Lost in the City of Flowers (The Histories of Idan Book 1) (23 page)

“That is for Margherita,” she added cheerfully. “You weren’t expecting to hold her the whole way. Your arms would fall off.”

“How long is the trip?”

“It depends on the horse and how fast you go … but since you have two people and a baby you will need to travel at a slower pace.”

“So how long?”

“If you leave at dawn you should get there by midday.”

“Oh!” I said surprised by the six-hour journey.

“I talked to Giulia. She promised to feed Margherita until she was good and full. So hopefully she will sleep the whole journey,” she said. “If she wakes up she will be hungry, and your long journey will seem an eternity.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Rosa

The blanket of pale yellow that covered navy skyline signaled dawn’s arrival. It was a chilly morning but the heat from last night’s fire lingered through the small house. Zia was cooking a medley of cream, honey, and leftover chestnuts. The nutty fragrance that wafted from the pot gradually lifted the spirits of the small kitchen. A jumble of different sized sacks waited to be packed onto the horse. I fidgeted with Idan as I stood by the window waiting for a sign of Leonardo. Zia’s sudden change in attitude towards my Vinci scheme invigorated my confidence in it. My heart lightened at the prospect of being relieved of Margherita’s heavy charge.

“Shall I go get Margherita?” I asked, looking outside the window.

“I dare say you will have her long enough. Let her rest,” said Zia.

I was nervous about meeting Ginerva and the Medici rendezvous. My nerves were as raw as they had been when my parents separated. Everything someone said or did around me would mingle with the turmoil fermenting inside me. That was how I felt, vulnerable. Zia moved quickly around the kitchen, finishing breakfast. In the past week Zia had shed decades off her age. When I had first looked up at her from the kitchen table, she looked as though she would not see next year. Now, as she hummed a tune that sounded a lot like the one that Leonardo had sung the night before, she looked rejuvenated. Even the scar that engraved her cheek was lighter in the early morning sun.

“Is that, Oh Lovely Rosa,?” I asked.

“Yes … how do you know it?”

“Leonardo sang it to his father’s guests last night.” The sound of horseshoes pacing against the cobblestones interrupted us.

I went to open the door for Leonardo. He was leaning forward on top of the copper horse exchanging caresses and whispering sweet nothings in its pointed ears. “You’re late.”

“I was just being considerate. Didn’t want to make you feel bad for being behind,” he teased, sliding down from the horse.

“You look like a regular cowboy.” I laughed as he tied up the horse’s reins to a metal ring embedded in the house’s wall.

“A what?”

“It’s a guy who is really good with animals or works with them on a farm,” I explained, but Leonardo did not look convinced. “They are very …”

“Resourceful?”

“Yes!”

“You forgot to add incredibly handsome to that description.”

“Oh, you mean the horse?” I replied.

“That is precisely what I meant,” he said, stroking the horse’s long muscular neck.

“She is handsome and tall.”

“Almost sixteen hands … a longer way to fall,” he added, catching my hesitation.

“What kind of horse is it?”

“A mutt but mostly a Maremmano.”

“What’s her name?”

“Rosa.” The horse’s hair was paler around her muzzle.

“After the song?” I asked. Leonardo nodded, taking out a handful of chopped carrots from his cloak. “That’s why you chose to sing that song last night?”

“Oh lovely Rosa … my sweet spirit,” serenaded Leonardo. Rosa’s black mane shook and her long tail swished.

“What are you up to out here?” called Zia. “Your breakfast is getting cold.” While we ate the chestnut porridge, Zia placed an envelope on the table. “I want you to give this to Ginerva.”

“Who wrote it for you?” I asked.

“Yesterday, while you were out, I called on Signore Soldo and he helped me piece it together,” she said. “I was anxious about the whole thing, but I felt better after the letter was done.”

“What does it say?”

“To trust you and it talks about the baby’s mother and well...” her bottom lip quivered, “...it tries to explain as best words can … how sorry I am and how much I miss her.”

The letter doubled the pressure that I already felt on my shoulders. Not only did I need to find Margherita a home, but I was also attempting to reunite a family that had been feuding for years.

“I will, Zia,” I said, tucking the letter into my satchel.

