“I wonder what Sergio said to him.”
“I don’t know, but Paolo doesn’t look any happier, although his displeasure…” Paolo shifted in his seat and stared at another group, further along on the platform, that contained several winsome young ladies, “…seems to stem from boredom rather than irritation.”
“Knowing Paolo, that would be the easy guess.”
Rafaelle leaned closer. “The boy has a hard time keeping his tongue between his teeth.”
“Ummm.”
“From a strictly diplomatic point of view, I’d hate to have to kill him, but from a personal perspective, I’m not sure I’d mind.”
“Rafaelle!” she sputtered.
He shrugged. “I wouldn’t. He’s an obnoxious little cock-up, as well as a flap-lip.”
The parade began its passage by them and most of the conversation, except for oohhs and aahhs, ceased. The musicians, closely interspaced between other groups in the parade, made sure of that. To the last group, they played with a great deal of enthusiasm, volume, and sometimes skill.
After the parade, Chiara said, “Let’s go back and get something to eat. I think I’ve had enough for one day.”
They walked back to the palazzo by a different route. The last vendor they passed was a wood carver. Chiara glanced at the trinkets and utensils displayed under the awning. The old man gave her a toothless grin while he continued to carve what looked like a kitchen spoon.
Rafaelle slowed. “Should we actually get something for Francesca? After all, we’ll be dragging her away from her home for a while.”
Chiara’s snort sounded most indelicate, even to her ears. “I guarantee you that Francesca is looking forward to this trip as one of the high points of her life.”
Rafaelle grimaced as he fingered a spoon. “Would it be appropriate to get her something?”
“Oh, get it. She’ll love you.”
As he turned to pay the vendor, the smooth metal top of a cane caught Rafaelle’s eye. Pulling it out of the bin, he lifted the cane, ran a finger over the handle, and then spun it through his fingers.
The vendor put on his professional, if incomplete, smile and began his patter. He reached for the cane with a twinkle in his eye and twisted the handle. A wicked looking knife slid silently from the bottom of the stick.
One of Rafaelle’s eyebrows went up. He stuck out his lower lip and took the cane to try the mechanism himself. “I’ll take it.” As they left the stall, he flipped the cane onto his shoulder and sashayed a few steps. “Is this the jauntiest sight you’ve ever seen?” He used the cane to tip the brim of his hat back.
The hat fell backwards off his head.
Chiara laughed all the way to the palazzo.
A few minutes rummaging around in the kitchen and pantry secured a more-than-adequate lunch of bread, cheese, salami, and fruit.
Chiara found the lone kitchen maid. “It seems that Graziella gave almost all the staff the day off,” she informed Rafaelle. “We’ll have to shift for ourselves.” She drummed her fingers on the long kitchen table they’d sat at for lunch. Silently, she reviewed the supplies. “Therese,” she called the maid. “How many people are going to be here today who would be expecting dinner?”
The little maid counted on her fingers, then excused herself and darted out to confer with the guards.
Rafaelle watched her go. “From the look on her face when we walked in, you’d have thought I was the devil incarnate.”
“Well, with either the French or the English, you could be. Don’t take it personally.”
“Humph.”
The maid came back. “Eight, plus you two.”
“Very good. I think I shall make,” another quick inventory, “Lasagna, mixed salad, and figs in wine sauce. Will you assist me?” The little maid nodded. “Can you make the noodles?” The maid bobbed her head again. “Good, we’ll need about three pounds.” The maid set off to begin her job. “Where is the well?” Chiara asked.
“I will get the water, signora.”
“No you have your job, just tell me where.” The maid pointed out a door.
“I can help, too.” Rafaelle got up and grabbed a pail. “I’ve had enough sitting alone on the Swiftsure to last me quite a while. I’ll get the water.” The maid watched him with wide eyes then scampered off to begin her chore.
An assembly of pans, knives, and spoons littered one end of the table when Rafaelle returned with the water. The maid set up her pasta-making supplies at the far end.
