“I will get you a chair as soon as we find the Parisettos.” He lays his other hand on my fingers, where they are gripping his forearm.
Our progress across the great hall is halting and slow, but we soon draw near to a small group of people: a tiny woman and a stocky, older man turn from their conversation and smile as we approach.
Filippo is beaming. “Serafina! Piero! How lovely to see you—Piero, do you know, I do not think I have seen you since you challenged me to a game of palla maglia last summer, and I broke your father’s best mallet by attempting to use it as a crutch and then tripping over one of the hoops…”
Piero throws his head back and laughs. “I remember it well, Filippo, and Papa has certainly neither forgotten nor forgiven!”
The tiny woman then reaches out and takes Filippo’s hand. She says to her husband, “Yes, well, your father excels at grudge-bearing, Piero, does he not?” She turns back to Filippo. “Don’t even think about it for a moment, Filippo, caro, I do not think Piero’s papa has ever forgiven me for bringing such an abysmally small dowry to our marriage, and that was six years ago!”
Filippo stretches out an arm toward me and says, “Serafina, Piero…this is my cousin: Signora Marrone. Francesca. Francesca, Signor and Signora Parisetto.”
Piero bows briefly, and Serafina smiles. “I am so glad you were able to join us, Signora. I was very disappointed not to be seeing Maria, but meeting a new member of Filippo’s family is a great privilege. Oh—Luca? Where are you going?”
He has left my side and is striding away from our party, but at Serafina’s words he turns back over his shoulder and says, “To fetch the Signora a chair. She is injured.”
Serafina draws in a soft breath and lays a hand on my sleeve. “Oh, cielo—what have you done?”
“The Signore exaggerates. I twisted my ankle a few days ago. Nothing at all interesting, I am afraid.”
“But however boring an injury may be, it can still be quite unaccountably painful.” Serafina smiles at me sweetly and takes my hand in hers. The second time in a week—the second time in ten years—that an honest woman has sympathized with me and spoken to me with unthinking kindness, as though I were…a virtuous citizen like herself. I feel included, comforted. A warm sense of camaraderie drapes itself around my shoulders like a friendly arm, and the smile I offer back from behind Signora Marrone’s mask is unexpectedly genuine.
I think of the sidelong glances of the penitents at San Giacomo every week; of the sneering determination of passers-by to ignore my plight when I fell in the piazza. I am being offered a glimpse through a half-open door of a world I have never even imagined—a world of kind, affectionate friendship and loving solicitude.
Suddenly, the familiar landscape of my daily life seems loveless and tawdry by contrast.
Luca returns, gilt-painted chair in hand, and he and Serafina settle me into it. She crouches down next to me, though in fact she is so small she hardly needs to, and Luca stands just behind me.
“The boys not with you, Luca?” says Filippo, some way above my head.
Luca is resting a hand on the back of my chair and I can just feel his fingers behind my shoulder. His voice is warm and slow. “No. They are both away, as it happens, on very different missions—one academic and one purely commercial, I am afraid. Though the exact details of the latter venture escape me. Irritatingly, Carlo is never forthcoming about his business.”
“He quite definitely doesn’t seem to want to follow you into the law, then, Luca?”
I can hear a smile as Luca says, “No, apparently not. One fledgling advocate will have to be enough for now…Oh, they are coming over here. I think the play might be about to start.” He helps me to my feet. “We are lucky, Signora, they have put out seats for us tonight. Last time, we were on our feet the whole evening.”
“Marvelous!” says Filippo. “Orlando is about to become ‘furioso’! Do you know the story, Piero? I cannot say I am particularly familiar with the works of Ariosto.” They begin to talk together as liveried servants bustle from group to group, telling us to move to our seats. Luca smiles at me and holds out an arm, which I take with my heart beating fast. I stand and we walk together. Filippo walks ahead of us, deep in conversation with Piero Parisetto. Serafina has come up upon my other side; she holds my elbow, though being so very much smaller than I am, she in fact offers little support.
