But Giuliano and I have no such entrapments. Giuliano’s lack of participation in the latest styles surprises and delights me. Perhaps he enjoys freedom of movement as much as I do. We sway, cut, slide, stamp. The footwork is easy and all dancers do the same steps so, even though this dance is unfamiliar, I quickly catch on. His hands hold mine firmly when we swing each other. His arm guides my back securely when we move forward and backward. And his eyes meet mine every time we face each other. The patterns change from a giant circle to columns to smaller circles. The music and movement have gravity, but all I feel is a lightness, as though we’re the thinnest filaments of silk practically floating in the air. This is so good. Let this last forever.
“May I steal my daughter?” It’s Papà. And using the same term: “stealing” me.
I don’t even try to hide my disappointment. We dance off together.
“Are you enjoying yourself, Betta?”
“I was, Papà.”
“Caterina knew you would,” he says gaily, missing the fact that I used the past tense. “She said you’d be happiest if we did everything out here, in the country. I guess she was right.”
“Perhaps.”
“She’s wonderful with her sister, Betta. I’m sure she’ll be wonderful with you. We’re going to be a happy family. Just you wait and see.”
My mouth fills with a sour taste. But I manage to hold in angry words. I look away from his eyes.
Someone announces that the fountain is to be unveiled. Papà hurries to Caterina’s side. Everyone troops through the rear doors to the garden, which is as unrecognizable as the house, with so many added flowering bushes. Evening has fallen, and women servants dressed in yellow hold torches to light our way. Men servants, also in yellow, come from all sides carrying the dove cages. They set them on the ground behind the fountain and, at a signal, they open them, and prod the mindless creatures out. The air goes white with doves.
Someone pulls the sheet from the fountain to reveal the statue of a man and woman, naked, embracing in a passionate kiss, under a shower poured from an amphora by a baby angel. The wide, round basin they stand in catches the water. Silk ribbons in all colors dangle from the basin lip.
It’s stupidly romantic. I look around, expecting guffaws under the hands that quickly rose to cover those mouths. Finally, Caterina will get the scorn she deserves.
But everyone’s exclaiming how beautiful it is. No one else finds it absurd.
Caterina stands close to the lip of the basin and reaches her hand out to touch the falling water. I see Silvia in the crowd on the other side of the fountain, watching Caterina with awe on her face. The traitor! I hate Caterina. She’s cast her spell over my only friend. It’s unbelievable. I hate her!
That’s when Uccio comes racing from the terraces and bounds with a single leap right into the fountain basin. Water splashes up the front of Caterina’s pearl-studded dress. Ha! Immediate satisfaction warms me. A red ribbon catches on one of Uccio’s horns and flops there ridiculously. And now the horror hits. My cheeks flame. No! Oh, I wanted things to go badly, I longed for everything to be ruined—but not this way! Not via Uccio. Oh no, oh no, what will Caterina do to him now?
I rush to grab my dear little goat and tuck him behind me for safety.
But Caterina grabs him first. She’s laughing and hugging him. She’s hugging my goat! And everyone is laughing now.
A hand snakes around my waist.
I practically jump to face the owner.
“Close call. After such a stunt, I thought perhaps our little friend would wind up on a dinner table as the main course.” Giuliano grins.
I smile wide. He’s here. And he’s understood my worst fear. He understands me.
Giuliano moves in even closer with a conspiratorial lift of the eyebrows. “Which might not be so bad. Roast kid is among my favorites.”
I gulp and pull away. And I realize that roast kid was absent from the wedding feast. That must have been Caterina’s choice, since everything else was. “What a disgusting thing to say about my pet.”
“It was a joke.” He lowers his head so that he manages to look up at me, though I’m shorter than him. “Don’t be angry. Can’t you let it pass as a stupidity?”
A joke. A revolting one. Like Silvia talking about cutting out her tongue. “Of course. It’s already gone. I was just thinking about something my friend Silvia said.”
“Silvia? Who’s Silvia?”
“She was standing beside me when you came to take me dancing.”
