by Speer, Flora
Eleonora stared after the hastily departing pair. Then she looked at Francesco, who bestowed one of his open, cheerful grins on her.
“Vanni is neither as shallow nor as light-witted as he sometimes appears to be,” Francesco said, looking into Eleonora’s eyes. “Humor and frivolity are but masks to him, disguises that have served well in the past to keep him out of danger. Beneath the masks he wears, Vanni is as intelligent as Andrea.”
“I understand.” Eleonora nodded. Taking his other arm, she and Rosalinda led Francesco toward the terrace and the door to the sitting room.
“What lovely flowers.” Francesco looked around. “Have you made this garden yourself, Madonna -?” He quirked a reddish-blond brow at her, waiting.
“Eleonora,” she supplied. “Yes, for the most part the garden is of my making. Watch this step now, it is higher than it looks.”
“I do like roses.” It was the season for them, and Eleonora’s two bushes were in full bloom. Francesco paused to smell first the red rose at one side of the steps leading to the terrace and then the white rose on the other side. “A beautiful fragrance, a wonderful setting, with the foothills and the mountains for background, a garden nurtured with care and with thought for the placement of each plant grown here – Madonna Eleonora, you do honor to Nature to assist her in this way.”
“Gardening has been my sole pleasure for many years,” Eleonora said. “As for the roses, I planted them in honor of my two daughters, the red one for Rosalinda and the white for Bianca.”
“Remarkable as your garden is, and lovely and intelligent as the daughters whom you have also nurtured are,” Francesco said, “it seems a pity that tilling the soil should be the only pleasure for a woman such as you.”
“I perceive, signore,” said Eleonora, “that you have spent enough time at some court to allow you to polish your manners to a fine lustre. It is only fair to warn you that I am immune to courtly blandishments.”
“Then you are even more unusual than I first thought you to be, madonna, for I have never before known a lady to turn away an honest compliment.”
“Allow me to suggest to you, signore, that you ought to save your strength to get you up these steps and into the house. A condottiere ought always to conserve his strength for the battles that inevitably lie ahead.”
There was a note in Eleonora’s voice that made Rosalinda look at her in surprise. Never had she heard her mother combine an order with barely repressed humor. Eleonora Farisi seldom said anything humorous. It occurred to Rosalinda that her mother might have spoken in the same tone to a courtier who paid her too obvious compliments, back in the days when Rosalinda’s father had still been alive. Then she heard Francesco Bastiani’s appreciative chuckle and knew she had missed something in their seemingly inconsequential remarks.
Rosalinda did not have time to think about this remarkable conversation. Having reached the top of the steps and limped onto the terrace, Francesco stopped to take a deep breath. Suddenly, without warning, he crumpled to the stones.
“Why is it,” Eleonora said, going to her knees beside him, “that men think they must always appear strong when they are with women, whereas any woman with two eyes and a heart knows when a man is sick or injured? Signore, you must remain on these stones until help arrives, for you are too big for Rosalinda and me to lift you.”
Francesco quickly regained consciousness. Pushing himself up on his elbows, he sent a rueful glance toward Eleonora.
“I apologize for this inconvenience,” he said.
“It seems to me the inconvenience is yours, signore,” Eleonora responded. She was still on her knees next to him, and now she sat back on the stones, looking down at her unexpected guest. As if to reassure him there was no threat in her next words, she placed one hand on his shoulder.
“You are Bastiani, aren’t you? The famous condottiere who was once in service to the late Duke of Aullia.”
“At your service, now, madonna,” he said. “Or I will be, as soon as I can stand on my own two feet again.”
The appearance of Bartolomeo and Vanni distracted Rosalinda from the remarkable sight of her usually dignified mother sitting upon the terrace paving stones, looking deep into the gray-blue eyes of Francesco Bastiani, while her slender hand rested on the shoulder of his soiled green doublet.
“Bianca told me what happened,” Bartolomeo said. He reached to help Francesco. “She and Valeria are collecting what they will need to treat him. Signore, can you stand?”
