“Shush! What is the problem?”
“That’s a…a human skin he’s holding!”
“Indeed it is. That’s a statue of St. Bartholomew holding his flayed skin. D’Agrate did that in the 16th Century. It is surprisingly well-beloved.”
“The Italians are as bad as the Spanish in their taste for gruesome art.”
She shook her head. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Spoken like a true Englishman.”
“Absolutely!” His grin came and went in a flash.
Snickering quietly, she pointed out the main altar. In keeping with its Romanesque origin, the altar and the church as a whole looked more spartan than many of the newer churches in Europe and England. Most of the decorative aspects flowed from the architecture itself rather than embellishments. “Now, take a good look. Except for the figure on the cross, this could be an old church in England.”
He slanted an incredulous look at her.
“Think about it. It’s true.” The exception, she pointed out, was the lateral transept dedicated to the Virgin. “We call the style Norman instead of Romanesque. The outside of this church could be cousin to the Tower of London, except that this is red stone and that’s white. The inside could be Winchester or Ely Cathedrals. The stone church near my estate is almost a small copy of this.”
“Your estate?”
“Yes, my estate. It came to me from my mother’s family.”
“Where is it?”
“In Kent.”
“That will be quite a dowry for some lucky man.” The words held no inflection.
“It won’t be a dowry for any man. I have no intention of marrying.” The subject held little interest for her. “Let’s go. We’re attracting a little too much attention in here.”
Chapter 9
“…So I’m in the far corner of this now-pristine deck, and the lieutenant says very sweetly, ‘If you walk on this nice, clean deck, you’ll have to do it all over again.’ Well, they’d just called for dinner, and, growing boy that I was, I was hungry. So…”
They turned into the palazzo gate. She looked at him when he hesitated. “So…?”
“So I hopped up on the rail and walked around. I was so angry at that lieutenant I forgot to look down. It felt so good to beat him at his own game that it took several minutes to realize I hadn’t been afraid of the height. Hasn’t bothered me since.”
She laughed then shivered, thinking of herself in that situation. “I don’t know if I’d have the…”
“Chiaretta!” Paolo’s voice sang out from across the courtyard. “There you are. I thought your…uh, friend had lost you in the alleys of the city.
“Maria and Massimo are here! She’s so excited; she’s almost dancing out of her shoes.” He took Chiara’s arm and led her through the shade of the palazzo walkway and over to the stairs. “But you will wish to change for dinner.”
Behind them, Rafaelle said, “I’m afraid that if your family wishes us to dine with them, they will have to accept us as we are. We did not come prepared for formal dining.”
Paolo smiled as they climbed the stairs. “Well, I’m sure we can find something for Chiara. Of course, even the most spectacular court dress would pale in comparison to your beauty.” He lifted her hand for a lingering kiss as they rounded the landing. “For you, signore, I’m afraid we cannot accommodate you. However, if you wish to eat in your chamber, I can inform the kitchen staff.”
Glancing at him, Chiara saw only bland politeness, but the churlishness of his words amazed her. Paolo had always been so good-natured! She withdrew from his arm under the guise of gathering her skirts. “Tia Graziella knows we are not prepared for formal dining. We will both come as we are. If this is a problem…” she shrugged, leaving the consequences unsaid.
“And you will still be the most beautiful woman at the table!” Paolo again reached for her hand and kissed it while his eyes lingered on hers.
Chiara gently retrieved her hand and headed for her chamber. “When will dinner be?” Rafaelle walked on to his room.
“About a half an hour. A servant will call for you.”
“Thank you. Until then.”
“Until then.”
In the salon, Massimo looked at Rafaelle’s bright yellow waistcoat. He pursed his lips, “I’ve never had a yellow waistcoat.” He lifted his chin and studied it “I don’t know why, exactly, but I like that one. I may have my tailor make one up for me. Hummm, perhaps with some autumn leaves embroidered on it. Most excellent, indeed.”
