The Smile Read online

  It strikes me that Old Sandra talks as though we aren’t part of the nobility of Florence. I suppose it’s not disrespectful. After all, we don’t live in the city, though we’re still within the boundaries of the republic. So in the strictest sense, in the city sense, we’re not part of the nobility of Florence. But what irritates me is the slightest suspicion that maybe she doesn’t consider us nobility at all. She’s our servant, so she has to see us as higher than her. But higher doesn’t necessarily mean nobility. Maybe she even thinks Mamma puts on airs to ban cucumbers and melons.

  She’s old. And she takes good care in what she does. And, well, I like her too much to say anything now that might cause her distress. I go back upstairs and stand outside Mamma and Papà’s door. I listen. Rustling sounds come. I put my hand on the door latch, then hesitate. Piero de’ Medici’s words come back to me; some herbs enhance amorous prowess. He listed parsley, rucola, mint, and anise. Papà’s favorite dish has parsley and rucola. Mamma’s favorite drink in the morning is mint brew.

  A strange sensation runs from my belly up my chest. Like fast fingers touching with only the barest tips. I’ve never thought of my parents’ activities in bed. And I don’t want to, ever. I calm myself and knock primly.

  “Betta?” comes Papà’s voice. “Is that you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, what’s stopping you? Come on in, my little almond.”

  With relief, I rush in and climb onto the bed between them, like I used to do when I was small. We’re squished, of course; I’m not small anymore. And both Mamma and Papà have widened in the past few years. But I like it. So I stay there.

  “Is something on your mind?” asks Mamma.

  “My party. I turn thirteen in a month.”

  “We’ve been talking about that,” says Mamma. “Just now.”

  I swallow.

  “Florence is behaving like mourning is over.” Papà beams at me. “So why shouldn’t we? Let’s have that party, right on schedule.”

  “Oh, yes.” I hug Papà. “Thank you so much.”

  “Which means we have to act quickly, Elisabetta.” Mamma gets up and fetches a dress from her closet. “We must get the invitations out immediately, so everyone can save the day. We have to engage the musicians. Then there’s the menu to settle. And getting the dress made. And, oh no, I haven’t done anything about getting your cassone painted—that wedding chest must be vibrant. And the flowers. And . . .”

  “I’ll take care of the flowers, Mamma.”

  “By yourself?”

  “Why not? I don’t care about the rest—except for the dress, and I already did my part by designing it. But I do know flowers. The Greve flower show starts today, in fact.” I jump off the bed, excited by the coincidence. “Isn’t that perfect? Why, I can go and buy pots and pots of things to scatter all around the house and on both sides of the walk to the front door and, well, everywhere.”

  “But will they last till then?”

  “I’ll get plants with lots of buds. And kinds that bloom over and over.”

  Mamma smiles broadly. “That’ll be lovely.”

  Papà claps and shakes his hands together. “I’ll get Giacomo’s son, that Cristiano, to drive you to the market in the big wagon.”

  I haven’t seen Cristiano since that day in the woods, more than a month ago. I wonder if he ever entered his wildflowers in the fair at Foiano della Chiana. Maybe he’s already planning on bringing some to Greve today, despite the fact that there’s no purse to win. I could tell he really cared about the flowers for their own sake, no matter what he said.

  So it’s fine for Cristiano to drive me. It might even suit us both. But I don’t want to be alone with him. “I’ll bring Silvia, too,” I say brightly. “She has a good eye.”

  “But a poor mouth,” says Mamma. “I don’t like you listening to her rough peasant talk.”

  “Cristiano talks the same way, and you didn’t object when Papà proposed him.”

  “Cristiano is a boy. You won’t be conversing with him. You’ll just tell him which plants to pick up and put in the wagon. But with Silvia, I know how it is; the two of you chatter nonstop.”

  I pinch my lower lip. “How will it look for a noble girl to be in a wagon with a young man and no one else? Especially a young peasant man.”

  Mamma stops dressing and looks at me. “Clever again. You use my own worries against me.” She shakes her head. “I miss your old direct ways, Elisabetta. All right, I can ask Sandra if she’ll accompany you.”

