Pip stood in the doorway. It was weird to imagine Jack rattling around that big old sandstone homestead by himself. The cottage was so tiny and cosy. And unfurnished.
‘Your folks leaving the furniture? Ashfield House might look a bit bare with just surfboards for decoration.’
‘I reckon. All that heavy mahogany isn’t going to fit in an apartment. And who’s going to buy an old twenty-seat dining table with wobbly legs? It’d take twenty men to lift it.’
‘Or women.’
‘You know what I mean.’ He grinned at Pip and beckoned to her to follow him up the stairs. ‘You can put your bags in here,’ he said, leading her up a small wooden stairwell to a bedroom with a black wrought-iron bedstead and embroidered white cover, so neat. A folded towel lay on the end of the bed.
Jack turned towards the door. ‘I’ll just camp on the couch downstairs for a few nights. Or a friend who works here has offered me a bed.’
Pip felt awkward. ‘No, don’t give up your bed—I’m fine to sleep on the couch. Seriously. Besides, the couch doesn’t look that big; your feet will dangle off the end.’
The back of Jack’s neck was reddening as he dashed out the door. ‘I’ll leave you to have a wash. Get yourself sorted. Bathroom is across the hallway.’ He turned to face her: ‘It’s really great to see you, Pip. I … er.’ He paused as if he were grappling to find the right words. ‘Coffee?’
‘Sure, thanks.’ She was tired and wanted to lean into his chest, have him put his arms around her. He looked darker, more tanned—almost leathery. As if his skin had changed tone with the terracotta soils of the region. His scent was unmistakable—soil and sweat—but there was a trace of something unfamiliar too. A musky scent; a sweetness. It was a little unnerving and she wondered what, or who, could be the source.
Pip felt a million times better after she’d showered and washed her hair. She slipped into her favourite jeans and a grey T-shirt and dried off her hair as much as possible with a towel. She ran a brush through it to untangle all the curls and then flipped upside down and back to tousle it up again. She didn’t like it too neat and it would curl as it dried anyway. No point fighting it. She added a touch of lip gloss before she went to meet Jack’s colleagues.
She walked through the thick oak door that led to the pool terrace of the main villa. A bright red vine snaked around a contemporary steel pergola and behind it was a thoroughly modern pool house made from glass and steel. The strong, simple lines of the new building blended seamlessly with the villa and the twenty-metre old-fashioned concrete-tiled pool. Pip could see Jack hunched over, staring into the opening of the old brick oven, poking it with a metal rod. He had mentioned on the way up that he’d put a leg of venison on as a slow roast at breakfast, with some bay leaves and white wine. Her stomach rumbled even though she’d had a solid lunch.
Sitting at a big wooden table were a small dark wiry man and a tall, luminescent woman who looked a little too much like an Italian movie star for Pip’s liking. She blanched. This wasn’t Valentina the winemaker, was it? Jack had mentioned her briefly in an email when he described how the vintage worked, but she wasn’t expecting … Pip forced herself to cut off this line of thought. She and Jack were no longer an item. It was no business of hers what went on in Italy. Besides, he would have told her if he was seeing someone, surely?
Jack came over when he saw her. ‘Ciao!’ He introduced her to Bruno and Valentina. She noticed Valentina’s eyes widen in mock dismay as Jack tried to pronounce her name with an Italian accent.
‘Jack didn’t tell us he had a beauty coming to stay. Your hair is perfect, like castagna. A strong Aussie beauty.’ Bruno gestured with a hand and tapped the rickety metal chair beside him. ‘Come, bella, come sit by me. I’m old and my hands and knees ache.’
He poured her a glass of white wine from an unlabelled bottle. ‘A 2013 Trebbiano. It was a good year, my friend.’ He leaned over and cut a fine slice of prosciutto. ‘Cignale. Shot it out the back of these hills last year. Smoked it myself.’
Pip cut a sliver. It melted in her mouth like butter. She reached for the knife to cut another slice.
‘So Jack tell me you have brains as well as beauty. A scientist. Marine biology. My daughter, Brunella, studies chemistry in Bologna. She is in her second year. Perhaps she will be a scientist too. Work in a laboratory. Maybe in Bologna, maybe Roma.’ Bruno held up his purple-stained hands. ‘Not like her papa. She’s a smart girl.’