Chiara barely suppressed a smile as Rafaelle nodded with all the confidence of a man who selected his own clothes and knew he looked good in them She thought, with only a tinge of regret, about the highly fashionable, sky-blue dress that Graziella sent up to her chamber. Chiara avoided even trying it on, afraid she might not want to take it off. However, she took note of its design for future use. Her dark green bodice and tan skirt would have to do for now.
Paolo took her hand and kissed her fingertips with more fervor than might be necessary. “You look magnificent. A pastoral goddess.” Chiara smiled and retrieved her fingers.
Her bodice and skirt were going to get old by the time they left Italy. She almost wished she could take the blue dress with her. Ah well. Graziella, at least, dressed for dinner with gracious restraint. Maria, well, Maria would not be underdressed if she met the Empress Maria Theresa.
Alessandro announced dinner shortly after the anticipated greetings and hugs. Rafaelle, in French, asked to be seated next to Chiara, claming the need for a translator near at hand. She wasn’t surprised to find Paolo on her other side.
Maria babbled on through the antipasto course: babies, houses, clothes, and jewels seemed to the only topics she could converse on. Chiara couldn’t decide if Massimo, he of the dopey look when he gazed on his wife, was simple or simply besotted. On first glance, she figured that it was a little of both.
The servants changed the plates and the wine. They served a light, savory broth with sprigs of parsley. Sergio dominated the conversation, a discussion of a business matter with Paolo.
Another remove, another wine. Plates of shrimp in a delicate butter sauce appeared.
Rafaelle leaned over to her, “The servings are so small,” he whispered in French while the conversation flowed elsewhere. “Are they trying to starve us? I’ve had larger bites during a meal at home than what is on this entire plate.”
She snickered behind her hand. “Please, don’t worry. The plates and the servings are small, but you won’t starve, I promise.”
One black eyebrow lifted. He finished his shrimp with obvious regret.
Chiara watched the servants bring out a delicate yellow rice dish. “Risotto, my favorite!”
Graziella smiled gently, “Yes, I think Francesca knows something of your fondness for risotto.” She turned to Rafaelle. “When she was just a little thing,” Chiara translated with some reluctance, “she went down to the kitchen before dinner and took the pot of risotto off the stove. Francesca went to dish it up, found the pot missing and exploded with fury. They found this little minx in a broom closet, eating risotto straight out of the pot.”
“Risotto, umm,” Rafaelle reflected as he forked up a bite. “Well, I can’t blame her. It is delicious.” He turned to Chiara. “Risotto, I’ll have to remember that. They say that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Maybe the same holds true for a woman.”
She gaped at him a moment before she translated. Everyone laughed except her.
“But,” Paolo interjected with a sly glance at Chiara, “if you come back to Italy, you could have a different kind of… risotto every day.” Out of the corner of her eye, Chiara noticed a servant refill his wine glass almost to the brim.
Alessandro entered the dining room carrying a plate with the largest bass Chiara had ever seen. It lay on the platter surrounded by leaves and flowers like an Oriental potentate on a divan. The butler served directly from the side board.
Sergio looke
d at Rafaelle. “Is this your first trip to Italy?”
“It is my first time on Italian soil. I’ve only seen it from the sea.”
Sergio launched into a travelogue of the major sights Rafaelle should see that lasted well into the zucchini course.
“Signora Chiaramonte,” Rafaelle said, “I must confess that I don’t believe I’ve eaten any better in the best houses in London. This dinner is superb.”
“Grazia, Signore,” Graziella preened.
“You should sample the dishes in various parts of Italy. They are surprisingly different.” Paolo took a large sip of the latest wine accompanying the vegetable.
As they removed the dishes and the glasses, Massimo cleared his throat. “I will require my in-laws assistance Monday in compiling the information required by the French bureaucrats.”
Sergio sighed. “The government doesn’t matter, they all want their taxes.”
Ravioli and a different wine now graced the places.
Paolo tried the wine before the ravioli. “I won’t be able to give you any help. I’ll be out of town for a while. I’m sure my father can do what ever you need done.”
