Francesca (17 page)

“I’ve been a servant,” Francesca attempted to explain. “How do you think I survived all these months?”

They paid absolutely no attention to her. The two nuns prayed, smiling, while Terza and young Roza saw to Francesca’s toilette as they chattered away. A servant she didn’t recognize hurried in with a tray, and the girl realized that she was hungry. She was taken from the tub, dried, massaged, creamed, and finally, in a clean chemise, allowed to eat. The soup was hot and flavorful. The bread was still warm from the ovens, and it dripped with butter. Francesca couldn’t ever recall having eaten anything that good. She was so concentrated on the food, she hardly realized her toenails were being trimmed and buffed.

The door to the bedchamber opened, and Orianna Pietro d’Angelo entered the room. She stared hard at Francesca. “You have caused more difficulty for us than even the other one, and I did not believe such a thing possible,” she said in a cold voice. “But you are back, and the duke assures me you were safe all winter and are unscathed. I am astounded he still wants you for his daughter-in-law, Francesca. At least we have kept this scandal from Florentine society and protected your sisters’ reputations from any taint of your willfulness, and that of the other one. I pray the blessed Mother that Lucianna and Giulia—or Serena, as she now styles herself, preferring her second name, but no matter—will be easier to marry off than you have been.”

“Is my father here too?” Francesca asked quietly.

“Aye, he is,” Orianna answered. “Your behavior has aged him, Francesca.”

“I am sorry,” the girl replied.

Her mother snorted as if she did not believe her daughter. She turned to Terza. “Can she be prepared to look her part this day?”

“Yes, mistress, she can. The grime is gone now. Her hair is clean. It is just her hands that will take months to be repaired, but for today we will cover them in lace,” Terza said cheerfully.

“Then I will leave you to your task,” Orianna said, and without another word to her daughter she exited the girl’s spacious apartment.

“Well, the worst is over now,” Terza said with a grin.

“It was not as bad as I anticipated,” Francesca said with a show of her old spirit. She was beginning to feel more like herself again with all the cosseting they were giving her. “Am I really to marry the old duke’s son today, Terza?”

“He was distraught when you disappeared into the forest,” Terza told her. “He led the searchers himself until he learned you were safe at the inn his father maintains for his huntsmen. It was decided to leave you there, for the duke believed if you were forced to return you would run away again.”

Francesca was very quiet with this knowledge. So they had known all along where she was and they had left her there. Briefly she felt anger, but then she laughed to herself. Duke Titus was a wise old man. He had understood her when no one else had.

She would eventually thank him for it. But not today. Today she must wed his son, Rafaello, and make her peace with him. She would never love him, for her heart had remained in the forest with Carlo the huntsman. It was he she loved, and she would always love him. He would never know what happened to her, and it was quite unlikely they would ever meet again.

But she had been given a second chance when the truth was she didn’t deserve it at all. But she would take it, and she would make her husband a good wife. In the end it didn’t matter if a woman loved her husband. Such a thing was rare. A woman loved her children. It was to her children she gave her all. Orianna had certainly shown her that. Her desire for her children’s happiness did not mean it always turned out as she wanted it, but Bianca had been happy with her choices even if her mother had not been. And Francesca knew her mother would enjoy returning to Florence and bragging of her second daughter’s marriage to the young duke of Terreno Boscoso.

She was bathed and fed. Terza saw that her mistress’s hands and face were cleansed of her meal. Francesca brushed her teeth with a real brush for the first time in months. Her mouth felt wonderful as she rinsed. She chewed the small mint leaves Terza gave her to make her breath even fresher.

“There is no time for you to nap,” Terza said. “Your wedding is set for high noon in the cathedral. We just have time for you to dress.”

“I understand,” Francesca replied. Then she stood quietly as they dressed her first in silk stockings that were rolled up her legs and fastened with garters made of white rosettes, a fresh chemise, and an underskirt of the finest cream-colored silk brocade, its center portion beautifully embroidered with tiny gold and silver stars settled over the underskirts. An overskirt of cream silk fell away over it, leaving the underskirt’s embroidery visible. Now came her fitted bodice, the neckline low and square, edged in tiny pearls and delicate lace embroidery. Her sleeves were simple, long and fitted with graceful wide cuffs turned back to reveal more embroidered gold and silver stars.

