The Smile (15 page)

That night snow falls deeper than I've ever seen. I watch from my window, hoping Cristiano has found shelter. Whatever he thinks of me now, if he does still think of me, is buried as deep as this snow. I'm both sad and relieved to see him go.

Silvia keeps Paco tied up for the next two days, till he stops barking. On the third morning, she lets him free. He disappears instantly. We stand together and call. We walk the fields and the woods, calling till we're hoarse. We hold each other and cry.

Then I go inside and chop dried vegetables for soup. I chop smaller and smaller; I let the movement of the blade absorb me. Caterina and Papà exclaim it is the best they've ever tasted. That night I say a prayer—that Paco might find Cristiano, that Cristiano might find a beautiful place to work. I repeat it, night after night.

February comes with a wet cold that chills to the bone. I make Rocco keep a fire blazing in every fireplace night and day. I worry about Old Sandra's husband getting congestion. But I don't have to worry about little Bartolomeo, at least, because Camilla is so heavy with child now, she announced at her visit yesterday that it was her last. From now on, Caterina must go to Florence if she wants to see her sister.

That news saddens Silvia and me. We've had fun when Camilla has come with Bartolomeo. Somehow the very act of entertaining that sweet child leveled us. We were no longer a contrast of peasant on one side and city nobility on the other, with me uncomfortable in the middle; we became just four girls together, enjoying the moment. And, as time went on, Caterina cozied up to Silvia and me as much as she cozied up to Camilla. Now that's over.

It's late morning and Papà is in Florence. I pass Caterina's open bedroom door. She sits naked on the edge of the bed, weeping quietly. Blood stains the sheet. Each moon's bleeding must bring her such sadness. I have the urge to circle her inside my arms and stroke her hair. I take a step into the room and a floorboard squeaks.

Caterina pulls the bedclothes up to her chin and gives me a blank, dead look. Of course. She can't imagine why I'm here. Comfort is the last thing she'd expect from me.

I turn and leave, closing the door. But I can no longer pretend I know nothing about my stepmother. She is vulnerable. And sincere. The sweetness I took at first as forced is, instead, completely natural to her; it never flags.

The next week Caterina comes to me with a travel bag. “Pack, please. Come with me to Florence to see Camilla and Bartolomeo.”

“I don't go horseback.”

“I know that. Of course I know that. We can go in the coach.”

That many hours alone in a coach with Caterina? “I don't feel that well.”

Caterina's face falls. She had dared to be hopeful.

“But we can make jellies for you to bring to him,” I say. “If you have the time.”

Caterina postpones her travel for a day, while Silvia and Caterina and I make the jellies. And Caterina sugars almonds herself—the boy loves almond flavor. She does it expertly, not burning a single nut and making the sugar coating exactly the right thickness. Could it be that she isn't the failure in the kitchen she has always claimed to be? I press my fingers to my lips as I watch her work.

Silvia and I stand together the next morning and wave at her departing coach. “I wonder why she doesn't go to Florence more often,” I say. “You'd think the country would bore her.”

“Maybe she feels about the country like I do about the city,” says Silvia.

“How do you feel about the city?”

“Anything can happen there. You know, the grass is always greener and all that.”

Anything can happen. I feel a cold spot of fear for Caterina. She wants something to happen out here at Villa Vignamaggio. I think of the bloody sheet.

Caterina comes home four days later and walks into the kitchen without a word. She sets a card on the counter beside where I'm working. It's an invitation to a wedding in April. My hands are too dirty to open it and see who's getting married. It could be anyone. All the girls my age have been betrothed for a while now. I look at Caterina.

“I can help you design a dress if you want.” Her eyes study mine. “You'd look lovely in blue.” Her voice is tentative, ready to retreat. Her mouth is worried.

The
no
that normally surfaces so quickly sticks in my throat. I am without response.

“Elisabetta,” she half whispers, “no one can replace your mother. I would never try to do that. But I can be something to you . . . something more than what I've been so far . . . if only you'll let me. There's a whole wonderful life ahead of you. Please.” Her voice quavers. “Let me help you find it. Stop hiding here. Let's begin with this party.”

