Courtesan's Lover

by Gabrielle Kimm

  A flurry of footsteps on the stairs startled them both.

  “Mamma! Look! Look what we’ve got!”

  “Ilaria gave them to us!”

  Modesto watched the two little girls run from the stairs, across the roof garden to where Francesca sat, both waving what looked like a little bouquet of white feathers, each bunch tightly tied to the end of a small cane.

  “Ilaria said they’re for dusting!”

  “Can we do dusting up here?”

  Modesto saw his mistress smile, though her eyes gleamed with a sudden flash of tears.

  “No,” she said. “Not up here—but why don’t you dust the bedchambers instead?”

  Both girls murmured their approval of this suggestion and wheeled round as one, heading back toward the stairs.

  “You could dust me before you go, if you like, just to practice,” Modesto said with a grin, and the girls squealed with delight and stopped in their tracks. Giggling, and holding their little clumps of feathers up in front of them, they flicked them over Modesto’s upturned face, neck, and shoulders, down his doublet front, along the length of his thighs and over his knees, while he maintained an expression of statuesque ecstasy.

  They completed their task. Modesto shook his head and, jutting his lower jaw, blew upward over his nose. “Oh, my goodness, that’s better,” he said, as the girls stood back, breathless with laughter. “I haven’t been that clean for a long time. Thank you! What marvelous dusters you both are. I’ll look forward to seeing the bedchambers in a few minutes! Go on, get on with it! I’ll be in to check how well you’ve done, before you can say ‘feathers’!”

  Giggling again, they both ran off.

  “You are so sweet with them,” Francesca said, running one finger along under her lashes.

  “They are sweet children.” Modesto leaned forward and pointed a forefinger at her. “And if you want them to continue to have nothing more frightening to do in bedchambers than dusting for the next few years, then you had better bloody well listen to advice and agree to let that house of yours.”

  There was a long pause.

  Francesca put her face in her hands for a moment, then looked up. “Very well. Just arrange it, will you? And…thank you, caro.”

  “Huh…” Modesto said gruffly. “I’m off, now. And you can spend a bit of time practicing being a proper Neapolitan housewife. Your servants need telling a thing or two—that Ilaria is a lazy trollop. You’ll be well rid of her.”

  Twenty-two

  Miguel Vasquez dropped his quill back into its pot with some force. Ink spattered in tiny droplets across his doublet sleeve and over the corner of the table. He blotted, reread, and then folded the sheet on which he had been writing, then pushed his chair back from the table, and crossed to the window.

  “Every month the same,” he muttered in Spanish. “Every month. Why do they never, ever pay up in time? The bastards. Do they imagine I have endless funds? I will run out of money eventually and it will end in mutiny—they’re fools if they think otherwise. Unless—” He stopped, frowning as a thought struck him. “Unless it is no accident that it always seems to be me to whom they turn. Perhaps this is their idea of a suitable retribution for…” Vasquez paused, “… for…for Milan. The bastards.”

  He strode over to a carved cupboard in the far corner of the room. Unlocking it, he took from a lower shelf a heavy box made of iron-banded oak. This too was locked. It needed both hands and a fair amount of strength to carry it across to the table, where he put it down with a bang. Pushing a hand down into his breeches pocket, he pulled out another key and unlocked the box. Inside, beneath a large number of leather pouches fastened by drawstrings, the box was filled with gold coins.

  From the top of a pile of papers, Vasquez picked up a sheet, on which was a list of names. His soldiers. None of whom would receive a single scudo from the Crown this month. Yet again. Possibly the tenth month in a row. All of the men would be looking to him to save them from starvation. Lucky for them and for the Crown that he had the funds available, he thought angrily. Running a finger down the list, he assessed numbers. Rapidly calculating what he could afford to give each man, he snatched the quill back out of the pot and spent a few moments scribbling figures down on a scrap of paper.

  Then, striding across the room to the door and leaning out, he shouted, “Juan! Donde estàs?” Pausing, he added, a little louder, “Ven aquì!”