“Your mama carried this gown all the way from Florence,” Terza told her.

“It fits perfectly,” Francesca marveled, turning to preen slightly in a full-length glass that had come with her from Florence a year ago and been the envy of both Aceline and Louisa. “Where is Louisa?” she asked Terza as she thought again of her friend.

“Wed to her Valiant and with a big belly now. You will see her soon, child, for once they returned from Genoa she would not leave the castle until you were returned safely and wed to Rafaello,” Terza told her mistress.

“Oh, I am glad!” Francesca exclaimed.

There was a knock upon the apartment door, and Roza hurried to admit Master Pietro d’Angelo.

“Padre!”
Francesca cried and hurried to catch up his hands and kiss them.

“You gave us quite a fright, daughter.” He greeted her with a smile. “But all is well now and you shall shortly be wed, to your
madre
’s relief.”

“I realize what a fool I’ve been,” Francesca admitted to him. “I am fortunate to have this second chance,
Padre
.”

“You are,” he agreed. Then he offered her his hand. “Come and I will escort you to the church.”

“Wait!” Francesca said suddenly. “I need just a moment alone, and then we will go.” She turned quickly and hurried back into her bedchamber, shutting the door behind her. What was happening to her? Was this a dream? From the moment she had awakened this morning in Barbetta’s cottage until now, the time had raced by. Her appearance after several months’ absence seemed to have surprised no one except possibly Francesca herself. They all behaved as if she had gone for a prenuptial retreat and nothing more.

Everyone except her mother had behaved as if she had hardly been gone at all. If it had not been for Orianna’s sharp tongue reminding her of her faults and the condition of her own hands, Francesca might have believed she had dreamed the past seven months.

And what of her betrothed, Rafaello? She had not seen him yet. Was he going to behave as if her disappearance was nothing? Why hadn’t they found another bride for him? Why did it have to be her?

A gentle rap sounded upon the door. “Francesca,” her father’s voice called.

“I am coming,
Padre
,” she answered. Aye, why her? And could she ever love this man they insisted on marrying her to today? Would she ever feel for Rafaello the longing that Carlo had engendered within her maiden breast? She silently thanked her huntsman now for leaving her virginity intact. Rafaello would have no complaints about that, nor could there be any doubt as to the legitimacy of any heir she produced. Her mother’s practical nature was suddenly blooming within her. Reaching out, Francesca turned the handle on her bedchamber door and opened it. “I am ready,
Padre
,” she told her father.

Giovanni Pietro d’Angelo escorted his daughter through the corridor and down the wide staircase outside to the courtyard, where the two horses awaited them. Francesca was carefully boosted onto a snow-white palfrey; the lead line was handed to her father, who had quickly mounted a fine roan-colored gelding as his daughter was assisted. It was but a short distance to the little cathedral in the town. As they rode surrounded by guardsmen in deep blue and gold uniforms, the silk merchant spoke to his daughter.

“You were obviously not mistreated during your time away from us,” he said carefully. He knew little of what had transpired.

“I was fortunate to come upon the duke’s inn,” Francesca explained. “He keeps it for his huntsmen to shelter in during the winter months. The innkeeper took me in, and I was her servant.”

Her father looked briefly incredulous. “
You
? A serving wench? I cannot believe it. Surely you told her who you were, daughter.”

“Look at my hands,
Padre
,” Francesca said, holding one out. “Beneath these delicate lace coverings Terza has put on me are the hands of a serving girl. Rough and able. I will never again treat a servant with scorn,
Padre
. I know now how hard they toil.” Then she laughed. “Only a few days ago I was scrubbing the garments of a huntsman who was shortly returning to his post in the duke’s forest. His name was Pippino, and he was most grateful to go back to his part of the forest with garments no longer infested with fleas. I learned to cook too, and nurse ailments less delicate than those I was taught by my
madre
.”

Giovanni laughed in spite of himself. It was unthinkable that his beautiful daughter had done the things she was telling him, and yet he knew she did not lie. “What can you cook?” he asked her, very curious.

“I make an excellent rabbit stew,” she told him proudly, “and I can boil pasta without overcooking it.”