Hiding? My initial reaction is to rise up in denial, but I can't. Caterina has spoken too frankly. She knows my need. And I can hear hers in her voice. My strange behavior hurts her. How very odd, and yet how natural, given that it's her. And I might as well face this particular pain. Everyone's getting married now; I'll look mean-spirited if I don't join the celebrations. “Blue's all right,” I murmur.

She smiles so wide, I'm embarrassed. “It will be truly magnificent. A Medici wedding always is.”

“Medici?” I say with a croak. Could Giuliano be lost to another?

“Contessina di Lorenzo de' Medici is marrying Piero Ridolfi,” Caterina announces as though she takes pride herself in this event. “The most noble young woman of Florence marrying the richest banker—everyone will be there.”

And I am breathing once more. Of course it's Contessina's wedding. A younger brother doesn't marry before his sister.

Three weeks later, I stand at the mirror in my bedroom, inspecting how the bodice of this dress fits. Silvia lies prone on the floor, inspecting how the skirts fall.

“Valeria's mother did a fine job,” I say. “Don't you think so?”

“The bottom's even enough.” Silvia gets to her feet and smiles slyly. “I ain't never seen such a low cut on the top, though.”

“It wasn't my idea.”

“Sure.”

“It wasn't. Caterina insisted. That's how they do it in Florence these days. She wants me to fit in.”

Silvia nods and looks away. But her lips twitch.

“What?”

“I didn't say nothing.”

“But you want to. So do it. Just spit it out.”

“You're going to fit in—like Caterina says. You'll be part of Florence now.” She nods. “I knew it was going to happen sooner or later. I'll miss you. But it's good. Good for you.”

“Don't act daft. I'm just going to a wedding. I'm not moving to the city.”

“We'll see. Nobility is nobility. Anyways, you look like the sky. Soft and gentle.”

“You mean that?”

“He'll think the same thing.”

My breath catches. After all this long time, I haven't learned Cristiano's lesson; my heart is still tender with hope.

CHAPTER Twelve

THE NEXT WEEK
I stand in the entrance hall to the Ridolfi house, holding my breath and not feeling at all like the sky. In contrast, I feel tiny and insignificant. For the first time I'm actually grateful that Papà and Caterina's wedding was so extravagant. It prepared me for this; otherwise I might be standing here agog at the flowers and lanterns and sugar sculptures, like a country mouse in a city pantry.

We've already eaten; tables were set up in the streets, so the whole city could feast. But, though I have become insane for new recipes, I hardly tasted what I put in my mouth. My attention was fixed on finding Giuliano, while not letting anyone else realize I was looking for him. We're now inside the Ridolfi home. Only the top nobility are invited inside for the dance. So, while the room is crowded, it's filled with tens, not the thousands outside. My eyes search the room.

A girl rushes up. “Elisabetta! You really came! Finally. Well, of course, who could miss this?”

I look over my shoulder in panic at Caterina, who obligingly steps forward to my rescue. “Your dress is wonderful, Barbara.” Ah, so that's the girl's name. “May I join you young girls just for a little while?” Caterina smiles warmly.

Barbara links arms with me and draws me to the circle of girls my age. But it's Caterina who says hello to each girl, calling them by name, slowly and clearly: Ginevra, Bianca Maria, Lucrezia, Laudomia, Piccarda, Maddalena, Donata, Alessandra. It is only Alessandra that I remember immediately, for I sat with her in the coach little more than a year ago, on Caterina and Papà's wedding day. But the others, it's as though I never met them before. Without Mamma's constant litany about these families, I have lost touch entirely. Still, no one seems to notice my hesitancy, nor my ignorance about almost everything they say. They fold me in, as though I've been one of them forever.

Well, I guess I have been, sort of. Nobility is nobility, like Silvia said. But now that I've become part of the extended Medici family, via Caterina's uncle's marriage to Aunt Nanina, everyone wants to tell me their secrets. And everyone wants to know mine.

