read her own fate in the entrails. That that had beat warm and strong was now clotted and cold. She straightened and looked back across the parkland. Glittering frost rimed the almond trees like powdered diamonds, and the low winter sun gave the plaster of the villa a rosy blush. She looked at the elegant, square building with the last remnants of her affection. God had taken herlove from her; she would not let him take her house too.
She took to wearing Lorenzo’s hunting garb at all times. She kept only one gown – her wedding dress of green orefois – and never wore it once. She resembled a boy as she strode through the woods, more so now because of her greatest sacrifice. As she trod the dead, red leaves of autumn she remembered the night when Raffaella had cut off her hair – the shears whispering in her ears that she would never be fair again. She had gathered the red skeins from the floor and wrapped them in tissue to be sold to Florence where red hair was the fashion for wigs and pieces. She cared not. She reacted against the beauty that she had, she was gladdened when her white hands became calloused, glad that her crowning glory had gone. She took a last look in her silver-backed looking glass the day before it was sold, saw the hair that stubbornly insisted on curling prettily above her shoulders and round her face, but rejoiced that he would never ask to paint her again.
Her board had little to recommend it now. Nightly meals of rabbit or squirrel, with the few roots she found in the woods, were her comfort. In better days, when the ornamental rose gardens and yew walks of Castello had been planted, it would never have occurred to her or Lorenzo that they might be better served by their acres by planting vegetables. In the evening she sat huddled over the meagre firewood that Gregorio had chopped, and sang unaccompanied the airs she used to play on her lute before it hadgone to be sold. When she felt her eyes drop from the exercise of the day she went to her chamber and rolled in the one fur cloak she had kept. She slept directly on the stone floor, for the fine wooden box-frame bed of English oak, the bed where she had spent her wedding night, was gone. The autumn winds whistled through the windows unchecked, for the Venetian glass roundels which they had fitted there were gone too. Most nights she slept from sheer exhaustion, but on the last day of the month she was wakeful, for she knew she had not enough money to give to Oderigo on the morrow.
Shocked by the change in the villa and its lady, Oderigo was obliged to seat himself on a log by the hearth for both board and bench had gone. Simonetta was not alone today, but flanked by Raffaella and Gregorio, ready to plead for their lady or protect her if Oderigo became angry. He counted the coins she gave him in silence. He did not need to tell her that there were not enough. He indulged himself with a look at her face. She was thinner, harder, but no less beautiful. The change in her demeanour was great, greater than the change that the loss of her hair and the change in her garb had wrought. If he thought her fine when he left her last time, his reflections would be no less great today. She spoke first.
‘Signore,’ she said with her new confidence, ‘I will not leave this place. What can I do more? Tell me, where am Ito seek help? What am I to do? I am ready.’
Oderigo opened his mouth but then thought better of it. He knew of one who would help her, but was reluctant, as a Christian, to send her in his path. He shook his head to himself, but she saw it all.
‘What? Who?’ she questioned with urgency. She came to the notary and took his arm. ‘I know you can help me. Tell me where I can find succour, for the love of God!’
He sighed. ‘Lady, I do know of one who can help you. But he will not do it through the love of your God, or mine, or any that we know. His name is Manodorata.’
Simonetta heard Raffaella gasp, and saw her maid sink to
She took to wearing Lorenzo’s hunting garb at all times. She kept only one gown – her wedding dress of green orefois – and never wore it once. She resembled a boy as she strode through the woods, more so now because of her greatest sacrifice. As she trod the dead, red leaves of autumn she remembered the night when Raffaella had cut off her hair – the shears whispering in her ears that she would never be fair again. She had gathered the red skeins from the floor and wrapped them in tissue to be sold to Florence where red hair was the fashion for wigs and pieces. She cared not. She reacted against the beauty that she had, she was gladdened when her white hands became calloused, glad that her crowning glory had gone. She took a last look in her silver-backed looking glass the day before it was sold, saw the hair that stubbornly insisted on curling prettily above her shoulders and round her face, but rejoiced that he would never ask to paint her again.
Her board had little to recommend it now. Nightly meals of rabbit or squirrel, with the few roots she found in the woods, were her comfort. In better days, when the ornamental rose gardens and yew walks of Castello had been planted, it would never have occurred to her or Lorenzo that they might be better served by their acres by planting vegetables. In the evening she sat huddled over the meagre firewood that Gregorio had chopped, and sang unaccompanied the airs she used to play on her lute before it hadgone to be sold. When she felt her eyes drop from the exercise of the day she went to her chamber and rolled in the one fur cloak she had kept. She slept directly on the stone floor, for the fine wooden box-frame bed of English oak, the bed where she had spent her wedding night, was gone. The autumn winds whistled through the windows unchecked, for the Venetian glass roundels which they had fitted there were gone too. Most nights she slept from sheer exhaustion, but on the last day of the month she was wakeful, for she knew she had not enough money to give to Oderigo on the morrow.
Shocked by the change in the villa and its lady, Oderigo was obliged to seat himself on a log by the hearth for both board and bench had gone. Simonetta was not alone today, but flanked by Raffaella and Gregorio, ready to plead for their lady or protect her if Oderigo became angry. He counted the coins she gave him in silence. He did not need to tell her that there were not enough. He indulged himself with a look at her face. She was thinner, harder, but no less beautiful. The change in her demeanour was great, greater than the change that the loss of her hair and the change in her garb had wrought. If he thought her fine when he left her last time, his reflections would be no less great today. She spoke first.
‘Signore,’ she said with her new confidence, ‘I will not leave this place. What can I do more? Tell me, where am Ito seek help? What am I to do? I am ready.’
Oderigo opened his mouth but then thought better of it. He knew of one who would help her, but was reluctant, as a Christian, to send her in his path. He shook his head to himself, but she saw it all.
‘What? Who?’ she questioned with urgency. She came to the notary and took his arm. ‘I know you can help me. Tell me where I can find succour, for the love of God!’
He sighed. ‘Lady, I do know of one who can help you. But he will not do it through the love of your God, or mine, or any that we know. His name is Manodorata.’
Simonetta heard Raffaella gasp, and saw her maid sink to
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