the market to care anyway.

  March 11, 1506—Jacopo and I have been meeting every Saturday in the gardens of Santa Maria Novella. We don’t kiss while we’re there, but sit at a respectable distance on a bench and just talk. We speak of art and music, the things we both love. Sometimes we talk so long I forget I’m supposed to meet the cook and must rush back to find her impatiently waiting for me. She usually likes to linger there and gossip with her friends, so if she’s waiting for me, I know I’ve taken too long. But before I leave Jacopo, he walks me out to the street where there is a hidden alcove near the church and there he kisses me, over and over. He awakens feelings in my body I never knew existed. More than anything now, I know I want to marry him. He is the first and only man I want to lie with. I am determined that before long, I will tell Jacopo to talk to Papa and ask if he can formally court me.

  March 18, 1506—Before I could even develop a clear plan to tell Jacopo how to approach my father, Papa called me to his study to tell me he had chosen a husband for me! I’m dying inside! He said it was a man named Piero Guerrini, a Senese! He says I am to unite the two family fortunes and help create accord between the major families of the city. Am I a pawn to be used for financial and political gain? I came very close to telling Papa I have already chosen a husband, but the look in his eye when I objected to his choice made me keep my mouth closed. What am I going to do? I cannot, CANNOT, marry some man I don’t even know, who is old, Papa tells me, close to his age! I never imagined Papa would do this to me. He’s pushed me to marry before, but when I objected strongly to his choice, he respected my wishes. I knew I was getting to o old to remain unmarried for very long, but I never thought Papa would force me. I always knew I would find love eventually, and now that I have, I know I must oppose him. If I must, I will run away with Jacopo. It may be my only choice.

  Cassandra took a drink of water from the stand by her bed. What time was it? One-twenty. She’d just read a little longer before putting the document aside.

  March 21, 1506—Jacopo tells me I can’t go with him. He says he would not feel right stealing me away from my family in such a way. I called him a coward and we quarreled. Oh my sweet, my love, I’m sorry! There has to be a way for us to be together.

  April 1, 1506—Two weeks have passed since I’ve seen Jacopo. I went to Santa Maria Novella, several times, but he wasn’t there. Finally, in desperation, I sent a note to his inn by messenger, begging him to meet me there next Saturday.

  This week was holy week, and today is Easter. The city has been absorbed in masses and penitence. I feel no repentance. I am angry at God for showing me love and then taking it away. I will not worship any Christ who shows so little compassion for me.

  April 9, 1506—Forgive me, Lord, for my blasphemous thoughts. I am a selfish woman, I know. Seeing Jacopo yesterday felt like my own resurrection. He loves me still! He says he is trying to think of a way for us to be together, and I know with God’s help we will be. To kiss his lips was all I could want to make me whole again.

  April 15, 1506—We’ve spent the week moving from our winter house in town to our summer villa just outside Florence. I went to visit my favorite old oak, the place I’ve always gone for solitude since I was a child. I realized here is where Jacopo and I can meet undetected. No one ever comes to this part of the estate , because it is far from the vineyards, the fields, and the orchards. My parents keep less of an eye on me here for they feel I’m safe in the country. So when he and I met at Santa Maria Novella yesterday, I told him to meet me at the oak from now on, and drew him a map so he could find me. Our Saturday meetings will be there now, and poor cook will get to go to market without my bothersome presence.

  May 7, 1506—I know I haven’t written for some time. I’m too happy to write, or read, or do anything but play music, walk in the sunshine, and spend time with my love. We meet for hours behind the oak. Diary, I will confess, I have gone outside the bounds of maidenly propriety. I ached to have him touch me, so I placed his hands where he would dare not, being such a gentleman. We are wild for each other, so much so, I am trying to figure out how we can be together, fully, as man and woman. I d
on’t care if we marry first. I want him desperately.

  May 22, 1506—My father has set the date of my wedding for July ninth! No! I will leave with Jacopo before I marry Piero Guerrini! I told Jacopo we must make plans for me to flee to England with him, but he didn’t answer me. He looked so sad and worried, I don’t know what to think. I know he loves me with all his heart. I know he wants to spend his life with me, but I don’t know what makes him hesitate to escape with me. Does he fear my father so much?

