Cristiano shakes his head. “You’re the one running.” He smiles, and there’s a gap on the top, where a tooth is missing. Not many brawls go on among the boys in this area without Cristiano taking part. Twigs stick out of his hair, as though he’s been crawling under bushes. He carries a large crate.
His dog, Paco, bounds out from the woods behind him and zips past without a hint of greeting. A big brown thing that galumphs. I don’t know how Cristiano trained Paco, but that dog behaves as though Cristiano’s the only human worth acknowledging, and this is strange, because he’s a Spinone and that’s a friendly breed. We used to have one.
When I was little, Paco’s indifference made me so mad, I wanted to tackle him. Nothing’s more fun than romping with a dog at your heels.
My nose twitches. I lean toward Cristiano’s crate. “What have you got in there?” His eyes grow guarded. “You’ve got truffles, don’t you? I can smell them.”
“Ain’t no law against digging truffles in open woods.”
“Indeed. Mamma asked me to bring home white ones for her.”
“And you expect me to give you some?” Cristiano frowns. “Blackmail, is it?”
What would I be blackmailing him for? But a glance tells all. I walk around him and point. “Bee stings on both arms.”
“Pah! I knew it.” Cristiano lowers his crate to the ground gingerly, as though it’s full of eggs. He reaches in, carefully not exposing the contents, and takes out two white truffles. “Here, you scoundrel.”
Scoundrel? “Keep them. Who wants your dirty truffles? I’ll dig my own.”
“And soil your fancy waistcoat?” Cristiano’s lip curls in disgust.
Why on earth? I’ve never done him wrong. His father works for Papà. And in the past few years, Cristiano has, too. We used to be friends. I’m still best friends with his sister, Silvia. But lately he’s been standoffish. And right now, he’s positively rude. “I only put the waistcoat on because Mamma said. I’ll slip it off when I dig.”
“Rubbish. Take the truffles and hold your tongue.”
So that’s it. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell. I’m not a scoundrel. Besides, whoever’s raising honeybees in a woodland meadow is doing it secretly. He probably doesn’t have land of his own, so he’s not paying his taxes, though he’s taking from the earth. It’s not my business if you stole honeycombs that shouldn’t be there in the first place.”
Cristiano is all smiles again. He drops a truffle back in his crate, then stretches out his hand to offer the other. “Here, take this one, anyways. As a present.”
“I meant it when I said I’d dig my own, thank you very much. The beekeeper is in the wrong, but those who steal from him are, too. You’ve got some explaining to do.”
“Not to you, Monna Nobility.”
My cheeks burn. “Of course not. To the Lord.” I walk past his hand.
He puts the truffle on top of the crate, picks the whole thing up, and walks beside me. “If I confess the honey, will you take the truffle?”
“Why should you want me to?”
“For peace. Between you and me.” He looks sincerely and surprisingly contrite.
I blink. “You did rather hurt my feelings.”
“I know. It showed.”
“Thank you.” I take the truffle. “I didn’t really want to dig for them. I could have looked for hours and not found any. Thank you, Cristiano.”
Paco dashes between us and zips ahead, lost to the eye again.
“Your crate isn’t full of just honeycombs and truffles, not with how large it is.”
“Nosy Elisabetta.” Cristiano laughs. “My crate—oh ho, wouldn’t you like to know.” He walks backward, swinging the crate slowly in front of my eyes with such ease, I’m sure it’s quite light. Then he hugs it and turns to walk forward again.
I wait. He says no more. We walk in silence, past oaks and yellow broom bushes. I glance up at his face. “I want to pinch you when you do that.”
“Do what?” he asks innocently.
“Wear that maddeningly self-satisfied smile.”
He laughs again. “All you have to do is ask. Nice. Can you stoop that low?”
“And just why is asking stooping?”
“A noble lady. A country bumpkin. Can a lady ask a bumpkin about his crate?”
“A lady can grab his crate and dump the contents on the ground.”
“Try.” He tosses his head back and waits. “No? You got some sense, anyways.”
