Jacopo bristled. Papa looked annoyed, though I could not discern with whom he was more perturbed.
Suddenly Romeo stood in his place. “May I say a few words?”
All but Jacopo nodded their approval.
“The Monticecco are delighted by this visit from the Capelletti.” He smiled and acknowledged Papa, Mama, and me. “As a gesture of the new friendship between our two houses, I wish, on behalf of our family, to extend the olive branch of peace to yours.” He stepped away from the table and moved to a sheet-draped mound. He pulled the cloth away with a flourish to reveal three gray-leafed saplings, their fat root-balls wrapped in jute. “Or should I say the whole tree!”
Beaming, my mother clapped her hands and embraced her new friend Sophia. Even my stern father was moved by the gesture.
“There is one for each of you,” Romeo continued, the implication that Jacopo Strozzi was not a member of our family unspoken, but less than subtle. I hardly dared meet Jacopo’s eyes. Instead I stood up and went to Romeo’s side. I caressed the slender trunk of one of the trees and smiled at our gathered families.
“On behalf of the Capelletti, I accept your beautiful offering. But we are not tree keepers, so perhaps you might come to our garden and help us plant them. Explain their care.”
“It would be my pleasure,” he said, and bowed to my father.
My heart leapt as Papa smiled at him.
“There is one thing more,” Roberto said, speaking directly to Papa. “I understand that you are having difficulty arranging for transport of your goods ever since . . . the sinking of your cargo.”
“That is true,” my father said. “Everyone’s ships are engaged for the time being.”
I noticed Jacopo sitting up straighter in his chair and his jaw beginning to clench.
“I would like to offer you the use of one of the vessels with which I contract to transport my wine to England . . . until you can make other arrangements.”
Papa was more than a little surprised, even shocked. “That is a very generous offer, Roberto.”
Romeo’s father leaned forward and held Papa’s eyes. “Let us be frank, Capello. Under the circumstances, it is the least I can do.”
Everyone was silent, respecting the honesty and naked humility of the sentiment.
Everyone but Jacopo, who bristled with such frustration that I was forced to bite my lip to keep from smiling. I didn’t dare look at Romeo.
At that moment a parade of servants arrived, carrying a display of festive main dishes, which, by their magnificence, capped the sober moment with laughter. A whole roasted pheasant arrayed with some of its prettiest feathers was followed by a crackle-skinned piglet, its jaw clamped around an apple, and a huge dressed mullet that appeared to be leaping out of a sea of greens.
Roberto held his goblet high and Papa did the same.
“Salute!”
they cried in unison.
“To friendship,” Mona Sophia said, holding her glass aloft.
Romeo helped me into my seat, his shoulder grazing mine. “To love,” he whispered soft, so only I could hear.
To love,
I thought, and, though no words were spoken, knew that my Romeo had heard.
The talk was lively. Wine flowed. Marco kept us laughing with his antics and terrible puns. Leaves rustled overhead as the last yellow light of day turned to mauve, deep purple, then black. Servants lit candles and torches, and in the evening chill the men brought wraps for their women. My father had gone to the carriage to fetch one for Mama. Romeo returned from the villa with two shawls of fine gray wool. As I watched him place one around his mother’s shoulders, I felt Roberto lay another over mine. I smiled up at him, thinking,
Here is my father-in-law in his first act of kindness to me.
I chanced to see Jacopo across the table, frowning.
“You have a sour look about you, signor,” I said very quietly, so no one else could hear. “I hope you are not ill.”
He fumed, refusing to answer, so I shrugged my shoulders and welcomed Romeo back to his chair.
Another round of wine was drunk as we nibbled at cheese and olives.
“Well,” Papa said after a time, “it pains me to say so, but we must start back to town sooner than later.”
There were cries of objection all around.
“Next time, the Monticecco will come to the Capelletti’s house,” Mama announced, and everyone loudly chimed their approval.
Slowly and reluctantly we began to gather our things. Jacopo had said his good-byes with the barest acceptable show of politeness, and stomped away toward the pasture. But as the two families walked slowly toward our carriage, upon which the three olive saplings had been tied, a figure came raging out of the dark at us.