  I look to Papà for help. He just watches Mamma and me with a half-amused expression. I could strangle him. He should be on my side, for I’m always on his. I’m his amazing daughter. Has he forgotten? Help me, my eyes plead.

  But his don’t change. This is my battle. All right, then. I shall be direct. “Old Sandra needs to stay with her ailing husband, Mamma. We both know that.” I go to her and wrap my arms around her waist. “Talking with Silvia hasn’t changed my talk. Listen to me, Mamma. Hear me. You understand me better than anyone. At times better than I wish you did. You know I obey you. I don’t adopt Silvia’s ways of speaking.” Even when she makes fun of me, I think. But I don’t tell Mamma that. Besides, Silvia hasn’t said a peep about my language for a long time now.

  Mamma takes a deep breath and strokes my hair. “I don’t know why you’re so set on her. You should have outgrown that friendship by now. It only happened because you’re so isolated out here. The two of you have little in common. But all right, take her. As your helper, not your friend. And outfit yourself properly. A nice dress.”

  “A shift makes more sense, with all the dirt from the plants and everything.”

  “You won’t touch the plants. Cristiano will. And Silvia will.”

  “But . . .”

  Mamma puts her hand up in the halt signal. “What if someone should see you, Elisabetta? Aren’t you the one who just brought that possibility to my attention?” Her face softens. “You know I want the best for you. Always.”

  I wonder if her idea of best might be at odds with mine. But I love her so much. I kiss her on both cheeks.

  Soon I’m sitting on the wagon bench beside Cristiano. Mamma wouldn’t hear of me sitting in the wagon bed with Silvia. Especially not in my dress. Arranged like this, it’s hard to talk. So we’re silent most of the way to Greve.

  The main piazza of Greve overflows with flowers. My chest swells in happiness. Children run through the pots, pointing at the brightest ones, the biggest ones, the most unusual ones.

  And there are some unusual ones, indeed. Black roses. I’ve never seen such a thing. As I approach, I realize they’re not really black, but of such a deep, rich red, they appear black from a distance. Beyond them is a tall bush of shiny, thick green leaves all peppered with large pink buds that I’m sure will open before my party. “Good day, fine lady,” I say to the vendor. “Can you tell me about your flowers?”

  “They’re not for sale, if that’s what you want to know.” The woman is dressed well. Not richly, but not in farm clothes. She has a city accent.

  “What a pity. I’d love to have some for my party.”

  “These flowers are beyond the means of a girl like you.”

  I stiffen in offense. “Please state your price.”

  “I told you, they’re not for sale. They’re here only to allow the country folk to see what fine things grow in the Medici gardens at Careggi.”

  “Medici?”

  “Those roses you had your eye on are from Spain. And these . . .” She points to large white flowers. “They’re sea daffodils from Crete. They don’t usually bloom till autumn, so that makes them even more special. And those ones over there . . .” She points at small blue buds. “They’re also from Crete. Those irises bloom only in the second half of the day. At noon you can watch them open. We have Egyptian lotus. And African vines.” She waves her hand expansively. “We have everything.”

  “And how much did you say the roses are?” Roses keep b
looming. They’d be perfect.

  “Persistent, eh?” One corner of the woman’s mouth goes up reprovingly. “The Medici don’t sell. They keep or give. Nothing in between. And I don’t see my master about to give you anything.”

  Could this woman be any ruder? “Who might I ask is your master?”

  “Giuliano de’ Medici himself. He oversaw the selection of which flowers to bring.”

  My heart thumps like a fist. “Is he here?”

  “He was. He insisted on coming with me, though we had to leave the city long before dawn. Just a while ago he left.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “Why are you asking?”

  “I know him.”

  “You know Ser Giuliano?” The woman frowns. I can’t tell if she doesn’t believe me or if she regrets having summed me up so wrong. “He brought his own horse, tied to the back of the coach. When we got here, he mounted and rode away. He said he wanted to see the countryside.”

  “When is he coming back?”

  “He’s not. He left me here with the coach driver. We have rooms for as long as the flower show lasts. But Ser Giuliano is returning to Florence on his own horse today.”