  June 7, 1506—We met today behind the oak as if nothing were the matter, as if I were not going to be the bride of some old, horrible man. I was introduced to Piero, finally, and horrible he is. He looked at me as if he were looking through me to the other side of the room. He barely spoke to me. He did not at all behave like a man who wants to win his bride’s love, but rather as a man who is buying a new horse. Ha! Not even with that much interest. I couldn’t bring myself to tell Jacopo. I went to meet him, smiling, as if nothing was the matter. But finally, sensing how upset I was, he got me to tell him what was troubling me. Though I vowed I wouldn’t cry, I did. He held me and tried to soothe me, but only one thing will comfort me: the knowledge that I will spend the rest of my life with him.

  June 21, 1506—He is gone. Papa locked me in my room after finding out from one of his spies that Jacopo and I have been meeting. Papa—no, I will not give him that term of affection; my father had his men looking all night for Jacopo, throughout the city, but he has fled. He has left me to my fate. Can I blame him for not wanting to face death at the hands of my father? No. There would be no point. I’d rather have Jacopo alive and living in England than killed trying to save me from my fate. Either way, I must marry Guerrini. My life is over.

  Cassandra waved the book away and it disappeared. She lay down, staring at the ceiling, tears flowing down the sides of her face. Giuliana had suffered so much for that handful of years between when Jake fled Florence, and when he came back to find her in Siena. The two really loved each other, and Cassandra had been a part of breaking her heart all over again. Yet, look how her life had turned out. Good, meaningful, fulfilled. Lacking romance, perhaps, but not love. And her painting? Cassandra’s eyes began to close of their own accord. She fell into sleep, with dreams of the painting intermingled with Giuliana’s real, beautiful face floating through her mind.

  Giulia Brogi stood before a podium on a dais in front of the Palazzo Pubblico. A large crowd was gathered in the Campo. At another podium, a tall, thin man with sparse brown hair, prominent cheekbones, and a wide mouth stood, smiling at the crowd. Shimmering words appeared, as if by magic, in the air behind him: FRANCO MARINO. Cassandra, seated in the first row of the audience, detected a hint of resemblance to his ancestor, though he was nowhere near as handsome. As a matter of fact, he had a haggard look, as if the traveling he’d been doing had disagreed with him. On the stage, Jake and Lauro sat together behind and to the left of the mayor.

  “In my effort today to convince you to re-elect me,” Giulia began, “I would like to present two people who know the past as no one else here ever can or will. Some of you remember hearing stories of the man the great Giuliana De Lucca Guerrini loved, Jacopo Grenefeld. That man is here before you today: a time-traveler, whose real name is Jacob Hershowitz.”

  A murmur ran through the crowd.

  “Next to him is Lauro Sampieri. Signor Sampieri was accidentally transported to our time from 1509. My friends, he is, in the truest sense of the word, a Renaissance man!”

  The crowd erupted in exclamations.

  The mayor gestured for calm, and continued, “Signor Sampieri knew Giuliana, and knew Signor Marino’s ancestor, the man who painted her. Sampieri was Francesco Marino’s mentor and friend. He’s an artist and inventor, and was the owner of the studio where Francesco honed his craft. I’ve recently been reminded that Giuliana’s portrait once hung here in our Museo Civico, but was lost to posterity. Recent investigation has shown that a descendent of Francesco Marino demanded the museum relinquish the painting back to the Marino family, who sold it away. Their carelessness with the masterpiece caused it to go missing.”

  Franco Marino shifted in his chair, and his face faded to a paler shade as if that were possible.

  “At any rate. There is nothing to be done about the past. Focusing on the present, I have asked Dr. Hershowitz and Maestro Sampieri to speak briefly today on my behalf. Dr. Hershowitz?” She turned and smiled at Jake.

  He rose and approached the podium, and she took a seat. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am honored to be here today. I have learned that the traditions of this great city are being threatened by Franco Marino. As your mayor stated, his ancestor, Francesco, would have been appalled. I have witnessed the wonderful pageants and competitions that the contrade of Siena enjoyed in the early 16th century. They were, and are, as much a part of this city, of the life of its citizens, as breathing itself. I don’t have to tell you that. I am an outsider, but you are the contrade. You are history in the making. However, I will let a man who is himself a part of the history of this city tell you how vital it is to preserve it. Signor Sampieri?”

