Rose Red (8 page)

“Andrea is a fascinating person, unlike any
other man here at Villa Serenita,” Bianca said. “I do believe he is
even more clever than Bartolomeo. And you know how Mother values
Bartolomeo’s keen wits.”

“I knew you would grow to like him if only
you could forget your fear of strangers,” Rosalinda answered. But a
knot had formed in her stomach as she watched her sister bestow
that gentle caress upon Andrea. She told herself it was foolish to
be jealous. Bianca was merely being kind.

There came a day, almost two weeks after
Andrea’s arrival at the villa, when Bartolomeo decided the younger
man was recovered enough to be shaved and to have his hair trimmed.
Accordingly, Bartolomeo called in the man-at-arms who usually acted
as barber for his fellows and for Bartolomeo. The ladies were
banished from the guest room, several large buckets of hot water
were carried in, and the door was shut upon the three men.

Two hours later Bartolomeo appeared in
Eleonora’ s sitting room, where Rosalinda and Bianca were, as usual
during the afternoon, engaged in their lessons.

“Well, Bartolomeo,” said Eleonora, seeing him
at the door, “you look uncommonly pleased with yourself.”

“Madonna, I think you will be pleased, too,”
Bartolomeo said with a smile. “Will you allow me to escort you to
Andrea’s room? He would like to speak with you.”

“May we go too?” Rosalinda spoke up at
once.

“I believe he would be happy to see you,”
Bartolomeo said. Eleonora was already passing through the door, and
behind her back Bartolomeo winked at Rosalinda. “Both of you may
join us if you like.”

The guestroom had been cleared of all traces
of medicines and of the barbering and scrubbing that had taken
place there. The bed was freshly made up, with the covers turned
back as if to invite the occupant of the room to lie down and rest.
But Andrea was no longer in the bed. Shaved, shorn, newly bathed
and wearing clean, borrowed clothes, he was sitting in a chair by
the window. At Eleonora’s brisk entry, he rose to greet her.

The beard had made him look older than he
was. Rosalinda thought he could not be much more than twenty-five.
He was still lean after weeks of near-starvation and illness, but
from his tall frame it was clear that he was a man of considerable
strength. His black, curly hair was trimmed to his earlobes, and
the absence of a beard revealed sharply carved features accented by
his high-arched, Roman nose and a remarkably firm jaw.

To Rosalinda’s eyes he was the most handsome
man she had ever encountered and far better-looking than she had
imagined before seeing his entire face.

“Oh, my.” Upon entering the room behind her
sister, Bianca came to a sudden halt, staring at the man wearing
one of Bartolomeo’s too-large doublets, and hose, both in a rich
shade of dark red that made his skin look fascinatingly pale and
his hair and eyes mysteriously dark.

“Madonna Eleonora,” Andrea said, bowing to
her, “I must thank you for all you and your household have done for
me. I do hope and pray there will come a time when I am able to
repay you, though nothing would be adequate payment for the
kindness of saving my life.”

“As always, you use fine words.” Eleonora
motioned with one hand. “Sit down, young man. I can see that you
are trembling from some residual weakness.”

“I believe I will be stronger very soon,
madonna.” Nevertheless, Andrea did sit, waiting only until Eleonora
had taken the chair that Bartolomeo placed facing him.

“In that case, you may join us for meals
whenever you feel well enough.” Eleonora’s eyes were sharp as she
regarded her guest. “I have promised to respect your wish for
privacy about your past, and I will do so. However, I do have one
question, born of a very natural curiosity. Now that your voice is
stronger, and now that I am able to inspect your features without
the barrier of that thick beard, I have the impression that you
were born and raised north of Rome.” Eleonora paused, looking at
Andrea expectantly, but he let her wait for a long moment before he
answered.

“You have guessed truly, madonna, but I must
beg you not to ask any further questions of me.”

“Nor will I. As I have already told you,
Andrea, you are welcome to remain with us until you are completely
healthy once more.”

“Again, madonna, I am eternally in your
debt.”

“Perhaps you will repay that debt in part by
contributing to our evenings,” Eleonora said. “Our life here is a
quiet one. We read aloud or play games for entertainment.”

