The Smile (2 page)

Two months till the big party. A shiver shoots through my shoulders and neck. I walk to my table. The dress design I finished yesterday stares up at me in all its coarseness. Drawing is a boy's activity, yet it annoys me that I'm so poor at it. Still, Valeria's mother is a good tailor. She'll see what I was trying to get at.

Can Valeria's mother make a ball dress that transforms me into a noble girl? Well, I am a noble girl, of course. But can she make me appear dignified, so that I'm worthy of the grand men of Florence? The grand young men, that is.

We are neither city folk nor rich. And this year Papà's silk business is only limping along. Nonetheless, he wants a lavish party. It will be an announcement of my active participation in real society. He's absolutely sure it will lead to marriage offers.

Many fathers arrange for a betrothal entirely on their own, father to father, as if it were a business arrangement, for economic sense. But Mamma wants me to marry better than money alone would determine. So Papà came up with the idea of this party. He truly believes men's hearts will pound, for he truly believes I'm beautiful.

I'm glad for that. Every girl needs someone to believe she's beautiful, after all. I love being Papà's prize.

And I'm glad for the party, too. This way I can see the men and veto some and encourage others. I lift my jaw in defiance. I will not be married off to an old man with a bulging purse. I want passion before comfort. The passion I learned about when my tutor struggled to teach me to read Ovid's poetry.

In two months, I'll be betrothed. And when I am fifteen, my marriage will pull our family up the rungs of the social ladder. I press my hands on my chest to hold in my banging heart. Fifteen. That's so soon to leave home.

But I'm not leaving yet. Now I'm going to my belovèd woods, where I can wander. Where I can be the Lord's smallest sparrow and no one needs me for anything.

I slap on a broad-rimmed hat. I'm actually grateful for both hat and waistcoat, now that I think of it. They'll keep the insects off. I race down the stairs.

“Elisabetta,” calls Mamma.

I stand with the door open. “I'm listening.”

“Gather truffles, will you?”

“I'm not a dog, Mamma, despite my love of smells.”

Mamma comes into the corridor and looks at me with her hands folded behind her back. “The moon has almost finished waxing. They'll give off the strongest odor now. And if we don't get some soon, we'll go without till June—for there aren't any in May.”

I don't want to dig and find nothing, and dig and find nothing, and wind up dirty and empty-handed, having lost all my time for wandering. But she's looking at me as though I can do anything. She always looks at me that way. “I can try.”

Her face softens into a slight smile. For an instant I want to grab her skirts and hide there, small again, roll back the years, smooth her skin.

“We still have a black one,” she says. “So look for the little white ones. Your father's going hunting soon, and we can stuff pheasants and make a truffle cream sauce.”

“All right, Mamma.” I step outside.

“And, Elisabetta?”

I hold the outer door handle now. This feels like an escape. “Yes, Mamma?”

She extends her right hand. “A substantial first meal never hurts.” It's another roll, with a thick slice of salami inside. The moist kind with fennel that I love so much.

“Thank you.” And I'm already eating. “I didn't realize I was still hungry.”

She's smiling but almost sadly. “There are things I can understand.”

“I know that, Mamma. I was just talking. I didn't mean anything by it.”

“You have a lot of energy, Elisabetta. You dance around the kitchen and you eat heartily.” She hesitates. “But you worry me lately.”

As you worry me, I think.

“Your eyes are solemn. I miss the sound of your laughter. Where has my cheerful daughter gone?”

I close the door.

CHAPTER Two

OUR GARDEN STRETCHES OUT
in brilliance. A rosemary border breaks the sweep of wind off the hills. Within this aromatic hedge, gravel walks weave through sun-warmed flower beds. Spikes of white lilies and purple callas perch high. Lilacs perfume blankets of blue delphiniums and yellow chrysanthemums. And roses hide in tight buds, soon to dazzle the eye with pinks and reds. April is a showy month.

