O, Juliet Part 8

"It is all right, my dear," Contessina said, patting her hand. She fixed me in her calm, steady eye. "Our Lucrezia has not yet accustomed herself to the thought of my husband's b.a.s.t.a.r.d son."

I forced myself to hold her gaze unfalteringly. "Carlo, the rector of Prato, is not your your child?" I added. child?" I added.

Contessina resumed her sewing as she spoke. "Three years after our marriage Cosimo went to Rome to manage his branch there. A Circa.s.sian slave girl"-a pause as she swallowed was the only sign of emotion revealed-"had been bought by one of his agents, to look after him. She was young, pretty-the Circa.s.sians are known for their beauty. She bore him a son."

Lucrezia looked at me."Mona Contessina raised the boy along with her own children. Made sure he had a fine education."

"How did you bear it?" I asked the older woman.

She closed her eyes, remembering. "I had been chaste and dutiful before marriage. Pious, loyal, and loving as a wife. I gave him pleasure in the bedroom"-her lips bowed into a smile-"and received it, too." She looked at me then. "It was difficult, very difficult when I found out about her. Had Maddalena simply been a nubile young thing who warmed Cosimo's lonely bed, it might have hurt me less. But she was of n.o.ble blood, taken as the plunder of war and sold to the highest bidder in the Venice slave market." The next words were painfully spoken. "My husband was very much in love with her."

She could see the looks of outrage on our faces. She spoke gently. "It is the way men are, my dears. Even good men."

"Well," said Lucrezia, "men may stray, but you were not required to take in his illegitimate child."

Contessina considered this. "Had I to do it again," she said, "perhaps I would have refused him. But I've grown to love Carlo as my own. I'm very proud of him. And who am I to complain? Cosimo has given me everything. Great wealth. Children of my own. Respect." Her eyes went soft as she spoke to Lucrezia. "I foresee no such problems with our Piero. He is deeply in love with you."

"And she'll allow no Circa.s.sian slave girls in their household," I quipped.

We all laughed at that and went on sewing in silence.

But Contessina's story was jarring.

This is what happens in a marriage of convenience, I told myself. I told myself. It would never happen in a marriage for love. It would never happen in a marriage for love.

An hour pa.s.sed with unnerving slowness. I p.r.i.c.ked my finger so many times it made Mona Contessina laugh. Finally, when I thought I could bear the waiting no longer, I heard voices echoing in the hall outside the salon door. My father's was clearly recognizable, as was Jacopo's. I strained to hear Romeo's, but was unrewarded.

Trying to remain calm, I asked permission to go and relieve myself. Contessina instructed Lucrezia to accompany me to her bedroom, but when I said I knew the way, Lucrezia reminded her soon-to-be mother-in-law of my visit before the betrothal ball. I could, indeed, find my own way, she said.

I hurried out and saw that the men had just repaired to the main salon at the end of the corridor. When I approached, I was gratified to see that while the door was closed, it was slightly ajar and voices could clearly be heard. Keeping my eyes peeled for servants, who would not have taken kindly to a girl eavesdropping on their master's business, I stood with my back to the wall near the door. I could not see inside, but I imagined them all having taken places around a table.

"Welcome," I heard Cosimo begin. "It is good that you have come. I think you all know my dear friend Poggio Bracciolini . . . at least by reputation. He will serve as my consigliere consigliere in this matter." in this matter."

How interesting, I thought. Poggio was a famous statesman, author, and orator, but most distinguished for his travels to the ends of the known world for the purpose of finding ancient ma.n.u.scripts and codices to add to Cosimo's already distinguished library.

"Capello. Jacopo. Roberto. Romeo." He addressed them all with equal respect. "We are here at the suggestion of your boy, Roberto. Quite an unexpected request, but one that piqued my interest." Cosimo paused before he spoke again. "Let us begin by admitting that wrongdoing has occurred between your houses."

"With all due respect, Don Cosimo," I heard my father say, "I refuse to admit that any of the wrongdoing was mine. Last month some damage was done to my factory on Via San Gallo, and one of my workers was roughed up. More recently a cargo of my silks was destroyed. We have proof that the Monticecco are responsible."

"What say you to that, Roberto?"

"I do not deny it." I heard a deep, melodious voice answer with neither flourish nor regret.

"You see?" Jacopo whined. "He admits his crime."

No one spoke for a s.p.a.ce of time, and I wondered what thoughts were whirling just then in Romeo's head.

"What are you not telling us, Roberto?" This was the rich, eloquent voice of Poggio, whom I had heard speak at the Signoria at a public gathering. "Have you an unaired grievance against Capello Capelletti?"

"You may know that my father went to his maker last year," said the Monticecco paterfamilias. He paused, but when he spoke again, his voice trembled with feeling. "On his deathbed he made a confession and last request of me."

"We are sorry for your loss," I heard Cosimo say with sincere compa.s.sion. "May he rest in peace." A moment of respectful silence was observed before he went on. "Will you tell us what he said?"