“All right, Cristiano, may I see what’s in your crate? Please, sir?”
“Now that was nice.” He settles the crate on the ground. Then he lifts the lid and, with both hands cradling it, takes out an orchid. It stands stiff on a tall stem. The large petals are red inside and purple on the underside. The two smaller petals are darkly stained, almost black. They fall from the center, like blood falling from an open heart.
“It’s beautiful.”
“I got more. Lots of types. But this one’s best. What you think? Ain’t it the bestest flower you ever set eyes on?”
I put my face close to the tiny speckles of yellow near the center. Every mark on one side is matched by another across the center of the petal, as though the two halves of the petal are mirrors of each other. Every petal is balanced by another identical one across the center of the flower. A pattern within a pattern. “Yes.”
“Right. And that’s what they’ll think at Foiano della Chiana.”
“Oh, you’re going to the flower fair in two weeks? But that’s over near Arezzo. Why travel all that way when Greve will have its own flower show in a month?”
“Foiano’s is a real fair, not a show. It’s huge.”
“I didn’t even know you liked flowers.”
“They give a purse to the winner, and I aim to win. Let them others have their fancy garden flowers. I have my wild beauties.”
“So you’re doing it for money?”
His lip curls again. “People like you, you act like money don’t matter. Let me tell you something, Monna Elisabetta. To them that don’t have it, it matters.”
“We’re not rich, Cristiano.”
“To me you are. And you’re aiming to get richer.”
“What do you mean?”
“Silvia told me about your party. You invited her, at least.”
I haven’t invited Cristiano, of course. It doesn’t make sense to. But I refuse to be forced to explain that to him. “The orchid is a marvel. I hope you win.”
He shrugs one shoulder as though he couldn’t care less what I hope. “Silvia’s going to make money, too.”
“How?”
“Raising silkworms. Like your family. She already tried once. But last time her mouser got into the shed. He knocked over the tray and that was the end of the worms.”
“Worms and cats don’t mix well,” I say agreeably.
“This time, she’ll fasten the doors and shutters tight.”
“Good for her. I hope her business thrives.” I fight off a heavy feeling. Their shed is small; there’s no room for much there. “You better get those orchids home before they suffer too long in the crate.”
“Yup. Delicate, they are, wildflowers. But I’ll gather more tomorrow and the next day, just in case. Then I’ll get them growing steady and strong in pots.” Cristiano places the orchid back in the crate. He straightens up and looks at me with an expression I can’t read. “Did you speak true? You really think that one’s the bestest in the world?”
“I told you I did.”
“Want to know where I found it?”
Something sly in his tone warns me off. I cross my arms. “It can stay your secret.”
“Ah, but near those orchids there’s something you’ll want to see, Monna Elisabetta. Something furry . . . and warm . . . and cuddly.”
I drop my arms in surrender. “All right, you win. What’s there?”
“A den with eight—eight! —hare kits. Want to know now?”
“Yes,” I breathe.
/> “What will you give me if I tell you?”
“What do you want?”
“A kiss.”
I stare, dumbfounded. Then I turn and walk up the slope.
“I knew you’d be too stuck-up. Monna Nobility, that’s your true name, all right.”
When I look back, Paco’s the only one left. The dog regards me expectantly, his tail held straight and horizontal. He gives a single quick wag, then disappears after Cristiano. That’s the most attention that dog has ever given me.
Tears roll down my cheeks. I didn’t mean to hurt Cristiano. I’ve just never thought of him that way. He’s right; I never could think of him that way. He is a country bumpkin. I wouldn’t have put it in those crude words, but that’s how he put it, and he’s right. My coming party has made it obvious—to everyone but me.
My life is about to change. Radically. It’s Mamma’s wish. And Cristiano has no right to try to make me feel bad about it.
Monna Nobility—what a nasty thing to call me. Here Mamma thinks I don’t act noble enough, and Cristiano thinks I act it too much. I can’t please anyone.
I move quickly through the woods now. I have half a mind to toss the white truffle away. Instead, I tuck it into the tie at my waist. I might not be lucky enough to find another.
