Courtesan's Lover (39 page)

Serafina Parisetto realized her mouth was open. She closed it. Her eyes wide with shock, she stared at Gianni, who said, “And then about an hour ago, Papa said he was going to try to find Carlo; he just ran out of the house and I haven't seen him since. I daren't go and look for him—I don't want to leave her and those children on their own for long, with only Luigi, he's so useless. Please come, Signora—she hasn't asked for help, but she's horribly pale and I'm frightened to touch the cut on her face in case I make it worse.”

Serafina tried to speak. Each of several attempts failed. Then, sounding hoarse, she managed to whisper, “A…a
courtesan
?”

She felt a twinge of shame in her belly, even saying the word.

Gianni nodded.

“Does Filippo know?” A pause. “I mean…his
cousin
.”

Serafina saw Gianni flush and her face flamed. She said, “Oh, no. She's not his cousin, is she?”

Gianni shook his head.

Serafina felt sick. “Oh,
cielo
—poor Maria. And poor Luca.” Another, longer pause. She remembered the morning she had spent with—as she had thought then—her new friend, out on the
belvedere
. She had liked her so much. Pressing steepled fingers against the sides of her nose, she muttered, “Oh, dear, I…I don't know what to think…” She felt as though she were standing in fog on the edge of an unexpected cliff.

Gianni twitched his weight from one leg to another. “Can you come now? I don't know how long Papa's going to be, and—”

“Of course,
caro
. Of course…” Serafina reached out and laid a hand on Gianni's sleeve.

Leaving him standing in the hallway, she ran up the stairs to where Piero sat by the fire in the
sala
. He frowned curiously as she came in, but Serafina held both hands up in front of her as he opened his mouth to speak. “No—Piero, please—don't ask. It's too complicated, and I have to go. Now. It's just—do you remember Francesca?” She hesitated and then managed to say, “Filippo's cousin? From the play?”

Piero nodded.

“Gianni's at the door—he says she's…she's been hurt. He wants me to come and see her.”

Piero stood up. “Hurt? What's happened? Where's Luca?”

“I don't know. I'll tell you more when I get back,
caro
. Please—I just want to get going. You'll have to stay here with the boys.”

Piero nodded again. “But it's late,” he said. “Gianni must walk you there and back—all the way, Fina. I don't want you out on your own this late.”

Serafina nodded over her shoulder as she hurried out to the kitchen. Rummaging through several drawers, she put a handful of small squares of linen, a couple of bunches of thyme, and some sprigs of lavender into a basket, then picked up a corked bottle of lavender water and a small jar of honey, putting them on top of the herbs and the cloths. She laid another square of linen flat on the table; opening a stoneware jar, she scooped three spoonfuls of salt onto the linen, where it lay in a neat cone shape. She lifted the corners of the linen square and tied them tightly across the diagonal, first one way, then the other, making a secure bag for the salt. This she put into the basket with the other items. Then, pulling a brown, sleeveless, fur-trimmed coat from a hook on the back of the door, she swung it around her shoulders.

***

“She's up on the second floor,” Gianni said. “In my room. Just opposite the top of the staircase.”

Serafina drew in a long breath and climbed the stairs with her heart thumping. The openings to a dozen different versions of a possible conversation jostled and tumbled untidily in her mind; each she discarded in turn as rude, ignorant, embarrassing.

She knocked tentatively on the closed door.

A pause. Footsteps. The door latch lifted.

In the few moments it had taken Serafina to walk from her house to this one, she had built up in her mind a picture of the woman she now knew to be…a courtesan. In her mind Francesca's new expression was salacious and knowing, she was dressed in provocative and revealing clothing; she was to Serafina now entirely alien. Even frightening. But, as the real Francesca opened the door to Gianni's bedchamber, and Serafina saw her pallor, her fatigue, her tangled hair, and the ugly gash running up the side of her face, all her anxieties and embarrassment vanished. She dropped her basket onto the floor, put her arms around her friend, and held her. She stood still and unspeaking, aware that the woman in her embrace had begun to shake with slow, silent sobs.