Pip glanced at Valentina’s dark glossy hair cascading in waves to her shoulders. Her dark skin and eyes, delicately shaped eyebrows and chiselled cheekbones were somehow complemented by the old jeans, work boots and denim work shirt she was wearing. Valentina caught Pip studying her and gave her a wide grin. Sprung, Pip shot back her best attempt at a winning smile. It wasn’t like her to be jealous or territorial. Jack had always been attracted to intelligent women who just happened to be stunning. His girlfriends before Pip had included an Olympic rower, a Rhodes scholar and a UN worker in Peru he met while hiking in South America. In typical Jack fashion he had kept in touch with all of them and if they were in Australia they often met up for dinner—with Pip included, of course. Now was not the time to start being insecure. Besides, she and Jack were no longer a couple. They were friends, that was all. With a shock she realised that she too had moved into the ‘interesting ex’ category. She was surprised by how much that hurt.
‘I’m sorry. We are filthy. We came straight from the presses—Jack was so keen for us to meet you. We’ve heard so much about you.’ Valentina looked directly at Pip. ‘Can I have some of the bianco, please, Bruno?’ She waved her wine glass at the old man. ‘Grazie.’ Her husky voice was laced with caramel. Her wide dark eyes were bright and looked kind. Who the hell could blame Jack if he fell for her? What hope did Pip have against someone who seemed so sure of herself—and who looked so elegant in a man’s work shirt?
Chapter 24
Château de Boschaud, Midsummer 1487
Andreas stood to one side of the circular cloister filled with nobles from neighbouring estates and merchants in their finest silks, velvets and furs in royal blues, reds and greens as they bumped shoulders and sipped sweet wine from silver goblets. The midsummer garden was heaving with flowers and pollen. Guests were surrounded by alternating rings of pear and cherry trees underplanted with tight lavender bushes. He’d managed to find a vantage point away from the crowd from which to view the woven willow arbour that was heaving with climbing cream and red roses, filling the air with the sweet smell of love. He closed his eyes and took summer deep into his lungs, imagining how his own simple wedding would unfold.
He opened his eyes and blinked twice at the ferocity of the midsummer light. The sun had moved long past noon and was stretching higher and higher across today’s wide blue sky, and he shifted his shoulders to try to stop his fitted green silk jacket from sticking to his skin. He wanted to remove his stockings and boots, roll up his pants and dunk his feet in the little stream that flowed at the bottom of this slope like he’d seen Artemisia do so often when the wild strawberries started to ripen. If the stewards walked past again, he’d take a slice of the pink or yellow melon to cool his humours under this beating sun.
A handful of boys and girls—coats unbuttoned, stockings drooping around their ankles, gold silk ribbons trailing down the back of their white silk embroidered smocks—giggled as they ran past him. They wove between the gnarled pear and cherry trees, spitting black pips between their teeth with melon juice dripping from their chins, knocking lavender heads with their knees. The oils of the plant lingered in the stifling air long after the children had wedged themselves up into branches in the far corner alongside the hornbeam hedges, scaring away flocks of donnocks and goldfinches that were twittering with excitement.
The children’s carefree laughter at the plume of rising birds was drowned out as velvet-clad pageboys dressed in burgundy with sprigs of rosemary pinned to their oversized sleeves marched into the cloister a
nd formed the border of an aisle. They stood like proud footmen down the middle of the circle from the stand of hornbeams at the entrance of the cloister to the rose arbour at the other. From neat baskets tucked under their left arm, the pageboys proceeded to throw handfuls of crimson rose petals and white lilies on the lawn to mark the path for the bride in time to the steady beat of a drum, lute and trio of crooning minstrels. A harpist Andreas hadn’t noticed near the arbour began to pluck the strings, rounding out the music and filling the cloister as loudly as any chapel as the crowd turned their heads to watch the entrance of the bride. Andreas couldn’t help but feel sorry for the poor pageboys whose once-neat shoulder-length hair was plastered to their heads and limp with sweat.