But I can find orchids on my own. And if Cristiano wasn’t lying about those hare kits, my nose will lead me from the orchids to them. I head uphill. What I need is a ravine between peaks. That’s where peat bogs lie; that’s where orchids grow. I march.
CHAPTER Three
WHO, THEN?” comes Papà’s voice, in clear agitation.
Are they fighting? My stomach clenches. I hurry into the kitchen.
Mamma takes a seat on the bench. “Please sit, both of you.” Papà doesn’t budge. He picks up a piece of bread and smears it with pork lard.
I blink. “Have you forgotten it’s Sunday? If you eat, you can’t take communion.”
“Your father has decided to ignore the Lord’s day.” Mamma makes a tsk. “He’s determined to get to the stables before the men so he can direct their every move.”
“Do you fault my behavior?” Papà plunks onto the bench and stuffs the entire piece of bread in his mouth. “You can’t trust a single one to do it right. Besides, Giacomo and his son, Cristiano, are shifty. They’ll make off with supplies.”
They’re talking about the rebuilding of the stable roof. That day I spent in the woods searching fruitlessly for orchids and hare kits, a wind rose. By evening the heavens unleashed a fury of hail. In the morning, we found a chestnut tree had dropped on the stables. For the two days since, every man available has been working on the repair.
“You wouldn’t have to watch over them if you gave them the Lord’s day off.”
“We can’t afford a rest day now. I have to go to Florence in two days. The stable must be finished before I leave. And the worms have been neglected too long. If someone doesn’t feed them today, they’ll die.” He slams a fist on the table. “There’s no choice. I’ll have to take one of the men off the stable job.”
“Is that all you’re arguing about?” Relief loosens my whole body. I take a cup and pour myself some hot mint brew.
Mamma stays my arm. “You can’t drink before the holy Mass.”
“I’m not going to Mass. I’m feeding the worms.”
“A lady always attends the Mass, even if a gentleman can skip. Sit down, Elisabetta, and don’t be ridiculous.”
I grab an almond cake from the basket and sit. “It’s not ridiculous.”
“Not at all!” Papà stands as I sit. Our eyes meet. “First you . . .”
“I’ve watched it done thousands of times. I know every step, Papà.”
Papà smiles. “Of course you do. It’s settled then.”
“Don’t let her do this, Antonio. Please. It’s not proper for a noble girl.”
“Silk is our business. And business right now is bad. The Lord understands I revere Him. Anyone else who doesn’t . . . you know where they can go.” He kisses the top of my head. “I’m counting on you, Betta.” He takes more bread and leaves.
Mamma turns to me with frightened eyes. “What if someone finds out?”
“About skipping church?”
She shudders. “About the nasty worms.” Her shoulders rise as she hugs herself.
She’s sincere. I almost laugh. I take her hands in mine. “You always speak of piety and purity, Mamma. There’s nothing impious or impure about decent work.” I go to the drawer where she stored the dress design and place the drawing on the table in front of her. “Those nasty worms will make this dress.”
Mamma lets out a noisy breath of concession. “We had plans for after church, if you’ll remember. Shall I select the music for your party without you?”
“Please.” I grab a burlap bag and walk out the door in my shift, arms bare. It doesn’t matter; I won’t be outside long. And my arms should be bare for this work.
The brash morning sun promises a hot day. Blue haze rises off the hills as though it’s summer rather than spring. The weather is so variable, and its effects are so dear. Poor Cristiano, repairing a stable instead of searching for orchids, as he’d planned. And Papà, I don’t know what his plans were, but they got tossed away, too. I’m the only lucky one. I don’t mind missing Mass. Latin peeves me. And, while I like music, I’m tone-deaf and sing like a crow. Let Mamma select the music. I’d rather work.
I go to a spreading mulberry tree and stuff leaves into the bag and sour berries into my mouth. Then I head for the silking building. It takes my eyes a few minutes to adjust to the dimmer light inside the large room. Little Valeria enters behind me. She sneaks, thinking I haven’t seen her. I walk to the closest tray, stick both hands down into slippery worms, and quickly turn, lifting them toward the girl. “Want a taste?”
