The Dark Heart of Florence by Tasha Alexander (ebook reader screen TXT) 📕

sons. The elder is a painter. He designs our pieces. The younger is a goldsmith. He brings his brother’s work to life. Did you know that the great Brunelleschi, who put the dome on our cathedral, began as a goldsmith?”

“I did not,” Cécile said. “But it should surprise no one that a superior artist would exhibit multitudinous talents.”

“The great Alberti said, A man can do all things if he will. You know of Alberti?”

“He was one of the most accomplished men of the Renaissance,” I said. “A philosopher and architect, I believe.”

“There was very little he couldn’t do, signora,” he said. “We do not have many men like this anymore. It is a tragedy.”

“I am curious, monsieur, to learn more about the jewelry of the Renaissance,” Cécile said. “Rings, in particular, and other small pieces one could easily hide away.”

“Jewelry has long been a form of currency for ladies who are kept from their families’ fortunes,” he said. “In Florence, a wealthy bride might have received fifteen or twenty rings from members of her husband’s family, but, technically, she did not own them. When the time came, she would present them to other girls marrying into the clan.”

“So she couldn’t keep them?” I asked.

“Not forever, no.”

“That rather puts a damper on your idea that we shall find a stash of rings hidden in the palazzo,” I said to Cécile.

“Do you expect to find such a treasure?” Signore di Nardo asked, incredulous.

“I hope to,” Cécile said. “We know there is something hidden, but we don’t know what. I had thought jewelry, as it’s small.”

“Which palazzo?”

“The Palazzo di Vieri,” I said. “I found several references to a treasure that was deliberately concealed in the house.”

“Sì, signora, its treasure is most famous.”

“It is?” I asked, surprised.

“Oh, yes, but I would not try to look for it. Everyone who does ends up dead, in a most unpleasant manner.”

 Florence,

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For fourteen weeks, the most glorious passion consumed me. Joy filled every conversation I had, every task I undertook. I saw beauty in everything, was a caring and attentive daughter, a spirited and friendly sister, a generous and indulgent mistress to our servants, Alfia in particular. For without her, I would not have been able to spend so much time with Giacomo.

Fourteen weeks might not seem, empirically, like all that much time, but it was enough for me to give myself wholly to him, body and soul, and enough for him to leave me with an everlasting reminder of the stolen hours during which we clung to each other. Alfia was aware of the problem before I was, having more knowledge of such things than I. First, she noticed that my monthly courses were late. Then, that I was sick in the morning. Neither of which I understood as signals that I was with child. At least, not until she told me.

My mother had never broached the subject. When my courses first began, she left it to Alfia to explain how to contend with the inconvenience. I had almost no insight into the relations between husband and wife. According to my mother, there was no need for me to be burdened with the knowledge of such things until I was on the cusp of marriage. With Giacomo, I had succumbed to every bodily urge, giving little thought to where it might lead. Which is not to say I didn’t know I was taking a great risk. I did. But it never occurred to me that it could all happen so quickly.

“You must do something about this at once,” Alfia implored me. “Your mother will discover your secret if you wait too long.”

“Do what?” I asked. She shrugged, but said nothing. I knew there were women who, for a fee, could eliminate such problems, but I would not consider taking such action. I loved Giacomo. I wanted his child. To describe the fantasies in which I indulged would be mortifying in the extreme. I was sixteen. I never doubted that he loved me, never doubted that, together, we would find a way. First, though, I would have to talk to him. Then we could make a plan.

When I went to confession that week—a ritual that had become charged with a host of inappropriate urges—I told him my sins, finishing, as had become a necessary habit, with those things that happened between us. As always, I struggled. I did not wish to make a bad confession. I was penitent. I tried—how I tried!—to resist letting it happen again, but never was I strong enough to resist when he looked at me, when he touched me. Week after week we swore to each other that we would stop, that we would return to discussing books. No more poetry, though. I suggested Euclid’s Elements, he a dry collection of the lives of the saints. It was all for naught.

This time, however, after I’d begged for forgiveness and promised to do better, there was one more thing I had to address. My nerves jangled, but with excitement rather than fear. We walked to the little room off the cloisters that I had come to think of as ours, and, once inside, I told him my news, ready to comfort him when he realized he would have to leave the priesthood, but confident that I could help him find equal—if not more—satisfaction in being a husband. The lusty look I’d come to crave seeing in his eyes disappeared, replaced by one harder and colder than stone. Still, I was not scared.

“I know it will cause a terrible scandal, but together, we can face it,” I said. “If it becomes too much, we can always leave Florence. Dreadful though that sounds—”

“Signorina, stop.” I hardly recognized his voice. All intimacy, all warmth was gone. “I will handle the matter. There will be no scandal. You will come to confession as usual next week. Any alteration in your routine might be noticed. By then, I will have a plan in place.”

“Will we—”

He interrupted me again.