“My horse has thrown a shoe,” Jacopo huffed.
“Oh my dear,” Mama said, sincerely concerned.
“Our stable hands are gone on the Sabbath,” Roberto said. “I’m afraid I’m not adept at shoeing.”
“I am,” Marco offered. “It won’t take long.”
As he and Jacopo headed for the stable, our fathers fell into conversation and our mothers hurried into the villa, happy for the respite and a few more moments of each other’s company.
Romeo grasped my hand and walked me quickly into the shadows at the side of the house.
“Was that your doing?” I whispered in the dark.“The thrown shoe?”
“His horse complied nicely,” he said.
“And Marco?”
“Our new friend . . .”
Abruptly Romeo turned and pulled me to him.
I gasped, but my arms flew around him. Then his mouth was on mine, his lips and tongue still sweet with wine and warm, gentle but probing. I do not know how I knew to kiss, but my natural hunger drove me till I was lost, drowning. I felt a hand on the smooth skin of my breast. I took that hand and pushed it deep within my bodice, crying out when his fingers found the nipple. His other hand covered my mouth. I bit his palm hard and with a cry of delight he buried his face in my neck, covering it with kisses. Pressed tight as we were, I felt his urgent hardness and ground my hips to his. Now a hand on the flesh of my thigh.
“No!” I whispered.
“No?” he whispered back.
“Yes,” I sighed, and his throaty laugh mingled with mine as his fingers found my sweetest spot, now wet and soft and yielding.
Voices and footsteps!
Jacopo’s. Marco’s. They were leading a horse.
We pulled apart, aggrieved at our separation. I pushed down my skirt. Romeo surveyed the moonlit yard beyond the shadows.
“Are you composed?” he asked breathlessly.
“Hardly,” I said.
“And I am hard.”
I laughed. “What a pair.”
“We must make haste or they will suspect. Come, straighten yourself. Out into the moonlight walking side by side. Talking loudly. Arguing.”
We did as he said, stepping away from the shadow of the house.
“But that is not his meaning,” I said with feigned impatience. “When he says,
‘Truly, she grieves so that whoever were to see her would die of pity,’
he does not speak of Beatrice. It is the
other
gracious lady of whom he writes.”
We had come into the sight of our parents, Marco, and Jacopo, who now stood at the carriage.
Romeo smiled broadly at my father. “Your daughter’s scholarship exceeds mine, signor,” he said with mock disdain.
Papa smiled indulgently.
“Too much education ruins a woman,” Jacopo insisted, altogether serious, causing everyone to stare at him.
Mama looked alarmed, then said in a kindly voice to Jacopo, “Ruined? Not your Juliet.”
This seemed to calm him, that I was still his in my mother’s eyes.
“Of course not,” he assured her.
Jacopo took up my hand and kissed it. I was forced to smile despite my loathing. He took to his horse and sat waiting for our departure, already impatient.
I was last into the carriage, Romeo helping me in.
My private scent,
I thought,
is on the hand that steadies me now.
“Good night, Romeo,” I said, hoping he heard my love in those simple words.
The passion of his gaze told me he did.
But I was not the only one who had observed that gaze.
Jacopo was staring at us with a look I can describe only as wonder, as though he had grasped an impossibility—that the daughter of a silk merchant and a young man of no standing whatsoever in Florentine society might defy all convention, ignore his pronouncements and vile threats, and dare to love each other.
This made him, I thought with a shudder, a very dangerous man.
Chapter Thirteen
I
f ound myself after that extraordinary Sunday in a state of Limbo, a strange purgatory of obsession and desire for Romeo that churned my senses and left me weak, and of loathing for Jacopo that, strangely, made me strong. But that which gnawed at me most relentlessly was the question I had asked Romeo. The one he had never answered.
Would it satisfy you to merely become my courtly lover?
For all the fine words and passionate intimacies we had shared, I realized with alarm, we had never once spoken of marriage. When Jacopo threatened him with death or castration if he laid more than a chaste lover’s hand on me, or a head gently on my knee, Romeo had remained silent. I had wished at the time for him to lash out at the insulting supposition that he and I would be content with that common arrangement. So many of the great ladies of Florence boasted courtly lovers, young men, unashamed of the passion they bore for their beloved—the unattainable personification of womanhood—who publicly and sometimes mawkishly proclaimed that love with verse and song under their ladies’ loggias.