  “Do you think he might come back to Greve before leaving for Florence?”

  “Do I look like a mind reader? He told me nothing.”

  I suddenly feel like crying.

  The woman tilts her head. “Is something amiss?”

  I can’t understand why I’m acting like this. I’m too frustrated to talk.

  “I wouldn’t expect him to come back to Greve. People talk of the charm of the villages, but really it’s much exaggerated. I should think Ser Giuliano will find his countryside ride boring.”

  I grit my teeth and curtsy good-bye. Then I spend the rest of the day choosing flowers. None rival the exotic ones from the Medici garden. And I didn’t even learn the name of the tall bush with the pink buds. It would be humiliating to return to that supercilious woman and ask now.

  I buy flowers and aromatic bushes till the wagon is full. But nothing overcomes my glumness. I stare at the wagon and realize there’s no excuse for not returning home.

  “What hurts?” asks Silvia. She stands beside me and takes my hand.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t talk rubbish. It’s me. Something’s biting you. And hard. If you tell me, it’ll hurt less. And that’s the truth.”

  I move closer to her and my eyes blur with tears I can’t understand. It’s been a beastly day. First Old Sandra, with her treating us as though we’re not nobility. Then that servant of Giuliano’s acting like anyone out here is a country bumpkin, no matter how they’re dressed. Did she even see my fine clothes? I hate her. And then there’s Giuliano himself. He was here. So close to where I am. And I didn’t get to see him.

  “Come on,” says Silvia. “You can tell me.”

  But I can’t. I can’t talk about any of this to Silvia. She’s not part of noble society. And she is part of country folk. If she doesn’t already resent me, talking about these things now certainly would. My best friend, and I can’t talk to her. It’s maddening. I hate the world.

  “Keeping secrets from me now, is that how it is?” Silvia’s face shows hurt.

  “No, no,” I say quickly, “it’s no secret. I’m just thinking about my party. Worrying.”

  “Worrying? What on earth for? Florence has dozens of middle-aged men on their own. And them fellows, oh, when they see you, just wait. One will snatch you straightaway. Then you’re set. Sitting pretty. No cares for the rest of your life.”

  I pull away from her in shock. Middle-aged men? Sitting pretty? “How can you say that?”

  “Don’t you believe it?” She laughs. “You’re good-enough looking. And you’re sweet as can be. So when your daddy offers a dowry, someone will step forward. You’re so lucky. I’d give anything to marry one of them men. But . . .” She laughs again. “I ain’t got nothing to give.” Her eyes fasten on me. “Elisabetta?”

  “What?”

  “Help me win one.”

  “What? How could I help?”

  “There will be so many at your party. I’m smaller than you. Let me wear one of them dresses of yours from last year, so I look good. Then I can get a man to love me before he finds out I’m poor.”

  He’ll realize she’s poor the instant she opens her mouth and says her first word. I shake my head. “It won’t work.”

  “Sure it will. I’m prettier than you, no matter what Cristiano says.” Her face pinches in anger. “But you ain’t never learned to share.”

  She is prettier than me. The sun bounces off her chestnut hair in red highlights. And she’s lithe and graceful in a way I’ve never been. “Of course you can wear a dress of mine. You can take your pick.”

  “Really?” Silvia’s hands fly up and form little fists of happiness beside her cheeks. “You are a good friend. The best. I’m sorry I said that nasty stuff. It ain’t true—I was just being spiteful. Maybe we’ll both find husbands at your party.” She laughs. “We can get with child at the same time and grow fat and old together.”

  With child, fat, old. How is it that Silvia is so ready for all that? I feel foolish and childish beside her. She’s grown up and left me behind.

  But what’s foolish about wanting love?

  I must get betrothed to the right person. And that means having the right party.

  The whole bumpy road home, I brood. And I arrive at a conclusion. We cannot have my party in Villa Vignamaggio. It is my belovèd home and it is truly glorious. But if Giuliano’s servant woman is a just indicator, the nobility of Florence don’t understand this kind of beauty. At best, people will condescend. At worst, they won’t even come.

