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

one ought to begin every visit, letting the home of Dante and Michelangelo, Botticelli and Leonardo da Vinci, sink into one’s soul. For that is what Florence does, undulating gently through one’s body, taking possession of everything it touches, satisfied only once it has reached the core. Venice grabs one in an instant; Florence seduces more slowly.

Yet even upon first arriving, one understands, in some fundamental, almost primal, way that this is a city of bankers, bankers and merchants who held most of the wealth in the Renaissance world. Perhaps this is why its beauty is more reserved than that of Venice. At least on the exterior.

Colin and I had broken our journey in Paris, where we collected Cécile (along with her two tiny dogs, Caesar and Brutus). We arrived in Florence at the Stazione Centrale Santa Maria Novella in the midst of a downpour—not the time to take in the view from the Piazzale Michelangelo—so I ordered our carriage straight to Kat’s house, a mile away in the Via Porta Rossa. Its imposing medieval sandstone façade towered above as we ducked through large arched doors into a vaulted loggia where a serious-looking middle-aged woman, as wide as she was tall, and a willowy young maid welcomed us. The latter grinned and nodded a greeting; the former frowned at my husband.

“Signore Hargreaves, it has been many years. This is your wife, I presume?” Her withering glare left no doubt as to her opinion of me.

Colin kissed her on both cheeks. “Yes, Signora Orlandi, and there’s no need to be severe. If you can’t behave, I’ll book us rooms at the Grand Hotel Continental and never see you again.”

The signora flitted her hand in a quick, dismissive gesture. “You men are even worse about deciding who to love than we women. Who am I to judge? It has been many, many years since we lost the contessa.” She gestured to the girl next to her. “This is Tessa. She is learning English, but only knows a bit so you will have to be patient with her.”

“A very little inglese,” the girl said, smiling. Her golden hair and slim figure brought to mind Botticelli’s depiction of Venus in his Primavera. I extended my hand to her and introduced myself in Italian, which prompted an excited response from her, only half of which I could understand.

“Tessa grew up in a small village near Pisa. She speaks the dialetto toscano—the Tuscan dialect,” Signora Orlandi said. “Your Italian is good, Lady Emily. You will have no trouble picking it up. It is not so different from what you already know.” There was a begrudging admiration in her tone.

“I’ve long admired your nation for adopting Dante’s vernacular as its own,” I said. “I will always prefer the sound of Tuscan to that of Neapolitan.”

She squinted her dark, almost black, eyes. “Il diavolo non è nero come si dipigne.” The devil is not as black as he is painted.

“That’s a proverb, Signora Orlandi, not Dante,” Colin said. “Ella è quanto de ben pò far natura; per essemplo di lei bieltà si prova.” She is the sum of nature’s universe. / To her perfection all of beauty tends.

She threw back her head and laughed. “I will never argue with a man so much in love. It is good to have you back, signore, especially after these dreadful break-ins. Come inside before you catch a chill in this damp. Signora du Lac, your champagne arrived yesterday. I have a bottle ready for you.”

Cécile, who on principle refused to drink anything but champagne (except first thing in the morning), sent her preferred vintage ahead whenever she traveled. She nodded appreciatively at the housekeeper. “I find myself already innamorato with Firenze.” Caesar barked, as if agreeing with his mistress. Brutus showed no sign of interest.

The housekeeper led us out of the loggia and into a courtyard, where we mounted a staircase and climbed up one flight. At the top, a covered gallery landing skirted the perimeter of the house’s interior. Each floor above was arranged identically.

“The Sala dei Pappagalli—the room of parrots—is the warmest in the house at the moment,” Signora Orlandi said, ushering us inside, where a large stone fireplace boasted a most welcome roaring blaze. “Tomorrow the sun will come out and all will be better. October is not usually so cold.” The ceiling loomed high above us, its heavy beams and painted trusses complementing the walls, which were decorated in red and blue geometric shapes that would have felt familiar to any fourteenth-century resident of the city. Above the pattern, the artist had painted a lush band of trees with parrots in them.

I dropped onto one of the leather chairs in front of the fire while Colin opened the bottle of champagne chilling on a table in the middle of the room and poured a glass for Cécile.

“You would prefer something warm?” Signora Orlandi asked me. I thanked her and requested tea. She and Tessa set off for the kitchen just as the third member of the household staff, a young man called Fredo, entered. He explained that he was responsible for all work requiring a masculine touch and that he was the only person to have nearly seen the person who had twice broken into the house.

“There is little to tell that you do not already know from my telegram, signore. I only noticed the first incident because the intruder knocked over a stack of pots in the kitchen. The noise woke me and I made chase, but he had already fled downstairs and out the front door.”

“Is the kitchen not downstairs?” I asked.

“No, Lady Emily, it is on the third floor.”

“How curious you Italians are,” Cécile said, taking stock of the young man. His age precluded him from being of much interest to her—she believed strongly that no man was worth anything before the age of forty—but that would not stop her from enjoying his swarthy good looks. Fredo met her appreciative gaze without hesitation and