  After no more than seconds, his servant appeared. “Maestre?”

  Vasquez motioned to him to come with him to the table, then pulled out a second chair. As Juan sat down, he held out several sealed letters. “These arrived a few moments ago, Señor,” he said.

  Vasquez snatched them from him and put them to one side unopened. “I have to pay the men again myself this month,” he said, glaring down at a letter bearing a large be-ribboned seal. “Yet again, it seems that no official funds are forthcoming. I’ve worked out roughly how much I can give them—can you help me count it all out? As you did before?”

  “Si, Señor.” Juan nodded. He reached across to the open strongbox and took out the leather pouches. Laying them down neatly, in rows, he picked up the first and held it ready. Vasquez took a clinking handful of coins from the box and started counting them out into the other palm. Each time he reached the requisite amount he handed it to Juan, who slid it into the bag, drew the strings tight, and laid it to one side, while Vasquez scratched out the name on his list. Vasquez counted again, Juan bagged the coins, Vasquez scratched out the name. And again. And again.

  At last, Vasquez put his quill back into its pot and puffed out a breath. He ran a hand around his beard. “Gracias, Juan. Let’s hope the bastards cough up in time for next month’s salaries, eh?”

  “Let’s hope so, Maestre.”

  “I shall be inspecting troops after this is all delivered tomorrow, so I will be away from the apartment for the day, and might possibly stay overnight in the garrison building. But I will definitely be back on Saturday in time for the evening meal—can you make sure that is catered for?”

  “Yes, Maestre.”

  “I’ll be entertaining Señora Felizzi—please inform the kitchens and arrange for the other servants to keep away, as usual.”

  “Yes, Maestre.”

  Juan took his leave, and, after locking and replacing the strongbox in the carved cupboard, Vasquez wandered back through into the room with the golden lettiera. Sitting down on the edge of the mattress, he pulled off his boots, swung his legs up onto the bed, and lay down. Hands behind his head, he closed his eyes and, hoping to put his money worries aside for a time, he pictured his courtesan. It was a pleasing image. He saw her clad in the red-and-gold dress she had worn on that first visit—the delicious one which exposed so much of her breasts—and then in his mind he undressed her. Slowly. Smiling complacently to himself, with one hand tucked inside his codpiece, he worked his way through her garments, one by one, taking his time in imagining the unfastening and removal of each piece.

  And then he allowed his now quite fevered imagination free rein.

  ***

  Several minutes later, now very much looking forward to his assignation that Saturday, Vasquez straightened his breeches and stood up, aware that, if he were to be fully ready to go out to the troops on the morrow, he ought to go through the correspondence Juan had handed him earlier.

  “Come on, man,” he muttered, seating himself back at the polished table in the adjoining room. “It won’t take long.”

  The first two letters were important but dull. Vasquez searched for answers amongst his papers, then scribbled responses, folded and sealed them, and put the letters to one side ready for later dispatch.

  Then he cracked open the seal on the third missive. He read it. Then, brows puckered in surprised disbelief, he read it again.

  Miguel—I must b
eg your forgiveness. We have barely had time enough to establish a proper liaison, I know, and I would assure you that those times that I have been fortunate enough to spend in your esteemed company have been entertaining and pleasurable. But the circumstances of my life are ever complicated. I neither wish to explain myself in detail, nor feel at liberty to do so, but please understand, Miguel, that I am ceasing to work as a courtesan. That part of my life is over, and I am, I hope, setting out on a very different course to that upon which I had presumed until even a few days ago. You and I will not lie together again. Please be assured of my high estimation of both your character and your—how shall I best express it—“abilities”.

