Daughters of the Silk Road: A beautiful and epic novel of family, love and the secrets of a Ming Vase by Debbie Rix Page B
Authors: Debbie Rix
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N iccolò left for Florence early one morning, accompanied by his personal servant, Mattheo, and secretary, Vincenzo. The children missed him desperately, but both were resilient and determined to be positive for the sake of their father, if not for each other. Maria, as her father had instructed, ran the house, ordering supplies and managing the staff. She was a gentle mistress, much as her own dear mother had been with their own servants Chahaye and Kade, but efficient and capable. Daniele, whilst only two years her junior, seemed to her to need special care and she took it upon herself, just as her father had asked, to ensure that Daniele kept up with his studies. This was their only point of conflict, for Daniele hated the school room and struggled with formal learning. But when he was despondent and sad, she would construct a game they could play, or suggest that they put on some kind of charade for their household’s amusement.
Their house had windows onto the canal at the front, and this was where the main entrance was placed, with steps that led down to the water and a small landing platform to allow visitors or members of the household to step safely on and off a gondola. At the back of the building they looked out onto the Church of San Zaccaria. There had been a church on the site for six hundred years and eight Doges were buried there. But the Gothic façade was being re-built under the watchful eye of the architect Antonio Gambello, and there was a stream of workmen filing onto the site each morning. Maria and Daniele were intrigued by the constant activity visible from the upper storey windows. Next to the church stood a convent. The nuns were mostly daughters of prominent noble families, and Maria was fascinated by this closed community of women. In some ways it reminded her of the Chinese Emperor’s household except, of course, in the palace there had been many children too. In the convent there was no sound of childish laughter. Instead there was the distant chorus of singing at regular intervals during the day. When the nuns were not praying or singing they appeared to spend most of their time tending their large vegetable garden. If Maria peered out of the rear window of her father’s study, she could see into the convent’s vegetable garden and observe as the nuns, dressed head to toe in black, weeded and dug and picked, their sleeves pushed up over their elbows. It struck her that their clothing looked uncomfortable for such hard, hot work. Occasionally, one or another would stand up and stretch her tired limbs, or wipe a little sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. One evening, as the sun was setting, casting long shadows across the garden, a young nun caught sight of her; she smiled and waved. Maria waved back just as an older nun came over to the novice and appeared to reprimand her. She looked up at Maria and frowned. The younger woman bowed her head and continued her digging. But Maria couldn’t help but notice that she cast her eyes back up towards Maria’s window one more time and broke into a broad grin as the older nun turned her back. Not wishing to get the girl into further trouble, Maria merely smiled in reply, before retreating once more to the safety of her father’s dark study.
The children’s bedchambers were at the front of the house and overlooked the canal. The proximity of the water was a novel experience for them and they grew to love the sound as it lapped against the walls of the house, slapping against the landing deck, as the gondolas slipped through the dark water.
Each morning they would throw open their shutters and lean out to see who, or what, was being ferried down the canal. The gondolas at that time were decorated in various colours, some with little cabins in the centre where couples could flirt unobserved or goods could be ferried in secret. Over time, the pair began to recognise certain gondolas, and would wave at the gondolieri
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N iccolò left for Florence early one morning, accompanied by his personal servant, Mattheo, and secretary, Vincenzo. The children missed him desperately, but both were resilient and determined to be positive for the sake of their father, if not for each other. Maria, as her father had instructed, ran the house, ordering supplies and managing the staff. She was a gentle mistress, much as her own dear mother had been with their own servants Chahaye and Kade, but efficient and capable. Daniele, whilst only two years her junior, seemed to her to need special care and she took it upon herself, just as her father had asked, to ensure that Daniele kept up with his studies. This was their only point of conflict, for Daniele hated the school room and struggled with formal learning. But when he was despondent and sad, she would construct a game they could play, or suggest that they put on some kind of charade for their household’s amusement.
Their house had windows onto the canal at the front, and this was where the main entrance was placed, with steps that led down to the water and a small landing platform to allow visitors or members of the household to step safely on and off a gondola. At the back of the building they looked out onto the Church of San Zaccaria. There had been a church on the site for six hundred years and eight Doges were buried there. But the Gothic façade was being re-built under the watchful eye of the architect Antonio Gambello, and there was a stream of workmen filing onto the site each morning. Maria and Daniele were intrigued by the constant activity visible from the upper storey windows. Next to the church stood a convent. The nuns were mostly daughters of prominent noble families, and Maria was fascinated by this closed community of women. In some ways it reminded her of the Chinese Emperor’s household except, of course, in the palace there had been many children too. In the convent there was no sound of childish laughter. Instead there was the distant chorus of singing at regular intervals during the day. When the nuns were not praying or singing they appeared to spend most of their time tending their large vegetable garden. If Maria peered out of the rear window of her father’s study, she could see into the convent’s vegetable garden and observe as the nuns, dressed head to toe in black, weeded and dug and picked, their sleeves pushed up over their elbows. It struck her that their clothing looked uncomfortable for such hard, hot work. Occasionally, one or another would stand up and stretch her tired limbs, or wipe a little sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. One evening, as the sun was setting, casting long shadows across the garden, a young nun caught sight of her; she smiled and waved. Maria waved back just as an older nun came over to the novice and appeared to reprimand her. She looked up at Maria and frowned. The younger woman bowed her head and continued her digging. But Maria couldn’t help but notice that she cast her eyes back up towards Maria’s window one more time and broke into a broad grin as the older nun turned her back. Not wishing to get the girl into further trouble, Maria merely smiled in reply, before retreating once more to the safety of her father’s dark study.
The children’s bedchambers were at the front of the house and overlooked the canal. The proximity of the water was a novel experience for them and they grew to love the sound as it lapped against the walls of the house, slapping against the landing deck, as the gondolas slipped through the dark water.
Each morning they would throw open their shutters and lean out to see who, or what, was being ferried down the canal. The gondolas at that time were decorated in various colours, some with little cabins in the centre where couples could flirt unobserved or goods could be ferried in secret. Over time, the pair began to recognise certain gondolas, and would wave at the gondolieri
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