The wagon returns at dusk, loaded with flowering plants. Just as I expected.
The next morning, however, there’s a surprise: wagons come slowly up the road, burdened with heavy loads. Three men, arms bulging, appear at the rear door. I go off to my chores in the silking building with Silvia, but we sneak peeks, peering through the light but persistent rain.
By the end of the day, flowers circle so many statues, all of animals grouped according to some plan that only Caterina sees the logic of: dolphins and mermaids together here, a harmonious pair—but fawns and lion cubs there, a doomed pair. The only lone statue squats beside the fountain: the goat god Pan playing on his reed flute. I rest my hand on his head and wonder if Caterina thinks of that as Uccio’s choice. In any case, even I can’t deny that the total effect of all this profusion is quite disarming.
Before supper Caterina finds me in the kitchen. “I saw you in the garden. Don’t you love it?”
It’s Friday, a day of fasting from meat, so I’m making cacciucco, a fish stew. The traveling fish vendor from Livorno gave me the recipe just this morning. He took advantage of the cool weather to come inland to sell. He promised everything was as fresh as in winter. Conger eel, gobies, stargazer, dogfish, scorpion fish, sea toad, prawns, squid, and octopus—all lie cleaned and ready on the counter. I slice them into bite-size pieces without a word.
Caterina tucks a lock of my hair behind my ear. Then she leans close and whispers almost sadly, “It looks like it’s going to be a very fine stew.”
In the following week, Caterina’s behavior toward me changes. Her invitations and questions cease, until she barely talks to me. Fine; I have no time for her nonsense. Papà still goes often to Florence for business deals, though he rarely spends more than one night there unless Caterina accompanies him. But I’m the one who makes sure that we meet the obligations he binds us to; I oversee the silk production. And I run this house, as well. Papà makes no further objections. And Caterina, well, she merely lives here. I really truly do not have time for her.
Besides, my work has, ironically, increased since Papà’s ridiculous outburst. The three young men that Caterina hired to place the statues in the garden now live in the workers’ cottages, for she convinced Papà to hire them even though money is still scarce and Papà had already let go other workers. Rocco and Tomà are peasants; they know the earth and livestock. But Alberto comes from a servant family in Florence. He found no work there; times are as hard in the city as in the country. He, of course, is a stranger to farmwork. And not a one of them knows about silk production. So it falls on Silvia and me to teach them. Every step must be done carefully and on time, or an entire batch of worms will be ruined. And these men are not used to the demand for precision. We must check on them regularly and give encouragement and correct errors before they become gross. I have no idea how Papà thought he could have managed all this without me.
Yes, I am far too busy to bother with Caterina.
Late in August Camilla arrives, for five days. This will be her first extended visit since the wedding, and she’s bringing her son. Caterina is so excited, she waits out front for her, and I stand alongside—not to greet Camilla, of course, but to see little Bartolomeo. Caterina gets to see him every time she goes to Florence, but I never leave Villa Vignamaggio. I’ve missed the child, against my will.
Camilla literally leaps from her coach and promptly vomits.
Caterina throws her arms around her sister. “Elisabetta, go quickly. Ask Sandra to prepare a sick bed.”
“No, no.” Camilla laughs even as she wipes her mouth with a handkerchief. “Don’t go anywhere, Elisabetta. No one’s sick. That was simply my announcement.”
“Announcement?” Caterina opens her mouth wide in happy realization. “Oh! What better way to say another child grows within you! What a delight, Camilla.”
Camilla squeezes Caterina to her. “You’re next, good sister. Do hurry, so our babies can grow up together.”
“Oh, let it be true!” Caterina turns to me with an excited laugh. “Elisabetta, could you make that sweet-crusted pie with hare meat and candied orange peel for tonight’s meal, the one you do so fantastically well? Antonio loves hare.”
“Don’t forget the parsley.” Camilla giggles.
“And rucola,” adds Caterina, giggling herself.
I remember Piero de’ Medici talking about amorous prowess. Women discuss sex freely among themselves, for everyone needs to know the best times and positions for getting pregnant. But it’s my papà they’re talking about here. I have to get away before they say more. Fortunately, little Bartolomeo, abandoned and forgotten in the coach, calls me to lift him down. I hug him close and dance in a circle, then I take him to find Silvia, and the two of us entertain him until it’s time for me to begin cooking.