“I will be happy to try,” Francesco said.
With Bartolomeo and Vanni to lend masculine muscle to the effort, Francesco was soon on his feet, though leaning heavily on the men supporting him. They got him through the door and into the sitting room. There Francesco halted his forward progress, with his eyes fixed on the portrait of Girolamo Farisi.
“Valeria wants him taken to one of the guest rooms,” Bartolomeo said to Eleonora. “She can treat his injuries there and settle him to rest without moving him again.”
“That makes sense.” Eleonora turned her attention from Bartolomeo to the immobile Francesco. Noticing that he was staring at the far wall, she raised her voice a notch. “Signore, can you walk with Bartolomeo’s help, or shall we carry you?”
“I always prefer to walk, madonna.” Francesco tore his gaze from the portrait he had been studying to stare at Eleonora.
“Then come along,” she said. “The sooner Valeria tends your wounds, the sooner you will begin to recover.”
“More than ever, madonna, I am at your service.” Francesco’s tone was heavy with unspoken meaning. His eyes remained locked with Eleonora’s. “In every way, I assure you.”
Rosalinda stood gaping at the procession making its way out of the sitting room and across the wide hall to the staircase. Eleonora led the way, followed by the three men, with Francesco making wry comments that seemed to Rosalinda to hold many meanings at once. She was about to follow them, to see if she could help to prepare the guest room, or perhaps to assist Valeria, when Bianca appeared in the hall, her hands full of linen bandages.
“Come in here before you go upstairs,” Rosalinda said, motioning toward the sitting room.
“I really ought to take these to Valeria,” Bianca objected.
“She won’t need the bandages until after she has cleaned and treated Francesco’s wounds.”
“I suppose we ought to have it out and be done with it.” Bianca followed her sister into the sitting room.
“Do you really imagine it will be done with so quickly?” Rosalinda demanded, closing the door. She waited no longer before attacking her sister. “You know I love Andrea. I told you so on several occasions. You also know how worried I have been about him. Yet when you saw a man who looked just like Andrea, instead of coming to me and telling me about it, you began to flirt with him.”
“But it wasn’t Andrea,” Bianca cried.
“A fact of which you were blissfully unaware,” Rosalinda reminded her.
“You don’t understand how I felt,” Bianca insisted.
“Then explain yourself so that I can understand.” Rosalinda folded her arms over her chest and waited.
“I did know how much you care for Andrea. I watched you together last winter, and I wished someone would look at me as Andrea looked at you. Once, I saw him embrace and kiss you, and my heart ached because no one had ever kissed me in that way. I wanted a young man to want me, to care about me. But it wasn’t really Andrea whom I wanted to kiss me. I just wanted someone.”
“You were jealous,” Rosalinda said.
“Yes, I suppose I was, though I could not admit it then, not even to myself. When you accused me of jealousy, I denied it and made excuses.”
“And you were spiteful,” Rosalinda said, “as your actions prove.”
“No!” Bianca protested. “Never! This was not deliberate spitefulness on my part. I first met Vanni quite innocently and by accident. At once, he began flirting with me. Out of a yearning I did no
t understand then, I responded to him. Rosalinda, I could not help myself. I was drawn to him as a bee is drawn to a flower.”
“A pretty conceit, sister,” Rosalinda said, making her voice as cold as she could. “Tell me, did you lie with him?”
“No!” The hand not holding the bandages flew to Bianca’s blushing cheek. “Well, not exactly.”
“Really?” Rosalinda’s eyes flashed. “Either you did or you did not, Bianca. Which was it?”
“We did lie down together on my cloak,” Bianca said, “and he put his hands on me and kissed me many times. It was lovely. But he did not – he said when it was over that I am still a virgin.”
“How kind of him. How thoughtful.” The look Rosalinda gave her sister was as scathing as her tone of voice. “And you consented to all of this with a man whom you believed was your sister’s lover?”