“Oh,
cara
, don't cry,” Serafina murmured. “Please, please don't cry.”

Francesca did not reply, but a sound seemed to force itself out of her—a long, low, animal groan, that instantly reminded Serafina of the cries she herself had made in childbirth: a wordless, guttural expression of exhausted desperation. Serafina tightened her hold. She stroked Francesca's back in little soothing circles, aware as she did so of her own smallness; used to the size of her two tiny boys, who were the people whose tears she most regularly dried, it suddenly seemed incongruous to be thus mothering a woman at least a head taller than she was herself.

“Gianni's told me everything,” she murmured. “All about it. He came to find me just now, because he was so worried about you.”

“Is Luca with you?” she heard Francesca say.

“No.” Serafina stood back from her, reaching for and holding both Francesca's hands inside her own. “No. I…I don't know where he is.”

Francesca looked at her without speaking for several seconds, then she said, “You must despise me.”

Serafina stared at her. “I think I meant to,” she said. She was surprised at her own honesty. “I think I meant to, as I walked over here, but now it has come to it, I find that I don't.”

“I hated deceiving you. I wished I could tell you the truth.”

Serafina imagined herself with such a secret: knew how impossible it would have been to have divulged it. “It doesn't matter,” she said. “Don't think of it. Let me see that cut.”

She motioned to Francesca to sit back down on the edge of the bed, and then, holding a candle up close to Francesca's face, she peered at the wound left by Michele's knife and said, “Oh,
cara
, that must be so very sore—can you let me put some salts on it? There's a chance it will turn poisonous if we just leave it.”

Francesca said nothing, but sat still and quiet, watching while her companion busied herself taking her herbs, honey, and salt out of her little basket. Serafina laid them carefully on the chest at the end of the bed, then crossed to the door, opened it, and called down the stairs, “Gianni!”

There were footsteps, and Gianni's face, oddly isolated in a pool of wobbling candlelight, appeared in the hallway.

“Could you boil me some water,
caro
, and bring up a cup and a spoon, too?”

Gianni nodded and disappeared.

When she turned back into the room, Serafina saw that Francesca was crouched down next to her children; stroking one girl's forehead, she was crooning a softly whispered song, murmuring them back to sleep.

Gianni appeared a few moments later with a pewter bowl in one hand and a small stemless cup in the other. This he put down on the chest, next to Serafina's herbs and salts. He hesitated a moment, then pecked a quick nod to Francesca and left the room again.

Serafina dipped the cup into the hot water, then stripping off some of the lavender and thyme leaves, she pushed them down into the water to steep. Into the rest of the hot water, she tipped the salt and stirred it around with the spoon.

“We'll leave that to cool for a moment,” she said. “I'll wash the cut with it. The salt will help to clean it—it might sting a little, though. And then I'll dress it with honey.”

Francesca shrugged but said nothing. She sat silently while Serafina cleaned her torn face with one of the linen squares, soaked in the hot salt water. Other than stifled winces, she neither moved nor spoke.

“Quick!”

Luca felt a hand close around his wrist.

“We have to get out of here—now!” Modesto jerked at Luca's arm. “Come on, Signore—you have to move. The fucking
sbirri
will be here any moment.”

Luca's fingers were red and sticky. Retching, he wiped them on his breeches: they left a dark, untidy smear across the top of his leg. He looked up at the manservant. “Cicciano…is he?”

“I don't know, but we have to get out of here fast.”

“I can't! For God's sake…he's been hurt! We have to—”

“No, we bloody don't. We get ourselves away from here as quick as we can, believe me.”

Modesto's face was smeared with blood, and the protuberant eyes were wide and anxious; when he spoke again, his voice was shaking. “You think the
sbirri
will listen to a word you say, Signore? They're a load of bloody thugs—you know how it is! They're as like to torture the
victim
of a crime as the perpetrator to get what they want—we wouldn't stand a chance. They see a body here, and they'll—”

Luca froze.

“Come
on
!” Modesto's voice sounded almost frantic.