  The letter was signed and sealed. Vasquez had no doubts that it was indeed from Francesca. Feeling angrily foolish now, after his indulgent few moments just now in the other room, he stared for several moments at the words his erstwhile courtesan had penned, then screwing the sheet into a tight ball, he threw it across the room. It bounced off a window ledge and fell to the floor behind a chair. A “very different course”? What did she mean? What had happened? Why had she changed her mind? He sucked in a shocked breath and his hands balled into fists as a thin blade of cold panic caught him in the throat—might she be with child? Was that what she meant by his “abilities”—the ease with which he could manage to father bastard offspring? Getting to his feet, he crossed the room in a couple of strides. He pulled open the door and, taking the stairs three at a time, left the house, slamming the front door behind him as he ran out into the Via dei Tribunali.

  Twenty-three

  A thin stripe of light moved across Luca’s face as the early morning sun passed a gap in the shutters. He opened his eyes, then screwed them shut again and rolled to face away from the window. Pressing his face into his pillow for a moment, he frowned as he tried to retain a dream that had been interrupted by the sunshine, but despite his efforts, it seeped away from him like water through cupped palms and within seconds he could recall none of it.

  He sat up.

  The dream quite gone, he began to think of the evening before.

  Flowers. He would buy her flowers. It suddenly seemed urgent. The thought of Francesca’s beauty and her air of vulnerability tore at his heart and he felt—with a sensation akin to panic rising in his chest—that he had to make some move toward her as soon as possible. To claim her for himself, in case anyone else had designs upon her, now she had emerged from the sequestrations of mourning. He suppressed the thought which now pushed its way into his mind: that this notion was unpleasantly like that of a farmer putting his mark upon a beast he had chosen at the market.

  He could not believe his reactions. Here he was, a grown man—a widower with two adult sons—and he had thought until last night that he was past passion. He had had his share of it during his ten-year marriage, and had been resigned to a life without it since Lisabeta’s death. But last night’s encounter had smashed through his calm composure like a battering ram through castle ramparts, and he felt at once defenseless and exposed.

  He pushed back blankets and bed-hangings and climbed out of bed. Padding over to the window, he opened the casement, unfastened the shutters, and pushed them wide. Bright, white light filled the room like a shout, and Luca screwed his eyes against it. He scooped a couple of handfuls of water from a large pewter jug and rinsed his face, pushing wet hands through his hair. Droplets splashed cold on his bare shoulders and spattered across the wooden floorboards, glittering as they fell in the light from the window. He dried himself with yesterday’s shirt, dressed hurriedly and, still fastening the laces of his doublet as he went, made his way to the kitchen, where Luigi was grumpily finishing his breakfast.

  “Signore,” Luigi said, without looking up.

  Luca heard his manservant’s mournful tone and closed his eyes for a second. Since Luigi’s illness—could it be as much as a year ago?—the old man had been increasingly taciturn and incommunicative, frequently withdrawing into impenetrable silences for hours at a time. Luigi’s presence frequently cast a dark pall of pessimism over the household, and Luca often wished he had the resolve to dismiss him. On several occasions he had actually opened his mouth to issue the dismissal, and then an image of a miserable, ragged Luigi, unemployable and reduced to begging and foraging for scraps in the backstreets of Napoli, had pushed its way into his mind, and Luca had simply closed his mouth again and swallowed his irritation without comment. He was aware that he and Gianni often performed tasks which should by rights have been done by Luigi, but short of sentencing his father’s old servant to live out his remaining years in undoubted penury, he could think of no other way of running his household, for on his academic salary he could certainly not afford a second employee.

  “Luigi,” Luca said, sitting down next to him at the table, “I need to buy some flowers. Where do you think I should go?”

  Luigi frowned and considered. “This time of year you’ll be lucky to find any,” he said after a moment.

  “But surely there must be somewhere in the entirety of this city where I can buy something as simple as an armful of flowers?”

  “Doubt it.”

  Luca suppressed a brief desire to thump his manservant and said as calmly as he could manage, “What else do you suggest I might buy someone, as an impromptu gift?”

  Luigi considered again and said, “Fruit.”

  It was Luca’s turn to frown. “Where?”

  “Market, Signore. They had figs there yesterday, and little sweet melons. Market in the Piazza Girolamini.”