  Cassandra held her breath while Lauro approached the podium. He was visibly nervous, his hands trembling ever so slightly as they grasped the stand. Jake stood with him, resting a hand on his back.

  “Amici miei, compaesani….” Lauro began. His translator made it possible for his ancient Italian to be understood by the crowd: “My friends, my countrymen, I look around this piazza, and I see much that has changed. There used to be many soaring towers here, but the rivalry of the rich Senese families caused their destruction—citizens tearing down their neighbors’ buildings in anger and spite. And so, the history of this city was partially destroyed. Thank God your city leaders, in the intervening years, saw fit to preserve our beautiful Palazzo Pubblico and the Torre di Mangia, the Fonte di Gaia, carved and designed by our city’s treasure, Jacopo della Quercia….”

  Oops. Cassandra hadn’t told him the carved marble panels of the fountain were now merely replicas of Della Quercia’s original.

  “…Our soaring cathedral, the Basilica of San Domenico, the house where Santa Caterina lived, this very Campo and many other noble sites that remain as if the 600 years since my era had never passed. Even my art studio is still being used as a home, and the shops where I used to go for the blacksmith or the baker are still in use to sell your gelato, among other modern wonders.”

  A ripple of laughter made its way through the crowd. Lauro smiled. He was gaining confidence.

  “I have not seen the Palio in its modern form, but I plan to in a few days and know it will be a highlight of my time here, before I go back to the past. We had many kinds of horse races and competitions in my day, many kinds of contests between the contrade as Jacopo mentioned. They are and have always been as much a part of Siena as its buildings, art, and monuments. I am ashamed Signor Marino wants to do away with the Palio. As ashamed as I’m sure his ancestor, the great Francesco, would be if he were here today. As it is, I’m sure he is tossing in his grave that his masterpiece was squandered.”

  A hostile murmur ran through the crowd. A smug expression bloomed on Marino’s face.

  “I don’t know what happened to Giuliana but you have power over what happens to the Palio. Do not let it be obliterated! Re-elect your illustrious mayor! I knew her ancestors. They were good people who have passed on their blood to a great woman. Consider yourselves lucky to have her!”

  Cassandra laughed to herself at Lauro’s mention of Giulia’s ancestors. She knew his real opinion of Marta and Tulio Brogi. In the meantime, the crowd roared its applause and Jake and Lauro, smiling and waving, went to take their seats.

  “I will let these words suffice.” Giulia said, stepping briefly back to the podium. “Signor Marino?” She gestured to him.

  He suddenly appeared calm as he took his place to speak. “Look at this!” He waved his arm toward Giulia. “Mayor Brogi has to rely on gimmicks to appeal to h
er voters. Well, I am running my campaign on nuts and bolts issues, not some dreamy idea of what was in the past. Today, I am here to share with you something wonderful that stems from something very wrong. These time-travelers are the ones responsible for Giuliana De Lucca Guerrini’s portrait almost being destroyed!”

  The crowd rumbled with surprise.

  “No, they didn’t tell you that. Because of their bumbling with time - travel, Francesco Marino was actually killed before he could finish Giuliana’s portrait, and these people had to go back to the past—a second time, after Dr. Hershowitz’s first blunder—and reverse the situation so Francesco could finish the portrait.”

  It was as if all the citizens gathered in the Campo let forth a communal gasp.

  How did he know this? It hadn’t been made public yet! Could Rosa have told someone? She was the only one outside their team who knew besides the mayor, and yet the owner of Villa Girasole had sworn she would keep all she knew about them a secret.

  “After Giuliana’s husband was killed—another error on their part—Francesco Marino went on to finish the portrait, and it remained in her home for years. My family finally reclaimed it and donated it to the Museo Civico, and then a great-grandfather of mine took it back, and sold it to someone else. Certainly, my ancestors were careless with it. Certainly, it should have been kept in my family. Well, by my own exhaustive investigation, I have found it!”

  Cheers, shouts, applause, exclamations!

  Cassandra’s mouth fell open. Jake and Giulia leapt to their feet. Lauro stared at the man.

  “What do you mean?” shouted Jake.

  “I have recovered the portrait of Giuliana.” Franco went on. “And whether I’m elected or not, I intend to have it installed in the Museo Civico, in its rightful place, on inauguration day.”