“Aaaaa!” She runs out the door and I stifle a laugh.
Valeria is five, the youngest child in her family and the only girl. Her father works for Papà, so it isn’t right that I tease her. And I don’t want to anger her mother; she’s going to make my party dress. But everything scares the girl; and with her big brothers coddling her, she’ll wind up a spoiled coward if I don’t teach her to develop pluck. That’s what Mamma would call a poor excuse for bad behavior. I should be ashamed of myself. And I should have sympathy; I run from spiders, after all. Still, any girl who lives here should learn to appreciate silkworms. They’re our livelihood.
“Need a hand?” Silvia appears out of nowhere.
“There’s no pay in it for you.”
Silvia shrugs. “And who heard me ask for money?”
“Aren’t you going to church?”
“I see you making the sacrifice of skipping Mass.” She grins and I know she’s thinking about how we squirmed through last Sunday’s service. “I’ll just tell Mamma the master’s daughter required my assistance.”
“But I haven’t required anything.”
“You always need me.”
Her tone is ordinary, but the words needle me. “Do I?”
“Friends do. And that’s the truth.”
Indeed. “All right. I haven’t started yet. I was just tormenting Valeria.”
Silvia laughs. “That little rabbit.”
Oh, I am glad Silvia’s here; rabbit is exactly the word for Valeria. Papà would chase Silvia away—he doesn’t trust her any more than he trusts Cristiano. But the job will be more fun together. “Let’s pretend we’re sisters, like when we were little.” Of course, that would make Cristiano my brother. Well, that’s good. Then he couldn’t stay sweet on me. “We’re working to save the family business.”
“Is this truly pretend? Not the sister part. One look and anyone can see we ain’t. But the other part? About saving the family business?”
Has Silvia’s father caught wind of Papà’s problems? Well, I won’t confirm it. This is more than a master’s daughter can confide in a worker’s daughter, regardless of friendship. “Dreaming
of hardship makes the game more exciting.”
“Right. Let’s get to work, sis. If not, them brothers of ours, the little snot noses, will starve. And starving’s a cruel death.”
We rub olive oil over the trays so nothing sticks and it’s easy to move the worms after they’ve fed. We move in harmony, spreading mulberry leaves a thumb deep. Then we gather the mess that covers most of the old tray where the worms squiggle—the frass. It’s worm excrement and it smells, but not bad. Mamma uses it for flower fertilizer. We drop it in jars. My mind jumps ahead two months: I want flowers at my party. Lots.
The thought of flowers brings Cristiano back to mind. Does Silvia bubble inside with the same resentments as he does? I look at her sideways. She works with a contented face. And nothing she’s said today, nothing in her tone or manner, rings false.
“Dinner, little gluttons,” I croon as we transfer the worms to the clean tray. They tickle our hands. These were the size of pinheads when they hatched ten days ago. Now they’re half as long as a finger. In another ten days they’ll be double this length. Papà says no creature in the world increases its mass as fast as silkworms.
I look away when Silvia sneaks some into her hair. Who cares about a few dozen worms? Each moth lays hundreds of eggs. We have thousands and thousands of worms in this room. And it’s not stealing, because she’s working. So the worms are payment.
Silvia’s smart. It’s hard to transport moths; they die easy. But she can carry these worms home in her hair with no problem. I wish I could tell her how clever I think she is. But if I said anything now, she’d feel caught. Mortified.
The worms munch noisily, and Silvia and I fall silent in response. The sound is like a hillside stream cascading over rocks. I could fall asleep to it.
“Look, these are starting to make silk.” Silvia stands by a tray of older worms.
I rush over. She’s right; they’re ready to form cocoons. If they’re left in the leaves and frass, the silk will adhere to the trays and be ruined. “Quick!” We oil fresh trays and set little wooden cylinders upright on them, packed close. We drop three fat worms into each cylinder. In a few days, they’ll spin cocoons, hanging on the insides.
The Smile Page 2