I have so many secrets. The way I pass my days is a secret. But secrets are exactly that. The only one who knows all mine is Silvia, and that's the way I'm going to keep it. Since the winter has faded my skin to a respectable paleness, it doesn't give me away. And this dress is certainly appropriately fashionable.

Soon Caterina is whisked off to the dance floor on the arm of a young man.

“So who do your eyes search for?” Maddalena comes closer. “I saw how you looked around the room when you came in. You're older than me, aren't you, but you're not yet betrothed. Do you want a rich banker, like Contessina got?”

“She had to marry him,” says Ginevra. “Her big sister married a banker. Her brother Piero wasn't about to let her marry anyone less. I'm happy with my betrothed—he's handsome and young and he will be rich if he follows in his father's footsteps.”

“I'd take an already-rich banker in a flash, even if he was old,” says Bianca Maria. “Comfort is worth a lot.”

“You're still a child,” says Maddalena. “What do you know?”

“I know what Mamma tells me,” says Bianca Maria. “Other things fade, but money lasts.”

“Other things?” says Ginevra with a knowing look. “Does your mamma describe these ‘other things' to you?”

They giggle. But I know this talk is far from silly. They're discussing their future. Their chance for happiness. Nothing could be more serious. They chatter on.

Piccarda sidles up and whispers in my ear, “No old man for me. I want those ‘other things.' I want to scream in joy in the bedroom. Don't you?”

I blink. No one's ever talked this way to me. I can't believe it's coming from Piccarda. She can't be more than thirteen. Do people really scream in the bedroom?

“And I'm going to get it.” Piccarda practically puts her mouth to my ear. “I'm going to get Giuliano.”

My hand flies to my mouth to hold in the gasp.

“So you think me silly? You think with all the mess going on, he'll wait a decade or more to marry, and then choose someone half his age, don't you? That's what everyone thinks.”

My heart's beating so fast, I can hardly understand her words. What mess is she talking about?

“Well, I'm not silly. My father wants to find me a suitable match now. But I'm begging him to wait. I've caught Giuliano's eye, I'm sure of it. I just need more time. And with how rich he is, he's as good a catch as any older man.”

Piccarda's so young; she might not understand things yet. Whatever Giuliano's eye has done, she might have misunderstood. But she is pretty. Alas, very. And her jewelry shows her wealth. Her father will pay a handsome dowry, I'm sure.

“May I have this dance?” A young man bows to me. I accept his invitation eagerly, for it is nothing less than escape.

When the dance ends, another young man sweeps me away. And when that dance ends, a third man, much older, makes me his partner.

No sooner does that dance end than I hear: “Quite the popular one, aren't you?”

I swirl around to face him so quickly that I knock into him. Why am I always so graceless?

Giuliano makes a show of staggering backward, but he's grinning. “At least you haven't knocked anyone down on the dance floor. Or not yet, that is.”

“So you've been watching me?”

“It's impossible to take my eyes off you.”

I have nothing to say to that. But I'm smiling. Lord, how I'm smiling. At last I manage, “Congratulations on your sister's good fortune.”

“Thank you. We'd better dance or someone else will snatch you from me.” Giuliano offers his arm and we join the dancers.

“I haven't been watching you,” I say as we twirl away from each other. His eyebrows rise and his mouth falls. We twirl again and come together again, and I swallow, then add, “Because I haven't managed to catch even a glimpse of you till now.”

He grins again.

“We saw each other at two funerals in a row, your family's then mine. We saw each other at two weddings in a row, my family's then yours. What do you think is next?” I try to keep my voice light. “And how long between?”

His face goes solemn. “I haven't been to parties this year. I'm sorry I haven't taken the pleasure to dance with you in so long.” We part and twirl and come together again.

“I haven't been to parties, either. Not since Papà's wedding.”

He blinks in surprise. “Any special reason?”

“Special, no. I wouldn't say that. And what's your reason for not going to parties?”