“I play a fair game of chess, madonna,”
Andrea offered.

“Bartolomeo is doubtless glad to hear that,”
Eleonora said with a glance in the direction of her faithful
friend. “Valeria and I are much too easy for him to best.”

“I find it difficult to believe that anyone
might win over you, madonna.” Andrea’s voice was soft, holding an
inflection the listening Rosalinda could not understand, save that
it was there and it puzzled her.

“Do you play the lute or sing?” asked
Bianca.

“I do, indeed, Madonna Bianca.” Andrea smiled
at her.

“Yes, I rather thought you would,” Eleonora
said. Her eyes on Andrea were shrewd. “We sometimes make up stories
to entertain each other. Perhaps you will tell us new stories,
about life in the world beyond these mountains.”

Andrea went very still, looking back at her.
Again he let Eleonora wait before he responded. Watching the two of
them, Rosalinda thought they were playing a game of some kind, the
rules of which were a mystery to her.

“I am fond of fanciful tales,” Andrea said at
last, “though I think it would be wise of me to listen to the
stories you and your companions have to tell before I venture to
recount one of my own. Thus, I will make no embarrassing
mistakes.”

“You are a clever man, Signore Andrea.” A
faint smile curved Eleonora’s lips. “Since Bartolomeo and I have
work to do, we will leave you with my daughters to entertain you
for an hour or two. I feel certain they will be delighted to avoid
further lessons for this afternoon.”

“Your appearance is much improved,” Bianca
said, taking the chair facing Andrea as soon as her mother had
vacated it.

“I thank you for the compliment, Madonna
Bianca,” Andrea responded with great seriousness.

“What I meant to say,” Bianca went on,
blushing a little, “is that you looked so much like a bear when you
first appeared on the terrace that you frightened all of us.”

“I am sorry for that,” Andrea said.

“Except for Rosalinda, of course. Nothing
ever frightens her,” Bianca said. “Tell us, please, why you were
wearing that dreadful, smelly bearskin.”

“
For
warmth, Bianca,” Rosalinda said. She was feeling more than a bit
exasperated with her sister. What was Bianca thinking of, asking
silly questions and blushing and fluttering her eyelashes at
Andrea? Since there were only two chairs in the room and Bianca had
taken the second one – which, to be honest, Rosalinda reminded
herself, was the prerogative of an older sister – Rosalinda pulled
up a stool and sat on it. “Without the bearskin for warmth, Andrea
would have frozen to death.”

“Yes, I would. The skin also served as a
disguise,” Andrea told the sisters. “Which is why I left the bear’s
head attached to the fur.”

“Why did you need a disguise?” Bianca
asked.

“I have always heard that fierce bandits live
in the mountains,” Andrea replied. “I reasoned that even the most
desperate outlaws would run away from a bear without looking too
closely at it. I do believe the disguise worked well, for never did
anyone threaten me while I wore it.”

“But,” Bianca persisted, “why were you
roaming in the mountains in the first place?”

“Bianca, if you ply Andrea with so many
questions, you will tire him and impede his recovery,” Rosalinda
protested. She could tell that Andrea did not want to answer
Bianca’s last question. He was letting her wait for his response,
in the same way in which he had let their mother wait.

“In truth, though I do not like to admit it,
I find I am tired,” Andrea said at last. “Perhaps, if I were to
rest for an hour or two, I might restore my energies enough to
allow me to join you for the evening meal as your mother so kindly
suggested.”

“Will you play the lute for us?” Bianca
asked.

“If not this evening, then I promise I will
do so soon,” Andrea said.

“We will leave you to rest.” Rosalinda was on
her feet with a hand under her sister’s elbow, raising Bianca out
of her chair. Bianca was not ready to go. Rosalinda had to exert a
certain amount of pressure to make her stand up, and then had to
keep her hand on Bianca’s arm to draw her toward the door and push
her through it.

As she went out of the room Rosalinda glanced
back and caught Andrea’s eye. He smiled at her, a warm, enticing
smile that took her breath away and made her believe that he would
like her to stay with him because he knew that, unlike Bianca, she
would not ask questions he did not want to answer.

