O, Juliet Part 12

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 a.s.surances 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 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.

Papa's office was ahead, its door open. There were voices. Two of them. I heard my name spoken aloud. There were voices. Two of them. I heard my name spoken aloud. I stopped where I was, then moved with stealth to one side of the door. I listened . . . eavesdropping again. I stopped where I was, then moved with stealth to one side of the door. I listened . . . eavesdropping again.

"She is eighteen, Capello, more than ripe for marriage." Jacopo Strozzi spoke these words. "Do you deny it?"

"I will not deny it," my father said, but his voice was strained.

"Then let us make this betrothal. The sooner, the better."

"You try me, Jacopo." I heard the soreness in Papa's tone. "We are beset with serious problems in the dyeing chambers, and all you can think of is the marriage bed."

"I have told you why suddenly our vats produce nothing but dull browns and moldy greens. You refuse to believe me."

"I do refuse to believe it is sabotage. Roberto Monticecco would never dare to take such actions now."

"Now?" Jacopo said. I could just imagine the sneer on his lips. "Now that you are 'friends'? Do you really believe a man with so deep-seated a grudge has forgiven you the ruination and death of a sister and a nephew?" Jacopo said. I could just imagine the sneer on his lips. "Now that you are 'friends'? Do you really believe a man with so deep-seated a grudge has forgiven you the ruination and death of a sister and a nephew?"

My father's silence worried me. Argue with him, Papa, Argue with him, Papa, I silently cried. I silently cried. Tell him the breaking of bread and the sharing of wine and good cheer between our families were sincere. Tell him! Tell him the breaking of bread and the sharing of wine and good cheer between our families were sincere. Tell him!

"What if I were to bring you proof?" Jacopo said.

"If you have proof, why have you not brought it forward before?"

"I did not wish to stir the pot. Capello, our partnership papers are not yet signed. . . ." A whine came into Jacopo's voice. "Everything is so fragile. I worry, I worry. . . ."

"No, no. No need to worry. We are strong together. My silk. Your wool. No one will sell more fine cloth than Capelletti and Strozzi."

I heard the sound of a hand clapping a back.

"And our families shall be joined as well," Papa added. "Sooner than later."

"Ah, my friend!" Jacopo exclaimed.

No, not your friend, I silently cried, I silently cried, and not my husband! and not my husband!

I knelt and set the pot on the floor outside the door, turned on my heels, and fled through the silk room, into the racket of clacking looms, and out the arched door.

"Take me home," I said to the footman.

I fumed inside the litter amid the cushions, the pace of the bearers suddenly slow and aggravating. My temper flared and I pounded on the floor. "Hurry!" I called. "I am ill!"

I was was ill. Sick at the thought that Papa would give his blessing to this despicable creature-one who so maligned Romeo's innocent family. One who would happily marry me, imprison me in his wretched mother's house, take mistresses himself, and permit me an impotent courtly lover. d.a.m.n Jacopo Strozzi! d.a.m.n him to the Eighth Circle of h.e.l.l, where, with all other "fraudulent counselors," he would be clothed in flames that charred his flesh. ill. Sick at the thought that Papa would give his blessing to this despicable creature-one who so maligned Romeo's innocent family. One who would happily marry me, imprison me in his wretched mother's house, take mistresses himself, and permit me an impotent courtly lover. d.a.m.n Jacopo Strozzi! d.a.m.n him to the Eighth Circle of h.e.l.l, where, with all other "fraudulent counselors," he would be clothed in flames that charred his flesh.

d.a.m.n him!

Chapter Fourteen.

Romeo Love, Something must be done, and done quickly. Jacopo Strozzi presses Papa for my hand, and our betrothal may be soon announced.You and I have never spoken aloud of such things, so I must trust my heart in this matter. Pretend I know yours. Risk humiliation. But your actions to this date have given me reason to believe you feel as I do. With my soul laid bare I await your response.

[image]Juliet I folded and sealed the letter with red wax and went slowly down the stairs, wishing to avoid my mother, who sat close by the window embroidering. Brightly lit as it was, she still squinted at the tiny st.i.tches with her weak eyes. I was so stealthy she never looked up from her sewing. folded and sealed the letter with red wax and went slowly down the stairs, wishing to avoid my mother, who sat close by the window embroidering. Brightly lit as it was, she still squinted at the tiny st.i.tches with her weak eyes. I was so stealthy she never looked up from her sewing.

Then I hurried out the courtyard door. Across the small central garden was the kitchen, where Cook-fat and rosy-cheeked and armed with a mallet-was pounding a fillet of beef as though to kill and not soften it. So intent was she, she never looked up. But the one I sought was near the alley door, kneeling with her back to me, scrubbing a kettle.

I went and knelt down beside Viola. She was sixteen and pretty with pale yellow hair and delicate features, now red and swollen from crying. My mother treated her miserably for a servant who was not a slave. Many wealthy Florentines employed them-dark-skinned blackamoors and pale-skinned Circa.s.sians from the Russian steppes. Viola was simply a poor Tuscan girl. I found her to be full of common sense and sweetness. And I always believed her features were fine enough that had she been clothed in silks and brocades, her hair prettily dressed, she could easily have pa.s.sed for a gentlewoman.

