O, Juliet Part 23

I am not much of a carpenter but have determined that this bed must be built inside, for never will it fit through the doorway. It will fill half the s.p.a.ce of the cottage, maybe more. Would you mind that? Remembering our wedding night, I think not. A garden, a stream of clear water, a writing desk for each of us, and a great bed. What more could we wish for in a paradise?

I'm ashamed to say I smashed my finger while pounding the headboard and searched the crone's shelves for a remedy among her potions and salves and poultices. There I found barks and bat wings, moles' tongues, and finch beaks, grotesqueries that would cause even a man who eschewed superst.i.tion some pause. Many plants I recognized by their sight and smell as those any good housewife would keep in her larder. Some I will use to season my food, spice my wine. Others were marked with a black symbol-an oval overlaid with two crossed bones. Poison, I think.Though I did refrain from tasting them, my nose and my instincts recoiled. Better left untouched, I thought.

Enough for now, my love. In truth, I have written more for my own entertainment than for yours, as I believe with all my heart that you will lay eyes on me before you do this letter. I remain your humble servant, love, and husband, [image]Romeo

Chapter Twenty-eight.

I was never so happy to see my maid, nor she me, as when Viola came to give me a bath. She took confident charge, ordering the male servants to bring up the copper tub, and pail after pail of steaming water. She sprinkled the chamomile and lavender she had chosen with care onto the surface and stirred them in, humming a mindless tune. Only once I was covered to my neck in the fragrant water and Viola was scrubbing my back with a rough cloth did she speak to me in a low, conspiratorial tone. was never so happy to see my maid, nor she me, as when Viola came to give me a bath. She took confident charge, ordering the male servants to bring up the copper tub, and pail after pail of steaming water. She sprinkled the chamomile and lavender she had chosen with care onto the surface and stirred them in, humming a mindless tune. Only once I was covered to my neck in the fragrant water and Viola was scrubbing my back with a rough cloth did she speak to me in a low, conspiratorial tone.

"My husband is gone to Verona. With your letter. We were all so worried about you, my lady. But you were pretending!" Viola laughed, and the sound echoed across the surface of the water. "Shhh!" she scolded herself.

I had to smile. This serving girl had become a faithful friend. I took her wrist. "Viola, thank you. I would have no hope at all of escaping this dreadful marriage without you and Ma.s.simo."

"I would like something in return," she said, lowering her eyes shyly.

"Anything."

"When you and Signor Monticecco have found a home and settled there, you must send for Ma.s.simo and me, and we will come serve you. Otherwise, this good deed that we've done will take you from me forever." She handed me the cloth so I could scrub the soles of my feet. "Is that awfully selfish?"

"A bit." I saw her smile collapse. "But it's a wonderful idea. Two marriages for love under one roof."

The smile returned. "I did overhear your parents talking to Jacopo Strozzi."

"And?"

"They intend to keep you here in this house until your wedding day."

This was unhappy news.

"But why?"

"Signor Strozzi has convinced them that it was his visit that brought you around, how he spoke to you of the happiness of your future life together. The many children you would have. So they listen very carefully to his advice now. 'Heaven knows what befell poor Juliet when she was out in the world the other day . . . with Lucrezia Tornabuoni,' I heard him say."

"Does he speak ill of her to my parents?"

"How can he? She is marrying a Medici." Viola thought before she said, "It is more what he does not not say about her. And the look on his face when he mentions her name. I think if you did marry that man, you would see very little of your friend." say about her. And the look on his face when he mentions her name. I think if you did marry that man, you would see very little of your friend."

"Well, never fear,Viola. I am not marrying 'that man.' "

"No, you are not. Now tip your head back into the water. I'm going to wash your hair."

Viola had been right. I was altogether prohibited from leaving my father's house. Indeed, I was hardly allowed out of my room. The days would have gone slowly waiting for Romeo's return letter if not for the constant flurry of wedding plans that were carried out in my private chamber.

Mama buzzed in and out a hundred times a day like a bee at the hive. All manner of decisions were at hand-whether to serve eel cooked in bay leaves, or cuttlefish in their ink, as a third course at the feast. Whether we should add to the wine that the Strozzi were supplying, so that wine flowed like water. Whether our gold and silver platters were grand enough, or she should urge Papa to buy new and more extravagant ones. After all, we were celebrating at the Medici palazzo. We could not afford to look stingy.

Allessandra Strozzi came to see my "miraculous recovery" with her own eyes. Her smile was brittle and her voice sharp when she told me how very relieved she was that I had regained my senses. The thought that she knew of my deception made the skin on my arms crawl, and it was only knowledge that I would never spend one day as a daughter-in-law in her prison of a house that allowed me to smile sweetly at her and pretend innocence. That smile enraged her even more, and this was very pleasing to me.