Leonardo sniffled as he busied himself with loading Rosa. Once I stood up Zia slipped the woolen sling over my head and shoulder.

“Be careful on the road and keep those eyes of yours sharp. There can be nasty people about the road,” she warned.

The wind pressed against me as we crossed the street to Giulia’s house. The door opened before we reached it. Margherita was snoozing in Giulia’s arms. In only a few days, her face had changed. The red apples of her cheeks popped against her stark white skin and her crown of hair stood up on its ends.

“She will have lovely ringlets,” said Giulia, tenderly touching the soft hair. “Never have I held such a gentle babe.” Her eyes were puffy and the network of vessels that surround her blue pupils burned.

“I’m sorry you were dragged into this, Giulia,” I said.

“I was hesitant to take her on because I get so attached to them.” Tears trailed down her freckles.

“You have loved and cared for Margherita when the baby girl needed it most,” added Zia, wiping Giulia’s face with fingers. “May God always smile on you.”

Giulia carefully placed Margherita into the sling’s nook. “She just fell asleep. Mind you she has eaten enough for three. She shouldn’t need another feeding till the afternoon. If she wakes, just rock her best you can.”

“Thank you Giu—” I said as she escaped into her refuge.

Zia placed her hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry, she’ll be fine in a day or two.”

“We must get going before it gets too late,” said Leonardo, placing a kitchen chair by Rosa.

“Be careful, child!” cautioned Zia. Holding onto the warm babe at my chest, I stepped up on the chair.

“What are you waiting for?” asked Leonardo.

“I’ve never been on a horse before.”

“How strange you are!” he laughed stepping on the chair. “Turn around slowly.” Leonardo’s sweet breath warmed my nose. He put his hands around my waist. “I’m going to lift you on three. Hold on to Margherita … Three!” He heaved me onto the leather saddle. Once I regained my balance, I kicked my left leg over the other side.

“Viola! What are you doing?” exclaimed Zia. Leonardo grinned as he pulled himself onto the horse.

“What did I do?”

“You can’t ride like that! It is highly indecent.”

“It was hard enough to get on here. I’m not changing my position … It’s not fair that men get to ride this way and women can’t.”

“Go on then, hurry up before people wake up and see you,” she said.

I could feel Rosa’s heartbeat quicken beneath me as we lurched forward. Before we left I wanted to wave to Zia, but one arm was supporting the baby and the other was holding onto Leonardo. We trotted along the Arno until we reached the city’s fortified walls.

“Ciao,” said Leonardo to the guard posted at the city’s threshold.

“Ciao, Leonardo … Where are you sneaking off to so early?”

“No sneaking involved, just going to visit my family in Vinci.”

“Who’s your pretty friend?”

“She is my cousin.”

“As you say,” he said, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Papers, please.”

“Come off it! You have never asked me for papers before.”

“Well that was before il Magnifico told me to keep my eyes out for a young pretty girl named Viola Orofino,” he said, scratching his rough jaw.

“Right, as I said this is not any such person. This is my cousin, she has her baby with her and it will be such a mess if we go looking for the papers.” The word baby drew his attention from my face to the baby sling around my shoulder. “Take this as a parting present and let us be on our way,” said Leonardo, passing him the wine skin slung around the saddle. Marco looked around before accepting the bribe.

“Well, Medici didn’t say anything about a baby,” concluded Marco while two other guards parted the heavy doors.

“Good man, Marco,” said Leonardo before we trotted past the thick walls and out into the country air.

We traveled in silence for a span, each of us enjoying the fresh air. Margherita squirmed against the confines of the fabric swaddled around her. She was quite heavy but the rhythm of her breath was soothing. We soon came up on the river again. Along the city’s lifeline were modest mills and pull boats tangled in nets. The sun was so bright that I shielded my eyes behind Leonardo’s shoulder. Fields of withering crops and vacant hills frosted with dead flowers haunted both sides of our path.

“It is a shame you could not see this in the summer,” said Leonardo.

“Why?”

“It is covered with grape vines and there are infinite fields of sunflowers.”

“Are you a poet as well?”

“I dabble … There is not much of a breeze at that time of year. But the sun is so strong that it blends a perfume of turned soil. If there is a Heaven, that is how it looks and smells.”