Rafaelle looked past Chiara and flexed his jaw. Massimo’s face had an irritated expression on it.
“Besides,” continued Paolo, “why would any one want to cooperate with the French?”
“Paolo, enough!” Sergio ordered.
Massimo frowned, “Paolo, if nothing else, the Empire has given Italy a new sense of organization, of direction. We have a much more up-to-date government than under the old, fragmented system.” Massimo sat back and looked around the silent table. His satisfied, superior expression said that he felt he had given the definitive word on the subject. Chiara couldn’t tell from his expression whether he actually supported the French government or was simply so straight-laced that any government’s word was sacred.
When the veal began to appear, Paolo finished his entire glass of red wine before his food arrived. He looked sideways at Chiara, examining her garments. “Why didn’t you wear the dress Mother sent up for you, cara? It was perfect for you.”
“I prefer to wear my own clothes, Paolo. I’m sure your mother understands that I don’t have a trunk of clothes available.”
“Of course, of course, but to wear your traveling clothes at the table when you have garments to reflect your beauty!”
“Paolo,” she took a bite of meltingly tender meat, “I am the only one who decides what I wear, not you, not, with respect, your mother.” She looked over to Maria and asked about her children.
Midway through the fruit, which Paolo ignored in favor of the sweet wine, Massimo reiterated his position. “Paolo, I must insist that you put aside your pleasures until this report is finished.”
“I can’t help you. I’ll be visiting relatives up north.”
“We’ll get it done, Massimo, don’t worry,” Sergio grunted.
Chiara closed her eyes and prayed.
After the cheese and the last glass of wine, Rafaelle smiled his wolverine’s smile and led Paolo to the windowless chamber. Chiara glanced at Sergio, and the two of them followed.
Paolo lounged on the center table, negligently holding a goblet of wine between two fingers. A half smile played on his lips.
Rafaelle strolled over to the wall next to him, examining a gilt-framed portrait. He studied the portrait until the door closed. Then he grabbed the front of Paolo’s jacket. The goblet crashed on the table. A whirl and Rafaelle’s single step smashed Paolo’s back on the wall. “You stupid sot! Are you trying to get us all killed?” He shook his prisoner. “Your straight-laced Francophile of a brother-in-law is probably even now on his way to visit the French authorities with the news that English spies are going north to rescue the Pope!” Paolo tried to escape in vain. “We’ll all be swinging from a rope, you and your family included!”
Chiara translated for Sergio and he said, “This is not possible. Massimo is family.”
Rafaelle tossed Paolo aside. The younger man stumbled onto a chair. “It’s not only possible; it’s probable. Massimo has thrown in his lot in with the French, and you are expendable. He’ll turn you all in to gain himself credit with them.”
Sergio thought for a minute. Then he hurried from the room, only saying, “Stay here.”
He returned a few moments later. “I’ve detained them. Now what do I do with them?”
Rafaelle studied Paolo who’d sat in the chair, his head in his hands. “You need to implicate him in this. If he has as much to loose as you do, he’ll keep his mouth shut.”
“Blackmail?” Chiara asked.
“Absolutely”
Sergio nodded sagely. “I know exactly the thing. I guarantee that neither he nor Maria will say anything.”
With a cool stare, Rafaelle grunted. “Now, can you keep your son at home, too?”
Paolo’s head shot up, and he groaned. “No! I will not be left behind.”
“My son, you have not managed to keep your tongue between your teeth even in front of Massimo, and you were already aware of his uncertain loyalties.”
“It was the wine.”
“Yes, it was the wine, and, even if lives were not at stake, you have still vilely embarrassed your mother.”
“I know, I know, and I apologize.”
“Don’t apologize to me, apologize to her.”
“Yes, I will.”
“In any event, I think you should stay here and work with…”
“No! I must go. You know that I must.” A long look passed between father and son.
“Very well.” Sergio turned to Rafaelle. “I would consider it more than adequate recompense for my assistance if you would include my son in your mission. If,” he looked at Paolo but spoke to Rafaelle, “you have any reason to think that he will purposefully or accidentally betray you, you have my permission to kill him.”