Through a pair of tall linden trees in terracotta pots walked Lady Rose between her fur-clad parents. She wore a simple V-neck dress with wide sleeves in silk the soft blue of the summer sky and shimmering with gold thread. Her blue lace veil flowed down her back like a waterfall, fixed with a wide garland of unseasonal waxy white orange blossom. The orange blossom must have come from afar with the Clinchy household—or had been sent for from the south—for Andreas had seen none within the walls of this château or surrounds.
Behind the bride walked Lord Boschaud and his marshal, who was limping from the weight of the quarter chainmail and sword crossing his body. Abbot Roald was already standing in the centre of the arbour, deep purple robes matching his fleshy face and jowls, beads of sweat dotting his brow. As Lady Rose placed her small hand on the broad hand of Lord Boschaud, Andreas noticed the dainty blue ribbon and nosegay. He smiled at the tight red rosebuds, lilies, garlic and chives with rosemary tied tight with ivy. At the edges were the telltale feathery tufts of silver Artemisia.
The deep, petulant voice of Abbot Roald boomed through the cloister as he asked the assembled guests if there were any objections to the marriage of this noble pair.
As the readings began, Andreas’s thoughts ran to last spring, when he had found Artemisia in the picking garden tying a nosegay with a piece of royal blue silk ribbon for the Lady Rose’s betrothal ceremony.
Artemisia was sitting on the grassy mound overlooking the budding apple trees with an under blanket of yellow daffodils. She’d picked a trio of red rosebuds from the bush climbing the nearby gravestone and was weaving them together with violets and tying the bunch together with ivy and finishing it off with the silk.
‘Artemisia, please may I join you?’ he’d asked.
She had been so absorbed in her posy she hadn’t realised he was standing beside her. She looked over her shoulder to see who else was in this area of the garden.
‘Don’t worry,’ he reassured her, ‘I just passed the priory and the abbot has taken the monks into the chapel for tierce.’
Artemisia exhaled and busied her fingers as she nodded at him, her lips starting to curve into a smile.
Andreas sat beside her and watched her strong fingers wrap the ivy around the herbs twice more so it looked like thick green twine. She held it above her head and dangled it in the light—the violets and gillyflowers still had a touch of the dew. He could smell the solid garlic and chives and the thick oils of the fresh-harvested rosemary and lavender. They both sat still, admiring the herbs as they shimmered in the sun and swayed slightly in a gentle breeze. The yellow faces of the goldfinches on the fruit branches preened and twisted towards him before resuming their happy birdsong.
‘It’s for Lady Rose,’ Artemisia said with a wistful look. ‘They’ll be exchanging the rings at dusk.’
‘Why don’t you make another nosegay?’ Andreas suggested. ‘For yourself.’
Artemisia flushed and turned away as she brushed the stray leaves and offcut sprigs from her apron. Then she turned to face Andreas.
‘And what would I put in it?’ she asked playfully.
‘Well, chives and garlic to keep the bad spirits away, perhaps a bit of St John’s wort for good measure.’
‘Naturally. Go on.’
‘Roses.’
‘Obviously.’
‘Lilies for lots of little ones,’ he said with a chuckle and reached across to pat her belly. ‘And Artemisia, of course.’
‘Is that it?’
‘Why? Have I missed something?’ he said, puzzled.
‘Well, how about ivy because it sticks deep in the earth, marigolds for the artistic fire, gillyflower for happiness.’ She paused and checked them off on her fingers. ‘And the iris—for wisdom.’
‘I don’t think you need the iris.’ Andreas held her firm wrist softly and stopped her. ‘No-one knows how to blend herbs and spices like you. What a pair we will make. I can take you to Genoa—show you the world.’
Artemisia’s dark eyes gleamed like beans as she shook her head. ‘Your mother …’
‘Adores you,’ Andreas finished with a smile. ‘She’s getting too old to run the market spice shop by herself.’
Artemisia’s mouth formed a perfect rosebud, as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. ‘Oh,’ was all she said.
‘Let me give you my world. Imagine what you could do …’
Andreas pulled her onto his lap and wrapped his arms around her strong shoulders. He could smell the rosemary in her shiny dark hair and he buried his face in her plait. Artemisia giggled as he tucked her head under the crook of his chin they both sat watching the pretty goldfinches and wrens squeak and hop from branch to branch in the apple trees. Then he squeezed both shoulders and gently shifted her so he could look her in the eye.
‘I mean it, Artemisia. Marry me.’