The silk merchant shook his head, half-surprised, half-proud at this little list of her accomplishments. “I think we will keep this knowledge from your
madre
, who would be horrified to learn you are able to cook such hearty fare, but one day I should like to taste your pasta if you will prepare it for me with oil and cheese. I do not like these new sauces that are becoming so fashionable in Florence and Rome.”

Francesca smiled warmly at her parent. “One day,
Padre
, I promise,” she said, but she wondered if she would ever again help to prepare a meal as she had with Alonza.

Suddenly the sides of the roadway were filled with cheering citizens, more and more of them as they drew closer to the cathedral itself. The flowerboxes of the buildings lining their way were overflowing with June blooms that actually scented the air about them. People hung from the windows and leaned from rooftops to get a glimpse of the bride they had waited so long to see.

Francesca wondered as she rode slowly towards the cathedral what they would think of their new
duchessa
. Did they know she had run away after having been chosen as Rafaello’s bride late last summer? Or had her escapade been kept secret? Didn’t they wonder why it had taken so long for the wedding to take place? Or perhaps nothing had been said at all, and the citizens of Terreno Boscoso had only been informed recently of the wedding to take place.

They reached the cathedral square. The church was not, by Florentine standards, particularly large. Francesca thought Santa Anna’s was larger, but the stone building had impressive wide steps leading up to the open cathedral doors. She sat quietly as her father dismounted. Then a guardsman lifted the bride carefully from her saddle. Giovanni Pietro d’Angelo escorted Francesca up the stairs into the cathedral, where Terza was already awaiting them.

The serving woman quickly brushed her mistress’s hair so that the red-gold curls flowed in ripples down the bride’s back. Then, to Francesca’s surprise, Terza set a circlet of pearls and small sparkling diamonds upon her head. “The old duke wanted you to have it,” the servant said. “His late wife wore it at their wedding.”

Francesca’s eyes filled a moment with bright tears, which Terza quickly brushed away. “How kind he is,” the girl said.

“Aye,” Terza agreed, “and very fond of you despite your behavior.”

There was a flourish of trumpets, and Master Pietro d’Angelo took his daughter by the hand, leading her down the cathedral’s center aisle to where the duke and his son awaited her. Francesca swallowed hard as she focused her eyes on the two men. The older was smiling warmly, his eyes twinkling with his pleasure. The younger, standing by his father’s side, was solemn. Not a hint of a smile touched his handsome face. Oddly Francesca understood his demeanor. Her flight last autumn had been a rejection of sorts of his decision to wed her. And obviously his father had forced him to await her return.

It was obvious he was not pleased, although he would do the old duke’s bidding because he was a dutiful son.

As Francesca walked slowly towards Rafaello Cesare, past the church filled with the small nobility of Terreno Boscoso, and perhaps some near neighbors, she wondered what her life would have been like if she had wed Carlo, her beloved huntsman, and gone to live with him deep in the forest. His face would not have been grim with a duty to be done if she had walked up a church aisle towards him. He would have been smiling at her, and her heart would have soared with happiness, knowing she would soon be his wife and they would be together forever.

Francesca knew now she could have left her old life behind as her older sister, Bianca, had so easily done. Left it behind for love. But it was too late for love. She had a duty to do, and she would do it. As she passed her mother she could see Orianna was delicately dabbing at her eyes with a dainty linen and lace handkerchief. But when their gazes met Francesca saw the triumph in her maternal parent’s fine eyes. Orianna had finally gotten her way, and her second daughter would shortly become the new
duchessa
of Terreno Boscoso. Lucianna and Giulia would not be undervalued in the marriage market now. She nodded slightly at her mother in acknowledgment.

They had now reached the marble steps below the beautiful altar where the duke and Rafaello awaited them. Without a word Giovanni Pietro d’Angelo placed his daughter’s hand in that of her bridegroom’s, then stepped back to join his spouse. The old bishop of Terreno Boscoso, with the assistance of Father Silvio, performed the marriage ceremony. Rafaello’s strong voice answered the holy queries. Francesca’s voice was as firm. She was not going to whisper her vows like some simpering fool. If she was to wed him, then let the whole world hear her replies. It pleased her to see the brief surprise upon his handsome face as she spoke in a sure voice.