“I was sorry afterward.” Bianca caught at Rosalinda’s sleeve. “Please believe me. I was so filled with guilt, so ashamed. I knew there was only one way I could make up to you for my betrayal and that was by taking you with me the next time I was to meet Andrea. When the three of us were together, I was planning to confess what I had done and to beg you for forgiveness and promise that I would never touch or kiss or even think about Andrea again. Then I was going to leave the two of you alone, to settle things between you.
“But when we got to the waterfall, he wasn’t there,” Bianca went on. “Stregone was there instead. Rosalinda, I went to the wood today to try to find Andrea and bring him here to see you. I had to do something to make up for my misdeeds. I am so sorry, so very sorry, that I hurt you. Always, you have been the dearest person in the world to me.”
“Until you found a lover,” Rosalinda said.
“I do wonder now if I saw something in Vanni that is different from Andrea, if my heart knew they are not the same, just as you recognized at once that Vanni is not his brother, and if that is why I found it so easy to love him.”
“You may believe that if you wish,” Rosalinda said. “For myself, I do not credit a word of it. I think you wanted Vanni because you thought he was Andrea.”
“I don’t know anymore.” Tears ran down Bianca’s cheeks. “All I know is, I love Vanni. In loving him, I have hurt you, perhaps to the point that we cannot regain the affection and trust there once was between us. And I have failed Mother. I have tried all my life to be a good daughter, and a good sister, but by my own actions I have proven that I am neither.”
“Oh, yes – Mother. I almost forgot.” Rosalinda held her head between her hands, trying to think clearly, trying to stop the confusion that filled all her thoughts. “Go away, Bianca. I can’t talk about this any more right now.”
“Please forgive me,” Bianca pleaded.
“I need time to think. You have no idea how shocking this day has been to me.” Rosalinda took a shaky breath and went on, as if trying to solve a puzzle by thinking it through out loud. “First, I discover you in Andrea’s arms, then I find it isn’t Andrea at all, but his twin, a twin he never told me he had. And then there is Mother’s strange behavior. I have never seen Mother look at a man the way she looks at Francesco. It’s as if they are speaking a language I cannot understand.”
“I didn’t hear them speaking in a strange tongue,” Bianca said.
“No, of course not,” Rosalinda responded. “All you think about is Bianca.”
“That’s not true.” Again Bianca dissolved into tears. “I have been thinking about you for days, about how I could arrange for your happiness, no matter how unhappy it might make me. I love you, Rosalinda. And I love Vanni, not Andrea.”
“If you wipe your eyes and your nose on those bandages one more time,” Rosalinda broke into her sister’s remarks, “you will make them so wet and dirty that Valeria won’t be able to use them.”
“I -I didn’t realize what I was doing.” Bianca regarded the bandages as if she had never seen them before.
“That’s just the trouble.” Rosalinda’s voice was quieter now. “And to think I have always been considered the impulsive sister. Take the bandages to Valeria. Stay with your Vanni. Leave me alone to think about what has happened. At the moment, Andrea’s whereabouts, and his safety, are far more important to me than your remorse, whether real or feigned.”
Bianca met Rosalinda’s eyes. She opened her lips as if she wanted to say something more, but apparently she thought better of it and left the room instead.
Rosalinda felt as if the world was whirling past her too quickly for her to comprehend all the events taking place. Andrea’s arrival in a snowstorm, her love for him that grew steadily over the winter, the sight of Bianca and Vanni in each other’s arms, and now her mother and Francesco looking at each other as if they understood truths still unspoken, histories not yet explained – all of this confused and frightened Rosalinda.
Francesco was going to be drawn into her mother’s plans. So was Vanni. Rosalinda was sure of it, just as she was sure there was much more to Eleonora’s schemes than either of her daughters knew. The quiet world Eleonora had created at Villa Serenita was changing, partly at her own instigation, and nothing would ever be the same again.
Chapter 14
Rosalinda did not feel well. It was true that she sometimes pleaded illness when there was something her mother required of her that she did not want to do, but in fact she was almost always in the best of health. However, on the morning after the arrival of Francesco and Vanni, Rosalinda’s stomach was definitely queasy. Under her mother’s watchful eye, she ate a bit of bread and cheese. Then she excused herself from the table, saying she wanted to check on a minor problem with one leg of the horse she had ridden on the previous afternoon.