The silkwomen came with my wedding gown, which they had created in less than a week. It was a splendid design of thick white-on-white velvet cutwork, one that lifted my bosom high and fell in grand flares from just under my b.r.e.a.s.t.s. The sleeves were silk damask embroidered in membrane gold with birds and palmettes.

As it was fitted on me, tight as a glove, the older seamstress who had questioned me at Papa's factory remained silent as she worked. If she was still suspicious of my cheerful patter-that most appropriate for a happy bride-she did not say. But once, as she held my hand to help me turn, she squeezed my fingers tight, in a secret signal, I was sure of it.

Once Mama had given her approval, the gown was taken off. In the next week the women would work night and day sewing the pearls and gems in place. They warned me proudly that so many jewels would decorate this dress that its weight would multiply ten times. I would be lucky to make it down the cathedral aisle, one said with a laugh. There would be no way to dance.

"She does not have to dance," Mama said, all smiles. "Let the other girls dance. She is the bride."

"Is Lucrezia's gown finished?" I asked, hoping for any news of my friend, and learned it was, and quite a masterpiece at that. In fact, Jacopo's "advice" had curtailed any meetings with her. Once again, I had bowed without argument to his mean-spirited wishes, knowing that my own plans were taking shape from a distance, and his influence in my life would be short-lived.

I schemed with Viola, who was, thankfully, allowed frequent visits to my room. Under a pile of clean linen she secreted in a set of her husband's clothing and a pair of strapped slippers that fit me. In this way I could be dressed and ready in male disguise when Romeo came over the garden wall to collect me.

I must admit I felt pangs of guilt when I enlisted my mother's help in my plot to escape her house. Claiming I needed to see the gems that I would wear at my throat and ears and in my hair, I urged her to bring the family jewel box to my room so we could decide together.

Then I made a great show of interest in each piece, putting it on and discussing its merits and demerits, and whether it would match the dress or detract from it. All the while I was counting the pieces' value, for several of the necklaces, earrings, and tiaras would be taken with me when I absconded with Romeo. I would leave the lion's share behind, but I could not imagine going to my husband with no dowry at all.

And in the nights, endless strings of words flowed into my head. Poems, and I could not tell if they were worthy, or simply Love's garbled messages to a girl on the verge of a joyful life.

For now I was certain that Romeo would come. All doubt had taken flight like the falcons who catch a circular wind on a warm day, rising up and away so far and so high that they can be seen only as dark specks against the blue sky.

He would come.

It was the fourth day since Ma.s.simo had gone to Verona. Any moment Viola would come flying through my door all smiles, a letter from Romeo clutched in her hand. It would present his plan-brilliant and dangerous of course-but br.i.m.m.i.n.g with confidence in its execution. I prepared myself for a lack of flowery sentiment, a restatement of his love. After all, just his act of abducting me would be proof enough of his feelings.

He would come.

Chapter Twenty-nine.

Evening arrived with no sign of Ma.s.simo's return. When I went to the kitchen looking for Viola, Cook said she had gone to her mother's. This simple statement rocked me. There had been more than enough time for Ma.s.simo to have ridden to Verona, delivered his letter, and brought me back Romeo's reply.

In my room I fretted, and snapped at my mother when she pestered me about the choice of confections she wished to serve at the wedding. Cook was insisting on making a luxury bread of almonds and candied fruit, but Mama preferred a sweet wine-flavored custard.

"Just have both," I said, gritting my teeth.

"But the number of eggs for the zabaglione . . . oh, the number of eggs!"

I wished she would disappear.

That night there was no sleep for me, and the hours pa.s.sed in agony. All manner of fears presented themselves to me-from Ma.s.simo's sudden illness on the road, to worry that Romeo had never taken refuge with his uncles at all, but had instead gone off adventuring to far-flung parts of the world. Everyone had just a.s.sumed he had gone to Verona. But wasn't my husband known for his wild audacity? Anything was possible with Romeo.

I was bleary-eyed in the morning, yet taut as a rope strung tight between two posts. When I cornered Viola after breakfast, she looked bewildered and said Ma.s.simo had not come home. Why he was delayed was anyone's guess, but she, too, had begun to worry. Though neither of us said so, we both knew that the pa.s.sage between the two towns was famous for its bandits. With nothing of value for the thieves to steal from Ma.s.simo, they might have become angered. Even now he could be lying injured or dead along the side of the road.