“Ah! The girl in green.”
My cheeks tighten. “You noticed her.”
“Who wouldn’t? She mustn’t be a very good friend of yours, though.”
My insides shake. “Why would you say that?”
“You didn’t introduce her to Aunt Nanina. I watched.”
My hands fly to my cheeks. “Oh, Lord, I didn’t. I was so surprised at Aunt Nanina that I got all flustered. What must Silvia think?”
Giuliano shrugs. “You can apologize. She’ll understand.”
I look down. Everything keeps changing. I was so happy when I found Giuliano’s arm circling me. Then everything went wrong. Giuliano noticed Silvia—and I didn’t introduce her to Aunt Nanina—and both things make me ill.
“Come on, Monna Lisa. It isn’t that bad. Tell me, do you truly forgive me for joking about roasting goats?”
That he can ask so dearly is enough. “Yes.”
“Then you believe in forgiveness. Silvia will forgive you. That’s what friends do.”
I take a deep breath and look up at him.
He gives a tentative smile. “Let’s do something happy, Lisa. Show me some secret. Something special in this home of yours.”
I’m instantly shy. There is nothing at Villa Vignamaggio that could amaze someone as urbane as Giuliano. And then I realize the perfect thing.
“Are you willing to work a little for it?”
“Is that a challenge? Lead the way.”
We go out to the silking building. Uccio breaks away from the crowd and follows us. I close him outside, of course. He doesn’t kick the door or even bleat, for he knows I won’t relent when it comes to this building.
Luckily there’s a tray with complete cocoons, waiting as though by order. I light the fire under the silking pot and fill it with water and rub oil over the pulley hoop.
It’s dark in here and the fire is the only source of light. Oh, I hope Giuliano can see well enough to make this work.
Giuliano has been walking up and down the aisles all this time, touching here and there gingerly. Now he comes to my side. “When do I help?”
“Soon.” I drop three cocoons into the hot water. “Watch.”
The cocoons fuzz up as the silk loosens. I use the hand broom to whisk around them till the filaments can be separated. In seconds I’ve caught the end of a filament from each of the three cocoons. I twist them together and thread them through the hoop and over the pulley.
“Here. You take them now and wrap them around the reel.”
Giuliano follows instructions.
“The rest is up to you. Pump.”
And the reel squeaks as it spins.
“Watch. This is the secret part.”
The white cocoons dance wildly on the dark surface of the water, leaping like joyful spirits.
“Isn’t it amazing? I mean, you know they’re held by the filaments, but you can’t see that in all this steam. So it feels like they’re alive.”
“Yes, yes.” Giuliano’s face is flushed from the steam, but I can see in his glistening eyes that he knows what I’m talking about. He feels it, too.
“This is my favorite part.”
He laughs, and the reel spins slower.
“Keep pumping. You have to do it fast till the entire cocoons are gone.”
The reel spins fast again.
He’s lucky. The threads on these three aren’t as long as some can be. They soon grow transparent.
“Stop.”
He stops and I scoop out the cocoon shells with the wooden spoon and crack them open and save the chrysalises inside them in a jar, like always.
“Okay, pump again.”
Giuliano pumps until all the thread has been reeled in.
“That’s it,” I say.
“That’s it,” he says, throwing his hands in the air.
I put out the fire.
The room is instantly black. Without the squeak of the spinning reel, the air feels empty. The magic of the moment is gone.
Did he really feel it?
Dancing cocoons. Why, they’re the most mundane things ever, really. What a stupid thing I am to think he might have been entranced.
“I guess it’s time to go back,” I say limply.
“This was a wonderful secret.”
“Do you mean that?”
“It was like a fantasy. Thank you, Lisa.” Giuliano takes my hand in both of his and presses it to his lips.
And the strangest thing happens: I tremble. We danced together with my arm hanging from his and I didn’t feel anything like this. But here, alone in the black of the night, this lightest of touches is wondrous. I cannot stop myself from leaning toward him. I am almost falling.
