by Speer, Flora
In a way that Rosalinda was as yet too innocent to comprehend, Andrea was, in truth, hers, and the protectiveness she felt toward him would not be denied. But there was something more, an inherent masculinity apparent in his relaxed form, that called out to her, that touched a chord in Rosalinda’s soul. It took her mother’s firm hand on her shoulder and Bianca’s grasp on her hand to make Rosalinda leave the guest chamber.
Bianca was eager to talk about the evening’s events, so after the girls had said good night to their mother, she followed Rosalinda into her bedroom.
“Who can he be?” Bianca asked. “How did he survive in the mountains? Valeria says he is a young man.”
“You are remarkably interested in him now,” Rosalinda said, “considering how frightened of him you were at first.”
“The only young men we ever see,” Bianca responded, “are the sons of the men-at-arms and they are hardly suitable companions for us. It might be nice to have a young man of rank staying at the villa for a while. You have heard Mother’s stories about the court at Monteferro, how elegant it was, how cultured and refined.”
“Mother’s stories are mostly warnings about intrigue and treachery.” Rosalinda spoke more sharply than usual. She was feeling oddly irritated by Bianca’s sudden interest in Andrea and by her dreamy tone of voice when she spoke of him.
“Not all of the stories are warnings,” Bianca objected to her sister’s statement. “Mother has taught us manners and proper bearing by recalling the more pleasant aspects of life at Monteferro.” She sighed, looking wistful, and at once Rosalinda was contrite over her petty annoyance.
“I cannot remember anything about those days,” Rosalinda said in a kinder tone, “but you can, and I know you still feel the loss. Bianca, do you wish our family could be restored to its former position at Monteferro? I know Mother does.”
“It would be lovely.” Bianca sighed again. “I remember Father holding me in his arms, showing me the view from high in the castello tower and telling me that all the farm land I could see beyond the city walls, the hills in the distance, and the crowded city streets just below us were my inheritance, and that I must cherish the land and love the people of Monteferro. Yes, I would like to return there to live, if we could do it safely. But all the menfolk in our family were killed in one day, so there is no Farisi male left to rule Monteferro.”
“If you were to marry a strong man, who loved you enough to take the risk, and who had an army at his command—”
“It isn’t very likely that I will ever marry,” Bianca scoffed. “My dowry is a war, with only a slim chance of taking Monteferro back from the Guidi family who, according to Luca’s reports, hold it with iron fists. What noble would want me on those terms? Even an ambitious condottiere would insist on a surer prize for his military efforts. And under such circumstances love, however strong and true, would count for very little.”
“Circumstances can change,” Rosalinda insisted. “There is always the possibility that ours will, too.”
“I know, my dearest.” Bianca embraced her sister, kissing her on the cheek. “You are always so good to me, even when I irritate you. Thank you for encouraging my dreams. And now, good night. I wonder if either of us will sleep after so much excitement?”
To her own surprise, Rosalinda did fall asleep, instantly and deeply, upon climbing into her bed. But she awakened well before sunrise to the soft murmurings of voices in the corridor outside her room. When she opened the door, it was to see Valeria with candle in hand vanishing in the direction of the room she shared with Bartolomeo, while Bartolomeo was making his way toward the guest chamber where Andrea lay.
“The changing of the guard,” Rosalinda whispered to herself. “Since Bartolomeo is always more lenient with me than either Valeria or Mother, he will not object when I join him. I am sure he heard me open the door, though I tried to be quiet. He will be expecting me.”
She dressed quickly in the old russet wool gown she wore when doing her morning chores and pulled her hair into a single thick braid, tying the end with a bit of ribbon. A fast splash of water on her face and she was ready.
She found Andrea lying motionless in bed. Bartolomeo stood by the window, holding back the curtain to watch the sky lighten.
“It is still snowing hard,” Bartolomeo said without turning around. “Come in, my dear. As you saw a short time ago, I have sent Valeria to sleep for a while, since she was awake all night. Our guest is sleeping.”
“How still he is. How pale.” Rosalinda drew near to the bed to look at Andrea.
