The Ruby Ring (15 page)

“Of course. Why would I not be?” Margherita replied too quickly, and they both realized the defense in that.

“I could not help but see the way he looked at you, the way you spoke with one another in the papal gardens.”

Margherita gazed out the window into the steadily darkening afternoon where a never-ending line of drying laundry flapped, and Letitia’s other sons played. She could not bring herself to tell him that Raphael had kissed her, or that, the good Lord save her, it had been wildly pleasurable. Even now, at the very thought, her body ached again for his touch.

“What does it matter, Donato, hmm? Of course Signor Sanzio is handsome, powerful, sharp-tongued, and as elegant as any prince. He is the great Raffaello, after all, and I can only ever be a momentary distraction while he paints.”

“How can you be so certain of that?”

Margherita clasped her hands and squeezed them tightly. “You know as well as I that I am not of his world! He could never actually care for someone so beneath his own station for more than a few trifling days, and I could never settle for a fate as a mistress! I told you all that from the first!”

“How do you know the future?”

“History is the best predictor of the future. There are mistresses, Donato, and there are wives! A man who breaks bread with dukes, kings, and the Holy Father himself does not make a wife of the woman who bakes that bread!”

“You also believed he could not intend you as a serious model for an important commission,” he carefully reminded her, fingering the base of the melting candle pooling on the table between them.

“The two are very different!”

“Does not the stuff of life—of relationships between people—evolve and change?”

“Not
that
much!”

“Look to the expression in his eyes today, my dear sister. See him as I saw him today before you tell me that,” Donato said more gently. “He is, I believe, entirely taken with you.”

Francesco Luti and Letitia had been listening at the door. She should have known it. Margherita rolled her eyes wearily as they burst in then in a swirl of excitement. “Can it be?” her father asked, his deep voice heavy with incredulity. “That the good Lord, in his wisdom, has sought to take this unlikely moment between you and the great painter, and possibly transform it into a grand lifetime together?”

“They are fool’s words you speak,
Padre mio.
”

“Oh now. Could he not fall so deeply in love that he would wish to make you his wife?”

“You know well that is
not
possible, and I will thank you not to lurk around corners listening to my conversations!”

“Margherita!” her sister gasped sanctimoniously, fingers splayed across the laces at the top of her dress. “You must ask our father’s forgiveness at once!”

“I owe him no such thing.”

“We owe him respect!”

And Margherita believed that as well, with her whole heart. Francesco Luti had been a good and caring father all of her life. He may be a little harsh now, but he wanted only the best for his daughters.

“Forgive me,
Padre mio.
It is the events of the day that have clouded my judgment.”

“Well, is it true that the great Raffaello is taken with you in some familiar way?”

“It is absolutely certain,” Donato intervened with smooth assurance. “I saw it all myself. He was as taken with her as I have ever seen a man.”

“This could mean a fortune for our family!” Letitia smiled dreamily.

“And the utter ruin of
me.
”

“
Dio,
is that not a tired old song by now?” her sister groaned. “Your piteous droning is truly vile on the eve of something so grand! How can you see us to the very edge of so great a thing and then contemplate ignoring that it is even there?”

“We are your
famiglia,
” Francesco more cautiously offered. “Do you not owe us some part of what has happened for you?”

“And what do all of you owe to
me?
Am I to be bartered like a lamb to market for a few pieces more of gold?”

“Oh truly, Margherita! It is only your body—not your soul, unless you choose to give it,” Letitia countered unsympathetically. “And can you tell me bedding a great
mastro
like that could be so dreadful, especially if he chose one day to marry you? Heaven knows I would have done it myself had he glanced at me with my child that day and not you!”

“Letitia!” Francesco gasped, seeing the look of sudden shock and hurt color Donato’s face.

“Oh, you know I don’t mean it like that. Such an opportunity could never be mine anyway. I no longer carry that alluring look of purity so appealing to wealthy men.”

Seeing that the hurt expression remained on her husband’s face, Letitia whispered to Donato, put a hand over his shoulder, and they slipped silently together up the back stairs. Once Letitia and her husband were gone, Francesco sat where Donato had been and gently placed a hand over his daughter’s. The soft hum of crickets, and the sounds of the boys playing in the garden beyond, filled the silence between them.

“Do you truly wish not to pursue this with the great
mastro
?”

“What I do not wish is to be made a mockery. To see my life ruined.”

“It would seem to me that he is honoring you greatly, daughter.”

“It would seem that way to me, as well,” she conceded with a small shrug.

“Then I bid you, fear it not.”

“And what would it seem if I bed him?”

“Wise women who know how to play the game become great and powerful courtesans.”

“
Padre mio,
great courtesans are
not
baker’s daughters from Trastevere.”

“Do they not say, Margherita
mia,
that there is a first time for everything? You could become famous! You would be the first, and long remembered for it!”