"Lady Juliet," she said, and stood.

"Can we speak privately?" I whispered.

She faced me fully with a questioning look.

"Come outside." I slipped out the door. In a moment she followed. Together we stood in the alley, where several chickens and a pig grazed on the offal that rotted in piles where it had been thrown.

"So you are still in my family's employ?" I asked.

She blinked back the tears and nodded.

"Is my mother very angry?"

"I thought she would have my head on a platter, like John the Baptist's."

"Perhaps I can smooth the way for you. Speak to Mama of Christ's forgiveness in such matters."

"You would do that for me?"

I searched her blue eyes, then smiled. "Who is the father?" Her face lit with the suddenness of the sun emerging from behind a black storm cloud. "It is Ma.s.simo. The butcher's son."

"The one who delivers our meat?"

She nodded, smiling fully.

"So you are not unhappy at your predicament?"

"I was fearful of losing my position here, as I give my mother money for our family. And Ma.s.simo and I are yet too poor to marry. But how can I be sad when this boy . . ." She stopped, unsure if it was wise to continue.

"When this boy . . ." I urged her to go on.

"When he loves me, and I him. I will have his baby. What a blessing from G.o.d that is!"

"It is a blessing,Viola. As is your love."

She looked at me strangely, as though surprised that such words would be uttered by someone like myself. I came closer and leaned in to her ear.

"I wish such a love for myself."

Viola drew back, happily shocked. "Lady Juliet!"

"I urgently need to send a letter to a certain gentleman."

"Not Signor Strozzi?"

"Not Signor Strozzi." I smiled conspiratorially. "Could Ma.s.simo be convinced, for a price, to deliver the letter with all secrecy to a villa across the river?"

"I think he could."

"Oh, Viola, you are a good friend." I pulled the letter from my skirt pocket and slipped it into her hand. "No one must know. No one but you and Ma.s.simo. Can you promise that?"

"I promise."

Now I slipped a small pouch with some coins into her other hand. "Perhaps this will pay for a wedding."

Viola was beaming now.

"But secret," I said.

"On the life of our child."

I smiled. There could be no more faithful an oath than that.

Ma.s.simo proved a swift messenger and Romeo, I was much relieved to know, an eager respondent, for the following morning I was awakened at dawn by loud sounds in the walled garden. I threw on my robe and quietly opened the door to the balcony, there to find my love, in only shirt and breeches, had cleared a patch of thick undergrowth, digging in the earth. The three olive trees his family had given mine stood in a row nearby.

He had not seen me come to the rail, so I leaned upon it watching him work, his broad shoulders narrowing to a taut waist, the muscles of his b.u.t.tocks rounded and firm. The sight of his shapely thighs rippling made me warm between my own. He stopped to wipe his brow and I said quietly, for just his ears: "Romeo . . . Romeo . . ."

He stilled and came to attention but did not immediately turn.

I grew bolder. "So you're here fulfilling your promise, are you?"

"A promise once made must never be broken," he said, and came full around to face me.

I was aware of no one listening from where I stood, and by his boldness knew that no one below could have an ear on us either.

"This promise," I said, sweeping my hand at the walled garden, "is of trees planted. What other promise do you make?"

He held my eye as he said, "For love to grow."

For love to grow? I thought. I thought. All well and good. But still no talk of marriage. Have I been made a fool of? Does he really mean to be no more than Jacopo Strozzi's cuckold? All well and good. But still no talk of marriage. Have I been made a fool of? Does he really mean to be no more than Jacopo Strozzi's cuckold?

"Romeo!" It was my father's voice echoing in the garden.

I withdrew with all haste into my bedroom, closing the door behind me. Once inside, I heard footsteps in the hall outside my door. I leapt into bed and pulled up the covers.

Just in time.

Mama entered, carrying my breakfast tray. She set it down on my marriage chest.

"What is all the racket in the garden?" I asked, pretending to rub sleep from my eyes.

"Our new friend Romeo Monticecco is here to plant those olive trees. He's a nice young man, is he not?"

"Nice enough," I said, still unsettled by Romeo's less-than-perfect answer.

I sat up and threw my legs over the edge of the bed.

Mama handed me the bowl and a spoon, then commenced bustling about, opening the window to the walled garden and peeking out. "I think I should ask him to stay for the midday meal."

I wanted to hug her, but I remained cool and pa.s.sionless.

"Will you send Viola up with some hot water for my basin?"

"Of course." She seemed distracted, mildly upset. "I haven't finished the nightcap I was embroidering for Mona Sophia. I cannot let Romeo leave empty-handed."

"What about the drawstring bag I've been working on? With just an hour's more work you could finish it, and send that instead."

Mama brightened considerably. "A lovely idea." She went out and closed the door behind her, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the sound of my lover-if not my future husband-digging in the walled garden.

Chapter Fifteen.

When Viola came in and I rose to dress, I was suddenly light-of-head, and my heart began to beat wildly. The maid said nothing as she emptied the steaming water into my basin, but she was smiling happily, as though she knew my sweet secret.