Another day pa.s.sed, though this was filled with final plans for the wedding. My gown was brought again to be fitted, this time laden with pearls and gems. The seamstresses had been right. The garment, while breathtaking, was a deadweight upon my body, and even the short time I was forced to wear it depressed my spirits and brought me to tears.

Mama convinced herself once again that I was crying for joy at my upcoming marriage, and the thought that my own mother was so self-deceived as to misconstrue her daughter's heart so entirely made me weep even harder.

I saw the older silkwoman observe me with pity, for she alone knew my suffering. When she lifted the gown from my shoulders, she leaned in and whispered low, "G.o.d will protect you, my lady."

I wished to shout back, "I do not need G.o.d's protection, for Romeo is coming to take me away!" Instead, I quietly murmured my thanks.

But another night pa.s.sed, and my surety weakened with every pa.s.sing hour until I fell into exhausted sleep, sprawled across my bed fully clothed.

I woke to Viola leaning over me, a look of myriad emotions twisting her face. It was barely dawn.

"He's come home," she said.

I bolted upright. "Is he here?"

She nodded.

I jumped up and hurried down the stairs, heedless of my impropriety. Cook was absent from our kitchen, certainly at the Palazzo Bardi overseeing the feast preparations. I saw Ma.s.simo outside the window and went to meet him.

He wore the same strange expression as Viola had. My heart fluttered, then began to pound. It was hard to keep my voice even.

"Welcome back, Ma.s.simo."

"I'm so glad to see you well again, signorina."

"I was never ill. I was sure you knew that."

"Right. I'd forgotten." The young man was nervous, unsmiling.

"May I have the letter, please?"

"Letter? I gave . . ." He swallowed hard. "I gave your letter-Signorina Tornabuoni's letter-to Romeo. In Verona."

"Yes, of course you did. And he must have given you one back . . . for me."

"No."

"No?"

Ma.s.simo looked like a cornered animal. The skin under his nose had begun to perspire.

"Romeo read my letter and did not reply?"

The butcher's son shrugged and averted his gaze from mine.

"That is not possible," I said.

I turned to see Viola standing in the doorway looking stunned.

"I tell you there is no letter!" Ma.s.simo shouted unexpectedly. He was desperate now. His face crumbled. "There is no letter." This was said quietly with an air of defeat.

"Did you even see my husband in Verona?"

"No."

I looked at Viola, whose face was a mask of horror and fury. She went to Ma.s.simo and beat both fists on his chest. "What have you done!" she cried. "Where is the letter we put into your keeping?"

Ma.s.simo looked down at his feet. "He paid me triple."

"Who?" Viola demanded, and pummeled him again.

"Jacopo Strozzi," I answered for him. "Isn't that right, Ma.s.simo?"

He nodded miserably.

"No!" Viola moaned, then turned to me. "Oh, my lady, forgive me. Forgive us!"

I could not speak. Not a single word. Instead I turned, leaving Ma.s.simo to his wife's wrath, and walked like a haunted spirit through my father's house. I must have climbed the stairs, though I cannot remember the act. Next I knew I was at my balcony rail, staring blindly out at the walled garden.

Two days were left till the wedding. Romeo was in Verona. Don Cosimo had not yet returned from Rome. I had been a fool, putting my whole trust in Ma.s.simo. Perhaps I deserved this fate. A fool's fate. Bitterness rose in me like a fouled spring, catching in my throat. Choking me.

I am wholly abandoned, I thought in self-pity, by G.o.d in heaven, by the G.o.d of Love . . . and Romeo by G.o.d in heaven, by the G.o.d of Love . . . and Romeo.

All that was left was for me to face my dismal future.

Later that day, Jacopo Strozzi came. Mama herself brought me down the stairs, where he waited with Papa, the marriage contract in hand. Silently I signed it, feeling the sin in my heart.

I was a bigamist.

By Jacopo's request my parents happily removed themselves, arm in arm, leaving me alone with my new husband. I turned to face him and managed somehow to hold his eye. He did not smile evilly as I thought he might. Indeed, his eyes were filled with loathing for me. No one knew of my attempted betrayal, or his triumph over me. No one except, perhaps, his mother.Yet in his even stare I saw humiliation.

For the rest of our lives together he must endure the truth of my revulsion for him as a man, and I his crime of murdering my cousin.

Perhaps, I thought, I should write an additional canto for Dante's Inferno Inferno-"The Tenth Circle of h.e.l.l." Still I could not find the words to speak to Jacopo. My only satisfaction was that this smug villain could think of no words to gloat over me.

I lifted my shoulders and set my lips. I left him standing there alone, as he would be for all the days of our married life. It was a very small comfort.

Chapter Thirty.