Would Romeo be thus content? Why had he never answered my question?
Of course I had provided my own explanations for this compulsive worrying. I believed with all my heart that Romeo loved me, desired me, but that he had thought it unwise to reveal our plans to Jacopo, better to allow him to think our intentions were in no way serious. Romeo’s answer to my question had been interrupted by Marco climbing down from the olive tree. And of course Romeo would never had striven so passionately to make peace between our families had he not been intent on marrying me himself.
But truly these arguments did little to satisfy me. I realized that my dream of a marriage for love with Romeo had, to this moment, been nothing but an assumption on my part, and never his promise. His sincere adoration of me could be preserved intact with me as Jacopo Strozzi’s wife, and Romeo as my courtly lover. And the truth was that Romeo had desired peace between the Capelletti and Monticecco before he and I had met.
These unsettling ruminations were made infinitely more unbearable by a long silence between us. For three weeks as summer bled into fall, he had made no attempt to see me, either publicly or in the privacy of my garden balcony. Neither did letters arrive with assurances that he was, even now, carving the path to our future.
And for the first time ever, I found myself at a loss for words. The inked quill in my hand was stilled, stymied by the chaos of my thoughts, paralyzed by this crisis of confidence in my lover.
Mama had asked me please to stop at the factory on the way to confession with Lucrezia and the other girls of my
brigata
, and bring a stew to Papa. I agreed, calling for the litter a bit earlier than planned. I had always enjoyed spending time with my father at the silk works.The men were friendly as I nosed around the weaving and dyeing rooms, and Papa delighted in showing me the newest pieces and letting me choose my favorites to take home for my gowns.
But this day I was in a foul mood, having lain awake half the night, my worries like gnomes crouched around my bed whispering their bedevilments till I thought I would scream.
I went to kiss Mama good-bye, but she was distracted by the problems of the kitchen maid, Viola, just that morning found to be pregnant. My mother handed me the covered iron pot wrapped in a small rug, cautioning me not to burn myself, as though I were a six-year-old, then turned back to the weeping girl, who was terrified at the prospect of losing her place in our household. I knew Mama had too soft a heart for that, though she would surely make the girl suffer some agonies of worry—as the price of her profligacy.
The first nip of autumn chafed my cheeks as I climbed into the litter, glad I had the pot upon which to warm my hands.
At the factory I alighted and the bearer handed me the pot in the rug, now barely warm, but smelling richly of beef and rosemary and beans. Below the old sign proclaiming CAPELLETTI SILKS I saw a trio of Maestro Donatello’s artisans sketching out a new one that would surely include Jacopo Strozzi’s name.
The arched stone doorway, grand enough for a palace, belied the rough industry of weaving and dyeing behind it. The cavern of a room into which I stepped deafened with its clacking looms and toothed warping machines manned by hard-backed weavers, who all stopped to nod at me and smile. The reek of woad and saffron and weld wafted in from the dyeing chambers beyond, where every man—clean as his person might be—wore a pair of dark-stained hands at the ends of his wrists. In cubicles were throwers, twisters, and winders of the silkworms’ thread. Here were clean hands and delicate fingers at work. And out of my sight completely was the warehouse that stored the bulk of Papa’s goods.
I headed with his midday meal through my favorite room of all. It was quiet and unmanned, and bolts of finished silks stood upright like soldiers in strict array by color, pattern, and weave. Vermilion, indigo, yellow, green. Figured silks, repeating patterns of rondelles, birds, and trees. Floral designs of pomegranates and artichokes, rich brocades, and velvets with silver-gilt welts.
And on the table upon which the fabric would be spread for viewing lay a pair of scissors nearly two feet long, from tip to handles. I had always, as a little girl, found the shears fascinating. They were far too heavy for me to hold, and I loved to watch my father wield them with easy grace. But now I just wished to be done with my errand and be off to the meeting with my friends, the only true comfort of my life.