“And how fortunate that he came to us when he did,” Bartolomeo added. “He would not have lived through the night in this weather.” He dropped the curtain and crossed the room to stand beside Rosalinda.
“Who can he be?” Rosalinda whispered. “What is the story that brought him here?”
“Judging by his clothing, by that ruby ring on his finger, and by the fine daggers he was carrying, I would guess he is the son of a nobleman,” Bartolomeo said. “Or, perhaps, a rich merchant’s son.”
“Mother probably thinks he is a spy, sent to watch us.”
“A poor spy, indeed, to allow himself to sink into this sad state.”
“Mother will say his condition is a clever ruse to get into the villa and gain our sympathy.”
“Your mother has tragic experience behind her suspicion of strangers and her strictness where you and Bianca are concerned,” Bartolomeo said. “She is determined to keep her daughters alive and to find a way for you to regain your rightful heritage.”
“It will be Bianca’s heritage, not mine. She is the heiress to Monteferro,” Rosalinda said. “For myself, I would rather live at Villa Serenita than at any court.”
“You remind me of your father, who never wanted to be Duke of Monteferro. But like my dear friend Girolamo, when the call to duty comes, you will rise to answer it.”
Andrea interrupted Bartolomeo’s comments, stirring with a moan. At once Rosalinda bent toward him. When he put up a trembling hand, she took it, finding it hot and dry.
“Where – where am I?” he asked, in a weak, hoarse voice.
“You are safe at Villa Serenita,” Rosalinda told him, giving his fingers an encouraging squeeze. She placed her free hand on his forehead. “Bartolomeo, he is feverish.”
“He needs food,” Bartolomeo said. “Valeria left a pot of broth on the hearth to keep warm, and she also brought bread and wine for him.”
Bartolomeo ladled some broth into a bowl and Rosalinda began to feed it to Andrea. When he had finished the broth, she gave him pieces of the bread dipped in wine.
“Not too much,” Bartolomeo cautioned, “and not too quickly. He is half starved. Eating too fast will only make him ill.”
“That broth was so good,” Andrea said. He moved restlessly, frowning and wincing. “My feet are throbbing.”
“I’m not surprised,” Bartolomeo told him. “You have barely escaped a severe frostbite. Your feet will be red and swollen, and very sore, for some days to come. I advise you to remain in bed and not to try to walk until they are completely healed.
“Young man,” Bartolomeo went on, “if you have family whom you want notified that you are safe, we will be glad to send a messenger as soon as the snow clears enough to allow travel. You have only to tell us where the messenger should go and to whom he should take the good news that you are alive and recovering from your ordeal.”
Rosalinda stifled a gasp. Her mother would never let Bartolomeo send such a message, and Bartolomeo knew it. Bartolomeo seldom lied. That he had done so in front of her was surprising, but she thought she understood why he had done it. He wanted to learn as much as he could from Andrea, so he could relay what he discovered to Eleonora.
“You asked me similar questions last night,” Andrea said to Bartolomeo. “I told you then, as I tell you now, that I believe they are all dead. All of them,” he repeated, turning his face away and swallowing hard as if fighting back tears.
“Where did you live before you took to wandering in the mountains, Signore Andrea?” Eleonora asked with a certain threatening edge to her words.
“Madonna.” Andrea met Eleonora’s eyes squarely and spoke with every appearance of complete honesty. “No person outside your household knows I have come here, nor could anyone have tracked me to this place. I will impose upon your hospitality only so long as I must in order to regain my health. I beg you to respect my privacy and not question me about my past or my family. And since I perceive that you are also bent upon maintaining your privacy from the world, I do solemnly swear upon my mother’s soul – which I devoutly trust rests even now in heaven – upon my mother’s soul, I say, and upon my own hope of a reunion with her in heaven one day, I do swear to you that I will never reveal the location of this villa, nor the name of anyone who lives here.”
“Fine words,” said Eleonora. “I am sure you mean them, too. But I have heard of tortures that could wring information out of an unwilling saint.”
“Mother!” cried Rosalinda. “What kind of hospitality is this, to speak so to a guest, and a sick man at that?”