I rub my face in blooming lavender, then circle the statues of the muses out of habit. Once I reach the vegetable terraces, I run. A breeze skims the leaves of the olive grove. They flutter: silver, green, silver, green. The immature fruit shimmer. Our oil is the best in the Chianti area. That's what Papà says. Every autumn landowners bring olives to Greve to be pressed, but there are many landowners and few presses. So it takes months. Papà pays the miller a tip, and just like that our olives get pressed right away, while they are fresh and the taste is robust. I love to dip bread in our oil, all thick golden green.

Now I'm running in the meadow beyond the grove. A herd of cows grazes. Most hills close to Florence are too steep for cows, but the ones around here slope gently. That's why Mamma can make dishes with cream and why we can have many cheeses and not just pecorino all the time.

This is, indeed, a perfect place to live. When I marry, I will make my husband buy a country home here, and I'll visit often. For weeks at a time. Maybe months.

A cow lows. A calf wobbles beside her. It's new! I gape. Oh, I'd love to pet it. The bull raises his enormous head at me. “All right, grumpy,” I call, and run on by.

Orange poppies shake their blank faces at the world. They're so dumb and guileless, they make me grateful. And now I enter the cool shade of the woods and breathe the heady lemon scent of citronella and watch the light dapple on the beech trunks. I'm leaping and playing the role of fawn, when Oh! “You startled me.”

Cristiano shakes his head. “You're the one running.” He smiles, and there's a gap on the top, where a tooth is missing. Not many brawls go on among the boys in this area without Cristiano taking part. Twigs stick out of his hair, as though he's been crawling under bushes. He carries a large crate.

His dog, Paco, bounds out from the woods behind him and zips past without a hint of greeting. A big brown thing that galumphs. I don't know how Cristiano trained Paco, but that dog behaves as though Cristiano's the only human worth acknowledging, and this is strange, because he's a Spinone and that's a friendly breed. We used to have one.

When I was little, Paco's indifference made me so mad, I wanted to tackle him. Nothing's more fun than romping with a dog at your heels.

My nose twitches. I lean toward Cristiano's crate. “What have you got in there?” His eyes grow guarded. “You've got truffles, don't you? I can smell them.”

“Ain't no law against digging truffles in open woods.”

“Indeed. Mamma asked me to bring home white ones for her.”

“And you expect me to give you some?” Cristiano frowns. “Blackmail, is it?”

What would I be blackmailing him for? But a glance tells all. I walk around him and point. “Bee stings on both arms.”

“Pah! I knew it.” Cristiano lowers his crate to the ground gingerly, as though it's full of eggs. He reaches in, carefully not exposing the contents, and takes out two white truffles. “Here, you scoundrel.”

Scoundrel? “Keep them. Who wants your dirty truffles? I'll dig my own.”

“And soil your fancy waistcoat?” Cristiano's lip curls in disgust.

Why on earth? I've never done him wrong. His father works for Papà. And in the past few years, Cristiano has, too. We used to be friends. I'm still best friends with his sister, Silvia. But lately he's been standoffish. And right now, he's positively rude. “I only put the waistcoat on because Mamma said. I'll slip it off when I dig.”

“Rubbish. Take the truffles and hold your tongue.”

So that's it. “Don't worry, I won't tell. I'm not a scoundrel. Besides, whoever's raising honeybees in a woodland meadow is doing it secretly. He probably doesn't have land of his own, so he's not paying his taxes, though he's taking from the earth. It's not my business if you stole honeycombs that shouldn't be there in the first place.”

Cristiano is all smiles again. He drops a truffle back in his crate, then stretches out his hand to offer the other. “Here, take this one, anyways. As a present.”

“I meant it when I said I'd dig my own, thank you very much. The beekeeper is in the wrong, but those who steal from him are, too. You've got some explaining to do.”

“Not to you, Monna Nobility.”

My cheeks burn. “Of course not. To the Lord.” I walk past his hand.

He puts the truffle on top of the crate, picks the whole thing up, and walks beside me. “If I confess the honey, will you take the truffle?”