Everyone takes their seats. I have Luca upon my left and Serafina on my right, and a large gentleman with white hair fluffed out like spun sugar sits directly in front of me, effectively blocking my view of much of the stage.
Filippo leans across Serafina and pats my knee. “Enjoying yourself, cugina?” he asks with a grin. I manage a smile, but do not trust myself to speak. For a few moments, the enormous room hums with an almost palpable collective anticipation and then silence descends.
The musicians begin to play.
A woman, who I suppose must be being played by a boy, walks out onto the stage and begins to speak. The words are musical and beautiful, but I do not listen to what is being said, for my thoughts are tumbling over themselves in scrambling confusion.
My hands lie in my lap apparently calmly, though the dark patches in the middle of my nails give away the fact that I am gripping the fingers of one hand with those of the other—my desire to reach across and slip them into Luca’s palm is so intense that I have to clench my teeth to stop myself doing it. I dare not look sideways at him in case he catches my eye and I betray my confusion, but I cannot prevent myself from leaning just a little toward him as though to see past the sugar-haired man in front of me. If Luca but knew it, despite my earlier enthusiasm, I now could not be less interested in the performance.
I am quite lost in a foreign country. I stand at a crossroads, unable to communicate; in an instant entirely ignorant of language, customs, expectations. Never before—never—have I been in close proximity to a man I have wanted—as I find I want this man—and not known what to do, what to say. I am a whore, for pity’s sake! I have been a successful whore for more than ten years—I know all too well how to play the men I want. I work them like a virtuoso instrumentalist. And I rarely fail. In fact the game has become quite predictable—I have never doubted my skills.
But now…
I cannot even contemplate ensnaring Luca with my usual tricks.
This man would never lie with a harlot—I am quite sure of it. His compassionate wholesomeness is as obvious—and as charming—as was Gianni’s a few weeks ago. God! Luca would no more pay to enter a courtesan’s chamber than he would spit at a priest at the altar. Oh, I am certain he knows about love—I saw it in his eyes when he looked at me just now—but I know too, as clearly as if he had written it to me in a letter, that he would never, never pay to enjoy what is not his by legitimate right.
He has no idea what sort of woman I really am.
I imagine the horrified incomprehension in his eyes if he were to discover my true identity, and I have to bite my lip to hold in a cry of what feels close to despair.
Nineteen
Luca glanced sideways at Signora Marrone and saw, with a catch in his chest, that her lower lip was caught between her teeth. Tiny lights glittered along the line of her lashes. He reached across and laid a hand on her sleeve, then bent toward her so that he could whisper close to her ear without disturbing his neighbors. “Is your ankle hurting you, Signora?”
She turned her head and looked at him. Her lip slid out from under her teeth, and with a rush of unexpected longing, Luca found that he very much wanted to kiss her. He was shocked at the unprecedented intensity of his feelings. This chaste-looking, vulnerable woman, newly emerged from mourning, would be appalled if she were even to suspect what he was thinking. The light from the stage caught the pearls that hung from the Signora’s ears; Luca held his breath as she shook her head a fraction in answer to his
question. “You seem troubled,” he whispered again.
She shook her head once more. “It’s nothing,” she mouthed. They held each other’s gaze for a second and then she looked at her fingers which were twisted together in her lap. Luca gripped her arm briefly and withdrew his hand.
He turned his attention once more to the stage. Dressed in a flaming red doublet, spangled and glittering, the unwittingly enchanted Rinaldo was addressing the audience, declaring his undying love for the beautiful Angelica, apparently unaware that the object of his desire was hiding up in the branches of the tree above him, listening with obvious disgust to his proclamations of affection.
Luca’s mind raced; he was not listening to a word.
It was years since he had felt anything more than a passing interest in a woman. In all the time since Lisabeta’s death, he had never even contemplated remarriage—had never met anyone who had stirred him—beyond occasional disinterested, vaguely lustful, musings. He had over the years seen faces he thought beautiful, bodies that intrigued him, met women whose wit—or lack of it—had diverted and entertained him. But none had truly touched him, and he had long ago resigned himself to a life without the love of a woman.