“And
you
could become rich.”

He pursed his lips and shrugged. “Would it be so bad? My girl, so much your mother’s daughter. You are just like her, with that undefinable power to capture a man’s heart and hold it forever. Signor Raphael is only a man like all the rest of us, and I believe with everything I am that he could come to love you exactly like that.” He embraced her tightly, and his warm, fleshy body was a comfort. “But do not allow anyone, least of all me, to force you to do what is not in you to do.”

“When I see him look at me,” she said weakly, “I fear it would be easier to push back the rain.”

10

O
N THE FOLLOWING FRIDAY, MARGHERITA AGREED RELUCTANTLY
to take a stroll with Antonio out toward the great green rise of Il Gianicolo, once he had finished his duties at the stables. He had said he missed her and wished to see her. Why he was calling on her in this way she did not know. He had not done so in several months. But there was to be a papal procession from the Vatican Palace to the Castel Sant’Angelo, honoring Pope Leo’s guest, the German ambassador, and everyone was going out to watch the grand spectacle.

Margherita was no longer naive. She acknowledged Antonio’s penchant for other women, but she did not confront him about it. Margherita also did not continue to give him hope that she loved him. She did not. Rather, she went with him because his companionship seemed a comfort to her now when everything else in her life was swiftly changing, pressing her toward Raphael. Her thoughts now, her fantasies, were all of him. Intense. Compelling. Magnetic. Everything about him drew her, made her think of him . . . imagine
them.

A grown woman, she knew to what conclusion desire led. And in her private moments, her body ached for that base, sensual union with him.

Antonio Perazzi held her hand, his smile a gratified one, believing himself firmly attached to a swiftly rising star—one who valued loyalty, thrived on navet, and who, conveniently, had depended upon him for years. She knew that. Understood it. Sensing it again now brought her heavily from her fantasies.

Just after they crossed the cobbled street, he paused, drew her against him, and kissed her. “This is going to be a
grand
day,” he proclaimed. “I can feel it!”

“You seem awfully certain of yourself,” Margherita smiled. His kiss, like the other memories of them, lingered only slightly before it faded into the moment and the bustling scene around them.

“One has to be certain to get anywhere in this life!”

When they arrived at a crowded corner of the Borgo Santo Spirito, they could hear that the lavish procession had already begun. There was the herald of trumpets, a clash of cymbals, and a heavy din of shouting and laughter from the crushing crowd of onlookers who lined the cobbled streets. Margherita shaded her eyes and saw the pope nearing in the distance, resplendent in his rich pontifical robes, seated on a great winged chair, riding high on the back of Hanno. Seated on the elephant’s neck was a dark-skinned, barefoot, exotic-looking boy in a white turban and tunic, and bearing a long leather whip. Seeing the whip, Margherita’s heart lurched painfully, then seemed to stop.

When the procession came more clearly into view in the shadow of the silvery sunlit afternoon, she could see that Hanno’s head was down, his trunk limp as he slowly lumbered amid the ostentatious procession. There seemed so little life in the great gray animal, confined like this, such a world away from the one he had been meant to have. Margherita felt her heart lurch again at the sight.

She touched her fingers to her lips as she heard Antonio cruelly laugh. “Behold that! Is he not the most ridiculous looking beast in the world!”

“
I
think he is magnificent,” she defended.

As was the custom, a great triumphal arch had been set up along the pathway. Elegantly garbed noblemen on horseback were the pope’s escort. Statesmen, cardinals, and bishops followed, all in grand regalia. As the procession neared, the din and clamber of trumpeters, drummers, and pipers grew. She watched Hanno lumber on. The roar of cannon fire pierced the air with such suddenness that not only the crowd, but the elephant, was startled. He was agitated now, she could see, his trunk beginning to swing and his head jerking from side to side. Instinctively, Margherita pressed forward into the crowd nearer the street.

“
Ges!
What are you doing!” Antonio charged, grabbing her arm in a panic, only to have her cast it off.

“He is frightened!”

“He is a dangerous beast! Take care!”

“
You
are far more dangerous to me than he shall ever be!”

Stepping toward him into the street, in the place where the turbaned boy had begun to whip Hanno to stop his thrashing, Margherita reached out a hand to his trunk. With honeyed sweetness, and tender words, she spoke desperately, but beneath her breath, the noise of the crowd around her masked her kind plea. “Poor Hanno . . . be not afraid . . . these foolish people wish only to see you . . . shhh . . . be not afraid . . . ”

As Hanno lowered his head to her, the eyes of all present, both grand and common, were upon her. They stared curiously at Margherita, wondering, she could see, what power a common daughter of Trastevere possessed over so great and exotic a beast belonging to the Holy Father. Would it be like this, she wondered, feeling the weight of the city’s collective gaze—the attention, the curious whispers, layered over with admiration—if she were to become a part of Raphael’s life? She felt a small, odd shiver of delight. Power. A tiny spark of pride . . .
Pride.
She had known precious little of that in her life.

