The Smile (7 page)

“He was. He insisted on coming with me, though we had to leave the city long before dawn. Just a while ago he left.”

“Where did he go?”

“Why are you asking?”

“I know him.”

“You know Ser Giuliano?” The woman frowns. I can't tell if she doesn't believe me or if she regrets having summed me up so wrong. “He brought his own horse, tied to the back of the coach. When we got here, he mounted and rode away. He said he wanted to see the countryside.”

“When is he coming back?”

“He's not. He left me here with the coach driver. We have rooms for as long as the flower show lasts. But Ser Giuliano is returning to Florence on his own horse today.”

“Do you think he might come back to Greve before leaving for Florence?”

“Do I look like a mind reader? He told me nothing.”

I suddenly feel like crying.

The woman tilts her head. “Is something amiss?”

I can't understand why I'm acting like this. I'm too frustrated to talk.

“I wouldn't expect him to come back to Greve. People talk of the charm of the villages, but really it's much exaggerated. I should think Ser Giuliano will find his countryside ride boring.”

I grit my teeth and curtsy good-bye. Then I spend the rest of the day choosing flowers. None rival the exotic ones from the Medici garden. And I didn't even learn the name of the tall bush with the pink buds. It would be humiliating to return to that supercilious woman and ask now.

I buy flowers and aromatic bushes till the wagon is full. But nothing overcomes my glumness. I stare at the wagon and realize there's no excuse for not returning home.

“What hurts?” asks Silvia. She stands beside me and takes my hand.

“What do you mean?”

“Don't talk rubbish. It's me. Something's biting you. And hard. If you tell me, it'll hurt less. And that's the truth.”

I move closer to her and my eyes blur with tears I can't understand. It's been a beastly day. First Old Sandra, with her treating us as though we're not nobility. Then that servant of Giuliano's acting like anyone out here is a country bumpkin, no matter how they're dressed. Did she even see my fine clothes? I hate her. And then there's Giuliano himself. He was here. So close to where I am. And I didn't get to see him.

“Come on,” says Silvia. “You can tell me.”

But I can't. I can't talk about any of this to Silvia. She's not part of noble society. And she is part of country folk. If she doesn't already resent me, talking about these things now certainly would. My best friend, and I can't talk to her. It's maddening. I hate the world.

“Keeping secrets from me now, is that how it is?” Silvia's face shows hurt.

“No, no,” I say quickly, “it's no secret. I'm just thinking about my party. Worrying.”

“Worrying? What on earth for? Florence has dozens of middle-aged men on their own. And them fellows, oh, when they see you, just wait. One will snatch you straightaway. Then you're set. Sitting pretty. No cares for the rest of your life.”

I pull away from her in shock. Middle-aged men? Sitting pretty? “How can you say that?”

“Don't you believe it?” She laughs. “You're good-enough looking. And you're sweet as can be. So when your daddy offers a dowry, someone will step forward. You're so lucky. I'd give anything to marry one of them men. But . . .” She laughs again. “I ain't got nothing to give.” Her eyes fasten on me. “Elisabetta?”

“What?”

“Help me win one.”

“What? How could I help?”

“There will be so many at your party. I'm smaller than you. Let me wear one of them dresses of yours from last year, so I look good. Then I can get a man to love me before he finds out I'm poor.”

He'll realize she's poor the instant she opens her mouth and says her first word. I shake my head. “It won't work.”

“Sure it will. I'm prettier than you, no matter what Cristiano says.” Her face pinches in anger. “But you ain't never learned to share.”

She is prettier than me. The sun bounces off her chestnut hair in red highlights. And she's lithe and graceful in a way I've never been. “Of course you can wear a dress of mine. You can take your pick.”

“Really?” Silvia's hands fly up and form little fists of happiness beside her cheeks. “You are a good friend. The best. I'm sorry I said that nasty stuff. It ain't true—I was just being spiteful. Maybe we'll both find husbands at your party.” She laughs. “We can get with child at the same time and grow fat and old together.”