“I obviously don’t have the same level of skills in drawing water as I do in, say commanding a frigate.”
Chiara snickered. “Well, why don’t you try your hand at chopping onions?”
Rafaelle looked at the small mountain of onions she placed before him. “You are turning out to be a most demanding taskmistress.” He placed an onion on the chopping block and raised his large knife up to shoulder level.
“Stop!” Chiara yelped. “What do you think you’re doing?”
He looked at her with a blank stare then looked at the onion and back at her. “Chopping the onion.”
“Chop…” Chiara dropped the armload of celery she’d just taken from the pantry. She looked at the partially raised knife, then the onion, then him. Her stomach began to flutter, and the laugh grew until it burst out.
The maid looked down the table at the commotion. She furrowed her brow as she tried to understand the reason for the hilarity. After a moment’s study, she covered her mouth against a giggle and resumed measuring flour.
Rafaelle glowered at the two women. “I hire cooks,” he growled.
Chiara looked at him and then burst out laughing again. He grinned back and winked at the maid who blushed and concentrated on cracking eggs. Lord, he thought, it felt good to have a woman understand his cheeky sense of humor. So many women didn’t that he usually didn’t indulge it.
He hadn’t worried about making her laugh. Oh, he expected she’d cursed him in the lady-like silence of her mind. Up to now, that hadn’t bothered him. She was a fascinating woman, he admitted that freely. However, there were a lot of fascinating women in the world. Today, he discovered that Chiara was the only one of those fascinating women that he wanted, no needed, to make laugh. He felt like a laudanum addict: the more he had, the more he wanted.
Once her giggles subsided, she grabbed an onion. “This way.” She sliced off the two ends on the onion and used the tip of the blade to pull off the browned outer layers.
He watched the precise chopping process. While she started on the celery, he began chopping, rather than annihilating, the vegetable. “I hope these onions are cognizant of the honor I do them.”
Her mouth quirked, and he drank it in like a glass of water in the middle of the desert. “I’m sure they do.”
“Where did you learn to cook?”
“Oh, from Francesca and our cook, Violetta. I used to wander into the kitchen for snacks and asked to help. They put me to work. I loved it.”
He frowned. “You spent that much time in Cesena?”
“Oh no, the Chiaramontes have a home in Rome, too. We all went back and forth.”
“What was it like, growing up here? I don’t know too many households in England where the children would even know where the kitchen was, let alone be allowed to work in it.”
“True, but in Italy, the kitchen’s the heart of the house, and that holds true even among the aristocracy. Every woman knows how to cook. Graziella makes a fantastic osso bucco. It was inevitable that I learn.”
“Sounds very different than growing up in England.”
“It was magical. By the time I was born, my mother and father had fallen in love with Italy. When Napoleon invaded, my father sent us to England. He was going to follow, but French agents killed him. My mother died of a broken heart.”
They worked in silence for awhile. Rafaelle could almost see the memories, happy and sad, passing through her thoughts. He envied her them both.
Chiara f
inished the celery and went onto the garlic. With the garlic dispensed with, she started on the carrots. Rafaelle watched her for a minute and then started on an orange root. She watched him as she sliced and smiled.
“You will never so much as breath a mention of this!” The mock threat in his voice broadened her grin. “I don’t think even my consequence could withstand it.”
“I’m sure your consequence would survive anything short of treason. I mean, your title dates back to the Normans, if I recall correctly.”
“Ah yes, my title: the title my father was profoundly grateful I was not heir to.”
Chiara stopped chopping, but Rafaelle’s blade continued striking the chopping block with military regularity. Deep within, a flash of insight told her there was something intensely painful inside him. Silent, she let his thoughts simmer.
“My father deplored my very existence. I grew up as far from my parents as he could manage it. Mercifully, he shipped me off to sea. I suspect it was hoped I would have an unfortunate and fatal accident.”
Chiara gasped.
“The irony of it,” he continued without pause, “was that I loved the sea. I was fortunate in my captains and shipmates. They became my sole family.”
