O, Juliet (23 page)

Ahead I saw my uncles’ two-story villa, a place they had always insisted on keeping lit up like a palace, never short of oil for their lamps, provided by their dear brother, Roberto.

“A man of God,” I was let into the house at once, only to be mistaken again for a monk by a house servant who must have been hired after my departure to Padua. He showed me into the first-floor salon, one my uncles had transformed into their vineyard office, the business being the center of their lives.

Sight of my uncles Vittorio and Vincenzo poring over their ledgers, their two favorite hounds at their feet, cheered me immeasurably. They looked up in surprise as the servant ushered in this unexpected visitor.

“Thank you, Francesco,” Uncle Vincenzo said, and the man went out, shutting the door behind him. At once and with the greatest relief I threw off my hood.

“Romeo?” Vittorio said to me. Then he looked at his brother. “Good Jesus, he’s become a priest!”

A moment later they were on their feet showering me with hearty kisses and embraces, and I quickly disabused them of my clerical affiliation. They called for food and wine to be brought in and locked the office door.

I commenced to tell my story. Then I blurted my frantic and confused plans for returning to Florence to liberate my bride and find a life with her elsewhere.

There was a long silence when I had finished. My uncle Vittorio—rotund, ruddy-faced, and perpetually jolly—spoke up. “Well, at least you are in good company. Your idol, Dante, was himself banished from Florence.” He threw his dog a tidbit. “And they
begged
for his return.”

“After he was dead,” I murmured miserably. “I tell you, I cannot wait to be invited back. I have to go and take Juliet from her father’s house.”

“You mean abduct her,” Vincenzo said. He was the more serious of my two uncles, slender and handsome like my father was.

“She is my wife!” I cried.

“A return to Florence under these circumstances is death,” Vincenzo finally said. “Certain death.”

“Did anyone see you arrive here?” Vittorio demanded to know.

I thought not.

Still, the brothers shared a worried look.

“We must get you to safety. The Strozzi will know where you’ve come. They cannot be allowed to find you here.”

That they would pursue me was a thought, in my distracted state, I had not considered.

“Forgive my stupidity, Uncles,” I said. “I never meant to place you in harm’s way.”

“No bother,” said Vincenzo. “We will ferret you away where no one will find you.”

“Even us,” Vittorio added with the joviality I had always loved.

“There is a small house in the Torricelle woods we have just acquired,” said Vincenzo. “The owner died. We have never been there, but they say the path is marked well enough if you know the way.”

“But he
doesn’t
know his way,” Vittorio said.

“He will learn.”

Uncle Vittorio hugged me to him. “He is a clever fellow, eh?” He smiled. “Our Romeo, come home to us.”

“We’ve missed you,” Vincenzo said.

“I’ve missed you, too.”

“But now we must prepare. Vittorio, you see to the mule. Remove the saddle and bridle and bags, and bring them inside. Don’t tie him up. In the morning if the stable hands find him, we will say he wandered here.” Uncle Vincenzo turned to me. “Go up and lock yourself in your room. Stay very quiet. Even the servants must not know of your arrival. Meanwhile I will procure the map to our new property. And then, tomorrow night, when everyone is dead to the world, you’ll take the map and torch and you will go.”

In my old room I wrote to Juliet, assuring her of my love and making apologies for my weakness at our parting. I swore that a scheme was taking shape for my rescue of her, and pleaded that she take heart and wait for further word from me.

This I gave to my uncles with instructions for its delivery to my friendly friar at San Marco. Bartolomo would pass it to Massimo, the butcher’s son and husband to Juliet’s maid. He had once delivered me a message from my love. It was circuitous, this route, but perhaps safer for its winding path.

The next night I stood staring at the edge of the woods where my uncles had taken me, hidden under rugs in the bed of their grape cart. The head of the narrow footpath had been marked with a rugged outcropping of stone, but the trail itself was so overgrown it appeared I might set the trees afire with the flame of my torch as I walked it.

“Be careful!” Uncle Vittorio warned me.

“He’ll be careful,” Vincenzo said. “Give him the food.”

“The food, the food . . .” Vittorio went to the cart and brought me a cloth sack. “They say a clear spring is a hundred paces from the back of the house.”

“God protect you from evil spirits,” I heard Vittorio say as I plunged into the undergrowth.

“What evil spirits?” I said, turning back. My uncles’ faces flickered in the torch’s glow.

“There are none,” said Vincenzo unconvincingly. “It was the house of an old woman. Some say a witch. But we do not believe in witches, do we, Vittorio?”

“Better a woman’s house than a man’s,” I said as I turned to go. “It will probably be clean.”

And so it was. Clean and tidy and, while quite small, hung liberally with shelves and cabinets containing every sort of herb and potion that a witch, or more likely a country apothecary, would ever need. There were scrubbed pots hung above the hearth, and the place was well stocked with candles—a great boon for a man alone at night in a dark wood. As promised, a small stream ran clear over its rocky bed just a stone’s throw from the house.

It seemed a place of great comfort for the concocting of my plan.

I began to write at once.

The scheme itself was more than formidable. To be considered was the choice of conveyance and my stealing back into Florence unrecognized. There was Juliet’s liberation from her father’s house, though I had great faith in this part, remembering her intrepid adventuring on our wedding night. But even if we should escape undetected from Florence, where would we go from there? How would we live? My skills would be useful in anyone’s orchard, but without a small fortune we would be no more than servants of another man. Did I dare ask Juliet to relinquish the privileged life she had known? Juliet, a lady’s maid? A laundress?