“I believe Signore Andrea knows whereof I speak,” said Eleonora, her gaze still on the man in the bed.
“Yes, madonna, I do.” Andrea’s finely shaped mouth pulled into a bitter line; his brown eyes grew hard at some distant memory. “Very well, let me revise my oath. I will promise nothing beyond what flesh and bone can endure, but I assure you, madonna, that I have no desire to cause harm to those who have shown kindness to me when all the rest of the world has turned against me.”
“That is better,” Eleonora said. “An oath to do your best to honor my need for privacy I can accept and trust. Nor, honoring your own wish for privacy, will I ask at what court you have lived and there learned to make extravagant promises using poetic words.” Eleonora paused, considering Andrea’s serious face.
“You are welcome to stay with us for as long as you want,” she said. To Rosalinda she added, “Come now, child. While you have been nursing Signore Andrea, Bianca has done your morning chores for you. It is past time for your lessons to begin.”
Rosalinda was so shocked by Eleonora’s words to Andrea that she could only rise in silent response to her mother’s order. She could scarcely believe that Eleonora had just invited Andrea to remain at the villa. The only guests they ever had were Luca and his trusted servant. Any other travelers, lost or otherwise, were turned away by the men-at-arms and directed to the village, to seek shelter there. Eleonora must have her own reasons for her unexpected generosity to Andrea.
More secrets, Rosalinda thought, knowing the chances were good that she would never learn what those secrets were.
“Lessons?” Andrea said. “Lessons in what, may I ask?”
“In Latin.” Rosalinda answered him with a grimace. “Also Greek, which I like just a little less than Latin. And lessons in history, which I do find very interesting.”
“I can understand a young woman being trained in ancient languages,” said Andrea, “perhaps even training in rhetoric. But history? What an odd subject for a woman to read.”
“It is not odd at all,” Eleonora said. “Only by understanding the past can we hope to improve upon it, or avoid repeating unfortunate mistakes.”
“You are wise, madonna.” Andrea’s smile was sad. “I have known men who might have profited from your lessons, if only they had learned them in time.”
Later that day Andrea developed a high fever. He lay tossing and muttering in bed, clearly unaware of where he was. They all took turns nursing him. When Rosalinda was with him, she listened to the sounds he made, trying to distinguish words, but nothing he said made any sense to her. Except for one phrase. Andrea clung to her hand and over and over again said the same thing.
“The girl. The girl.”
“What girl?” she asked, fearing he might have a lover somewhere far away, where his real life was.
“Rosalinda,” he whispered. “Rosalinda.”
Overwhelmed by an unfamiliar tenderness, Rosalinda lifted his hand to her cheek and held it there. The mystery that lay about Andrea like a heavy cloak, and the masculinity inherent in him despite his present physical debility, together beckoned to all that was feminine in Rosalinda. Andrea intrigued her, and tempted her to dream…
“Not a usual name,” he said suddenly, his liquid brown gaze fixed upon her face. He seemed rational and so, in an attempt to prevent his mind from drifting back into the shadowy realm of fever, she told him how she had come by her name.
“In fact, Rosalinda is Spanish,” she told him. “I was tiny and red when I was born and my first baby hair was red, too. When my mother’s old Aragonese nurse took me from the midwife’s hands, I curled up into a little knot, at which the nurse cried out in her native tongue, ‘¡Ay, que rosa Linda!’ which is to say, ‘Oh, what a pretty rose!’ My father was in the room, and when he heard the nurse’s exclamation he declared it was the only name for me. That same day î was baptized Rosalinda Maria.”
“A pretty story for a pretty girl,” Andrea murmured. “You are like a rose, sweet and fragrant.” On those last words, his voice drifted off.
“Andrea?” Rosalinda lifted his hand, which she was still holding, and pressed his fingers to her lips. “Don’t give way to the fever. Try to keep your thoughts here, with me.”
“Beautiful,” he muttered again. “Gloriously free. Rosalinda!”
“Andrea, look at me,” she begged. “Please look at me.”