  Luca’s irritation with Luigi vanished. He clapped a hand on the old man’s shoulder and said happily, “Perfect, Luigi, what a good idea. I’ll go as soon as I’ve eaten.”

  ***

  The soft raffia basket bulged. Luca put his face to the contents and sniffed. Half a dozen tiny, sweet-smelling, orange-fleshed melons, a pomegranate and a handful of velvety apricots would make a pleasing present, he thought to himself with a smile as he walked briskly across town toward Santa Lucia.

  He found the Signora’s house and knocked on the front door, his heart beating in his throat. The door was opened by a short, plump woman, reddish-skinned, her hair loosely wrapped in a linen cloth.

  “Signore?”

  “I hope I have the right house, Signora,” Luca said politely. “I am hoping to see to Signora Marrone.”

  He expected a smile, but the woman with the linen head-covering took a step back, frowned up at him, clearly suspicious. Luca started to wonder if he was mistaken in the address. The woman opened her mouth to speak, but before she could utter a word, a movement behind her caught Luca’s eye and he looked past the woman into the depths of the house. Francesca, coming up out of the shadows at the far end of the room, saw Luca in the doorway and started visibly. She looked confused for a moment, then limped forward and said, “Thank you, Ilaria, I will talk to the Signore.”

  The linen-wrapped woman shrugged and stepped away from the door. Francesca smiled at Luca, her face flushed. She was tired, he thought with concern: there were deep shadows below her eyes that had certainly not been there last night.

  “Signore,” she said, smiling. “How lovely to see you again.”

  “I…” Luca faltered. All his carefully prepared greetings left him. He had no idea what to say, felt suddenly as tongue-tied as an inexperienced boy. “I wondered…” he tried again, but as he spoke, two identical, beautiful little girls appeared, each clutching a small white feather duster; they stood one on either side of Francesca, gripping her skirts with small fingers and looking up at him. “I…I brought you some fruit,” Luca managed to say at last. He held up the basket.

  Francesca’s blush deepened. “Thank you, Signore,” she said. Luca’s desire to kiss her returned, with ferocity.

  He held out the basket and she peered into it.

  “Oh, girls, a pomegranate! You
r favorite.” Both children leaned forward to see, then turned their faces up to their mother’s in mute entreaty. She turned to Luca. “May they?”

  “The fruit is yours, Signora,” he said. He inclined his head and smiled.

  “Go on then, you two, take it. You can share it between you.” The two girls eyed each other, then one of them put down her duster, reached into the bag, and brought out a shiny, pink-tinged globe like a blushing skull; the fingers of both her hands stretched carefully to hold the treasure without dropping it. “Take it out to the back step—and don’t leave bits of peel everywhere!” Francesca said.

  Both children ran off.

  Luca stood on the step. He still did not know what to say. Then he saw Francesca shift her weight awkwardly and his insides jumped. “Oh, Signora—your ankle! Is it still as painful as last night?”

  “Er, no. Thank you. I think it’s a little better today,” she said.

  “I won’t keep you,” Luca said. “Perhaps we can arrange to see—”

  “But…why don’t you come in for a moment now?” Francesca stood back to let him in to the house. He hesitated, then crossed the threshold.

  They climbed the stairs to the sala. It was modestly but elegantly furnished, and was well-lit by three large windows which opened onto the street. There were several hanging tapestries and a large carved fireplace took up much of the farthest wall. Several folding wooden chairs stood to one side of the sala, one of them piled untidily with childishly worked embroidery, and in the middle of the room was a large square table, covered with an elaborately worked cruciform carpet, which hung neatly down to the floor on all four sides. A big white maiolica bowl stood empty in the middle of the table, and Luca watched as Francesca carefully took the melons and the apricots from the basket and placed them one by one into the bowl.

  “They’re gorgeous against the white. What lovely colors. I haven’t had melon in weeks. Thank you so much, Signore,” she said. She picked one up and held it cupped in her hands up to her nose, hunching her shoulders around the scent. “Oh, that smells so good. Please, do sit down.”