The Golden Key (72 page)

That
summer saw Mechella’s entry into all the delights and pitfalls of Court life. Gizella and Lissina kept careful eyes on her, but soon realized that not only was the girl newly confident now that she’d borne Arrigo a child—even if it was only a girl—she was so charming that even her rare mistakes made her more beloved.

True, her education was not extensive nor her understanding deep, but she was so humble in her desire to learn that the stodgiest scholars endured her ignorance with smiles. She tended to a slightly glazed expression when politics were discussed, but she was a divinity on the dance floor. She had scant notion of where each noble’s estates were located, but she always asked after the children and grandchildren by name. Her notes thanking this countess or that baroness for a wonderful dinner were written in a childish hand, but with such innocent sincerity that even her spelling was instantly forgiven. And her face, her figure, her jewels, and her clothes were the envy of every woman in Meya Suerta.

Arrigo nearly burst with pride whenever he looked at her. When they toured schools, village fairs, Sanctia hospices, or guildhalls, the people chanted her name even more loudly than his. Everywhere she was deluged with irises, her favorite flower. When it was rumored she had a fondness for almonds, baskets of them appeared whenever she did. She was seen wearing a Casteyan lace shawl, and the camponessa who had made it as a wedding present grew very rich in commissions for wealthy noblewomen. Mere days after she donned an embroidered apron to tour a feeding kitchen for the poor, every woman in Meya Suerta with any claim to fashion sported a similar garment.

In one thing alone did Mechella displease Arrigo: she loathed Chasseriallo. Thinking to give her respite from the constant round of parties, balls, and charity work, he arranged for a week’s stay at the lodge in autumn. The moment they arrived, she began to cough. By next morning she was running a fever and spent the whole time in bed. Moreover, she had nightmares: moss festooning the oak trees wrapped around her throat, the torpid river suddenly became a torrent that swept her away, the little chirruping tree-frogs swelled to the size of horses and crashed through the roof. At
length he had pity on her nerves and took her back to Meya Suerta. But he couldn’t help remembering times spent here with Tazia—she who waded hip-deep in the river to fish beside him, she who loved the dark mystery of the trees, she who joined him in hunting and wild rides over the hills and the ancient bathtub every evening. …

Disloyalty to Mechella shamed him. As she recovered her spirits in Palasso Verrada, and became once more the lively, adorable girl he’d married, he forgot Tazia. Almost.

By Providenssia Mechella was pregnant again, and even more ill with it than the first time. She took to her bed and canceled her engagements—not that any of her official appearances with Arrigo had any real import. At farm fairs, he judged the horseflesh and she the baked goods and embroidery. They attended ceremonies blessing a new mine or mill or medical facility. They dined with the Drapers Guild, the Vintners, the Clockmakers, the Linen Merchants, the Goldsmiths, the Corn Factors. She enjoyed it all, even the boring speeches, for there was always the promise of talking to people and hearing their concerns. And they told her everything, from worry about a child’s broken wrist to their views on trade with Taglis.

But Arrigo fretted. He had thought his marriage would change things. With a wife to assume some of the social burden, he had thought he’d be free to work with his father on matters of state. He knew his ideas were good ones. For instance, Tira Virte ought to be selling wagonloads of gorgeous Casteyan furs to the cold northern kingdom of Merse. Opening one market, Arrigo reasoned, would eventually open others. But Cossimio shook his head. Trade in luxury items was no way to establish Merse’s dependence on Tira Virte; political cooperation was gained through fear of losing an essential supply of foodstuffs or minerals, not cloaks for the wealthy. Further, the Merseians didn’t adhere to the practice of painting rather than writing treaties, so how could any business be done with them?

Arrigo understood this painting angle better than his father suspected, but revealed nothing of his knowledge. The information Dioniso had given him about Grijalva art not only made sense and explained many historical puzzles, but worried him as well. No aspect of governance or foreign relations could be trusted unless a Limner painted it—and this gave entirely too much power to the Grijalvas. Seeing no way around this entrenched power, Arrigo decided that if it could not be curbed, then at least he would make certain he had his own Grijalvas from now on.