"Very gladly." Roberto's voice grew hard and angry. "Many years ago your father"-I a.s.sumed he now spoke to Papa-"seduced my father's youngest daughter." There was more silence. "Do you deny any knowledge of this?"

"Most emphatically!" I heard my father say.

"Well, it is written in our family's records, if not yours."

"Let us, for a moment, a.s.sume the truth of this accusation," Cosimo said. "Tell us more."

"I was still a boy, but I remember my sister-pregnant and disgraced. There was never a marriage. She and the child-a boy-died in childbirth."

"Again, we mourn the loss of your sister and nephew," Cosimo said. I heard Papa and Jacopo muttering of their sorrow, too.

"Thank you."

"But, Roberto," Poggio said very gently, "that was many years ago, and-correct me if I am wrong-no steps were taken then to right the wrong."

"That is so."

"But why?"

"Our family had been weakened by my elder brothers' move to Verona-they had bought a large and prosperous vineyard there. By himself, with only one young son left in the household, my father feared retaliation would lead to annihilation. So he swallowed his pride and did nothing. But on his deathbed his fury-one that been long forgotten by all but him-was renewed. He demanded that I exact revenge for the Capelletti outrage against our family. Should I disregard a dying man's wishes?"

"Of course not," Cosimo replied carefully. "Such promises are sacrosanct."

"But you cannot be suggesting he has a right to ruin me?" said Papa, his voice simmering with anger.

Cosimo did not immediately answer, and I heard a whispering consultation with Poggio. The orator was the next to speak.

"Since the cessation of fighting between the Ghibellines and the Guelfs, and the resolution of Cosimo's 'disagreement' with the Albizzi family, Florence has been a peaceful city. With peace comes prosperity, a condition that benefits all."

"In this case," Cosimo went on, choosing his words carefully, "the good of our city must-respectfully-be weighed against the wishes of one dying man. What I propose is that the Monticecco pay the Capelletti for the full loss of the cargo."

"Fair enough," I heard Jacopo say.

"Please let me finish. You, Capello, should then pay a thousand florins to the Monticecco to settle the 'debt of revenge.' I realize, Roberto, this is not altogether satisfying-no eye is taken for an eye. Nothing brings back the dead, nor a family's lost honor. But I am thinking that perhaps with this monetary solution, my friend Poggio has discovered a new way to settle blood feuds without the spilling of blood."

"With respect," I heard Jacopo say with no trace of that sentiment in his voice, "the repayment for the lost cargo only brings my future partner even. If he then pays the Monticecco for an insult many decades in the past, Capello is suddenly out of pocket. And he he is the injured party here." is the injured party here."

Everyone started talking at once, arguing really. Their voices were growing louder and more bellicose.

"May I speak?" The voice was Romeo's.

My heart fluttered in my chest. I moved closer to the open door, afraid to miss a word he spoke.

"I would suggest this. Let my father pay more for the lost cargo than its worth-a price equal to the 'revenge payment' Signor Capelletti is paying him. That way, each man receives something to satisfy the losses and dishonors done to their families, but neither one ends up the richer."

There was silence as everyone digested the proposal. At that moment I heard a servant's footsteps echoing up the stairway. I darted away and into Contessina's bedroom, took a moment to do my business in her chamber pot, and peeked out the door in time to see the gathering of men emerge from the great salon.

Cosimo stood with arms about the shoulders of Papa and Roberto Monticecco, gently forcing them to embrace. At first it was reluctant, but when they parted, I saw their expressions had softened. Then Jacopo came forth with Poggio behind, speaking quietly in his ear. I could see my soon-to-be betrothed was unconvinced of this unique solution, but now he was confronted by the two enemies, genial and basking in the warm approval of the great man of Florence.

Yet Jacopo's tone and posture were groveling to Poggio. I heard mention of the scholar's famous treatise On Avarice On Avarice, a defense of greed as the emotion that made civilization possible.

"I agree with you, signor," said Strozzi. "It is is a good sign if a merchant has ink-stained fingers." He held out his hands. "Here are mine." a good sign if a merchant has ink-stained fingers." He held out his hands. "Here are mine."

Poggio laughed, then excused himself to speak to Don Cosimo.

Jacopo hung back at the door and now I saw why. Romeo emerged and Strozzi blocked his full exit. I could see both their faces, Romeo's calm, Jacopo's strangely pleasant.

"I have cause to believe that you and the woman I plan to marry are simpatico simpatico in ways of the heart," Jacopo began. in ways of the heart," Jacopo began.

Romeo seemed unsurprised, and remained wholly silent.

"Therefore," said Jacopo, "I propose that after a respectable period I will allow you to pay court to her. You may see her in private, share your . . . poetry"-he uttered the word with a distinct sneer. "You may lay your lovesick head upon her knee." He smiled and shook his head condescendingly. "Publicly adore her. Meanwhile, she will live in my mother's house, subservient and groveling. She will obey me and stay cloistered there except to go to confession. She will bear my children, as many as I can get on her. I will, of course, have my mistresses."

