Immortal Muse (19 page)

“It's beautiful, is it not?” The voice spoke
Romano
, but with a decided French accent. Costanza turned, rising from her chair, to see a man standing at the entrance to the portico: dark-haired, clean-shaven, perhaps in his early twenties, and dressed in expensive clothing, a ruff of gleaming, intricate lace draped over a black jacket with wide, slashed sleeves, embroidered with gold and silver thread; through the slashes, Costanza could see bright red satin.

His gaze traveled down her body and back to her face. His face cocked slightly to the right as he studied her.

“I'm sorry,” the man said. “I didn't mean to startle you, Signora. I am Abramo Maroncelli, the cardinal's nephew, and you—well, I must say that Cavaliere Bernini's work, despite his mastery, pales in comparison to the flesh.” He smiled and bowed low as Costanza flushed and smiled. “It's obvious that God himself is still the master sculptor, and all of our artists' attempts to reproduce such beauty are futile.”

“Signor Maroncelli, your uncle would undoubtedly think you blasphemous, nor would I think he'd approve of such obvious flattery.”

“Ah,” Maroncelli answered, “but it was he who told me that I would find a flower fairer than any in his garden in this very spot.”

“His Eminence may be forgiven for his aged eyes, and for being overly polite in front of my husband and Cavaliere Bernini. You should be more careful, Signor; isn't your uncle also the Cardinal-Protector, in charge of the Inquisition?”

Maroncelli's smile broadened, and he bowed again. “He is, and I agree that I wouldn't care to be put to his tests. My uncle is utterly relentless in his pursuit of purity and truth.” For a moment, Maroncelli's face took on an expression that seemed almost familiar to Costanza, his gaze unfocused and internal, as if he were contemplating something that pleased him. “Relentless,” he repeated, then seemed to shake himself from reverie. “But that's hardly a subject for a lady such as yourself.”

“Indeed,” Costanza agreed. She wondered if she had somehow met Maroncelli before, though she thought she would have remembered such a meeting. He was staring at her as intently as she watched him. A suspicion came to her suddenly, paired with a feeling of dread in her stomach.
No. That can't be . . .
“Your accent, Signor,” she said to him hesitantly. “Are you from France?”

“I am,” he answered. “From Cagnes-sur-Mer, near Nice. My mother was French, my father was from Genoa. I was educated in Paris for a time; I'm afraid that still colors my speech.” The ease with which he gave her the tale eased her suspicions somewhat. “Your own Romano is very good,” Maroncelli continued, “but do I detect the barest hint of an accent? Perhaps also French?”

“You've an excellent ear then, Signor,” she told him. “Most people don't notice. You're right; I have spent a little time in France myself and can speak the language, so perhaps I've a bit of that in my speech.”

“You've a Parisian lilt, I should think,” Maroncelli added, and Costanza struggled to maintain the smile.

“I was in Paris, yes,” she told him. “Very impressive, Signor. I applaud you.”

“I'd guess that we're close to the same age. Why, it's likely we were in the city at the same time. We should have known each other then.”

“Indeed, Signor. But fate obviously had different plans for us.”

“Ah, but I don't believe in fate,” Maroncelli answered. “I believe that we create our own fates—even though it sometimes takes us far longer than we'd like to accomplish our goals. But if one persists, and if one lives long enough . . .” He lifted his hands and let them drop again. Again, the gesture seemed oddly familiar to her. “And if one could live forever, why, just think of what you could accomplish,” he said as she stared at him. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Signora. I won't take any more of your time. I can see why Cavaliere Bernini chose to immortalize your face. I'm certain that with your beauty and charm, Cavaliere Bernini's work isn't the only time your likeness has been crafted in stone.”

He smiled then, and his gaze drifted down to her décolletage. Costanza had to force herself not to reach for the cameo hidden under the cloth there. She felt a sudden coldness.

“Signora,” Maroncelli said, bowing again to her. “Enjoy your day. Perhaps I'll yet convince Cavaliere Bernini to allow me to possess you.” He let that statement linger for a breath. The corners of his mouth twitched. “In your marble form, of course,” he added finally.

With that, he bowed quickly and left her. She realized that she'd been holding her breath, and let the air rush from her in a gasp. She pressed her fingers against the sardonyx pendant under its blanketing of linen and satin.

Those eyes . . . It could be Nicolas, but I don't know . . .

She stared out at the garden, but she found no solace in its manicured beauty.

W
HEN NOTHING HAPPENED FOR a few months, as winter gave way to a new year and advanced toward the awakening of spring, Costanza nearly forgot her meeting with Abramo Maroncelli. The worry and the burning in her stomach slowly ebbed away, and she went days without thinking of him and wondering.

“Stanz,” Matteo said. “I'm glad you've come home.” She'd come back that afternoon from a liaison with Bernini to find him already sitting at the table in their small kitchen. He looked tired, the skin under his eyes dark, his black hair matted and beginning to thin, his chin stubbled with gray now. Even the glow of his soul-heart—never anywhere near as fiery as Gia's—was paler than usual. For the first time, she saw his age—
I can't stay with him for many more years, not without pretending to become old myself—and that would be another, bigger lie between us.
She straightened her cloak and tucked her hair back under her cap. She wondered if he could smell Gia on her, though she knew he'd say nothing.

“Did Cavaliere Bernini release the assistants early?” she asked, though she knew he hadn't, for he'd been with her. The pretense mattered; it allowed them both to pretend that neither of them knew of her affair with Bernini. If such things were spoken aloud, if the affair were acknowledged, then Matteo would have to act, for his honor's sake. Neither of them wanted that.

“No,” he answered. “I asked to be released early today.”

