O, Juliet Page 8

  “And she’ll allow no Circassian 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. It would never happen in a marriage for love.

  An hour passed with unnerving slowness. I pricked 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 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 manuscripts 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 space 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 compassion. “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 assumed 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, assume 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 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, a defense of greed as the emotion that made civilization possible.

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

&
nbsp; 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 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 certitude. “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 to our family’s betterment,” I said instead.

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

  “I 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.

  She laughed and, picking up the shirt I’d been stitching, 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 modicum 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.”

  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 shore on the late-summer day. A woman laid cold meat and a round of cheese on a colorful rug. Brothers played ball in the grass. 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.

  Though lately, all I had mused upon was Romeo. I wondered how much of each day he thought about me, for I could not stop myself thinking of him. If I saw a young man of any shape or size, he became Romeo. The sight of my volume of Dante, any balcony, any tree, the moon . . . and figs, of course, drew me back to the object of my desire. This obsession was pleasurable, though, and altogether unalterable. My appetite for all-things-Romeo was insatiable. When I sewed, I sewed for him. When I sang alone in my room, I sang to him. My prayers were for our marriage, my dreams of our children.

  Now before me spread a day of infinite opportunity and adventure. I was going in broad daylight to meet my love and his family. The thought made me tingle, like the feel of water rushing over my skin. It would be perfect—a blank canvas upon which two artists—Romeo and Juliet—would paint their future life. A delicious prospect, this day. With every turn of the carriage wheels and the dull clopping of horses’ hooves on the hard-packed road, rising higher into the hills, passing farms and villas quiet of workers this Sunday Sabbath, everything shone brighter, and all became unearthly clear in my vision.

  When we pulled through the gates of the high stone walls, I saw stretched out on one side a vast vineyard and a small pasture, on the other a deep and wide grove of trees. Before us a handsome villa gleamed bone white in the noonday sun, its red tiled roof bleached pale pink in its glare. A graceful loggia spanned the second floor, and before the heavy carven double doors a blue and yellow tiled fountain splashed a joyful welcome.

  Romeo was first out the door, followed by the man I’d seen at Palazzo Bardi, and a tall, slender woman with a mass of thick brown
hair worn loose over her shoulders. She was pretty even before she broke into a smile of greeting. It was Romeo’s smile, the pearly teeth, all inherited from his mother.

  The three of them helped us down from our carriage, plying us with questions as to the comfort of our journey. Introductions were made all around. Romeo bowed to me. In the commotion, no one noticed that when he took my hand to kiss it, he turned it and laid his lips softly in the middle of my palm. No one knew my knees jellied and a place deep inside my womanly center shuddered with delight.

  Once I’d recovered, I saw that Mama and Romeo’s mother, whose name was Sophia, were attracted to each other like iron is drawn to a magnet. They’d not been in each other’s company a minute before they were chatting like old friends. But Mona Sophia, at closer observation, wore pain as an undergarment—well hidden but existing in the depths of her. I was sure of it.

  My father’s posture spoke volumes of his discomfort, but I saw at once that Roberto Monticecco, perhaps swayed by his son’s insistence, was determined to put Papa at ease.

  “Will you let me show you my vineyard?” he asked when he saw his wife leading my mother into the house. “I have some caskets of superb Sangioveto, aged for seven years.”

  What Italian man could pass up such an offer? I even saw a hint of a smile playing on my father’s lips. “I’ve a brother in Abruzzo who is a vintner,” Papa said. “He claims his Brunello to be the finest in Tuscany.”

  “A challenge!” Roberto cried. “Come along, then. We shall see.”

  And just like that, Romeo and I were standing alone with Marco, staring silently at the splashing fountain.

  “I once heard of a fountain that spouted red wine instead of water,” Marco offered, pertaining to nothing.

  “Let me guess,” Romeo said. “The French court?”

  “That is the kind of decadence I would like to see one day,” I said.

  Both young men turned to me, astonished by my statement.

  “Well, cousin Juliet, I had no idea you had such notions. Then you would travel if you could?”