  We have to find a more suitable place.

  CHAPTER Seven

  MAMMA IS WAITING FOR ME when I get home. She doesn’t even look at the flowers in the wagon. She rushes me into the living room and sits me down. “We had a visitor while you were away.” She licks her lips in excitement. “You’ll never guess who.”

  “Giuliano de’ Medici.”

  “How did you know!”

  Nothing else could have made this terrible day even more wretched than to have missed Giuliano’s visit. “What did he want?”

  “Nothing, as it turned out. But your father was so pleased to see him, he came to sit with us. The Medici boy, though, well, he simply chatted agreeably about the surroundings. And he asked about you. He remembered your name. From years ago. Imagine that. You must have made quite an impression on him.”

  “Not at all, Mamma. He remembered from just a month ago. I saw him at his father’s funeral. Leonardo da Vinci took me to his palace.”

  Mamma’s hands go to her mouth. “And you didn’t tell me?” She drops onto the bench.

  “There wasn’t anything to tell.” Or, rather, there wasn’t anything I could tell without upsetting Mamma. She’d have been mortified at how Piero treated me. “Anyway, Mamma, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

  Mamma lengthens her neck and leans toward me, alert as a mother bird.

  “I want to have my party in the city.”

  “What? Villa Vignamaggio is enormous. It’s built for entertaining.” Mamma stands as the words stream out. Then she sits again. “I do want you to be happy, Elisabetta. More than anything. But this new desire . . .” She lifts her shoulders in confusion. “Why on earth?”

  “I don’t think city people will want to come all the way out here. It’s a long ride, Mamma. And to make it twice in one day is too much.”

  “Nonsense. If we wait till late in June, the heat will already have driven the nobility from the city to their country homes.”

  “Which are scattered all over the hills, to the north and west of Florence, too, not just to the south, Mamma. Besides, the men will be in the city doing business still, and it’s the men you don’t want to leave out.”

  “I can prepare guest suites upstairs.”

  �
�There isn’t enough room for everyone; nobility can’t be stuffed together like chickens going to market. Plus our upstairs has nothing of the finery they’re used to.”

  Mamma doesn’t speak. It’s unlike her to yield quickly, though even I am impressed by the number of arguments I’ve managed to amass.

  I move along the bench closer to her. “If we do it in the city, I bet even Giuliano would come.” Still she doesn’t answer. I add, with a boldness I didn’t know I had, “He’s my friend.”

  “Indeed?” Mamma touches my cheek. Her face is quizzical, as though she doesn’t know who I am. “Your friend?”

  “Don’t be surprised, Mamma. I just happened to meet him. And he talks easily and gaily. It was pleasant. I imagine he’s everybody’s friend.”

  Mamma’s eyes change. That stunned look is replaced by her usual confident rationality. “If he would come out to the country to visit you on just an ordinary day, then surely he’ll return for something as important as your party.”

  “He was out here on business at Greve.” That isn’t entirely true. The flower show isn’t business. But it sounds more impressive this way. “So it was easy for him to wander over here.”

  “At Greve? But you were at Greve.”

  “He left before I arrived.”

  Her hands clutch her skirt. Her brow furrows. “You really think he won’t come all the way out here, but he would come to a party in the city?”

  I take her hand and smooth the crumpled cloth of her skirt. “City people . . . well, Mamma, they feel superior to country people.”

  “I know that, Elisabetta. I wasn’t born yesterday.” She gazes away. “Giuliano de’ Medici. I knew he liked you. I could tell from the way he talked.” She shakes her head in wonder, then turns to me. “If he likes you that much, he might persuade all the other nobles to come, too. Oh, Elisabetta, this accidental friendship might turn out to be a wonderfully useful thing.”

  I hadn’t thought of it that way. I don’t want to use Giuliano. I just want to have a party in the city. I don’t want to be discounted as a mere country girl.

  Mamma looks at me hard. “Paying for an appropriate place in the city—that would add to the expense quite a bit, Elisabetta. And your father is already pressed. He’ll be against this. But . . . I may have an idea.”