A few weeks later, Caterina says to me, “Camilla’s coming tomorrow. Could you take the day off from chores and help us again with Bartolomeo? You know, so it will be a special welcome.”
“I didn’t take the day off last time. Bartolomeo simply accompanied Silvia and me in our work.”
“I’ve got a treat in mind,” says Caterina. “You can’t work and do it at the same time.”
A treat for Bartolomeo? I’m tempted.
She comes closer. “Silvia’s invited.”
So the next day when Bartolomeo arrives we lead him into the kitchen and all four of us girls spend the day making the boy jellies shaped as little men and animals. We let him add colors to each jelly—from saffron, sweet almond milk, and herb juices. We even make reddish-gold ones from the juice of tomato, a new fruit Camilla has brought. But those are just for show; you can’t eat this kind of fruit.
And thus begins a ritual: every few weeks, Camilla returns with Bartolomeo. The toddler cannot get enough of Vi-Vi, as he calls Villa Vignamaggio, and of his doting aunts—Caterina and Silvia and me. Silvia, of course, is an honorary aunt. But I’m a real aunt; the wedding made me an aunt overnight. Dear Bartolomeo calls me Zi-Bi, for Zia Elisabetta. He rushes into my arms on arrival without fail. The warmth of it makes me happy.
Bartolomeo makes Old Sandra and her husband, Vincenzo, happy, too, both because he loves them (he loves everyone), and because when he visits, Caterina sings. She fancies herself quite a singer, in fact. She stands by an open window and belts out songs for whatever audience she can gather. Silvia has little patience for it, but I enjoy it actually, and Old Sandra and Vincenzo clap with enthusiasm, as does Camilla, the ever-insipid sister. The songs are well-known poems that Caterina sets to music. She reads Latin and Greek fluently, as well as our own Florentine tongue. She has the education only the wealthiest noble girls are offered, and even fewer decide to accept. Her books lie open on the library tables now.
And so the summer ends. The air turns cold. Christmas comes and goes. I make the slight concession of attending the festivities in Florence with Papà and Caterina. We stay in Camilla’s house, with Bartolomeo and her husband. It’s a very fine home, with an inventive cook who is surprised at my initial inquiries—noble ladies don’t generally come into his kitchen seeking help—but then flattered enough to share secrets with me. But in the end, I wish I hadn’t come, for, though I search tirelessly, I don’t see Giuliano anywhere, and no amount of wonderful recipes can fill that hole.
On a dark afternoon in January, Silvia and I sit in the silking building after the workers have finished for the day. Her hands lie folded in her lap, a quiet pose unusual for her. “Cristiano’s leaving.”
I jerk to attention. I’ve been making a list of winter projects— the outbuildings need repair—and I was planning on starting him on them soon. “For how long?”
“For good.” The shadows hide Silvia’s face; still, I hear the tears in her voice.
I shake my head. “But he’s so young.”
“He turned seventeen last month. He’s almost as old as Alberto.”
Seventeen. Why should that surprise me? I’m but a half year from my fifteen
th birthday. I put my hand over hers. “Where will he go?”
“He said he’ll wander till he finds a place to work as beautiful as here.”
“If he thinks Villa Vignamaggio is so beautiful, why leave?”
“What else could he do?”
I won’t ask what that means.
That night I lie in bed and wonder how we will manage without Cristiano. I’ve worked with him so closely for so long now. I rely on his intelligence and doggedness. He’s a good model to the other men and he’s a kind but firm leader to the younger boys. When he hugs me good-bye, should I try to dissuade him?
The next morning, I sit by the back door, pulling ice from the soft spot in the center of the underside of Uccio’s hooves. The dumb little goat made the mistake of following Paco into the fountain basin on the coldest day so far this winter. Spinone dogs love frigid water, but a goat isn’t made for it; the ice has cut into these fleshy spots and made him bleed. So Silvia took Paco away while I dragged Uccio home. Poor little limper. I’ll have to lock him inside for the rest of the day.