“But, but what about your mother and your brother and sister?”
“My mother ignored me, as did my brother and sister.”
“But, why would…I’m sorry. That was rude.”
“Not at all.” He could have been discussing the weather. “To answer your question, my mother, my father, my brother, and my sister are all quite blond.”
It took her a moment then she glanced at his almost-black hair. “Oh!”
“’Oh,’ indeed. My mother could give lessons to Harriet Wilson.”
The laugh popped out. Harriet Wilson, the queen of the courtesans, could now afford to be picky about her protectors. “Decent” women weren’t supposed to know about her. Another face popped into Chiara’s mind: beautiful, blonde, cold, predatory.
His childhood must have been hell, she thought. He was an exile in his own family. “I’m not sure what to say.”
“Don’t say anything.”
“On my honor, I would never repeat any of this!”
“There’s nothing to lose any sleep over. I haven’t told you anything that people haven’t known or suspected for years.”
Deep in thought, Chiara mechanically heated oil and dumped the vegetables in to sauté. She chopped some tomatoes, and Rafaelle followed suite.
“Stir the pan, put the tomatoes in and stir again,” she instructed as she started the béchamel sauce. He set the water for the pasta on to boil and added herbs to the tomato sauce at her direction. Then he cut up some cooked meat and added that.
With a flourish, she added nutmeg to her now-thick, rich white sauce.
Layering the pasta, tomato sauce, and béchamel, she looked at Rafaelle. “Do you know what the best vindication for you would be?” He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, the awful eyebrow raised. “You need to find yourself a wife who thinks the sun rises and sets on that quirky eyebrow of yours and have yourselves heaps of children.”
“Are you volunteering?”
“Mercy, no!” she snorted. “I don’t deal with implementation; I just come up with the ideas.”
She thought she heard him mutter, “Pity.”
Rafaelle, Chiara, the maid, Alessandro, and five of the six guards sat around the great kitchen table. The relics of the meal littered the table. In between eating, Chiara spent the time fielding translations and compliments. Other staff members filtered into the kitchen. After awhile, the family party’s voices rang out in the courtyard.
“We’d better go out,” Chiara said.
Rafaelle swung his legs over the bench and held out his hand. It seemed so natural to her to put hers into it. His grip felt warm, firm, self-controlled. She left her hand there until she picked her skirts up to traverse the door sill.
Graziella saw them from across the courtyard. “Chiara,” she sang, “we missed you so terribly at the fiera. You should have been with the family!” She hurried over and put her arm around Chiara. “But come, come, we must open a bottle of the best vino spumante to celebrate.”
“Mama!” Paolo warned.
She waved him into silence, but he looked immensely satisfied.
Chiara looked at Rafaelle and shrugged.
Later that evening, Rafaelle walked Chiara to her room. She stopped at the door. “Good night. Thank you for all you help today.”
“Ah, but you were the master chef. Thank you for a most enjoyable time. I will place much more value on a well-made dish in the future.”
He touched the green ribbon he’d purchased at the fair.
“Thank you,” Chiara whispered.
He reached for her hand and raised it to his lips, kissing the inside of her wrist. She knew he probably felt her pulse jump.
“Thank you,” he said before moving on to his own chamber.
She watched him go and rubbed her wrist just as he turned his head to look at her.
Chapter 10
Cesena had long since shaken off sleep before the carriage left the Chiaramonte’s courtyard. Francesca insisted on embracing all and sundry in the household. Chiara’s honor would be zealously guarded, she assured Signora Chiaramonte for the third time.
At that point, Rafaelle lost his patience. “Get in,” he waved to the carriage, “or stay,” he pointed to the kitchen door. Francesca got in. Some things needed no translation.
As the carriage rolled through the bustle of Cesena’s streets with Sergio’s generous supplies stowed in the boot, its passengers settled back in their seats. The coach was comfortable enough for four people, though Chiara knew she would loath the sight of it by journey’s end. The ladies faced the horses, and Paolo sat opposite Chiara. He stretched out his legs so that his boot rubbed against her shoe. She looked at his legs crowding her and set her sturdy shoe on top of his shiny boot. He grinned and slid his foot to a more distant position.