Luca was pulled to his feet, and together he and Modesto pushed into the throng of people now staring down at where Cicciano lay sprawled on the floor of the tavern. Much to Luca's surprise, nobody tried to stop them; the crowd parted silently, moving back as though the two of them were diseased, the various faces all wearing the same round-eyed look of shock. Luca gave one last glance toward the figure on the floor, then he turned and ran with Modesto out of the tavern, out into the dark street and back toward his house in the Piazza Monteoliveto, running at full tilt until his breath dragged and the sharp stab of a stitch dug into his side. The front door opened as Modesto thudded up against it; both men stumbled into the hallway, then Luca closed the door and leaned against it, breathing heavily through an open mouth.

Gianni appeared at the top of the stairs, silhouetted in the doorway to the candlelit
sala
. He stared down at the new arrivals for a second, then, taking the stairs two at a time, ran heavy footed down into the hallway, his face puckered with anxiety.

“Papa?” he said. “What? What's happened? Is Carlo with you?”

Luca shook his head, still struggling to calm his breathing, quite unable to speak.

“What's happened to you? There's blood all over your shirt…Your face…Have you been
fighting
?” Gianni sounded incredulous.

“Cicciano,” Luca said indistinctly.

“You found him?”

A nod.

“Oh, God. Is he…? Have you…?”

“I…I don't know.”

“Papa, what are you going to do?”

“I don't know.” Luca tipped his head back, closed his eyes, and drew in several long, shuddering breaths.

“Come upstairs, Papa,” Gianni said. “Both of you. You can't just stand here.”

Luca followed his son and Francesca's servant up the stairs. The fire in the
sala
was almost out, though several candles were still burning in brackets on the walls. The hangings had been drawn shut and, Luca thought, as Modesto and Gianni pulled out chairs and sat down, his usually tranquil room seemed in a moment to have taken on the secretive and threatening atmosphere of a bandit's lair. Not feeling able to sit down, he walked across to stand by the fireplace, his heart still racing. His thoughts were tumultuous, chaotic, fragmented, unstoppable: he felt lightheaded. What was he going to do? It seemed that Cicciano might well be dead, possibly at his—Luca's—own hand. Luca felt breathless. He might have…might have…killed someone. Killed someone. The words echoed soundlessly in his head.

“Papa…” Gianni began.

Luca saw the compassionate candor in his son's eyes and the ground began to fall away under his feet. He leaned his head against the mantelshelf and closed his eyes. He heard a chair scrape on the wooden floor; heard footsteps crossing the room, and then felt a hand on his arm. Gianni stood at his shoulder. Luca turned toward him, and pulled him in close to his body. He said, “I'm sorry.”

“What for, Papa?”

He pulled back from Gianni. “For Christ's sake!” Luca heard his voice rise in volume, but felt unable to control it. “A man is dead! My God, Gianni. Dead because of me! I could have walked away from that tavern, and he would still be alive, and—”

“No,” Modesto's voice cut across him. “No, you listen to me.”

***

“Oh, God. Luca's back. That's his voice.” Francesca twitched her head away from Serafina's hand and stood up, listening. “And that's Modesto. I…I have to go down there. I have to talk to Luca. I can't just stay up here.”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

Francesca turned to Serafina. Serafina saw the cut on her face—clean now and dressed neatly—but still standing out stark against the paleness of her skin; she was struck by the determination in Francesca's gaze and could not help but admire her courage.

“Yes, please,” Francesca said, and Serafina was touched by her dignity. “Thank you. I should like that.”

“Here.” Serafina held out a hand. As Francesca took it, Serafina squeezed her fingers, suppressing a moment's curiosity as she found herself picturing all the other unmentionable things that Francesca might have done with this same hand. Would she ever be able to be in Francesca's company again without such thoughts?

And, more to the point, she supposed, would Luca?

Together, the two women crossed the room and went down the stairs toward the
sala.
Voices within the room were raised now. Francesca stopped outside the closed door. She bent forward to listen but almost immediately gasped, pulled back, and put her fingers over her mouth.

