Lucianna (4 page)

He smiled then, well pleased. “As it should be, dearest Lucianna.”

Pompous fool,
she thought to herself. When had Marco become so overblown? Their father was not so. It was his very good nature in dealing with servants and noblemen alike that had won him his excellent reputation as a fair man. “We are all God’s children,” he would say. “Equal in his eyes.”

“Well, not in mine,” his wife would murmur. “Really, Gio, you can hardly consider the kitchen boy or the vegetable seller in the market your equal. And certainly not mine! Do you forget that I am the daughter of a prince?”

And her father would reply drolly, “No, my dear Orianna, I never forget you are the daughter of a Venetian prince. How could I?”

Overhearing, the children would giggle to one another. Lucianna realized there was a great deal of their mother in her eldest brother. Not in Giorgio, who was more influenced by the church, but perhaps in Luca, who preferred the strict life of a soldier. Her oldest brother was simply not as good at dealing with people as he should be. He had not always been that way, but as their father put more and more of the responsibility of his silk trade on Marco, her brother had changed. Well, no matter. She was here to gently guide him, and hopefully he would learn from her without ever realizing she was teaching him.

Her mourning period was officially over now. She was not surprised to see the Englishman enter the shop one morning. “I have not seen you at San Piero recently,” she greeted him.

“I have been in Rome and Venice,” he told her. “I will soon have to return to England, as the seas grow rougher as the autumn deepens. But not, of course, before we have attended church together, and you have walked with me in some pleasant park,
signora
. I shall be the envy of Florence with you on my arm.”

He smiled, and Lucianna was glad she had the counter to clutch, else she was certain she would have fallen. Her knees grew weak at the sound of that deep, almost musical, warm voice. “You flatter me most shamelessly, my lord. I shall, however, be pleased to attend Mass with you, and perhaps even walk in some pleasant park. I know just the one, as it happens.”

“Tomorrow?” he said eagerly.

“Oh no, my lord, for tomorrow I must work,” she told him.

“Such odd words coming from a lady’s lips,” he said. “Why are you here in your father’s retail establishment and not in your snug little bookshop,
signora
?”

“My father needed my help, for my brother finds it difficult to manage everything. The bookshop did not really require my services, although you may rest assured that I will watch my accounts carefully each week. And my stepdaughter-in-law was most delighted I chose to go. I am told
there was talk
,” Lucianna told him, smiling.

“Talk? What kind of talk?” he asked with all the innocence of a man.

“Talk,”
she emphasized, rolling her eyes.

“God’s nightshirt! You and Norberto? Surely you jest,
signora
. It is ludicrous and ridiculous to consider such a thing even privily.”

“I know.” Lucianna giggled. “My poor stepson was mortified.”

Robert Minton, Earl of Lisle, burst out laughing. “I well imagine that he was. Well,
signora
, that settles it. You and I must be seen in public on several occasions as soon as possible. Poor Norberto’s reputation must be saved, and restored.”

“We can attend Mass together on Sunday,” Lucianna said, “and walk together in the park afterwards.”

“Shall I come to your house and bring you?” he asked her.

“No, no, I shall meet you at San Piero,” she told him. “It is better I arrive alone, else we should cause the kind of talk that would make my mother most unhappy. People are quick to jump to conclusions here, and more often than not, the wrong conclusion.”

“Such gossip is not local to Florence. King Henry’s mother is the Lady Margaret Beaufort. She bore the king when she was barely thirteen. His father, her second husband, was Edmund Tudor, who had been killed in battle a few months prior to the king’s birth. Many feel she has too much influence on him.”

“Does she?” Lucianna asked, fascinated by a girl who had borne her only child at thirteen to her second husband.

“If she does,” the earl replied, “he considers her words, for he is a loving son. But the king’s decisions are his own, I firmly believe. You will see when you come to England.”

“I am not going to England,” Lucianna said.

“I think that you will. One day,” he told her.

“It is unlikely I shall every leave Florence and its environs,” she told him. “Unlike my mother, I enjoy my city.”

“You will like England. It is green and beautiful.”