“You must miss living out here.”

“I do,” he admitted while I stared at the dark brush that spotted the rippling landscape. “I love progress but I hate the city … I suppose you cannot have both.”

“I’ve always lived in a big city, but sometimes I daydreamed about what it would be like to live out here.”

“Once you know what it is like, you will never see city life the same. It is still hard for me and I have lived there three years.”

“Why did you move?” I asked.

“My father was concerned about my education, and he was anxious for me to follow some sort of career plan. But it wasn’t until after my stepmother and grandfather died that he ever took action.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said feeling his shoulder tighten.

“In honesty, it was hard. I was extremely fond of them both. My father was working as a notary in Pisa and Florence while I was growing up. My grandparents cared for me and gave me the freedom to be myself … to explore,” reflected Leonardo as the sun hid behind the sparse clouds. “I was separated from my birth mother, so the only one I have ever known was my father’s first wife and she died the same way Margherita did,” said Leonardo. I squeezed his arm, unsure of what to say. “I cannot complain though. By bastard standards, I grew up in a loving family where I was free to roam around and study what I wanted.”

“What sort of things would you study?”

“Plants, bugs, birds … horses.”

“Did you always know you wanted to be an artist?” I asked.

“I was always good at it. I love nature and enjoy studying anatomy. My father would say I had a natural ability for drawing.”

“You did.”

“How do you know?”

“Your father showed me. He keeps your drawings in a chest. It’s an incredible gift … I think your father loves you very much,” I added.

“But not enough to claim me by law,” he retorted. “It is fortunate I am able and enjoy being an artist because if I did not I would be in a precarious situation.”

“What do you mean?”

“There are not many opportunities for children born out of wedlock.”

Our conversation quieted but was kindled back to life by passing travelers. Poor Rosa’s sweat soon soaked through my dress and stockings. My thighs were raw from rubbing against the wool dress and saddle.

We stopped short of Vinci to give Rosa a rest and to pacify Margherita’s growing whimpers. It was a small village with one tiny inn. Leonardo inquired after a wet nurse. The innkeeper’s wife offered to take care of Margherita as she herself had a brood of young children. We paid her handsomely for her generosity.

“Not much longer now,” said Leonardo as we munched on the calzones Zia had packed for us.

It was only an hour before we were back on the road. Despite my eagerness to make a statement, I decided to sit sidesaddle the rest of the trip. We veered off the road following the posts that directed us to Vinci and then to Anchiano. The wide paved road narrowed to a dirt trail as we rode along a rising hill that overlooked a shallow valley lined with olive groves. In the far distance clouds shadowed the villages below from the brilliant blue sky beyond. After we rounded the corner, we broke from the path and climbed through dormant gray trees.

A rectangular stony cottage came into view. Leonardo quickened our pace. Tall cypress trees framed the pleasant home. Square windows looked out across the flat courtyard and down into the valley below. Leonardo reared Rosa into a sudden halt. Margherita stirred when Leonardo jumped down to help me off the horse. As he banged on the door, I carefully scooped Margherita out of the sling, letting her breathe the fresh fragrance of the potted herbs by the entrance. A stout bearded man opened the door.

“Leonardo!” he said in a deep voice that resonated through the house.

He pulled Leonardo into a man hug but froze when he saw me. His attractive face flashed from delight to alarm. Hurried steps from the house drew closer until a striking elderly woman appeared. She had long wavy hair that flowed around her.

“What a lovely surprise!” she said with a voice so loving that it made my heart ache.

“Leonardo, who is this?” asked the bearded man in a tone that was barely civil.

“This is Viola.”

“Oh, my dear boy, what have you done?” asked the grandmother, pulling her arms from her grandson.

“Does your father know?” said the man, suddenly severe.

“Of course, that is his horse after all.”

“How could you?” she gasped. “After what you went through as a child.”

“Excuse me?” I interrupted. “I think there is a misunderstanding,” I cleared my throat. “This isn’t my baby and it’s not Leonardo’s either.” Relief flushed their faces and their smiles returned.

“I don’t know why you had to ruin the joke so soon, Viola! It was going so well.” He smirked.