And so he encouraged Mechella’s art lessons with Cabral, and met with Dioniso at least once a month, and wondered when the time would be right to include the Count and Countess do’Alva in the small entertainments he hosted at Palasso Verrada. Now that Mechella was pregnant again and too exhausted to attend, he felt he could issue the invitation. Besides, what gossip could come of a gathering of a dozen or more people? It wasn’t as if he were summoning Tazia to an intimate midnight supper. And he was no longer in love with her anyway.

One thing had definitely changed since his marriage. When he appeared alone now in public, disappointment showed on every face. Gifts were always for Mechella; flowers were always her adored irises. Arrigo began to realize how deeply she was loved by the people of Tira Virte.
His
people. It was gratifying, of course, to have her such an overwhelming success, but annoying when they called her name and demanded to know why he hadn’t brought her with him, even though they knew she was again pregnant.

The first time it happened, he held up a hand for quiet and the Gemcutters Guild fell silent in their huge tapestried Hall. Smiling, Arrigo said in a voice that carried all the way to the painted rafters, “Regretto, but Dona Mechella was not feeling well enough tonight to join me, though I can’t say that I entirely regret being the cause of her indisposition.” There were cheers and laughter; someone cried out, “Good to see a man who enjoys his work!”; someone else yelled, “This time a son!” Arrigo grinned, and told his wife about it the next morning when he presented her with the guild’s gift: bracelets of a dozen different stones, one for her and one for Teressa. Mechella blushed, and they laughed together.

He used the same little speech several times to similar effect. But one day no one laughed, and a voice called out, “If it was you suffering to bring the next Heir into the world, you’d not be so quick to joke on it!” The woman was immediately silenced by her mortified husband, and red-faced officials of the Woodworkers Guild apologized profusely, but a chant rose in the courtyard outside as Arrigo left the building: “
Mechella! Mechella!
” He didn’t tell his wife about it, and never used the witticism again.

The day after it happened, a group of nobles and their wives came to the Palasso for an afternoon of music and conversation. Arrigo welcomed his guests, saw to their comfort, and kept his countenance when Tazia arrived alone.

“Garlo’s deep in consultation with his stewards—something tedious about the crops. But he insisted I come today. I hope it’s all right.”

“It’s kind of you to join us,” Arrigo responded, and directed her to the wine and cakes before turning to welcome the next couple. It didn’t occur to him until people sat down for the concert that he and Tazia were the only ones lacking their spouses. The chairs had been arranged in pairs with small tables between them, each husband and wife together. Arrigo sat alone. So did Tazia.

The music was provided by the latest sensation: the eight-year-old daughter of Baron do’Varriyva. Little Clemenssia’s artistry with the gamba was nothing short of extraordinary. She entered with perfect aplomb, enchanted them for an hour, and then was taken back home by her mother for an afternoon nap. Listening to her, watching her small clever fingers dance across the strings, Arrigo was struck not only by her precocious brilliance but by the incongruity of a nobleman’s daughter evincing a talent other than for needlework or flower arranging. Clemenssia had a genuine gift, and her parents were at virulent odds over allowing her to pursue it without being subject to the usual strictures on a highborn girl to get herself married as soon as possible. Arrigo wondered what might have befallen him if he’d had a gift for music or literature or even painting, like the Grijalvas—and gave sincere thanks to the Mother that he did not. He couldn’t imagine the misery of wanting desperately to pursue one course when duty compelled him elsewhere. It was bad enough wanting to do what he’d been born for and knew he would excel at, and not being allowed to do it.

After Clemenssia’s performance, the company broke into small groups to chat. Arrigo drifted, ever the affable host, gathering the latest gossip. This ought to have been Mechella’s task, freeing him to talk politics with the men.

At length he found himself at the refreshment table, where a footman poured more wine into his glass. All at once he heard Tazia’s voice behind him.

“Poor child, her father’s winning the battle for now. Although my cousin Lissina and I intend to join the fray on Clemenssia’s side.”

“Charming as her playing is,” replied the Countess do’Najerra, “her duty is to marry. With a few children underfoot, she’ll soon forget all about the gamba.”