“I like Florence,” she said.

“Have you never traveled?” he asked.

“My sister Bianca traveled, and Francesca traveled, but I was married in Florence and have never been anywhere else,” Lucianna told him. “My husband was an elderly gentleman and could not travel even to my family’s summer villa, or down to the seashore where there is a small seaside villa that belonged to one of my grandparents.”

He was surprised to learn she had never left the Florentine environs. She seemed so educated.

“I don’t suppose travels in books or searching my globe counts,” she put in.

“I suppose it is better than nothing at all,” he told her. “Shall I tell you about Rome and Venice?” he asked her.

“I do know something of Venice. My mother is the daughter of Prince Alessandro Venier,” she told him. “But I should enjoy hearing of Rome, and your impressions of Venice. To my mother, it is the most perfect city in the world. My two older sisters’ stories of it were mostly humorous. They lived with our grandfather at one point. That was where Bianca had the opportunity to flee with her prince, and Francesca made such a mini-scandal with some boy she fancied herself in love with, but of course she really wasn’t.” Lucianna laughed.

“Your sisters sound like naughty wenches,” he noted, smiling.

“In that, my mother would agree with you,” Lucianna said.

At that moment the shop bell rang, and its door opened to admit a fat gentleman.

“Ah,
Signore
Piscelli,” Lucianna greeted him, stepping from behind her counter and past the earl. “My father said you were in need of some fine silks.” She ushered him to a chair. “Please sit,
signore
, and I will have what you require brought forth.”

“Thank you, thank you,
Signora
Lucianna,” the fat gentleman said. “I am quite comfortable now.” He raised the small glass of wine a shop servant had hurried forth with. “Please continue with your other customer. I am content to wait.”

“You are most gracious,” Lucianna said. “The earl has completed his business. Silks for the English king.” Then she turned to Robert Minton. “Thank you so much for your generous custom, my lord,” and she ushered him smoothly from the shop with a smile.

“Masterfully done,
signora
,” he said as he bowed and departed.

He should return to England soon, he thought, as he walked along the busy streets back to his lodging. He had already been gone for several months, but he had sent the silk ahead with two of his servants before he departed for Rome and Venice so Henry would not have to wait. As a rule, Henry was not a generous young man, but Robert Minton knew that came from having little as he grew up.

Few seriously believed Henry Tudor, son of Margaret Beaufort, would ever be England’s king. King Edward had had brothers and two living sons. But Edward died unexpectedly, and his brother Richard, Duke of York, took the throne. At that moment Richard had been the king’s only living brother. As for the little princes, they disappeared, leaving only Richard. Many believed Richard had murdered his nephews, especially among the Tudor adherents. Robert Minton did not.

Richard loved all children, and he had always been the favorite uncle. Such talk was said to tar Richard’s memory, to make him a villain, to make Henry Tudor England’s savior. If anyone had killed those poor boys, it had been someone aligned with the Tudors’ aspirations. Robert Minton did not voice his private thoughts aloud. He had grown up with Henry Tudor, and he knew him too well. Henry was ambitious, but he was not a man who would stoop to murdering children. So Richard of York became the villain to Henry Tudor’s savior. After Richard’s death in battle, Henry became king, and all other possible suitors for England’s throne found themselves lodged in the Tower.

Robert Minton had found among the Pietro d’Angelo silks a particularly fine dark ruby brocade, which he purchased for the king’s mother and sent along to the Lady Margaret Beaufort with his compliments. She was not a woman for bold colors, but the dark red brocade would both please and flatter her. She had always treated him with kindness when he was just a minor earl’s heir. Far more important boys had surrounded the young king back in those halcyon days when they were growing into men in Brittany, where Henry had been sent by his mother for his own safety.

He wondered what she would think of his fascination with the beautiful Lucianna Pietro d’Angelo. She would smile and tease him, saying, “Are none of our English girls good enough for you, Robbie?”

But she would like the young woman he suspected Lucianna was, a woman who valued tradition and was sensible, much like Lady Margaret herself.