Rafaelle watched the play from the opposite corner. Chiara breathed a sigh of relief that his eyebrow remained in its normal position. She promised herself she’d reach for a razor if he did it again.
Francesca’s face held a slight smirk. When Chiara looked at her, the cook turned to examine the street scenes passing outside the carriage.
Chiara caught the flash of ubiquitous black through the window. Francisca hissed “Your nun” at the next passer-by.
Rafaelle sat perfectly still and looked at her then Chiara. The eyebrow went up.
Chiara slumped back in the seat. The men’s razors were stored in the boot. Her knife would do. Pity to get it bloody, though.
“What was that?”
“Francesca saw a nun out the window.”
“So?”
“Italians think nuns are unlucky.” Both eyebrows went up.
“It’s not called ‘superstition’ because it has any reasonable basis.” She dropped her chin to look at him from under her eyelashes. “Saying ‘your nun’ to the next person she sees passes the bad luck onto that person.”
“Well, we certainly don’t need any bad luck following us around.” He gave Francesca a small smile and an even smaller nod. It was enough to put a wide grin on her face.
Paolo smirked. “So how is this little adventure going to proceed? I don’t think you’re going to be able to walk in and say ‘scuzi’ to the guards.”
“No, Paolo,” Rafaelle sounded like he addressed a foolish schoolboy. “We’ll leave that part of the plan to you.” He glanced at Chiara. “When we get to Francesca’s relatives, she will introduce and vouch for us. If they are agreeable, Francesca will leave for Cesena.”
“If they don’t agree?”
Chiara spoke up. “We’ll approach some sympathetic clergy and disguise ourselves as priests or brothers and a nun.”
Paolo shook his head. “That is something you should never contemplate, even for the sake o
f your country. I shiver at the very thought of a cassock and, ugh, celibacy.”
“We wouldn’t dream,” Rafaelle drawled, “of asking you to emasculate yourself.”
“My masculinity can withstand it, can yours?”
“I proposed that aspect of the plan.”
Chiara heard quiet menace in Rafaelle’s voice. “Gentlemen,” she emphasized the word, “when this is finished, you have my blessing to fornicate with as many whores as you wish to prove your masculinity. Right now we need to maintain a gelding’s peace.”
The carriage fell silent. Francesca looked quizzically at all parties.
Then Rafaelle burst into laughter. “Well said, my dear, well said!”
The pained expression on Paolo’s face said he didn’t entirely agree.
“In either case,” Chiara lifted her own eyebrow at the still-sputtering Englishman, “we will seek to provoke a demonstration near the Palace. An outdoor mass in the Cathedral square with some rabble-rousing by the clergy and others may well give us the cover we need. We will have infiltrated the Palace as servants or clergy. We’ll get His Holiness into some peasant garb. Some hair dye, make-up, a wedding ring and he becomes my father.
“Make-up?” Paolo sounded horrified. “He’s not an actress or a whore!”
“No, but a nasty scar would go a long way to making him look less like Gregorio Chiaramonte and more like old Mario Luchetti,” Rafaelle commented.
Paolo sat back and rubbed his chin. “Organizing this could take time, especially if we need to directly contact people who can be trusted.”
Chiara nodded. Paolo occasionally acted the fool, but his family’s intelligence lived in him.
Rafaelle glanced at her. He seemed to be thinking the same thing. “Our ship will be patrolling west of Savona five days after we get there. I’d like to be on board as soon as they make landfall.”
“Yes, having them sit out there would rather be like a signal flag to the French,” Paolo muttered.
The passengers lapsed into silence, drawing it around themselves like cloaks. The Via Emilia stretched before them. They passed small cascinas, churches, and the occasional castle on a nearby hill. Dust floated continually through the carriage, but the stifling heat of closed windows was not an option.