She snorted and tried to push him away. ‘Enough! What nonsense. A cook and a journeyman. It’s—’
He put his finger to her lips to shush her and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ears and back into her plait as he shook his head.
‘I’ve been made master épicier. I’m free to take a bride.’
‘But not—’
He leaned in and kissed her on the lips to quiet her objections.
‘Abbot Roald will nev—’
She leaned back as he kissed her neck and the nosegay dangled from her wrist onto the ground.
‘I promise you, Artemisia, by summer you will be a foundling no more. My heart is already yours. I just need to give you my home.’ He murmured, ‘Artemisia de Vitriaco has quite a ring to it, don’t you think?’
Artemisia sat up, smoothed her hair and straightened her white apron over her tunic before lifting her wrist to spin the pretty posy in the sunshine. This time, Andreas noticed the delicate hair-like fronds of the strawberry and the silver tufts of Artemisia he’d missed and he sucked in the sharp scent of garlic and chives.
‘Artemisia de Vitriaco,’ she repeated, turning over the words slowly in her mouth as if it were almost too much to swallow. Then she looked at him and her smile was pure spring sunshine and hope. ‘Yes, it does,’ she whispered with a shiver as she pressed her shoulder against his.
Andreas touched his shoulder, now covered in the finest emerald silk, as Abbot Roald boomed into the warm air: ‘I do pronounce thee husband and wife.’ He was looking forward to hearing this pronounced for himself.
Chapter 25
Tuscany, October 2014
Pip stretched her legs, moved her daypack and used the seat in front to lever herself out of the back seat of the rickety old Volkswagen Caravelle. After a few bottles of sangiovese were downed the night before, Bruno had offered to drive the crew the following day up to a remote spot in the Apennines where he used to harvest chestnuts, ceps and morels as a boy. They’d set off after breakfast. The drive was forty minutes from Tenuta di Falgino along a web of narrow roads that spun between terraces on which grapes and vegetables were growing. Pip was blown away by the amount of arable land the Tuscans had made, carving terraces out of the sides of mountains and hillsides, retained by sturdy walls built from random slabs of limestone. It felt more utilitarian and more raw than San Sebastián.
Tuscany had always sounded so romantic. S
he had to admit there was a charm to the gardens, the pencil pines and the gravel, but up close it seemed like a lot of hard work. Crumbling walls, terraces to be weeded, grapes to be pruned and harvested, olives to be harvested and pressed. No wonder Bruno was so small, hunched and wiry. Even Valentina had stained purple hands and calluses on her fingers and palms. Just like Jack. She had to hand it to the other woman: Valentina was no princess. Pip knew what it was like to work with a team of men. The jokes when they were out diving to forget the wetsuit, the pairing off with the better scuba equipment, the quiet scoffing as she tried to haul her nets up on deck. The complete desire to disappear into work clothes so as to be invisible. The need to collect twice as much data in order to be taken seriously. It frustrated Pip the way the boys helped each other out, using their tinnies to collect specimens whenever they needed. It wasn’t even that they were deliberately leaving her out—it was just that they didn’t notice her at all.
Pip was last into the vehicle, and so had no option but to sit in the back seat wedged in next to Jack as the front seats were piled with baskets and buckets. Valentina was seated in front of them, but twisted around to chat as they drove. Today she was dressed casually in a scoop-necked white T-shirt, black puffer jacket and denim jeans, and Pip could see the arch of her back, the elegant line from her jaw to the nape of the neck.
Pip’s thigh was trapped against Jack’s. As Bruno wound his way higher and higher up the mountain in a series of hairpin turns, they were knocked together and bounced on the back seat as the van clattered around each corner at ridiculous speed, honking and overtaking any cars that dared appear in front of them. Pip had pulled away from Jack with each turn, but she noticed he left his thigh pressed firmly against hers. She’d missed these steely thighs. Part of her wanted to reach out and stroke his leg or place a hand on it. But after Jack had offered to walk Valentina home after the previous night’s feast she was pretty certain that this wouldn’t be welcomed. She’d strained to hear the soft thunk of the thick old oak door closing as he returned home, but she’d drifted off and missed it. Maybe it had never come. The couch had looked unslept on when he made her a morning espresso on the old cast-iron stove.
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