I believed that my father would gladly sell a portion of his land to stake us, but the thought sickened me. And even if our fortunes saw us in comfortable circumstances, would we—my bride and I—be forced in our exile from home and family to relinquish our good names so as not to be found, and myself branded as a criminal?

I fell into the crone’s bed, my head spinning, and slept fitfully. I awoke to a pouring rain that continued all that day, rendering the narrow path out too muddy to traverse. The forest was so sodden and lonely and gray that in quiet moments all manner of demon memories descended upon me. The senses that had cheered me so, now haunted and depressed me. Sight of the fiery inferno at Capelletti Silks. The feel of my clothing soaked through with Marco’s blood. Jacopo’s stinking breath. His evil whispers.

Acts of the blackest revenge festered and grew in my heart. It pained me to know I had come full circle from seeker of peace to purveyor of vengeance. I wondered if these were the same that my grandfather had felt for Juliet’s family, causing him to push my father into the violence that had brought down so much misery on both our houses.

Worse still, my heroic plans of rescue seemed ever less coherent.

All that was clear were my thoughts of Juliet, a vision of her lovely face, and the feel of her warm, yielding flesh as real as though I was holding her naked in my arms. Verse began to come in fits and starts—phrases and odd stanzas.

Insubstantial as they were, the words were my salvation. Without them, without thoughts of my love, I would have gone mad. At times I believed I already had.

W
edding plans were immediately begun.

Papa went to meet with Lucrezia’s father at the Palazzo Tornabuoni to join in with plans for the marriage. When he left, he took with him a small casket of gold florins, announcing for the hundredth time how proud he was of this privileged wedding celebration. He kissed me on the brow and reminded me of the honor I was bringing to our family.

My mother, frantic with happiness, took me to Papa’s warehouse, which had, miraculously, been spared damage from the fire.Workers were gutting the burned office and showroom, and huge carts were arriving with loads of wood to rebuild the inner walls and floors.

I tried but could not avert my eyes from the place in the street where Marco had fallen on Romeo’s blade, and words flew unbidden into my head.

What a dark poem about friendship that would have made for Alberti’s competition, I thought.

Mama pulled me away, tut-tutting that I mustn’t be morbid on such a happy occasion. Inside, the head warehouseman had laid out on broad tables Papa’s finest wares in every shade of virgin’s white. From stark snow to rich ivory. From thick-cut pile velvet and gold brocade to gauzy Chinese silk.

Strangely, the giant scissors from the showroom had survived the fire, and now cleaned and polished, they seemed a proud symbol of the continuity of Papa’s business.

With the sound of gay laughter three silkwomen fluttered in, carrying large cases in each hand. They were Florence’s finest seamstresses, and I recognized that two of them had been called to work on Lucrezia’s gown.

Silenced by my misery, I stood back as Mama took charge. Opening their bags, the women laid out amid the choicest silks their buttons, ribbons, frills, and lace. One opened a wooden box filled with thousands of tiny seed pearls, another with sparkling gems of every color, made of paste.

“I like the pearls,” Mama told them. “But we will provide our own jewels. Real ones. Come to the house when we are finished here and you can take them.”

A stout older silkwoman looked around. “Where is our bride?” She found me hanging back and fixed me in her sight, appraising me closely. “She is quite tall and slender,” she said, “but has a nice flare at the hips and a pretty bosom.”

Mama smiled proudly.

The woman took my hands and drew me to her. “Come here. Let me measure you.” As she wound the tape around my waist, she gazed deep into my eyes for an overlong moment. “What is this?” she said suspiciously.

“What do you mean?” I whispered.

She looked at Mama. “This girl is unhappy,” the silkwoman fearlessly announced. And then to me, “You don’t want to get married, do you?”

I thought I would die on the spot.

“Nonsense!” my mother cried. “She is the luckiest girl in the world. Imagine the honor. Sharing her wedding day with the Medici.”

I was caught in the woman’s honest stare as Mama blathered on about my marriage into the Strozzi clan, and the joy it would bring our family in a time of sorrow.

I wondered if my pain was so clear on my face, or if Mama was so terribly blind. But thankfully the silkwoman, who must have known my plight was irrevocable, took pity on me and plastered on a broad grin.

“You’re right, Signora Capelletti. I think your daughter’s only problem is a touch of gas.”

Everyone laughed at that, and I forced myself to smile. I had never felt so helpless, so muddled.

“I’m going to see Lucrezia,” I blurted suddenly.

“But we haven’t chosen the silk for your—”

“You choose, Mama. You have a better eye for it than me. And I like the pearls, too. Lots of them.”

Meeting no one’s eye, I fled the warehouse. The litter bearers silently obeyed my orders to take me to Lucrezia’s house and leave me there, returning to the factory to carry Mama home.

I found Lucrezia, who sat with her overblown mother and little Contessina de’ Medici at the table, poring over plans for the wedding. I think I surprised Lucrezia as much with my unannounced visit as with the desperate look in my eye.

She said to me in a voice of soothing calm, “Come, sit down with us, Juliet. There is still so much to decide.”

Elena Tornabuoni gave me a wary look. She liked me, but her daughter’s day in the sun would now be partially eclipsed by a second bride. There was nothing to be done about it. Whatever ire might have been provoked, it was well hidden by efficiency and a veneer of good nature.