What had Filippo told him? The Signora was now out of mourning…she had two children; she lived with her daughters and a couple of servants in the Via Santa Lucia. He knew little more than these few bare facts. He had no idea what sort of man her late husband had been, or in what circumstances he had left his widow. She was well-dressed and elegant, though there was a certain fragility about her that belied the serenity. Bereavement had been hard for her—he could see that.
She was so very beautiful. He found it quite charming to see such an unusually attractive woman make no attempt at all to use her physical attributes to her advantage; the Signora seemed, by contrast, to be deliberately ignoring the potential impact of her looks. Perhaps she genuinely did not realize how lovely she was. She seemed vulnerable, lonely, in need of someone to take care of her, and the longer Luca sat so close to her, the more intensely did the notion strike him that he should very much like it to be he, Luca, who took upon himself this delightful task.
He began to chew his thumbnail to stop himself reaching across and taking the Signora’s hand in his.
Up on the stage, Angelica, abandoned by the incompetent Rinaldo, backed away from the rapacious King of Circassia, to find herself pressed up against the trunk of the tree. Her eyes were wide with fear for she quickly understood his intentions.
***
“Well! What a very strange play!” said Serafina, as they all took their seats at one of several long dining tables. “Signora—please be honest, now—did you have the slightest notion of what was happening?”
Luca saw Francesca start at being addressed. She smiled at Serafina. “If I am forced to be truthful…I’m afraid I did find it a little difficult to follow the progress of the plot…”
Serafina beamed. “There, Piero, it was not just me being completely stupid!” she said, as her husband came up behind her and sidled his way between two tables, down toward his seat.
“I’m sorry, but it was perfectly obvious what was happening, Fina…”
“Be careful, Piero—now, too vehement a protestation will insult our new companion,” Serafina said. “She has just agreed with me that it was all but impossible to understand. What about you, Luca?”
“I’ll admit I was not always entirely focussed upon the action on the stage,” Luca said, looking at Francesca. She caught his eye and he thought he saw in her gaze a comprehension of the reason for his distraction. A slow ribbon of heat slid down through his guts, and he smiled at her. She compressed her lips in a brief smile and then she looked down at her hands. Luca was charmed by her diffidence.
“Francesca, you are very quiet this evening,” said Filippo, as he sat down upon Francesca’s left side. “Are you enjoying the occasion?”
“Of course, cugino, I am really very grateful to you for inviting me.”
“And I am quite delighted you were able to come—as I am sure everyone else is too!” Filippo said. “Now, I don’t know about all of you, but I am extremely hungry. As we all seem to be voicing honest thoughts about the play we have just watched, to add my opinion to the general pile, I confess that I thought the piece rather lengthy. My stomach has been quietly complaining about its lack of contents for some time.”
“Quietly, Lippo?” Francesca said, glancing at him.
Luca laughed.
Filippo spluttered with mock indignation. “You are always quite unaccountably rude, cugina! Always! See what appalling tribulations I have to endure from my ill-mannered family, Luca?”
“Perhaps it is not rudeness at all, Filippo, but rather…accurate observation.” He raised an eyebrow.
Everyone laughed at that. The servants reappeared to place dishes of buttered asparagus before them and all along the tables, knives and forks were picked up.
“This should quieten the protestations of your innards, Filippo,” said Piero.
“I think the less said about my innards now, the better,” Filippo said, laying down his cutlery again and picking up a dripping stem. He tipped his head back and lowered the asparagus, bud first, into his mouth. A glisten of melted butter gleamed on his lip and he let out a groan of ecstasy.
Luca smiled at him and then turned to Francesca. She speared a stem with a narrow, two-pronged fork, cut off a bite-sized piece with her knife, and put it into her mouth.
“Good?” asked Luca.
