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

She says the child is expected in the spring. Winter is cold here, and will only get colder, but I prefer it to southern climates, no matter what the doctors tell me. You will be well looked after.”

“And then?”

“You will stay through the summer. By then, we will have found you someone to marry. Your parents are unaware of your condition?”

“They suspect nothing.” A crushing guilt descended upon me as I said the words.

“Good. That will make things easier.”

“I’d rather not marry.”

“It’s either that or the convent. I promise to choose a man who will be kind to you. You deserve that much. It won’t be a brilliant match, but given the circumstances, it is the best anyone can hope for.”

“And my baby?”

“We will take it back to Florence, to the Ospedale degli Innocenti. They will take care of the child, see to its education, and put it on a righteous path.”

“More righteous than that walked by its parents,” I said.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself. Giacomo is a beast. Once he chose you, you had very little chance of getting away. I don’t know anyone who’s managed to do it, but then, I suppose I wouldn’t, would I? I will send food to your room so that you don’t have to face any more conversation today. Tomorrow, I will show you my gardens, and we will settle into what I hope you find a satisfying routine. All I ask in return is that you try not to weep in my presence. That, I cannot abide.”

Fabbiana, as she insisted I call her, proved an amiable companion, although I worried I was not the same for her, despite my having been invited on just that pretense. Every morning, we took a walk, even in bad weather—in defiance of ominous warnings from the doctor who wanted her inside as much as possible—and then made lace until it was time for my hostess’s afternoon nap.

Those few hours were among the only ones I had to myself each day. At first, I resented the lack of privacy, but I soon came to realize that I was more content in Fabbiana’s company than when I was on my own. Alone, I thought about Giacomo, about our child, about the dreams I’d for us.

Fabbiana insisted that I write to my family regularly, so I composed cheery notes about the mountains and the lake and my ever-increasing skills as a lace maker. As the weeks turned to months, I stopped fantasizing about what might have been with Giacomo and instead grew angry with him. When I fell into bed, though, I still could not help praying that he would come to me, at least to see our child. I told no one these thoughts, not even Alfia, who spent many nights comforting me as I cried in bed.

The new year arrived. Spring was violent, with unforgiving storms lashing down on us, one after another. My pains began late on the day before Easter. The baby, a boy, was born just after midnight on La Pasquetta, Easter Monday. His eyes were dark, not like his father’s, but the midwife told me that might change. Not that I would ever know. I called him Diotisalvi and handed him over to Fabbiana as instructed. I would not see him again.

She took him to Florence herself. When she returned, three days later, she pressed into my hand a golden medallion, cut in half, a medal of St. Anthony. “Little Salvi has the other half,” she said. “Should he ever try to find you, you’ll need this to prove you’re his mother.”

“Might he try to find me?” I asked.

“It’s not likely, Mina,” she said. “But it never hurts to make it easier, just in case.”

 Florence,

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The next day, I was left alone. Cécile had accepted an invitation from Signore Tazzera to visit a winery in Chianti; Colin and Darius had gone out after consuming an enormous breakfast, saying they wouldn’t be back until late afternoon. I decided to finish copying the graffiti on the walls of the house.

Much of it was irrelevant, at least to me. There were names that I did not recognize, dates that had lost their significance over the centuries, comments about measures of hay, and phrases rendered incomprehensible by the erosion of the letters that formed them. There were also four more passages written in Latin:

Saepius illa

religio peperit scelerosa atque impia facta.

Again and again our foe, religion, has given birth to deeds sinful and unholy.

Ita res accendent lumina rebus.

So clearly will truths kindle light for truths.

Omnis cum in tenebris praesertim vita laboret.

Life is one long struggle in the dark.

Infidi maris insidias virisque dolumque

ut vitare velint, neve ullo tempore credant,

subdola cum ridet placidi pellacia ponti.

Never trust her at any time, when the calm sea shows her false alluring smile.

The first brought Savonarola to mind, guiding me a step closer to accepting that someone may well have hidden valuables to keep them out of the friar’s bonfire. The fourth read as ominous. The other two did not immediately strike me as illuminating when it came to my investigations.

Life is one long struggle in the dark. As I contemplated this statement, I thought about Marzo. He certainly wanted money. Ridolfo claimed Lena insisted upon a house of her own, something his brother couldn’t afford. Lena did not deny this. What if he knew about the treasure and his death was a result of trying to find it? He could have come to the house at night, mistaken as a burglar by Fredo. Furthermore, Marzo might not be the only one who was searching for it. If he had made progress that became evident to someone else, that someone else could have eliminated his competition.

I’d been working in my study on the third floor and went out to the gallery landing, poking my head over the railing, looking for Fredo, whom I’d seen earlier in the courtyard. He wasn’t there now, but I could hear him whistling—a tune by Puccini—so I went