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

Much older and one would start to ask questions. He doesn’t involve himself much in politics, which keeps this from being a brilliant match for your family, but his fortune is enormous. He deals in silks, the most beautiful to be found in the world. Your trousseau will be the envy of every girl in Florence. His success means he spends most of his time engaged in business, so he will trouble you very little. I’ve no doubt you will find it a satisfactory arrangement.”

I stared across the lake to the mountains, not wanting to look at her. The weather could not have been more favorable: sunny and warm, with a slight breeze, perfectly refreshing. Yet I was sweating as if it were the hottest day of summer. I heard footsteps behind me and knew he had arrived. Following Fabbiana’s example, I rose to greet him, but almost keeled over when I saw his face. He was the man who had scowled at me when I was leaving the Medici palazzo with my grandfather, more than a year ago.

If I’d still possessed even an ounce of confidence, it would have fled in that moment. As I did not, seeing him only served to make me feel even smaller and more worthless than I already did. Fabbiana made the introductions; Signore di Vieri showed no sign of recognizing me. We made polite conversation for a quarter of an hour before our hostess excused herself, leaving us alone.

“Fabbiana speaks highly of you,” he said. “Your family is well respected. I have no objections to marrying you. I do, however, realize that you may feel different. If that is the case, tell me now. There is no need for explanations or discussion. It’s time I married, but I will not have a wife who’s taken by force.”

His words surprised me, and I could hardly find my voice. I stared down at the floor. “Do I not displease you?”

“Why would you ask that?”

“I saw you last year, when I was leaving the Palazzo Medici with my grandfather. You were waiting to speak to il Magnifico and glared at me in a manner so menacing I’ve never forgotten it.”

“I have a vague memory of seeing a young lady with Signore Portinari. That was you?” He shook his head. “At the time, my thoughts were consumed by an unfortunate business development, one that I’d come to discuss with Lorenzo. I assure you my expression reflected no judgment on you and apologize to have caused you any pain.”

How foolish I’d been to assume he’d taken any notice of me! The hurt and vulnerability that had spurred me into Giacomo’s arms was no one’s fault but my own. “You owe me no apology,” I said. “I ought not have misread the situation. It doesn’t matter now. Fabbiana told me you are kind. I have no objections.”

“Very good. I will speak to your father this week, immediately upon my return to Florence. Regarding your cassoni, is there an artist you favor for the decoration?”

These marriage chests, a gift from him, would contain my trousseau and be carried through the city in our wedding procession as I made my way to my new home, a public display of the wealth and power of both our families. “Botticelli,” I said, looking up at him.

He nodded. “Very good. I will see you back in Florence.” Another nod, and he walked away.

And that was it. He made no effort to kiss me, to touch me. I was glad.

“Good news, I’m told,” Fabbiana said as she stepped back onto the loggia, her arms spread wide. She embraced me. “I am pleased that you can now move on from this unhappy stage of your life.”

I was, too, although at the moment I felt more off-balance than happy. It was as if I could hardly recognize the world anymore. Three weeks later, I returned to my father’s house, where my ecstatic parents welcomed me, delighted that I was making a good marriage. I had undergone what should have been the most transforming experience of my life—giving birth to a child—but to everyone around me, it was as if nothing had changed. I had managed to escape public ruin, but inside, I was a tangle of despair.

I arrived home on a Saturday and did not go to church with my family the next day, pleading exhaustion after my journey from Lake Garda. In the excitement of making plans for the wedding, my mother did not notice that I skipped confession that week. The following Sunday, however, I could not avoid Mass. I girded myself, not knowing how I would feel when I saw Giacomo, how he would react to seeing me.

Sacrilegious though some might consider it, church was a place where Florentine girls could display their beauty and wealth in the hopes of enticing a well-heeled bachelor. I had no need for this, but I wanted to look my best. Alfia chose the gown I wore. It was the most beautiful one I owned, vermilion silk embroidered with gold. She brushed my hair until it gleamed and I looked like a model of Venus. Alfia understood, without being told, how much I needed to believe I could torment Giacomo. I would never forgive him for what he’d done to me. The only way I could make him suffer was to make him want me, when he could never have me again.

How naïve I was! I held my head high as we walked to our family pew. I met his eyes when he gave me Communion. But there was nothing in them. No reaction, let alone regret, not even a hint of recognition. Nothing that had transpired between us mattered to him. You can’t hurt someone who doesn’t care.

Which meant I was the only one in pain after Mass that Sunday.

I pleaded a headache when we got home and went straight to my room, where I collapsed on the bed, weeping.

“You must forget him,” Alfia said, sitting next