Chiara gasped but translated.
Paolo simply gaped at his father.
Rafaelle nodded.
The day blossomed warm and clear, not all that unusual for the middle of an Italian summer, but a good omen for the feast of Cesena Cathedral’s patron saint. The parade, scheduled for mid morning, sounded infinitely preferable to sitting around the palazzo.
When she broached the possibility to Rafaelle, he looked at her with his now-familiar raised eyebrow. “Go to a fair or sit around here? Do I look like a complete barmpot? Of course I’ll go.”
The vendors and the crowds were both out by the time Chiara and Rafaelle left the palazzo. As they wandered among the booths, Chiara stopped to finger the shawls in one of them. The proprietress was young, but old enough to approach Rafaelle who stood at the far side of the stall.
“Would the handsome signore like to purchase a shawl for the signora?” His mouth quirked, and the vendor continued, “Or perhaps the signore would like something more,” she pushed the shoulder of her blouse down her arm, “personal?”
Chiara, finished with browsing, came up to his side and took his arm. “Not today, thank you.” As they walked away, she hissed, “You aren’t safe to take outside without a halter, bit, and blinders!”
He threw back his head in a grand, glorious laugh. Chiara noticed another female vendor watching him.
A troop of jugglers performed on a make-shift stage. In rapid succession, their balls, knives, skillets, and glasses filled the air between them. Rafaelle tossed a coin in the basket of the pretty juggler passing among the crowd.
They moved on, looking at a display of hats and then an offering of knives. Rafaelle picked one up and commented in French, “Nice balance, good length.” He put it down and looked at some others, then moved on. “If I didn’t have one already, that would be a good purchase.”
They stopped for a moment to watch a puppet show. “They’re stock characters,” Chiara explained. “There’s Doctor Peste in black with the beaked mask. Doctors used to think the mask protected them from the plague. And there’s Arlecchino. He’s poor and alw
ays hungry, but he’s usually the hero. Oh, there’s my favorite character, Brighella. He’s the cunning servant who can do anything, be anyone, and is generally looking out for himself.
“Rather like Punch and Judy characters, I guess.”
They watched the show until a troop of French soldiers passed through the crowd. The savvy populace parted like the Red Sea, and Chiara and Rafaelle moved with them.
A stand selling ribbons attracted the girl in Chiara, and she admired a couple of the colorful strips. Rafaelle picked up an emerald green one. He signaled the vendor, a middle-aged lady with hair just starting to go gray.
Chiara wandered away as the vendor smiled and preened harmlessly at her customer. Two stalls away, a yarn seller displayed her wares. This, Chiara thought, might be just the thing to alleviate the boredom of the next few days. Knitting a shawl would help keep her busy, and the materials would not take up too much room in her sack.
As she inspected the colors and sizes of yarns a male body crowded her against the table. It wasn’t Rafaelle.
“A beautiful girl should never, ever be alone.” It wasn’t Rafaelle’s voice, either.
“She’s not alone.” Rafaelle’s French and his glare induced complete comprehension in the young Italian who scuttled away.
Chiara laughed softly. “I think you frightened him.”
“Then I succeeded.” He presented her with the ribbon as they walked away.
“For me? I assumed it was for…”
“For whom? Francesca?”
“Well, yes. I figured you wanted to sweeten her up.” She tied the ribbon around her throat.
“I don’t think,” he said slowly, “that Francesca needs any more sweets.”
She laughed and swatted his arm.
He grabbed her hand. She stopped.
“Come on.” He tilted his head and pulled gently. “The parade is starting.”
She relaxed and walked with him, but he didn’t release her hand. He found a spot with a good view. They could also see the dignitaries’ platform. Sergio and all his family featured prominently there.
Chiara didn’t think she and Rafaelle were visible from the dais. “Is it my imagination or does Massimo look a little more…I don’t know, indignant than usual.”
“It’s not your imagination at all. In fact, it looks like if he wasn’t on display, he’d be spitting fire.”