“Oh, Serafina!” she whispered. “Oh, God! He says he's killed Michele!”

Serafina frowned, uncomprehending, a nauseous swirl of shock trickling down through her insides.

***

Modesto looked steadily at Luca.

“So, don't you start imagining things that might not have happened. Look. We don't actually even know if the bastard's dead, but if he is, then
I
killed him. Me. Not you.” Modesto stood up, an emphatic forefinger jabbing the air. “He had that knife. I…I don't know just how it happened, but I got his wrist, and then, then…” He paused, and then burst out, “I couldn't just stand there and let him kill you—and he would have done, Signore, he'd have finished you for certain. I didn't mean him to die—dear God! Despite what he's done, I hope he's still alive. I just wanted to stop him, before…” He hesitated. “If he'd killed you…it'd just have broken her heart.”

Luca looked at him without expression.

Modesto drew in a breath and said, “She loves you, Signore.”

Luca's gaze was steady, but he said nothing.

Modesto said, “I know what you must think about what you've found out. But you're wrong if…if you think that what's she's done in the past dictates what she
is
now, in the present.” He ran the heel of his hand across his forehead. “Signore, I've known her for more than three years, and I understand her better than anyone else does. She and I have been through a great deal together—we've shared laughter and tears, rage, terror. Make no mistake, things have been bad in the past before—very bad. I've seen her frightened and angry and unhappy—but I've never seen her like this. Never.” He jabbed the accusatory forefinger up toward the floor above. “She's sitting up there now, broken into pieces, unable to bear the thought of losing you.”

He saw Luca wince.

“Don't let her go, Signore.” He paused. “You'll not meet many women like her in your life.”

Luca put his head in his hands.

Modesto began to pace, his gaze fixed upon Luca. “I know what you've been thinking,” he said, feeling a hot mixture of jealousy, loyalty, and resentment bubbling up behind his voice. He pointed back at Luca accusingly. “You've decided she's scum. Oh, you thought her beautiful and charming and sensitive and lovable when you met her. Just the woman for you, you thought, and almost straightaway you considered marriage, didn't you? And all the delights of a life ahead in the company of an exquisite creature like her. What luck, you thought, to have found someone so lovely, when you had resigned yourself to the life of a widower. But then it all changed, didn't it? You discovered that she's not quite what you thought she was.” He paused. “You found out that she's been fucking for money since the age of seventeen”—he saw the boy start, and Rovere shook his head, his face still hidden behind his fingers—“and then the bubble burst and now you have no idea what to say to her. You don't even know how to
look
at her anymore.”

Luca's hands were pressed together, the tips of his fingers below his nose. As though he were praying.

“But whatever she's done, the truth is that she
is
all those things, Signore. She
is
beautiful and charming and sensitive and lovable. And she's clever, too. You're a lucky man; she loves you. She'd do anything for you. You'd be a fool to lose her.”

A bottle of red wine stood on the table amidst the remains of the meal Gianni had been eating. Modesto reached across, picked it up, poured some into an empty glass, and drank it down. An ember shifted in the fireplace with a soft crumbling scuffle, and a puff of hot air hissed quietly down into the ashes.

The grudging respect for the Signore that had flickered into being as he had watched the brawl in the tavern had, in the past few moments, solidified and confirmed itself in Modesto's mind. He knew—with reasonable certainty—what he, Modesto, had done back there. He knew what he would have to do now, and he knew, too, that he would have to be quite sure that Francesca would be cared for and truly loved in his absence. He swilled the last of his wine around in the bottom of the glass for a moment, staring down into it, as it washed pinkly around the bowl, and then said, “You
might
think that whores are scum, Signore. Well. Some of them are—I've met a fair number. But
she'
s not. After all, all she's ever done is attempt to give people pleasure—however hard it is to square that with your own personal notions of morality.” He paused, waiting for a few long seconds, before he loosed his final shot. “I suppose it's not really for me to say, but it just seems to me that you might want to think for a moment or two about your elder son before you condemn the Signora too harshly.”