With child, fat, old. How is it that Silvia is so ready for all that? I feel foolish and childish beside her. She's grown up and left me behind.

But what's foolish about wanting love?

I must get betrothed to the right person. And that means having the right party.

The whole bumpy road home, I brood. And I arrive at a conclusion. We cannot have my party in Villa Vignamaggio. It is my belovèd home and it is truly glorious. But if Giuliano's servant woman is a just indicator, the nobility of Florence don't understand this kind of beauty. At best, people will condescend. At worst, they won't even come.

We have to find a more suitable place.

CHAPTER Seven

MAMMA IS WAITING FOR ME
when I get home. She doesn't even look at the flowers in the wagon. She rushes me into the living room and sits me down. “We had a visitor while you were away.” She licks her lips in excitement. “You'll never guess who.”

“Giuliano de' Medici.”

“How did you know!”

Nothing else could have made this terrible day even more wretched than to have missed Giuliano's visit. “What did he want?”

“Nothing, as it turned out. But your father was so pleased to see him, he came to sit with us. The Medici boy, though, well, he simply chatted agreeably about the surroundings. And he asked about you. He remembered your name. From years ago. Imagine that. You must have made quite an impression on him.”

“Not at all, Mamma. He remembered from just a month ago. I saw him at his father's funeral. Leonardo da Vinci took me to his palace.”

Mamma's hands go to her mouth. “And you didn't tell me?” She drops onto the bench.

“There wasn't anything to tell.” Or, rather, there wasn't anything I could tell without upsetting Mamma. She'd have been mortified at how Piero treated me. “Anyway, Mamma, there's something I need to talk to you about.”

Mamma lengthens her neck and leans toward me, alert as a mother bird.

“I want to have my party in the city.”

“What? Villa Vignamaggio is enormous. It's built for entertaining.” Mamma stands as the words stream out. Then she sits again. “I do want you to be happy, Elisabetta. More than anything. But this new desire . . .” She lifts her shoulders in confusion. “Why on earth?”

“I don't think city people will want to come all the way out here. It's a long ride, Mamma. And to make it twice in one day is too much.”

“Nonsense. If we wait till late in June, the heat will already have driven the nobility from the city to their country homes.”

“Which are scattered all over the hills, to the north and west of Florence, too, not just to the south, Mamma. Besides, the men will be in the city doing business still, and it's the men you don't want to leave out.”

“I can prepare guest suites upstairs.”

“There isn't enough room for everyone; nobility can't be stuffed together like chickens going to market. Plus our upstairs has nothing of the finery they're used to.”

Mamma doesn't speak. It's unlike her to yield quickly, though even I am impressed by the number of arguments I've managed to amass.

I move along the bench closer to her. “If we do it in the city, I bet even Giuliano would come.” Still she doesn't answer. I add, with a boldness I didn't know I had, “He's my friend.”

“Indeed?” Mamma touches my cheek. Her face is quizzical, as though she doesn't know who I am. “Your friend?”

“Don't be surprised, Mamma. I just happened to meet him. And he talks easily and gaily. It was pleasant. I imagine he's everybody's friend.”

Mamma's eyes change. That stunned look is replaced by her usual confident rationality. “If he would come out to the country to visit you on just an ordinary day, then surely he'll return for something as important as your party.”

“He was out here on business at Greve.” That isn't entirely true. The flower show isn't business. But it sounds more impressive this way. “So it was easy for him to wander over here.”

“At Greve? But you were at Greve.”

“He left before I arrived.”

Her hands clutch her skirt. Her brow furrows. “You really think he won't come all the way out here, but he would come to a party in the city?”

I take her hand and smooth the crumpled cloth of her skirt. “City people . . . well, Mamma, they feel superior to country people.”

“I know that, Elisabetta. I wasn't born yesterday.” She gazes away. “Giuliano de' Medici. I knew he liked you. I could tell from the way he talked.” She shakes her head in wonder, then turns to me. “If he likes you that much, he might persuade all the other nobles to come, too. Oh, Elisabetta, this accidental friendship might turn out to be a wonderfully useful thing.”