“Why did you do that?” Bianca demanded,
pulling her arm out of Rosalinda’s grasp. “I might have extracted
some information from Andrea if only you were not so protective of
his health.”

“With you and Mother both interrogating him
at every opportunity, someone has to protect him or he will have a
relapse,” Rosalinda snapped back at her. “Did Mother tell you to
question him, because she has promised not to do it?”

“Of course not.” Bianca rubbed at her elbow.
“I thought I could be of help to her, that’s all. I know she wants
to learn more about him.”

“When Andrea is ready, he will tell us all we
need to know about his life,” Rosalinda said, hoping it was true.
Relenting, she went on, “Did I hurt your arm? I didn’t mean to, but
you would not stop talking and, my dearest, you did ask too many
questions. It seemed to me the only way to silence you was to get
you out of the room.”

“My arm is fine,” Bianca admitted.
“Rosalinda, don’t be angry with me. I was only trying to help
Mother.”

“I know. Sometimes I talk too much, too. I am
going to join Valeria in the kitchen. Would you like to come with
me?”

“I think I will return to the sitting room
and complete that Latin translation I was working on. Mother will
be pleased if I get it just right.”

“I’m sure she will be. But I hope you know
that Mother will love you, no matter what you do.”

“If I am very good,” Bianca said, “then she
will have one less cause for worry. We should both try to be as
good as we can.”

“I do try,” said Rosalinda with a rueful
twist to her mouth. “For all my good intentions, I still annoy
Mother far too often.”

“Then come to the sitting room with me now,
and I will help you with your Latin,” Bianca suggested. “I know it
would please Mother.”

“Perhaps there is something I can do to help
Valeria instead. That will also please Mother when she hears of
it.”

“And at the same time you will avoid the
Latin lesson until later,” Bianca teased.

“
I would
avoid it altogether if I could.” Leaving her sister, Rosalinda
headed for the kitchen, where Valeria supervised several of the
wives and daughters of the men-at-arms, who did the cooking and the
other kitchen chores. Rosalinda was not especially interested in
cooking, though she did willingly help Valeria when it was her turn
to do so, and she agreed with her mother that every lady ought to
know what went on in the kitchen of her home. Rosalinda’s consuming
interest of the moment was Andrea. She thought Valeria might have a
few answers for her about the actual state of his
health.

On her way to the kitchen, Rosalinda passed
the room that Bartolomeo used as his office. There he kept the
account books for the estate, and in the late evenings after the
ladies had retired, he worked upon the history of the Farisi dukes
of Monteferro that he was writing. It was not at all unusual for
Eleonora to be in the room with Bartolomeo, either discussing
matters having to do with the estate or reading the most recently
completed pages of the history.

Rosalinda paused at the open door, intending
only to stick her head inside and tell her mother where she would
be. What she heard kept her rooted to the spot where she stood. Her
mother and Bartolomeo were talking about Andrea.

“There is no question in my mind that he is
nobly born,” Eleonora said. “Just think, Bartolomeo! What an
opportunity presents itself in the person of that young man.”

“I have no wish to contradict you,”
Bartolomeo told her, “but a nobleman who has been wandering alone
in the mountains must have some tragic event in his past. It is my
belief that Andrea has gone into exile, either because he was sent
away from his home by his family as the result of a scandal, or he
left by order of the authorities wherever he once lived, or perhaps
he has fled to avoid imprisonment.”

“All the better for us,” Eleonora insisted.
“Many fine and capable men are exiled because they disagree too
vigorously with their governments or because they are fleeing rival
family members. There is no disgrace in exile, which is a kinder
fate than imprisonment or assassination.

“I believe that Andrea is the weapon for
which I have been waiting all these years,” Eleonora went on.
“Heaven has sent him into my home and made him obligated to me for
saving his life. Now I will use him as heaven must have intended me
to do.”

“Use him?” Bartolomeo repeated. “Madonna
Eleonora, what are you planning?”

“If I place an army of mercenaries at
Andrea’s disposal and offer him a high office as reward for his
efforts, he may be willing to help me regain control of
Monteferro,” Eleonora said. “Which, from what Luca told us during
his last visit, will also mean taking over neighboring Aullia,
since the Guidi family now controls both cities.