“Back,
signorina!
You frighten the beast!” the turbaned boy growled in a heavily accented command, glowering down at her, his dark eyes glittering with condescension as a quartet of papal guards rushed toward her.

“I was trying to calm him!”

“Arrest her!” someone shouted.

She felt the guardsmen clamp down on her upper arms in a grip like a vise and jerk her forward. “But you do not understand!”

“You will come with us!”

Another hand clamped onto her other wrist.

“Hanno was frightened! I only tried to—”

“She meant no harm! If it would please His Holiness, I shall vouch for the girl! She is Raphael’s model.” The voice was from a young man behind her, yet spoken with such authority of purpose that the guardsmen loosened their grip. Her expression was stricken as she turned to see the young apprentice from Raphael’s workshop who had first come to the bakery on his behalf. His name, she remembered, was Giulio Romano.

Dressed elegantly now in a great embroidered jerkin, with a high ruffled collar and tilted velvet hat, which made him appear much older and more worldly than he was, and holding a large sketchpad and piece of black chalk, Giulio stood in a surprisingly authoritative posture, separating Margherita and the stone-faced guards. One of them looked up at the pope for direction, something was whispered that she could not determine, and then, in an instant, she was freed—but not before the pontiff shot her a deep and appraising look. She saw then that he had been watching the altercation all along, yet she was not at all certain by his expression, so far above her, if his reaction was a favorable one or not.

As the procession continued on, and Hanno slowly disappeared from her view, Margherita stood beside a dumbstruck Antonio as she gazed appreciatively at Raphael’s assistant. “I owe you my thanks,” she said breathlessly.

“You owe me nothing. The
mastro
would have wished me to intercede, and there is nothing I would not do for him.
”

“The sentiments of all Rome, I hear. Especially the loveliest of them,” Antonio vulgarly quipped, but neither Margherita or Giulio heard him.

“I honestly meant no harm,” she said, rubbing her aching wrists, still shaken by the force so suddenly brought upon her. “I felt so sorry for the animal. He looked utterly miserable reined in like that.”

“I am afraid, sadly, that my sketch reflects not the proud, mighty nature, but that instead, just as you describe.”

“The great Raffaello had you come out here to draw a picture of a beast?” Antonio asked with a small laugh.

“The
mastro
wishes to use an image of Hanno in a fresco he is planning of the Battle of Scipio,
signore.
” Giulio narrowed his eyes on Antonio for the briefest moment. “I have drawn beggars, fools, and blind men, as well. The world, after all, is full of all sorts.” Then he looked back at Margherita. “I was to make a few sketches of the elephant as he moved in procession. The animal is very dear to His Holiness and he wishes his likeness immortalized as often as possible.”

“Hanno is very sweet and gentle. I wish everyone could see that,” Margherita said sadly.

“I knew it!” Antonio spat. “You
have
seen that beast before!”

“Oh, do be still,” Margherita snapped and extended her hand to Giulio. “No matter what you say, I truly must thank you again, Signor Romano. I am not at all certain where I would be without your intervention just now.”

He nodded and then smiled. In the echo of her praise, it was the first time he had seemed even slightly boyish to her. “Perhaps one day, if the
mastro
approves, of course, you would allow me to use the
mastro
’s sketches of you for my own works. It is difficult indeed in Rome to find women who will model. Especially ones who are so extraordinarily beautiful.”

Margherita smiled. No matter how it had sounded she knew what he meant. It seemed to her a high honor to be asked. “Will you be telling Signor Sanzio about this?”

“I must tell him,
signorina,
before the Holy Father’s aides twist it completely in the telling.”

“Word travels that fast within your sphere?”

“Signorina Luti,” Giulio laughed. “You have no idea!”

As they parted, and Antonio led her away from the thinning crowd along the Borgo Santo Spirito, she saw his suddenly mirthless smile. “At least tell me, after that little scene, that the great and powerful Raffaello has given you some money for your trouble.”

“I wouldn’t tell you if he had.”

“We have always been like family,” he indignantly retorted, drawing up her hand between his and squeezing it so tightly that it hurt. It was the first time in her life he had ever frightened her. It was also the first time she had ever truly disliked him.

Her body went rigid as she wrenched her hand away and shot him a warning glare. “Never touch me like that again!”

“Forgive me, but it has been your custom always to tell me everything!”

“
S,
once it was, Antonio. But lately, much has changed—it seems for all of us.” Two entirely different worlds had collided boldly for her back there on the Borgo Santo Spirito, and she had accepted, for the first time, her odd new place between them.