I hadn't thought of it that way. I don't want to use Giuliano. I just want to have a party in the city. I don't want to be discounted as a mere country girl.

Mamma looks at me hard. “Paying for an appropriate place in the city—that would add to the expense quite a bit, Elisabetta. And your father is already pressed. He'll be against this. But . . . I may have an idea.”

“What?”

“Family has to be useful some of the time,” she says mysteriously. “Let me talk to your father tonight.”

The next morning I find myself riding horseback to Florence with Papà and Mamma. We are on a mission.

Last night Mamma started in immediately after our meal. She announced the party had to be in Florence. Before Papà could bring arguments against that, she complained that the house Papà owns in Florence, near the Santa Trinità church, is so dilapidated it isn't serviceable; it isn't even inhabitable; he should have repaired it years ago, like he promised; and on and on. Even I wanted her to quit after a while.

It worked, though: Papà responded not to our announcement that the party must be in the city, but to the claim that we had nowhere to hold it. He came up with this plan. We are going to convince Papà's cousin Fabrizio to host my party in his city house in early June—before the women and children leave for their country homes.

Yes, indeed, family has to be useful some of the time. I have no doubt that cousin Fabrizio's house, while Papà proposed it, was Mamma's plan all along. But if Mamma had made the suggestion directly, Papà would have bristled. He isn't on the best terms with Fabrizio, and Mamma knows that very well.

And now I must do my part: I'm going to invite Giuliano de' Medici immediately. I'll send a messenger straight to his palace. Then, when he says he'll come, I'll tell Cousin Fabrizio, and of course he'll agree to host the party. Everyone wants Medici family members as guests.

I remember Giuliano rubbing his knuckles on my palms. His laughter. His words about my smile. My cheeks heat. Well, those words seem exaggerated in retrospect, but all the rest is true and sure. Giuliano really is my friend. Though such an idea would have seemed outrageous a month ago, I'm convinced of it. Giuliano may be a Medici, but he isn't the least bit snobby. He wouldn't have come all the way out to Villa Vignamaggio if he were. He'll say yes.

So I'm full of hope. And how could I not be, in this very moment in this very place? Spring has gone from the delicate arias of April to the rowdy chorus of May, the most glorious month in these hills. And I am amused at a new realization: our home's name, Villa Vignamaggio, means “May vineyard.” I was destined to love May. What a marvelous day! And after the pitiful way yesterday went. We trot past mulberry groves and grapevine terraces. We trot past giant fields sown with rye, barley, wheat, oats, and smaller fields of lentils, peas, chickpeas.

And now Papà cuts across a meadow. The horses speed to a gallop. This meadow is tilled by no one, natural as the day it was created. Wildflowers cover the hillsides to our right in colors that seem to arrange themselves in perfect harmony. Red, yellow, blue, purple. The eye of God is clear.

Maybe that's why Papà is so pious. He also has a clear eye. It's what makes him a master at his job. Mamma is pious because it's the only defense of women. She says that outright, no beating around the bush. Piety and purity, the sword and shield.

But men have more freedoms. Papà could have chosen to stand outside the church, like many intellectuals, but he's a papist.

I don't know what I am. Not really. God is evident, of course. The hillsides prove that. And the silkworms. And . . .

“Aiiii!” Mamma's horse stumbles and falls. She disappears under him. Her scream ceases—cut off in an instant, as though the air has been sliced.

I'm down from my own horse in a second and tugging on the reins of her horse, tugging and tugging, pulling him to the opposite side from where Mamma lies.

The poor beast is half-crazed. His eyes bulge; his mouth slobbers. He lifts his neck and paws at the ground with his front hooves, trying to rock his weight, get himself up any way he can. I smell his silent screams.

Papà pushes on him from behind. He curses. Papà never curses. I'm pulling and calling to Mamma. I can't see anything beyond the bulk of the horse. I keep calling, tugging with all my might. The air stinks.