CHAPTER Eleven
THE MESSENGER WAITS beside his horse while Caterina reads the letter he’s just delivered. Papà is at her side. He’s so love-smitten, he follows her around like some clumsy, overgrown pup. I half expect to see his tongue drop from his open mouth. “Elisabetta,” she calls, knowing without looking that I’m watching from the kitchen window.
I come outside, drawn more from curiosity than obedience.
“A party at the Martelli summer villa. Look.” She happily thrusts the invitation into my hands. “Shall we say yes?”
“You do whatever you wish. I have no interest.”
“Oh, please come. It’s a pity you missed the last party. Camilla and I had so much fun. We . . .”
“There’s a lot to do to keep Villa Vignamaggio running properly.” I hurry inside.
Old Sandra waits at the chopping counter where I left her. She takes one look at my face and her own squinches up. “What a scowl. Bad news?”
“Another party invitation,” I say in disgust.
“A girl your age should like parties. A year ago you was going to have one yourself, if I remember right.”
“Well, nobody’s thinking about a party for me anymore.”
Old Sandra slaps the bird carcass down in front of me. “You’re as silly as this goose.”
“What’s that mean?”
“How can they guess your mind when you act so contrary? Tell them, dear girl.”
How dare she make assumptions about my wishes? “Please just finish teaching me this recipe, Sandra,” I say with as much dignity as I can muster.
I chop garlic into smaller and smaller bits, my knife flashing so fast, the movements blur before my eyes.
A party at the Martellis’ summer home. This is exactly what Mamma wanted for me—a step up into the highest echelons of society. But not like this, for it happened only because she died. And what’s the point of going, anyway? Every time I hear hoofbeats, I run to the window. But it’s never anyone for me. Giuliano hasn’t come back since the wedding, over two months ago. I thought maybe on my fourteenth birthday, he’d send a message, at the least. He doesn’t want to see me—that much is clear.
I split quinces and press the minced garlic into them and take a handful of salt and rub it into the goose’s prickled skin. I rub and rub and rub and rub.
Old Sandra puts a staying hand on my shoulder. “That goose is already dead—you don’t need to kill it.”
And so tonight I place a fine meal on the supper table. Again. And Papà gobbles it with noisy hums of appreciation that I should be allowed to enjoy. Again. But Caterina has to ruin everything by repeatedly saying how utterly wonderfully I cook and what a failure she is in the kitchen—always with her phony sweetness. Again.
As Papà finishes, he clears his throat. “Dear Betta, and dearest Caterina, I owe you both an apology. Betta, you’ve become engrossed in work, and I’ve relied on you too heavily. It’s hardly a surprise that you’ve forgotten what it means to be nobility. Caterina, I beseech you, take my precious girl under your wing and make a proper lady of her.”
“What!” I jump to my feet. “Have you lost your mind? What on earth are you talking about?”
“Society, of course. What else would I be talking about? The invitation to the Martelli party has made it obvious. Your reaction shamed me. Sit down, little Betta. Sit and listen.”
I lower myself into my seat and glare at him.
“That’s better. You don’t do what noble ladies do. You spend all your time in the silking building or the olive groves or the kitchen or . . .”
“Mamma spent hours in the kitchen every day and she was a noble lady!”
“Yes, you’re right. Of course you’re right. But the other work— you shouldn’t be doing it. Not to the extent that you do, at least. Not to the exclusion of pleasurable activities.”
“I take pleasure in the silking building. You have no idea what matters to me.”
“Please, Betta. You know what I mean. You constantly find new jobs to do. You even help me keep the ledgers now. And I let it happen because I took comfort in your partnership—just as you seemed to do. But it’s not right, and I should have stopped it long ago. I am determined to remedy it now. And Caterina is the perfect means, for Caterina is the perfect noble lady. She’ll be the friend you so clearly need.”
I have to bite my tongue hard to keep from screaming.
“I’m sure that Elisabetta has not forgotten ladylike ways,” Caterina says slowly in a gentle tone. “Let her do what she enjoys, Antonio. I understand that you want us to grow closer. But we will find our own ways to know each other. Things cannot be rushed.”