Cristiano appears with a satchel over his shoulder. He stops in front of me. “Good-bye, Monna Elisabetta,” he says. So formal.
I push Uccio off my lap and stand to hug him, but Cristiano has already turned away. “Good-bye, Cristiano,” I call. He walks down the path to the road. I watch till he’s out of sight. My arms hang empty.
Bark! Bark, bark, bark! It’s Paco, somewhere back behind the workers’ cottages. He must be tied up, not to come running. I’ve never heard that dog bark before. It’s as though he knows something is very wrong. Poor Paco. He’ll be heartbroken once he realizes his master is gone. How can Cristiano leave him like that? But a dog would be a hindrance for certain kinds of work, and Cristiano needs to keep his options open. Cristiano has learned to harden his heart against impossibilities. I hate knowing that. I hate it, because it’s what I’m struggling so hard to learn, as well. Paco barks all day.
That night snow falls deeper than I’ve ever seen. I watch from my window, hoping Cristiano has found shelter. Whatever he thinks of me now, if he does still think of me, is buried as deep as this snow. I’m both sad and relieved to see him go.
Silvia keeps Paco tied up for the next two days, till he stops barking. On the third morning, she lets him free. He disappears instantly. We stand together and call. We walk the fields and the woods, calling till we’re hoarse. We hold each other and cry.
Then I go inside and chop dried vegetables for soup. I chop smaller and smaller; I let the movement of the blade absorb me. Caterina and Papà exclaim it is the best they’ve ever tasted. That night I say a prayer—that Paco might find Cristiano, that Cristiano might find a beautiful place to work. I repeat it, night after night.
February comes with a wet cold that chills to the bone. I make Rocco keep a fire blazing in every fireplace night and day. I worry about Old Sandra’s husband getting congestion. But I don’t have to worry about little Bartolomeo, at least, because Camilla is so heavy with child now, she announced at her visit yesterday that it was her last. From now on, Caterina must go to Florence if she wants to see her sister.
That news saddens Silvia and me. We’ve had fun when Camilla has come with Bartolomeo. Somehow the very act of entertaining that sweet child leveled us. We were no longer a contrast of peasant on one side and city nobility on the other, with me uncomfortable in the middle; we became just four girls together, enjoying the moment. And, as time went on, Caterina cozied up to Silvia and me as much as she cozied up to Camilla. Now that’s over.
It’s late morning and Papà is in Florence. I pass Caterina’s open bedroom door. She sits naked on the edge of the bed, weeping quietly. Blood stains the sheet. Each moon’s bleeding must bring her such sadness. I have the urge to circle her inside my arms and stroke her hair. I take a step into the room and a floorboard squeaks.
Caterina pulls the bedclothes up to her chin and gives me a blank, dead look. Of course. She can’t imagine why I’m here. Comfort is the last thing she’d expect from me.
I turn and leave, closing the door. But I can no longer pretend I know nothing about my stepmother. She is vulnerable. And sincere. The sweetness I took at first as forced is, instead, completely natural to her; it never flags.
The next week Caterina comes to me with a travel bag. “Pack, please. Come with me to Florence to see Camilla and Bartolomeo.”
“I don’t go horseback.”
“I know that. Of course I know that. We can go in the coach.”
That many hours alone in a coach with Caterina? “I don’t feel that well.”
Caterina’s face falls. She had dared to be hopeful.
“But we can make jellies for you to bring to him,” I say. “If you have the time.”
Caterina postpones her travel for a day, while Silvia and Caterina and I make the jellies. And Caterina sugars almonds herself—the boy loves almond flavor. She does it expertly, not burning a single nut and making the sugar coating exactly the right thickness. Could it be that she isn’t the failure in the kitchen she has always claimed to be? I press my fingers to my lips as I watch her work.
Silvia and I stand together the next morning and wave at her departing coach. “I wonder why she doesn’t go to Florence more often,” I say. “You’d think the country would bore her.”
“Maybe she feels about the country like I do about the city,” says Silvia.
“How do you feel about the city?”
“Anything can happen there. You know, the grass is always greener and all that.”