“How can you think so!” Tazia exclaimed. “It would break her heart to give up her music. It’s one thing to be born to a duty you want to perform, and quite another to be forced into it when your heart’s life lies elsewhere.”

“Nonsense,” snapped the other woman. “She’s eight. How can she know what she wants? And why should she have the pleasure
of choice when the rest of us don’t?” She paused. “But of course
you
did, Tazia. Or were you, too, merely doing your duty?”

Arrigo felt his breath stop. Was this what Tazia had endured since their parting? He composed his expression, and turned; Zandara do’Najerra was so flustered by the sight of him that she nearly dropped her sweet-laden plate. He gave her a precise count of three to meditate on her blunder, then said blandly, “Just the lady I hoped to see! Zandara, my mother would take it as a great favor if you’d join her hospital committee. They plan a new children’s wing, and no one has more experience of children than yourself. How many little brothers did you raise?”

“Seven, after my mother died, Your Grace, and six sons and three daughters of my own.”

“And another expected, perhaps?” He gave her rigidly corseted waistline a casual glance. She turned crimson and set down her plate. “Eiha, my mistake. I’d heard a rumor, but rumors are so often wrong, aren’t they? May I tell my mother you’ll oblige her?”

Stiff as her stays, she replied, “I’m honored, Don Arrigo. I’ll consider it not only my duty but my pleasure.”

“How lucky,” murmured Tazia, “to combine the one with the other.”

Arrigo betrayed not a hint of his amusement, but Tazia had known him a very long time, and when she glanced up at him with twinkling dark eyes he was hard put to keep a straight face. The Countess do’Najerra, knowing herself overmatched, excused herself and left the two former lovers alone.

“That was very naughty of you,” Tazia observed.

“She deserved it, the silly cow. Does that sort of thing happen often?”

“Not as often as I’d like. I rather enjoy outwitting them. Though it would be more fun if they had more wits.” She gave him a smile and started to walk away.

“Don’t go just yet. We haven’t had a talk in a long time.”

“Would it be proper? Oh, don’t frown so. I only meant that word might get back to Dona Mechella, and she might not understand that there’s nothing between us.”

“There used to be a great deal between us—which is why half these women would go running to Mechella with the tale of our conversation if they could.”

“I heard she wasn’t feeling well—again. I hope she gets over it soon. I’d hate for her to miss another autumn and winter social season.”

“I’ll convey your kind wishes for her health.”

“Now you’re frowning with words! I’d better leave before people think your awkwardness means something it doęsn’t.”

“Why shouldn’t I have a casual chat with an old friend?”

She laughed lightly. “‘Friend’ if you must, but spare me the ‘old’!”

“You’ll never be that.” He sipped wine. “Did you mean that about taking little Clemenssia’s side against her father’s matrimonial ambitions?”

“Certainly. You heard for yourself, the child is uniquely talented. Why should she be forced to marry if that’s not her will?”

He gave a shrug. “She’s only eight. She doesn’t know what she wants.”

“You agree with Zandara?” Her elegant brows arched. “Eiha, I suppose putting duty above personal preference is bred into you do’Verradas.”

“And into you Grijalvas?” He lowered his voice. “Was Zandara right about you?”

Her lashes swept down in sooty shadows on her cheeks. “You know she wasn’t, Arrigo. You
know
it! Now let me go, please.”

Her steps were a little too swift as she walked to her chair and snatched up her shawl. He knew everyone was looking. But by the time she joined the group at the windows she was all charm and smiles. Such was her duty now, as the Countess do’Alva.

And her pleasure?

Did she love Garlo? Odd that he’d never asked himself that before now. Nearly a year since her marriage, and he’d never even been curious. It hadn’t occurred to him what she might be going through as the discarded Mistress. Surely the same had not happened to his father’s Mistress! But Mechella had not befriended Tazia the way Gizella had done with Lissina. That was wrong of her, he decided. And he was at fault, too, for becoming husband and father had occupied him so totally that he hadn’t even wondered if the woman he’d once loved was happy.

He finished his wine and held out his glass for more, cursing himself for coldness and heartlessness. He’d make it up to her, he vowed he’d see to it that she was as respectfully treated and as admired as Lissina.

And in this he required Mechella’s cooperation.