“You're not feeling well?” She felt a sudden rush of concern, and went to him, touching his forehead. He leaned back in his chair, shaking his head and tapping a packet on the table that she hadn't noticed that morning when she'd left.

“I'm fine,” he told her. His voice was tired also. “But I've received a letter, one that concerns you.”

“A letter? From whom?” She felt the tightening in her stomach again. She was afraid that she knew.

“From my sister in Arezzo,” he told her, and her fear receded for a moment. He unfolded the letter, his forefinger prowling the letters. “She tells me that a priest came from Rome to talk to her two weeks ago—he came under the sigil of Cardinal-Protector Barberini, wanting to know about
you
, Stanz: when and how I met you, who your family was, where they were from.”

The burning in her gut returned. “What did she tell them?”

“She was frightened—as no doubt the priest intended. She told them what she knew; that your family name was Nesci, that your parents were from Florence. The priest told her that he would go on to Florence, and he would talk to your family there. He is probably there now.” Matteo lifted his head from the letter. “Why is the Cardinal-Protector asking about you and your family, Stanz? I don't understand.”

“I don't know,” Costanza said, but she knew. She knew.

“Well, I'm sure your family will answer whatever questions the Cardinal-Protector might have. Your mother's still alive, isn't she?”

She nodded, mutely. She wondered whether the Cardinal-Protector—or more likely, Abramo Maroncelli—already knew that there was no Nesci family in Florence, or if there was, they wouldn't know of her. And as for Maroncelli, she was just as certain that if she investigated his background, she'd find that he was no more a nephew of the Cardinal-Protector than she was his niece.

She'd find that his identity was as false as her own. But what would Maroncelli do with that information?—that was the question she needed to answer.

“I thought you'd want to know,” Matteo told her. His sympathy, his empathy, his obvious concern tugged at her, making her feel guilty.
Here's true love
, she thought.
It's sitting right here in front of me. But it's not enough. I need more than mere love.
She felt tears welling in her eyes, and she willed herself not to show them. “If there's something wrong,” he continued, “if you can tell me, maybe I can help, or we could talk with Cavaliere Bernini together and ask him to use his influence . . .”

She was shaking her head before he finished. “It's Signor Maroncelli,” she told him, “the man who wanted to purchase the bust Cavaliere Bernini made of me. Perhaps he thought that he could get my family to intercede on his behalf. I'm sure it's nothing more than that.”

Matteo glanced at the letter again. He folded it, pressing the creases with his thumb. She went to him, bending over him to kiss the bald spot on the back of his head. “You're so very sweet to have been concerned,” she said to him. She took his hand, pulling him up from the chair. “Come with me. You're home early; why don't you let me reward you for your concern, eh?” She kissed him; he didn't respond at first, but she kissed him again, harder and more urgently, and finally she felt his lips relax under hers.

She led him to their small bedroom, hoping he could not glimpse the worry and guilt beneath the false smile she gave him.

 * * * 

S
he'd seen Signor Maroncelli slip into Gia's office clad in a sumptuous, expensive, fur-trimmed robe. The sight had frightened her.

Over the last few weeks, not long after Matteo had received the letter from his sister, Gia had become increasingly withdrawn from Costanza. Gia always worked harder than any of his assistants. He would labor with mallet and chisel from dawn to evening, his arms still strong when his assistants, Matteo among them, had stopped with arms aching and trembling from the constant impact of steel on marble. But recently, he no longer made time during the heat of the afternoon or at dusk to come to her, and when she went to the studio with Matteo's lunch, he would avoid her. The few times he had come to her since, during the day in her own rooms, he'd been rough and quick, almost angry in his lovemaking, and the lapis hue that had invaded his green heart had gone pale, receding like a moon tide.

“What is wrong, Gia?” she asked him the last time as he was dressing, rushing as if in a hurry to be away from her.

“Nothing.” The word was a snarl, nearly spat out.

As she so often did, in distress she found herself reaching for the pendant around her neck, under the nightdress bunched over her waist. “Gia, you can't say ‘nothing' when I see the pain in your eyes and when you won't even look at me after we've been together. Have I done something to offend you?”

“If you don't know, then I certainly can't tell you,” he answered gruffly.

“What do you mean?”

But he gave her no clear answer. He left her, weeping, in Matteo's bed.

That was the difficulty with love, she knew now. With love, there was the possibility of pain and grief. When there was only affection, as she had for Matteo, she could not be hurt. Not this way. Not this deeply.

She would remember that.

She'd gone to the studio today hoping to talk with him, but the door to his room shut behind Maroncelli, and if Gia had seen her there, standing amidst the bustle and dust of the studio, he'd given no sign—and with Maroncelli inside, she didn't want to knock.

“Perhaps I can make it better with Gia, Signora,” a soft voice said from behind her: Gia's younger brother Luigi. He had no green heart at all. Costanza had come to detest the man over the years; his voice was smooth as oil, and his hands seemed to constantly find her arms, shoulders, and sides. More than once, he'd given her conspiratorial winks as she and Gia engaged in conversation, or he'd find excuses to stand behind Gia when he was sketching her, her chemise unbuttoned, and she'd feel him staring at her. The models that Gia employed were all hired through Luigi, and Costanza knew from Matteo that those who modeled for Gia himself were those willing to grant Luigi extra favors for the privilege. A few months before, she'd even spoken to Gia about Luigi's unwanted attentions, but he had only laughed at the time.

“Better?” she asked Luigi now, almost angrily. “What do you know, Luigi?”

His lips twitched with an imitation of a smile. He smelled of garlic and onions from his lunch. “My brother, he's a jealous man, Signora. He doesn't like to share.”