O, Juliet (15 page)

Papa’s office was ahead, its door open.
There were voices. Two of them. I heard my name spoken aloud.
I stopped where I was, then moved with stealth to one side of the door. I listened . . . eavesdropping again.

“She is eighteen, Capello, more than ripe for marriage.” Jacopo Strozzi spoke these words. “Do you deny it?”

“I will not deny it,” my father said, but his voice was strained.

“Then let us make this betrothal. The sooner, the better.”

“You try me, Jacopo.” I heard the soreness in Papa’s tone. “We are beset with serious problems in the dyeing chambers, and all you can think of is the marriage bed.”

“I have told you why suddenly our vats produce nothing but dull browns and moldy greens. You refuse to believe me.”

“I do refuse to believe it is sabotage. Roberto Monticecco would never dare to take such actions now.”

“Now?”
Jacopo said. I could just imagine the sneer on his lips. “Now that you are ‘friends’? Do you really believe a man with so deep-seated a grudge has forgiven you the ruination and death of a sister and a nephew?”

My father’s silence worried me.
Argue with him, Papa,
I silently cried.
Tell him the breaking of bread and the sharing of wine and good cheer between our families were sincere. Tell him!

“What if I were to bring you proof?” Jacopo said.

“If you have proof, why have you not brought it forward before?”

“I did not wish to stir the pot. Capello, our partnership papers are not yet signed. . . .” A whine came into Jacopo’s voice. “Everything is so fragile. I worry, I worry. . . .”

“No, no. No need to worry. We are strong together. My silk. Your wool. No one will sell more fine cloth than Capelletti and Strozzi.”

I heard the sound of a hand clapping a back.

“And our families shall be joined as well,” Papa added. “Sooner than later.”

“Ah, my friend!” Jacopo exclaimed.

No, not your friend,
I silently cried,
and not my husband!

I knelt and set the pot on the floor outside the door, turned on my heels, and fled through the silk room, into the racket of clacking looms, and out the arched door.

“Take me home,” I said to the footman.

I fumed inside the litter amid the cushions, the pace of the bearers suddenly slow and aggravating. My temper flared and I pounded on the floor. “Hurry!” I called. “I am ill!”

I
was
ill. Sick at the thought that Papa would give his blessing to this despicable creature—one who so maligned Romeo’s innocent family. One who would happily marry me, imprison me in his wretched mother’s house, take mistresses himself, and permit me an impotent courtly lover. Damn Jacopo Strozzi! Damn him to the Eighth Circle of Hell, where, with all other “fraudulent counselors,” he would be clothed in flames that charred his flesh.

Damn him!

Juliet

I
folded and sealed the letter with red wax and went slowly down the stairs, wishing to avoid my mother, who sat close by the window embroidering. Brightly lit as it was, she still squinted at the tiny stitches with her weak eyes. I was so stealthy she never looked up from her sewing.

Then I hurried out the courtyard door. Across the small central garden was the kitchen, where Cook—fat and rosy-cheeked and armed with a mallet—was pounding a fillet of beef as though to kill and not soften it. So intent was she, she never looked up. But the one I sought was near the alley door, kneeling with her back to me, scrubbing a kettle.

I went and knelt down beside Viola. She was sixteen and pretty with pale yellow hair and delicate features, now red and swollen from crying. My mother treated her miserably for a servant who was not a slave. Many wealthy Florentines employed them—dark-skinned blackamoors and pale-skinned Circassians from the Russian steppes. Viola was simply a poor Tuscan girl. I found her to be full of common sense and sweetness. And I always believed her features were fine enough that had she been clothed in silks and brocades, her hair prettily dressed, she could easily have passed for a gentlewoman.

“Lady Juliet,” she said, and stood.

“Can we speak privately?” I whispered.

She faced me fully with a questioning look.

“Come outside.” I slipped out the door. In a moment she followed. Together we stood in the alley, where several chickens and a pig grazed on the offal that rotted in piles where it had been thrown.

“So you are still in my family’s employ?” I asked.

She blinked back the tears and nodded.

“Is my mother very angry?”

“I thought she would have my head on a platter, like John the Baptist’s.”

“Perhaps I can smooth the way for you. Speak to Mama of Christ’s forgiveness in such matters.”

“You would do that for me?”

I searched her blue eyes, then smiled. “Who is the father?” Her face lit with the suddenness of the sun emerging from behind a black storm cloud. “It is Massimo. The butcher’s son.”

“The one who delivers our meat?”

She nodded, smiling fully.

“So you are not unhappy at your predicament?”

“I was fearful of losing my position here, as I give my mother money for our family. And Massimo and I are yet too poor to marry. But how can I be sad when this boy . . .” She stopped, unsure if it was wise to continue.

“When this boy . . .” I urged her to go on.

“When he loves me, and I him. I will have his baby. What a blessing from God that is!”

“It is a blessing,Viola. As is your love.”

She looked at me strangely, as though surprised that such words would be uttered by someone like myself. I came closer and leaned in to her ear.

“I wish such a love for myself.”

Viola drew back, happily shocked. “Lady Juliet!”

“I urgently need to send a letter to a certain gentleman.”

“Not Signor Strozzi?”

“Not Signor Strozzi.” I smiled conspiratorially. “Could Massimo be convinced, for a price, to deliver the letter with all secrecy to a villa across the river?”

“I think he could.”

“Oh, Viola, you are a good friend.” I pulled the letter from my skirt pocket and slipped it into her hand. “No one must know. No one but you and Massimo. Can you promise that?”