Robert Minton had never met a girl like Lucianna before. She was still young. She could not yet be twenty. God’s blood! He didn’t even know her age. But before he left Florence, he would know as much about her as he could.

In the morning, he reached San Piero to find her already there. Boldly, he joined her, and their eyes met briefly. They stood together, saying the words of the service almost as one. The priest placed the Host in their open mouths. And afterwards Robert Minton took her arm and escorted her from the church. He saw the attention paid to them as they walked down the stone steps of the church together—the murmurs, the fingers pointing at her gown. It was no longer a color of mourning, but a sky blue that flattered her gold hair with its red highlights.

She greeted those who greeted her, introducing him politely and moving on as quickly as she could, which amused him. She seemed well versed in how to deal with the curious. “We are likely to meet my mother next, for someone will already be on their way to tell her they saw us. We are making it easy for her, for we shall walk in the park by my family’s home, proving to my mother that there is nothing to be concerned about,” she told him.

“Would she suspect otherwise?” he asked, amused.

“Of course she would. I am a beautiful and rich widow. I will be sought after by men both unscrupulous as well as deadly dull and respectable,” Lucianna said in humorous tones. “Orianna Pietro d’Angelo is a woman who would see her children protected and happy, as she believes is proper. My two older sisters managed to push her from their lives, for she will meddle. It will be harder for me, for I am right here in Florence, where she may appear like some busybody faerie godmother at any time, alas. So ’tis best to let her believe she still maintains some small charge over me, my lord, even if she does not.”

“Yes, on our brief acquaintance I considered your mother to be a lady of strong principles,” he said. “I find myself amused to see that you understand her so well, and know how to manage her.”

“It took many years, but mostly I learned from the behavior of my two older sisters, and the mistakes they made in dealing with our mother,” Lucianna admitted. “You must understand Orianna. Daughters of Venetian princes do not as a rule wed merchants, even wealthy merchants, but our grandfather had many daughters, and our mother was the youngest of them and had the smallest dower to offer. My grandfather liked our father despite what he considered his shortcomings, and he offered this Florentine merchant his daughter in marriage. Our mother was in love with a married man at the time, and there was danger of a scandal. Rumors of such a possibility had already caused several suitable families with younger sons to withdraw even the hope of a marriage between their families. So our mother was quickly wed to the Florentine merchant, and departed Venice. She has never forgotten it was her behavior that cost her a Venetian marriage. So we, her daughters, have to be better than she was.”

“Yet your oldest sister fled her marriage, I am told. Your mother could not have been pleased with that,” he said.

“That is a tale for another time,” Lucianna told him. “We are here now,” she said as she led him from the street past delicate wrought-iron gates and into an exquisite small park. “We Florentines love our small parks. My parents created this one, and it is open to the public. Our family’s reputation is such that the park is kept peaceful. Any who would misbehave are ejected, and forbidden to return.”

They strolled now along a graveled path on either side of which there were lime trees. There were beds of roses here and there. The roses were so naturally fragrant that they perfumed the air about them. Robert Minton didn’t believe he had ever been in such a romantic place in his life. They came to a marble bench, and he drew her down onto it with him. Birds in the trees about them sang.

“This has to be a dream,” he said, “and if it is, may I never awaken.”

Lucianna laughed softly. “I do not believe anyone has ever said such lovely words about the Pietro d’Angelos’ little park, my lord.”

“It’s exquisite! So much so that it could not possibly be re-created anywhere else.”

“If you sat here in winter with a cold rain beating down upon your broad shoulders, my lord, you might consider otherwise,” she told him. “Ah, do not look up, but here come my mother and my father, enjoying the beauty of their creation, no doubt,” Lucianna said.

Robert Minton, Earl of Lisle, burst out laughing. “You are really a most outrageous girl,” he said.

“I am a woman, my lord. A beautiful widow woman,” she said.

“No,
signora
, you are a girl, not yet a woman, and your blush reveals the truth of my observations. Do not deny it.”

“Ah, Lucianna, my lord of Lisle,” Orianna Pietro d’Angelo purred in greeting.