Then Jacopo put his face very close to Romeo's and spoke with the most genteel menace. "But if, while you are her courtly lover, you lay your lips or hand on other than Juliet's hand, then you will understand the wrath and power of the Strozzi. I will kill you or, better, perhaps, castrate you and let you live on as a woman."

Then Jacopo smiled almost happily and, with a jaunty tilt of his chin, strode after the other men.

I saw Romeo close his eyes and inhale deeply. It was difficult to discern his emotion. I longed to show myself to him but knew it too dangerous. A moment later he made for the stairs. I waited till all of them were out of hearing before I returned to the sewing room.

"They've made peace!"

"Truly?"

"Truly. I saw Romeo's father and Papa embrace."

Lucrezia was dumbstruck as we sat side by side in the small Palazzo Bardi salon. I'd waited for Contessina to excuse herself before bursting forth with my news.

"When has this ever happened before?" I said.

"I have never known it." She was incredulous. "Once an enemy, forever an enemy. This is how it has always been."

"And Romeo is the first cause of it . . . with Don Cosimo's help of course."

"I was wrong about him," Lucrezia said with quiet cert.i.tude. "And I suppose if he can cause peace to break out between two warring Florentine families, then some hope remains that a marriage can be arranged."

"Oh, Lucrezia!" I dropped my embroidery and hugged her fiercely.

"But listen to me," she went on. "I said 'some hope.' We do not know how badly your father's business depends upon Jacopo's partnership. That will always take precedence over a love match between new friends."

It was at that moment I might have told Lucrezia about Jacopo's vicious threats, but I chose to stay silent. "Knowing Romeo, he will find some reason for our marriage to become vital vital to our family's betterment," I said instead. to our family's betterment," I said instead.

She smiled indulgently. "It would be wonderful to see you happily wed."

"I will will be. I feel it in my bones. Ours will be the most glorious marriage in Florence . . . save yours and Piero's," I added with a grin. be. I feel it in my bones. Ours will be the most glorious marriage in Florence . . . save yours and Piero's," I added with a grin.

She laughed and, picking up the shirt I'd been st.i.tching, handed it back to me. "You'd best get control of yourself before Contessina returns."

"I can't stop smiling."

"She's coming! Bite the inside of your lip."

I did this and was gratified to feel a modic.u.m of restraint returning to me.

"I've brought us a little something to nibble on," said Piero's mother as she entered, carrying a small basket that she placed on the table between us.

"Oh!" I sighed so loudly that both women turned and stared wonderingly at my outburst, one that I could never in a thousand years explain.

It was a basket of figs.

Chapter Ten.

"Why on earth would you choose, for a day in the coun try, to wear all white?" my mother demanded with a disapproving shake of her head.

"She fancies herself Beatrice," said Marco, now being jounced on the carriage seat across from us, next to Papa.

"Beatrice who?" she said, sounding annoyed.

" 'Gracious lady dressed in pure white . . . ,' " he recited. "It's Dante. You may not think him an idol, Aunt, but everyone else in Florence does." he recited. "It's Dante. You may not think him an idol, Aunt, but everyone else in Florence does."

This alarmed me, that my choice of costume was transparent even to my cousin. I tried very hard not to frown at him, and give him further grounds to suspect me.

"Don't be silly, Marco," I said lightly. "The dress is Papa's newest gift to me." I blew my father a kiss and smiled. "It's beautiful silk. The white-on-white embroidery is the finest I've ever seen."

But Papa was barely conscious of this meaningless chatter. He was stony-faced and silent, lost in his own thoughts. The invitation by Romeo's father of our family to the Monticecco home for Sunday dinner-though of course I saw Romeo's hand in it-disturbed my father. Ruffled his calm. He could not easily slap away the offered olive branch, knowing Don Cosimo's spies were everywhere.

Mama, on the other hand, had been delighted with the invitation. "I am curious," she'd said, "to see how such people live."

"You're just nosy," I'd teased her.

"Call it what you like.We have no friends among the gentlemen farmers."

"We stay close to our own kind," Papa had snapped, annoyed at this forced visit with a man who-even for reasons that he could now comprehend-had done violence to his business. Even though the agreed-upon moneys had changed hands and the debts had been paid, a brittle crust of resentment yet hardened my father's heart against the Monticecco.

I peered out the carriage window as we crossed the Arno on the Ponte alla Carraia, gazing at the families dotting the sh.o.r.e on the late-summer day. A woman laid cold meat and a round of cheese on a colorful rug. Brothers played ball in the gra.s.s. Men in a row sat with bent knees, fishing lazily. A mother called urgently to a small boy toddling toward the river's edge.

We so infrequently crossed the Arno and took to the hills, rolling soft and verdant south of Florence. The uniqueness of the small journey set my mind aflame with its sights. From the sights sprang words. I wished fervently to be clutching an ink-dipped quill in the privacy of my thoughts, and writing them on paper.