It was the only excuse she could think of that would quickly get her out of the villa and into the fresh air, where she was sure she would feel better. Taking deep breaths as she crossed the terrace and the garden, Rosalinda felt her stomach begin to settle. Certain that she would soon be back to normal, she continued to take deep breaths while making her way along the path to the stable.
But she had forgotten about the smells surrounding the stable. Drawing near, she took another long breath and gagged. Knowing she had only a moment or two to get out of sight, she rushed around the side of the stable to an overgrown area at the back of the building. There, behind a bush, she lost the entire contents of her stomach.
It was a few minutes later when she realized she was not alone. Someone else was also being sick in the bushes. Too weak and still too queasy to move, Rosalinda could do nothing but stay where she was until the other person revealed herself. It was Ginevra, the wife of one of the men-at-arms. Rosalinda knew the young woman fairly well because she often helped in the villa kitchen when Rosalinda was also there.
“You are sick, too,” Ginevra said. “I heard you. Madonna Rosalinda, shall I call for help?”
“Thank you, but no,” Rosalinda said. “I do feel better now. I must have eaten something that disagreed with me.”
“You are known for your hearty appetite,” Ginevra said, smiling though her face was pale and damp, and she looked decidedly unwell.
“Is there anything I can do to help you?” Rosalinda asked.
“Only time will help me,” Ginevra said. “I know what’s wrong. I am with child again.”
“What do you mean?” Rosalinda asked. “You already have two small children.”
“And a third on the way.” Ginevra patted her abdomen. “It’s a bit too soon after the last one, but I can’t say I am truly unhappy about it. Giuseppe is delighted.”
“Are you saying that being with child makes a woman sick?” Rosalinda asked.
“Every morning for weeks and weeks,” Ginevra replied. However, she did not look especially distressed to be ill. Instead, she looked pleased with herself.
“I did not know this,” Rosalinda exclaimed. “Mother told Bianca and me how babies are made, but she never mentioned an illness connected with carrying a child.”
&
nbsp; “I suppose she didn’t want you to know. She may have thought knowing would frighten you.” Ginevra patted Rosalinda’s arm in a reassuring way. “The sickness only lasts for a short time, at the beginning. Then, if the babe is well planted in the woman’s womb, the sickness stops and a wonderful time begins. I never feel so well as in the middle months of a pregnancy. Oh dear, perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m not sure Madonna Eleonora would want you to know so much while you are still a girl.”
“I won’t tell her that I know,” Rosalinda said. “Ginevra, thank you for explaining this to me. Now, if I ever marry and develop this illness, I will know I’m not sick, and I won’t be frightened. I will be able to tell my husband what is happening and when I do, I hope he will be as happy as Giuseppe is.”
“Childbearing is something you won’t have to think about for some time yet,” Ginevra said, patting Rosalinda’s arm again in a friendly way. “You know that your stomach upset was caused by tainted food. Is anyone else sick?”
“No, just me, and I really don’t think the cause was bad food. I think I just ate too much. As you said, my appetite is a bit too hearty at times. And then, truth to tell, Ginevra, I did drink a little too much wine.”
“Ah,” said Ginevra, shaking her head wisely, “too much wine will do it.”
“Please don’t tell anyone I was sick,” Rosalinda begged. “Especially not my mother or Valeria. I would be horribly embarrassed to have anyone know I was out here behind the stable, vomiting like one of the men-at-arms after a long drinking party. You can trust me not to drink so much another time.”
“I understand. We all drink too much wine now and then. If you are sure you don’t need help, I’ll go back to work. I am feeling quite recovered. Take note of how quickly my sickness has passed, Rosalinda, and remember it when your time comes.”
After Ginevra left her, Rosalinda leaned against the stable wall, overcome by an attack of sudden giddiness. Was it possible that, like Ginevra, she was with child?