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
“W hy 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
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
“W hy 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
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