Passion Blue (15 page)

Giulia had dreaded confession—she could not possibly reveal the sorcerer and the talisman, the sin she had no intention of renouncing. When her turn came to kneel before the grille set into the wall that divided the nuns’ chapel from the public part of the church, she whispered to the priest on the other side everything except that. He made no comment as she confessed her anger at the Countess, her reluctance to become a nun, her loathing of Alessia; she had the sense, even through the heavy lattice of the grille, that he was not really listening. When she was done, he mumbled a penance and an absolution, the words running together so she could hardly understand them, and sent her on her way.

She knelt before the chapel’s crucifix with the other penitents, her hands clasped together, but did not pray. She salved her conscience by promising herself that she would say the penance later, when she had gained her heart’s desire and no longer wore the talisman around her neck. She would make a full confession then too. Until that time, she had no choice but to live with the burden of her sin—even if it were an additional sin to do so.

Afterward, in the beautifully decorated refectory, there was a magnificent meal—especially appropriate for this feast day, since Santa Marta was the patron saint of cooks. When the eating was done, the tables and benches were pushed back and a group of nuns presented a play about Santa Marta’s life, written by one of the sisters. It was reverent but also very funny, with nuns in costumes (some of which Giulia recognized
from the workshop) impersonating men as well as women. Sitting at the back of the room with the novices, Giulia was able to escape her dark mood for a while, and laugh along with the others.

The next day, work began in earnest on the San Giustina commission. Giulia and Angela had finished gessoing and burnishing the three huge panels the previous week; now, with Humilità, Perpetua, Lucida, and Domenica, they wrestled the panels onto the wooden support structures that Domenica, who was as handy with hammer and nails as any man, had built to hold them, facing the light of the workshop’s open wall. It was a nerve-racking job, for the panels were very heavy, made of joined planks that might split if dropped. The painters got them into place without mishap, finishing just as the bell rang for Sext.

Returning from the midday meal, Giulia found Angela already at work on the long list of colors Humilità and the other painters would need in the coming days—except of course for Passion blue, which Humilità, as always, prepared in secret. Perpetua and Lucida sat together at the drafting table. Lucida was in the midst of a story.

“. . . and Nicolosia’s father shut her up in her room as punishment for her defiance. And the next morning, what do you think? Nicolosia was gone! Her family was terrified she’d been abducted by some villain, but when they questioned her maid—oh, Perpetua—” Lucida broke off, pushing a little basket toward the older nun. “Do take another almond ball.”

“Lucida, you are such a tease!” Perpetua exclaimed.
“I don’t want an almond ball—I want the rest of the story!”

Lucida laughed. “Giulia, have some almond balls! They’re from Signorelli—the best in Padua.”

Giulia finished tying on her apron, then went to take a handful of the little sweets, which she brought over to the preparation table to share with Angela. The candies were wonderful, filling her mouth with the richness of sugar and the crunch of almonds. Lucida’s sisters always brought a delicacy of some sort on their weekly visits to Santa Marta. They also brought gossip, and Lucida carried both back with her to the workshop, entertaining her fellow artists with tales of the Paduan nobility. Giulia marveled, sometimes, that she’d ever thought that nuns knew nothing of the world beyond their walls. Santa Marta’s brick and mortar might close off physical passage, but to news and information, they were as permeable as water.

“At first the maid pretended she knew nothing,” Lucida went on with her story. “But in the end she confessed—Nicolosia had eloped! With Deodato Mantegna! He came in the middle of the night and put a ladder to her window.”

“No!” Perpetua leaned back in astonishment.

“By the time they were found, they were already married. Now Deodato’s family is insisting that Nicolosia’s family pay a dowry, and Nicolosia’s family is seeking to have the marriage annulled.”

“If she’s clever, she’ll get herself with child,” said Benedicta from her lectern. “Then no one will be able to pretend the marriage wasn’t consummated.”

“Benedicta!” said Perpetua, scandalized. Beside Giulia, Angela giggled.

“That’s exactly what they’re hoping won’t happen, obviously,” Lucida said. “But there’s another problem. Nicolosia had been affianced to Erasmo da Carrara since she was ten years old. Now her family owes the Carraras a bride. But their only other daughter is Nicolosia’s sister Catarina, who is a nun at Santa Anna.”