“Why should you want me to?”

“For peace. Between you and me.” He looks sincerely and surprisingly contrite.

I blink. “You did rather hurt my feelings.”

“I know. It showed.”

“Thank you.” I take the truffle. “I didn't really want to dig for them. I could have looked for hours and not found any. Thank you, Cristiano.”

Paco dashes between us and zips ahead, lost to the eye again.

“Your crate isn't full of just honeycombs and truffles, not with how large it is.”

“Nosy Elisabetta.” Cristiano laughs. “My crate—oh ho, wouldn't you like to know.” He walks backward, swinging the crate slowly in front of my eyes with such ease, I'm sure it's quite light. Then he hugs it and turns to walk forward again.

I wait. He says no more. We walk in silence, past oaks and yellow broom bushes. I glance up at his face. “I want to pinch you when you do that.”

“Do what?” he asks innocently.

“Wear that maddeningly self-satisfied smile.”

He laughs again. “All you have to do is ask. Nice. Can you stoop that low?”

“And just why is asking stooping?”

“A noble lady. A country bumpkin. Can a lady ask a bumpkin about his crate?”

“A lady can grab his crate and dump the contents on the ground.”

“Try.” He tosses his head back and waits. “No? You got some sense, anyways.”

“All right, Cristiano, may I see what's in your crate? Please, sir?”

“Now that was nice.” He settles the crate on the ground. Then he lifts the lid and, with both hands cradling it, takes out an orchid. It stands stiff on a tall stem. The large petals are red inside and purple on the underside. The two smaller petals are darkly stained, almost black. They fall from the center, like blood falling from an open heart.

“It's beautiful.”

“I got more. Lots of types. But this one's best. What you think? Ain't it the bestest flower you ever set eyes on?”

I put my face close to the tiny speckles of yellow near the center. Every mark on one side is matched by another across the center of the petal, as though the two halves of the petal are mirrors of each other. Every petal is balanced by another identical one across the center of the flower. A pattern within a pattern. “Yes.”

“Right. And that's what they'll think at Foiano della Chiana.”

“Oh, you're going to the flower fair in two weeks? But that's over near Arezzo. Why travel all that way when Greve will have its own flower show in a month?”

“Foiano's is a real fair, not a show. It's huge.”

“I didn't even know you liked flowers.”

“They give a purse to the winner, and I aim to win. Let them others have their fancy garden flowers. I have my wild beauties.”

“So you're doing it for money?”

His lip curls again. “People like you, you act like money don't matter. Let me tell you something, Monna Elisabetta. To them that don't have it, it matters.”

“We're not rich, Cristiano.”

“To me you are. And you're aiming to get richer.”

“What do you mean?”

“Silvia told me about your party. You invited her, at least.”

I haven't invited Cristiano, of course. It doesn't make sense to. But I refuse to be forced to explain that to him. “The orchid is a marvel. I hope you win.”

He shrugs one shoulder as though he couldn't care less what I hope. “Silvia's going to make money, too.”

“How?”

“Raising silkworms. Like your family. She already tried once. But last time her mouser got into the shed. He knocked over the tray and that was the end of the worms.”

“Worms and cats don't mix well,” I say agreeably.

“This time, she'll fasten the doors and shutters tight.”

“Good for her. I hope her business thrives.” I fight off a heavy feeling. Their shed is small; there's no room for much there. “You better get those orchids home before they suffer too long in the crate.”

“Yup. Delicate, they are, wildflowers. But I'll gather more tomorrow and the next day, just in case. Then I'll get them growing steady and strong in pots.” Cristiano places the orchid back in the crate. He straightens up and looks at me with an expression I can't read. “Did you speak true? You really think that one's the bestest in the world?”

“I told you I did.”

“Want to know where I found it?”

Something sly in his tone warns me off. I cross my arms. “It can stay your secret.”

“Ah, but near those orchids there's something you'll want to see, Monna Elisabetta. Something furry . . . and warm . . . and cuddly.”