“I promise.”

Now I slipped a small pouch with some coins into her other hand. “Perhaps this will pay for a wedding.”

Viola was beaming now.

“But secret,” I said.

“On the life of our child.”

I smiled. There could be no more faithful an oath than that.

Massimo proved a swift messenger and Romeo, I was much relieved to know, an eager respondent, for the following morning I was awakened at dawn by loud sounds in the walled garden. I threw on my robe and quietly opened the door to the balcony, there to find my love, in only shirt and breeches, had cleared a patch of thick undergrowth, digging in the earth. The three olive trees his family had given mine stood in a row nearby.

He had not seen me come to the rail, so I leaned upon it watching him work, his broad shoulders narrowing to a taut waist, the muscles of his buttocks rounded and firm. The sight of his shapely thighs rippling made me warm between my own. He stopped to wipe his brow and I said quietly, for just his ears:

“Romeo . . . Romeo . . .”

He stilled and came to attention but did not immediately turn.

I grew bolder. “So you’re here fulfilling your promise, are you?”

“A promise once made must never be broken,” he said, and came full around to face me.

I was aware of no one listening from where I stood, and by his boldness knew that no one below could have an ear on us either.

“This promise,” I said, sweeping my hand at the walled garden, “is of trees planted. What other promise do you make?”

He held my eye as he said, “For love to grow.”

For love to grow?
I thought.
All well and good. But still no talk of marriage. Have I been made a fool of? Does he really mean to be no more than Jacopo Strozzi’s cuckold?

“Romeo!” It was my father’s voice echoing in the garden.

I withdrew with all haste into my bedroom, closing the door behind me. Once inside, I heard footsteps in the hall outside my door. I leapt into bed and pulled up the covers.

Just in time.

Mama entered, carrying my breakfast tray. She set it down on my marriage chest.

“What is all the racket in the garden?” I asked, pretending to rub sleep from my eyes.

“Our new friend Romeo Monticecco is here to plant those olive trees. He’s a nice young man, is he not?”

“Nice enough,” I said, still unsettled by Romeo’s less-than-perfect answer.

I sat up and threw my legs over the edge of the bed.

Mama handed me the bowl and a spoon, then commenced bustling about, opening the window to the walled garden and peeking out. “I think I should ask him to stay for the midday meal.”

I wanted to hug her, but I remained cool and passionless.

“Will you send Viola up with some hot water for my basin?”

“Of course.” She seemed distracted, mildly upset. “I haven’t finished the nightcap I was embroidering for Mona Sophia. I cannot let Romeo leave empty-handed.”

“What about the drawstring bag I’ve been working on? With just an hour’s more work you could finish it, and send that instead.”

Mama brightened considerably. “A lovely idea.” She went out and closed the door behind her, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the sound of my lover—if not my future husband—digging in the walled garden.

W
hen Viola came in and I rose to dress, I was suddenly light-of-head, and my heart began to beat wildly. The maid said nothing as she emptied the steaming water into my basin, but she was smiling happily, as though she knew my sweet secret.

“Yes, it is he,” I admitted.

“He’s very handsome,” she said. “And he is kind. When Cook sent me out with some watered wine, he bowed to me—a kitchen maid—and smiled the prettiest smile.”

“I like his smile, too,” I said. “Can you stay and help me dress?”

“Cook will be cross.”

“I’ll make your excuses.”

So Viola removed my night shift and, once I had washed, pulled a fresh one over my head. Then we stood shoulder to shoulder at my red lacquer cabinet, staring at my gowns—skirts, bodices, and sleeves, a rainbow of silks. With my doting father a merchant of the stuff, I boasted a wardrobe as fine as the wealthiest girl in Florence.

Never an upstairs maid,Viola had dealt in vegetable peelings, plucked chickens, and dirty pots—never lace and brocade and satin. Now her eyes were on stalks. I could see she wished to reach out and touch them.

“You decide for me,” I said.

“I?” When I nodded, the girl let out a deep sigh and reached in for a shimmering skirt of a color that bled between green and peacock blue.

“Don’t forget,” I said as a gentle reminder, “this is the midday meal, not a Medici ball.”

With great thoughtfulness she took out a rich yellow bodice embroidered with peach thread. Pleased with her choice, she found the matching sleeves. I plucked the skirt from its hook and together we laid the outfit on the bed and stared down at it.

“This will do nicely,” I said. “A good choice.”

“Sit down and I’ll fix your hair,” she said, assuming a sisterly tone.

I obeyed her, enjoying her pleasure. Viola proved deft with her hands, weaving four small braids that lay close to my head but left much of my thick hair curling down at my shoulders.

I was more than satisfied with her efforts. I would speak to Mama of Viola—it was time I had a lady’s maid.

Then she helped me on with the yellow dress, seeming to take delight in every sleeve lace tied, every button fixed, every skirt fold fluffed.

“You are beautiful, my lady,” Viola whispered, starry-eyed. Then she became stern. “Now bite your lips. Pinch your cheeks.”

I did as I was told, and she held the mirror for me again. In the wavy glass I tried to see what Romeo would see.
Am
I pretty?
I must be,
I thought,
for all girls in love are pretty.
Well, enough of that. I must go down.

Before she let me go, Viola dusted my neck and shoulders with a delicate rose-scented powder and, with puckered lips, blew the extra off.

“He is a lucky man,” she said, her features suffused with hope and joy, for herself as well as for me, I thought.