I blink, but I will not be taken in by her. My stepmother is at best presumptuous and at worst duplicitous.
Starting the very next morning, I practically live outdoors. And without hat or sleeves. The sun darkens my skin in no time. Silvia and I look like two berries off the same bush. That’s how it should be. I’m a country girl—this is what I love. If I were to go to a party now, I’d cause a scandal. So there, Papà! When I visit Mamma’s grave each day, I beg her forgiveness. And I know she does forgive me. She was right: she understood me.
One day in midsummer, Caterina says, “Will you help me with a project, please, Elisabetta?”
This is a common question of hers; she has so many projects. I shake my head, expecting her to entreat like a child, as is her habit. She’s clearly unused to being denied.
“Ah, and Camilla was so sure you’d want to be part of this.”
Camilla comes for short visits often. And she never stays more than a night. Despite the way she and Caterina giggle together, her visits would be bearable if she’d only bring her little son, Bartolomeo. But she comes alone. She says newlyweds shouldn’t be imposed upon. I wonder if she considers me an imposition? I’m quite sure Camilla has no notion whatsoever of what I’d like to be a part of. I don’t bother to respond.
“Well, then, I’ll just have to rely on Uccio.”
“Uccio?” I yelp.
“Uccio and Cristiano, yes.” Caterina’s eyes twinkle. “You’ll see.”
She’s got me and she knows it. I squirm against my curiosity.
That night, when the little goat romps up the stairs ahead of me to bed, Caterina comes out of her room. I expect her to give him a quick pet, like usual. Instead, she gives him a lingering hug, while her eyes look at me over his head, inviting me to ask.
I go into my room. Uccio pulls away from her and scampers in after me—good little goat.
The next morning a bleak drizzle turns the world gray. Brief cold spells in summer are always welcome in these hills, but I’m particularly grateful now, as I watch Caterina leave early in a wagon with Cristiano, for I know
she’s chilled. It feels more like March than July. She should have put off her little excursion a few days till the sun returned. Such determination would impress me if it were anyone but her.
I walk in the garden with Uccio, who promptly jumps into the fountain. He settles on his knees, immersed so only his head shows. He bathes here often, regardless of rain. And Caterina never complains; she seems to take delight in it. When Camilla visits, the two of them exchange stories—Camilla’s are mostly about little Bartolomeo and Caterina’s are mostly about Uccio. That, too, is annoying of her.
Paco comes racing through the vegetable terraces and plops into the fountain beside Uccio. That dog loves water. But he’s a thief—he snatches Uccio away from me. Of course. The dog is lonely without Cristiano. Spinone dogs are loyal to their masters. So even when Paco plays, he wants to know where Cristiano is every moment.
I walk past the fountain and, oh, at the far corner of the garden Mamma’s cherished muse statues have been gathered into a circle surrounding black roses, the very type I saw at the Greve flower show two springs ago, the type that grow in the Medici garden in Villa Careggi. Nestled among the muses are sprays of wild orchids. And I know these orchids, as well. They’re the type Cristiano was going to enter into the flower fair at Foiano della Chiana that same spring.
Cristiano’s been helping Caterina on this project. Somehow she discovered his passion for flowers. She’s an observant one, insidiously so.
I feel left out, which is absurd; it’s been my choice not to know about Caterina’s doings. And it isn’t right that she should take such liberties with Mamma’s garden. Papà pampers her—like he used to pamper me. But more.
I turn around now and my eyes take in the whole garden. The various places where those statues used to stand are bare and the area around them seems bland now. That can’t last; Caterina hates bland, so much so that our home has become a shock to the eye. Tablecloths and bed linens scream in the high-pitched voices of reds and oranges and yellows. She’s hung violet tapestry in the dining room, too. She indulges herself terribly. Clearly, she is now about to indulge herself in redesigning the garden. With Cristiano’s help. But what part does Uccio have in all of it?
The Smile Page 10