day soon she will turn up.” He tries to laugh lightheartedly, but the sound dries up in his throat. My heart goes out to him, a father’s grief still so fresh.
“I know what it is to lose a daughter,” my own father says. “When Beatrice died, I thought my world had ended.”
“Yes, but my daughter isn’t dead.” Julius throws him an angry glance, and I look up to see Father’s mouth open and close as he struggles to find something tactful to say.
“Let’s let the men talk, my dear,” Grazia murmurs to me, and the two of us draw away to one side. She turns her face from the sun, and it is almost impossible to see her expression. “The Segreta meet this evening to discuss the situation with Roberto. You will attend, of course?”
“Of course!” I say hurriedly. “It will be difficult at such short notice, but I’ll be there, certainly. I want to hear more about the girl at Murano also. Do you know if …”
I’m about to ask Grazia if she has any morsels of information to give me when the crowd suddenly heaves to one side and I stagger. Regaining my composure, I see a group of men rushing the harbor. Their fists strike the air and one of them is shouting, spittle flying from his mouth.
“Get the foreigner out!” he cries. “Go home, heathens!”
Before he can get near the ships, soldiers rush forward on a barked command and the group of men are driven back at the points of swords. Their leader stands firm, but is dragged back by his comrades. Another is wrestled to the ground. I see a knee jerk into a stomach, fists connect with skulls. The shouts die and the men are led away. I notice Prince Halim watching the group, his face serious.
“What was that?” I ask.
Grazia’s face is like stone. “Hatred, that’s what.” She shakes her head. “When will this city ever learn?” Then she gives a small nod. “I will see you later.” As I watch her move away from me across the docks, her skirts swaying, relief blossoms inside me. Tonight I will be with the Segreta, and one step closer to getting Roberto out of his stinking prison.
12
Dear Laura,
Since we spoke, I have thrown caution to the wind. I shall not allow my boy to languish in that prison! I have requested house arrest for Roberto. I will let you know the instant he is free of that festering leaded prison. I know you love him as much as I do.
In haste,
Duchess Besina
The note was waiting for me upon our return to the villa. I hastily broke the wax seal in the privacy of the garden’s new greenhouse. Now, I look at the Duchess’s handwriting and hope that her impetuosity will work for Roberto, rather than against him. No other woman could earn him such a reprieve, not even one of the Segreta.
“Laura?” Faustina calls for me. “Laura!”
Hastily, I shove the note into my pocket and step out of the greenhouse. She spots me and comes bustling over, carrying a large square of linen in her arms. “A picnic!” she calls. “Come and help.”
Emilia and I go to our rooms and quickly exchange our outfits for loose muslin dresses so we can work in the garden after we eat. I can’t stop thinking about the note and what it might mean for Roberto, but for now I must act as if everything were normal. I hastily tuck my dress, with the note in its pocket, into a blanket box and follow Emilia to the kitchens.
It’s not often that I’m allowed here—it’s not a noblewoman’s place—but this afternoon Faustina is more than happy to let me collect bowls of olives and take a knife to shave thin slices from the cured ham. Emilia carries out a basket of bread and a board of cheeses, and soon we are settled beneath the olive tree, enjoying a picnic for three, as Lysander is out visiting boyhood friends.
As the sun rises higher in the sky, we revel in the fresh tastes, scooping up small bunches of grapes and tearing hunks of bread to soak up glistening olive oil. For a time, I try to be cheerful for Emilia’s sake, and I’m surprised by my appetite. We talk of Bologna, where she grew up, of the beauty of the Tuscan hills, and of her family. We both laugh as Faustina reaches for a third slice of cake.