Francesca swallowed and nodded. “Very good,” she said, touching the corner of her mouth with the tip of one finger.
“Tell me a little about yourself, Signora,” Luca said. “Describe for me a typical day in your household. I always enjoy discovering something of the way of life of a new acquaintance.” He saw her pause, loaded fork halfway to her mouth. For a moment she seemed wary—even frightened—but then she smiled and said, “I fear I might disappoint you. Daily life with two children can be frustratingly uneventful.”
“Oh, Signora, I cannot agree more!” cried Serafina, leaning in from the opposite side of the table. She reached across and laid her hand upon Francesca’s. “Paolo and Benedetto, who are three and one, seem never to sleep except when I most wish them to stay awake, and have an apparently unending fount of energy for making mess, noise, and confusion wherever they go.”
“My girls are somewhat older,” said Francesca, “and perhaps a little more decorous. But they have other equally effective methods of disruption. They have recently begun to ask questions—questions about absolutely everything—I often have to find satisfactory answers to at least a hundred questions from each girl each day. ‘Why are tomatoes red, Mamma?’ ‘Why does the moon move across the window each night?’ ‘Where is it going and why has it gone in the morning?’ ‘Why don’t women grow beards?’ ‘Why do I dream, Mamma?’”
Serafina laughed and said, “I will look forward to it, Signora—but I fear I had better start keeping a collection of suitable answers, tucked away in a box under the bed, ready for when the onslaught begins. Either that or simply redirect both boys toward Piero each time they need a piece of information.”
Luca said, “I remember those years very well, though it was some time ago—both my boys are grown now and rarely ask my opinion upon anything at all. They are both entirely certain that they know considerably more than I do. And, most irritatingly, they are often right.”
Francesca smiled, and Luca, his eyes on her mouth, fought down a renewed fierce longing to kiss her.
The meal continued. The university had been lavish in the preparation of its annual banquet. The asparagus gave way to sardines, dressed with sweetened orange slices; great dishes of pike and crayfish; bowls of fresh egg pasta, stuffed with a variety of fillings; plates piled high with pyramids of sparkling sugared f
ruits.
While Filippo and Piero Parisetto both ate heartily, Francesca hardly touched her food. Serafina seemed not to notice her companion’s lack of appetite, but Luca watched Francesca covertly, feeling a moment’s anxiety that her unenthusiastic response to her meal might signal ill health of some sort. Then, remembering the wrenched ankle, he comforted himself that Francesca’s painful foot might be the cause.
He sat back in his chair for a moment as Serafina leaned across the table again and spoke to Francesca. “Now listen, Francesca, before we all disappear at the end of the evening, I want to arrange for you to come to our house very soon. Piero has just had the belvedere repaired and we can sit up there and watch the boats. The back of our house overlooks the harbor. You must bring your children, too. I know Paolo and Benedetto are so much younger than your girls, but perhaps they will still entertain each other while we talk, nonetheless.”
“Beata and Isabella love babies,” Francesca said.
Luca struggled to keep his face impassive as a vivid picture he could not prevent flashed across his mind—of a drowsy Francesca lying amid rumpled blankets, sleepily cradling a baby. His baby.
“Good. That is settled. Would you be able to come on Saturday afternoon?” Serafina asked. Francesca smiled and accepted the invitation with obvious pleasure.
As the final plates were cleared away and chairs were pushed back from tables, Filippo laid his hand upon Francesca’s.
“Francesca, cugina,” he said, “we must go. I have to work in the morning, and I must see you home.”
Luca smothered a stab of envy at the thought of his friend’s easy familiarity with this woman who had so entirely and unexpectedly filled his mind this evening. He helped Francesca to her feet and, with a raised hand, summoned a servant to fetch her coat. Serafina kissed Francesca’s cheek and gripped her hand as she bade her farewell.
“Signora,” Luca said, as Filippo took Francesca’s arm. “It has been such a pleasure to meet you. I feel sure we will see each other again soon.”
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