“Oh, what a dilemma!” Perpetua clasped her hands. “What will they do?”

“My sister Maria says they will remove Catarina from the convent and give her to Erasmo.”

“Remove her?” Perpetua was horrified. “They can’t do that! She is the bride of Our Lord Jesus Christ!”

“It wouldn’t be the first time. Forty or fifty years ago, at…oh, Maria told me the convent’s name but I’ve forgotten…at any rate, there were two daughters, the older was affianced and the younger took vows. The older sister died before the wedding, and they removed the younger so she could take her sister’s place. It required special intervention by the Church, but it was a noble family, and so it was done.” Lucida shook her head. “The sister begged to be allowed to resume her vows. When her family refused, she threw herself from her bedroom window. She didn’t die, but it cost her the use of her limbs. Of course she couldn’t be married in such a state, so her family sent her back to the convent, where she lived out her life in the infirmary. In the end she got her wish. And her family got nothing, except for grief and scandal.”

“Oh, that poor girl!” Angela said. “To be crippled so!”

“I know a scandal,” said Benedicta from her lectern.

“You, Benedicta?”

“Who better, Lucida, since it happened fifty years ago, right here at Santa Marta. A nun who was taken from the convent—by her own will, though, not another’s.”

Giulia, who had finished her almond balls and was at the shelves gathering supplies, felt a chill ripple down her back. Normally she only half-listened to these gossip sessions; the names of the people and places meant nothing to her. But now, all at once, she was fully alert.

“Here?” said Perpetua. “Surely not.”

“My teeth may be gone,” said Benedicta tartly, “but I’ve still got my memory. It happened not long after I took my vows. There was a young nun named Plautilla, whose brother loved her dearly and came frequently to visit. Often he brought his friend Alessandro. Somehow, Alessandro and Plautilla fell in love. They took to meeting secretly in the orchard. There was a broken spot in the convent’s western wall, at the very back where it ran beside the canal. Alessandro climbed into the orchard that way, and they met under the trees.”

Giulia turned. A breach in those impregnable walls?

“He must have loved her greatly, to take such a risk,” Lucida said.

“He loved her thoroughly, at any rate.” Benedicta cackled, rocking a little on her stool. “Oh, what a scandal, when Plautilla was found to be with child! The abbess didn’t want it known, for fear the Cardinal would hear of it and curtail our privileges. So she kept it secret, meaning to smuggle the baby out to be adopted when it finally came. But then…” Benedicta leaned forward. “On a night when the moon was full, Plautilla disappeared. Poof!” She threw up her hands. “Just like that. As for Alessandro…that very same night, he vanished from the city.”

“He came for her!” Giulia hadn’t meant to say anything. “He came over the wall!”

“That’s what I’ve always believed, my dear.”

“What happened?” Angela asked. “Was she ever found?”

“They were never heard from again.” Benedicta smiled her sweet, toothless smile. “Quite a love story, eh?”

“Love story!” Perpetua was indignant. “A disgrace, you mean! No, I don’t believe it. How could we not know about such a thing, if it really happened?”

“Because,” Benedicta said, “the abbess decided it should be forgotten. She had the break in the wall bricked up, good as new, and she ordered us never to speak of it. But you can’t forget a thing like that, can you?” She sighed, her wizened old face suddenly sad. “We’re almost all gone, those of us who were nuns then. Strange to think of it now.”

“Those bricks have fallen in again,” Lucida said thoughtfully. “I walk sometimes in the orchard, and
there’s a gap in the wall, at the very back along the canal, just as you said. I told my aunt about it. She said she knew, but there were repairs that were more pressing.”

“That’s the problem with suppressing stories.” Benedicta cackled again, her momentary sadness gone. “Sometimes they hold lessons we should remember.”

“What lessons?” demanded a new voice. It was Humilità, entering in her usual vigorous manner, with Domenica beside her. Behind them walked one of the local servant women who came in daily to help in the kitchens.

“We were just gossiping,” Lucida said. “It’s my fault, Maestra. My sisters brought me sweets and I was sharing them, and we fell to talking.”