But his brief period of awareness of her presence had ended. Andrea was already slipping back into a state of semi-consciousness. Once more his breath became labored. He tossed and wept and cried out over and over for someone whose name Rosalinda could not understand because his voice was so choked and ragged. All she could do for him was put cloths wrung out in cool water on his brow and hold his hands when he thrashed about too wildly. She talked to him, but he did not seem to hear her.
“Just as I feared,” Valeria said when she came to relieve Rosalinda. “There can be no doubt now that he has lung fever. Help me to pile the pillows behind him so we can raise him and ease his breathing.9’
“Will he live?” As she spoke, Rosalinda was following Valeria’s directions, heaping pillows against the head of the bed. “We cannot let him die.”
Valeria gave her a sharp look before lifting Andrea so he was almost sitting against the pillows.
“Please, Valeria, tell me the truth. Can you save him?”
“It is not up to me,” Valeria said. “I will do everything I can to help him, but in the end, the recovery of any sick person is in the hands of the Lord.”
“Only tell me what to do and I will do it.”
“Begin by going below to join your mother and Bianca for the evening meal,” Valeria said. “Don’t object, Rosalinda, and be sure you eat well. If you want to be of help to Andrea, you must take care not to fall ill yourself. Surely, you can see the sense in that.”
“I do.” Rosalinda brushed Andrea’s dark hair off his burning forehead. “I will return as soon as I have eaten.”
“What you will do,” Valeria said, “is stay with your mother and sister for a while, before you retire to bed and sleep the night through. If you do not, I will refuse to allow you back into this room tomorrow, when it is your turn to sit with him.”
“You are a hard taskmaster, Valeria.”
“And you are a stubborn, willful girl.” Valeria’s smile and the gentle caress she bestowed on Rosalinda’s cheek took all the sting out of her words. “Because you are so stubborn, and because I love you so well, I want you to do as I say. You are looking pale, and Bianca tells me you have lost your appetite.”
Knowing Valeria was right and that she was stern enough to ke
ep anyone who disobeyed her away from the sickroom as threatened, Rosalinda tried to follow her orders. She changed her dress and went down to the evening meal. After the meal she sat in her mother’s sitting room, playing with Bianca’s kitten and talking with her mother and sister, but her thoughts, and her heart, were above, with the man lying ill in the guest room bed.
Andrea lay near death for three days and three nights. On the fourth morning, Rosalinda entered the sickroom at her usual time to find a weary Valeria spooning soup into him. It took only a glance to tell Rosalinda that Andrea’s condition was much improved. Gratitude to heaven for sparing him, and to Valeria for her nursing care, overwhelmed Rosalinda, leaving her temporarily speechless.
“The fever broke during the night,” Valeria said when she noticed Rosalinda. “He is still very weak, but I am sure now that he will live. Don’t talk to him too much while you sit with him, Rosalinda. Let him rest, and please remember that someone who has been desperately ill – especially an active, vigorous man – is certain to suffer from downcast spirits until he recovers his full strength.”
Having finished feeding Andrea the soup, Valeria left to seek her own bed and Rosalinda sat down in her place next to Andrea. He lay quietly, his eyes on her face.
“You do look much better today.” Rosalinda smiled at him, expecting an answering smile. Instead, Andrea turned his head away from her.
“Andrea, you must not be discouraged. It will take a while for you to recover completely.”
“What does it matter whether I am strong or weak?” he whispered. “I have lost everything. Family, friends, position, all are gone.”
“That is what my mother might have said, years ago when we first came to this villa,” Rosalinda told him. “But she never lost hope. Neither must you.”
“Your mother had you and your sister,” Andrea said. “Whatever the events that led her to seek refuge in these mountains, she still had loyal friends in Bartolomeo and Valeria. Whereas I am alone.”
“No, you are not alone. I am here. So are the others, all of them, Bianca and Mother, Valeria and Bartolomeo. We are your new friends.” Unable to prevent herself from seeking physical contact with him, Rosalinda put her hand over his. Andrea did not respond, but neither did he withdraw his hand from her touch.