Anything can happen. I feel a cold spot of fear for Caterina. She wants something to happen out here at Villa Vignamaggio. I think of the bloody sheet.
Caterina comes home four days later and walks into the kitchen without a word. She sets a card on the counter beside where I’m working. It’s an invitation to a wedding in April. My hands are too dirty to open it and see who’s getting married. It could be anyone. All the girls my age have been betrothed for a while now. I look at Caterina.
“I can help you design a dress if you want.” Her eyes study mine. “You’d look lovely in blue.” Her voice is tentative, ready to retreat. Her mouth is worried.
The no that normally surfaces so quickly sticks in my throat. I am without response.
“Elisabetta,” she half whispers, “no one can replace your mother. I would never try to do that. But I can be something to you . . . something more than what I’ve been so far . . . if only you’ll let me. There’s a whole wonderful life ahead of you. Please.” Her voice quavers. “Let me help you find it. Stop hiding here. Let’s begin with this party.”
Hiding? My initial reaction is to rise up in denial, but I can’t. Caterina has spoken too frankly. She knows my need. And I can hear hers in her voice. My strange behavior hurts her. How very odd, and yet how natural, given that it’s her. And I might as well face this particular pain. Everyone’s getting married now; I’ll look mean-spirited if I don’t join the celebrations. “Blue’s all right,” I murmur.
She smiles so wide, I’m embarrassed. “It will be truly magnificent. A Medici wedding always is.”
“Medici?” I say with a croak. Could Giuliano be lost to another?
“Contessina di Lorenzo de’ Medici is marrying Piero Ridolfi,” Caterina announces as though she takes pride herself in this event. “The most noble young woman of Florence marrying the richest banker—everyone will be there.”
And I am breathing once more. Of course it’s Contessina’s wedding. A younger brother doesn’t marry before his sister.
Three weeks later, I stand at the mirror in my bedroom, inspecting how the bodice of this dress fits. Silvia lies prone on the floor, inspecting how the skirts fall.
“Valeria’s mother did a fine job,” I say. “Don’t you think so?”
“The bottom’s even enough.” Silvia gets to her feet and smiles slyly. “I ain’t never seen such a low cut on the top, though.”
“It wasn’t my idea
.”
“Sure.”
“It wasn’t. Caterina insisted. That’s how they do it in Florence these days. She wants me to fit in.”
Silvia nods and looks away. But her lips twitch.
“What?”
“I didn’t say nothing.”
“But you want to. So do it. Just spit it out.”
“You’re going to fit in—like Caterina says. You’ll be part of Florence now.” She nods. “I knew it was going to happen sooner or later. I’ll miss you. But it’s good. Good for you.”
“Don’t act daft. I’m just going to a wedding. I’m not moving to the city.”
“We’ll see. Nobility is nobility. Anyways, you look like the sky. Soft and gentle.”
“You mean that?”
“He’ll think the same thing.”
My breath catches. After all this long time, I haven’t learned Cristiano’s lesson; my heart is still tender with hope.
CHAPTER Twelve
THE NEXT WEEK I stand in the entrance hall to the Ridolfi house, holding my breath and not feeling at all like the sky. In contrast, I feel tiny and insignificant. For the first time I’m actually grateful that Papà and Caterina’s wedding was so extravagant. It prepared me for this; otherwise I might be standing here agog at the flowers and lanterns and sugar sculptures, like a country mouse in a city pantry.
We’ve already eaten; tables were set up in the streets, so the whole city could feast. But, though I have become insane for new recipes, I hardly tasted what I put in my mouth. My attention was fixed on finding Giuliano, while not letting anyone else realize I was looking for him. We’re now inside the Ridolfi home. Only the top nobility are invited inside for the dance. So, while the room is crowded, it’s filled with tens, not the thousands outside. My eyes search the room.
A girl rushes up. “Elisabetta! You really came! Finally. Well, of course, who could miss this?”
I look over my shoulder in panic at Caterina, who obligingly steps forward to my rescue. “Your dress is wonderful, Barbara.” Ah, so that’s the girl’s name. “May I join you young girls just for a little while?” Caterina smiles warmly.
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