“Well, no harm done. Serena”—Humilità addressed the servant—“you may prepare over by the benches. The rest of you, to work! You too, my butterfly, but not before you give me a few of those—what are they? Ginger comfits?”

“Almond balls. From Signorelli.” Lucida held out the basket. “Domenica, won’t you have some? A little sugar might do you good.”

Domenica swept past as if she hadn’t heard. Humilità, digging into the basket, shook her head.

“Lucida, Lucida.” She turned. “Come, girls. Time for our lesson.”

Humilità was a demanding teacher, intolerant of anything less than what she judged to be her pupils’ best. She expected Giulia and Angela not just to draw, but
to
think
about what they drew—evaluating every line, considering every choice—and to be able to explain, after finishing a picture, exactly why they had drawn it as they did. She gave praise where she judged it due, but never softened her criticism to spare the girls’ feelings.

Giulia had always drawn instinctively, choosing whatever subjects took her interest, the images flowing from eye to hand as water flowed downhill—a swift, almost alchemical transformation that she had never tried, or wanted, to put into words. She found it hard to draw when the subject was selected for her. It was hard also to be forced to explain the process, to have her mistakes and successes picked apart like a piece of embroidery, until, as it seemed to her, there was nothing left. She was a better artist than Angela (she knew this without vanity), yet she was more often the focus of Humilità’s criticism, and less often the subject of her approval. It was impossible, sometimes, not to feel aggrieved.

Yet Humilità was a master. Giulia was always aware of it, and never more so than in the lessons, when Humilità’s passion poured from her like heat or light. She couldn’t deny that, over the past weeks, her own technique had improved. She craved Humilità’s praise, even as she resented the workshop mistress for how stingy she was with it.

Today was to be a life class, quill and ink on rose-colored paper. The model, Serena, pulled off her gown and shoes and shook out her long red hair. Humilità arranged her on a stool, the hem of her chemise
drawn up and one sleeve pulled down, exposing her plump bare legs and one smooth naked shoulder. Strictly speaking, such posing was forbidden; it was sinful for a woman to look upon uncovered flesh, even another woman’s. “But how can you draw people in their clothes, if you don’t know what they look like out of them?” Humilità, explaining this to Giulia, had demanded. “So we do it anyway.”

Serena was a lovely subject, but Giulia couldn’t concentrate. Benedicta’s story, the nun and her lover who had met in the orchard and escaped through the gap in the wall, would not leave her mind. She was uncomfortably aware of the silent, judging presence of Humilità, pacing slowly at her pupils’ backs, pausing every now and then to peer over their shoulders. When, about halfway through her drawing, she carelessly filled her quill too full and made a blot on the paper, she braced herself for a reprimand. But all Humilità said was, “Start over.”

When the lesson was done, Humilità motioned for Giulia to stay. “Your mind was somewhere else today.”

“I’m sorry, Maestra. I’ll do better tomorrow.”

“See that you do. I have something to tell you. You may know that I have permission to visit my father’s studio four times a year to obtain supplies. The day after tomorrow is my summer visit. Each time I go, I take one of my artists with me. This time it will be you.”

“Me?” Giulia said. “Going out? Into the city?”

Humilità smiled. “Since my father’s studio is not inside these walls, yes, we will go out. I have written
him to expect us. Does that suit you?”

“Oh, yes, Maestra! Thank you!”

“It will be a good learning experience for you, to see the running of a larger workshop. Now go along, work is waiting for us both.”

She strode off to begin transferring the cartoons for the San Giustina commission to the scaffolded panels, a task she would not allow any of the others to help with. Giulia returned to the preparation table.

“She’s taking you to her father’s studio, isn’t she,” Angela said, measuring finished pigment into a jar.

“Yes,” Giulia replied, hardly believing it.

“Wait till you see it.” Angela smiled. “It’s so big! And so busy! There’s nearly a score of apprentices and journeymen, and they make all kinds of things, sculptures and silver goods and gold jewelry, not just paintings.”

“Silver goods and jewelry? Really?”

“The Maestra’s father can fresco a chapel, and furnish it too. He’s famous, you know—all the great and noble of Padua are his patrons. Paintings and goods from his workshop are in houses and holy places all over the city. And he dotes on our Maestra. You’ll see.”